Awakening Anger

Coming off that shit, I can look back now and see that it threw me into  a great darkness.  And having the awareness of hindsight, I can also see now that my deep depression after Kirby died was at least in part, withdrawl from meth.  Not that those feelings weren't real - both then and at this point, but I do understand that despite my not feeling any sort of 'withdrawl symptoms', that this awakening into darkness was fueled from a lack of the joy juice in my system.

Most of my thoughts at that time were centered around shame.  Wondering how in the hell someone like me would get involved with that at this time in my life.  Surely, it's understandable in college when you were first free from the constant parental overshadowing and all your friends were doing the exact same thing to one degree or another.  But as a middle aged active Christian woman, wife of a doctor in an "upper-crust"community, busy with two kids in elementary school?  Who does that?!  What kind of deranged kind of person?  What was so wrong with me that I'd make such an ugly choice and risk so much?

I began to think of the night before, listening to our newest small group member.  Her anger over her home life.  How much she gave and gave without much thought, feeling taken advantage of.

And it hit a nerve.

I had no doubt in my mind that God put all those events together to OPEN MY EYES.  No drug, the chapter on temptation and revealing your secrets, Jeanette's (our newest member) overpowering the conversation with my own struggle, even my suggestion to her at the time to journal to God - which I then complied with myself - to help her see.  And ended up helping me to see.


It's strange to me now how much I deluded myself into a false sense of happiness, how in the dark I was at the time to how angry I was.  But with time, I do understand it.

My mother was a very angry person -- and she showed it quite openly.  Looking back, I know that she felt overwhelmed as a mother.  My dad traveled all the time, so she felt pressured to take care of everything.  And as a perfectionist - it was a never ending job, full of potential for failure....that the neighbors might see.  All that anxiety and emotion and lack of control over everything at once would come spilling out in a vision that was often not very pretty.

And not for me. *I* would never be that screaming, red faced, race-around-the-house-in-a-panic-like Edith Bunker type person.  Thankfully, that wasn't even in my persona; I was much more of a laid-back personality, but it certainly taught me to swallow my anger.  Pick your battles - or not at all.  It wasn't worth the upset.

And yet, I began to acknowledge a slow to boil anger deep inside.  I recognized how much I did take care of everything - willingly.   I realized how I'd taught him what a powerful, independent, capable person I was!  Because I was so willing, he was more than happy to load it on.  Expect more.  He had long hours building a cardio-thoracic practice; I was responsible for anything that happened in the home as well as the kids.  When they were babies, I had no help during the night because he needed his sleep.  Keep them quiet!  I'm on call tomorrow!  (It's a joke with us now that I yelled back, "I'm on call *every* night!)  I always nursed, so I was the one that always had to comfort; he got the squeals of delight.  His schedule never changed with kids.  He'd come home from work, give me and the kids a kiss -- and out he'd go for a run while I juggled the hungry toddler with a baby in my arms, stirring up dinner.  Weekends, the kids would be cranky, and he'd be frustrated, head out the door saying he could get more peace in the office.  We'd go on vacation, and he'd leave to read the paper in peace while I was left with fighting siblings, arguing over what to wear and eating enough for breakfast.

I'd always loved kids; spent my early years with dozens of babysitting jobs, and devoted my career as a social worker to them, helping teens in a mental health hospital, and later with disabled youngsters in the school system.  I knew I wanted kids early in our marriage - the rollercoaster ride waiting for Ian to arrive 5 years later was agonizing.  Being so child-focused, I had no idea - NO CLUE- how draining they were.

I was a great mom, though.  I wanted to be part of it all.  I raced through all the playground tunnels with them, pushed and under-ducked all the swings, played hours of dinosaurs and Barbie, listened to more than my share of Baby songs and Disney movies.  Had the play dates and enjoyed organizing the support for Baby'n'me groups.  Lied awake with them at night, trying to get them to stay in their beds, cleaned up the vomit, and listened to them scream for the doctor's needle.

Of course it was draining.

And of course, they misbehaved.  Looking back, I'm proud of how I handled their little wills.  I knew to never give in to crying, was a master of time-outs or 'basket holds' for the all-out tantrums.  I taught them to say sorry and please and to hug after they squabbled.  For the most part, I think I did it without their being afraid of me - as I was of my own mother.

But heavens, don't hit them.  No spanking.  "You don't want to be your mother," he'd tell me.

I'm glad we didn't.  Corporal punishment really isn't necessary.......99% of the time.

But there were times that, frankly, it was needed!  They were obstinate.  I'd tried the rest.  They needed a little pop on the bottom.  Not hard.  A little shock.

"You're becoming your mom, " he'd say.  He'd criticize, but when left to the kids himself, he refused to discipline.  He'd allow me to sleep in and I'd hear all hell breaking loose outside the door.

"Be a parent," I'd say.  But he had a hard time offering a strict word with them, risking the tears and conflict, when he had so little time home with them.  He was the fun Daddy, I was the mean Mom.

Even as they grew, I'd set the limits.  Dad would say he'd "smooth things over with me".    He became the "go to guy" because he could make all their wishes come true.  My expectations and limits became fiction.

He kept begging me for more kids.  Said that I was going back on my side of the bargain - we said we'd have four.

Are you kidding me.  He had no clue.

In the house, I was living a 50's movie set.  Cooking the meals and cleaning up as well.  Picking up after everyone's messes - even the papers, magazines, clothing that my husband tossed on the floor, vowing that he'd pick up later.   Whatever the house needed, it was my responsibility.  If I wasn't willing to do it, I organized to have it done.  Weekends were not to be spent working on the house, he said.  No "Honey Do Lists" in this house.   Animals, which we loved....we were working on re-creating Noah's Ark....were met with criticism as well.  Have they been fed?  I see crap in the sunroom!  Come over here and pick it up! He often argued that with all my free time, I could at least pay the bills and take care of the pool too.

And take away his only two tasks to the house?  No way.

I was, as the title of this blog suggests, married to my *house* and the demands of the people within it.

And then I'd justify those ugly thoughts with "this *was* my job."  This was exactly what I'd signed up for.   I wanted to stay home and be with the kids.  All of this really was my responsibility.  He worked outside, I worked inside the home.  I was blessed that I was able to do it.  He really was a great guy; charming, compassionate, fun, responsible, wanting nothing more than to come home to his family.

But then I'm reminded of a metaphorical situation here.  My parents were in town with us once - we'd taken them to a Rams game.  My mom and I stepped up to the counter and ordered beers and a small meal for the four of us which totalled some astronomical price.  And not once did my mom reach for her own wallet.  We were making the big bucks now, so it was just expected that'd we pay for it.  And of course I planned on it - they were our guests to the game.  But she never once offered to help out.

That was the feeling.  It *was* my responsibility as a stay at home mom to take care of things.  But in that expectation, that entitlement, without automatically helping out when we were both at home together in the evenings and weekends felt...ugly.  Disrespectful.  Selfish.  I was being used.

And yet, who was I to complain?  He *did* work long arduous hours.  He had peoples lives in his hands.  It was a stressful, demanding job!  How could I ask for more when he got home?  How could I be so ungrateful?  Even if my gut is telling me he's being selfish, how can I complain when I have so much?  When any girl would just love to trade places with me?

So I said nothing.

I was the sweet, agreeable, powerful wife.

And my anger grew.