Saturday, June 12, 2010
Anger Is An Energy
The wheels and cogs in my lumbering old turtle brain have presented me with a new idea.
It took months (gawd, maybe years) to get to this point, so be patient while I explain myself.
As I have talked about a few times in this blog, I am prone to bouts of depression, and even though I'm on medication I still have the occasional dip.
It's no party, but it doesn't frighten me anymore because I know what it is and I trust that it will pass.
So about a week ago my mental health was ably assisted into the doldrums courtesy of the following precipitating factors;
(1) I forgot to take my prozac one day (oops...but hey, I am mad)
(2) Bob was discovered over a mile away from home on a determined trajectory towards his uncle's house (which is 10 miles away!!!)...he was within spitting distance from the Dublin-Derry road
(3) Mother Nature doesn't seem to check her in-box...if she is reading I have finished having children so PMS is superfluous to my needs thank you very much.
I don't think the cranky old biddy cares though.
So in the post I received a lovely bouquet of lethargy, tearfulness and self-loathing from the mean spirited Mother Nature.
I was a laugh a minute.
I recalled often reading that depression is anger "turned inwards" and I scoffed at the notion of having the energy to feel anything more taxing than faint irritability. I could barely get dressed, never mind hurl the denby against the wall.
But as my medication kicked in, my hormones levelled out and Bob was garrisoned even more securely, I began to feel a tickle of rage.
Normally I distract myself from this anger by manically cleaning, or turning the stereo up to 11.
But this time I allowed myself to feel the rage.
You know when you drive over a bump in the road too fast and your stomach turns gymnastic flip-flops, and you're unsure if you're excited or terrified? Well, that's pretty much what my anger feels like.
I am outraged that despite turning our home into Alcatraz, punctuating our days with endless locking and unlocking of doors and gates, and constant checks on Bob's whereabouts that he still managed to outfox us. I want to be angry with Bob and to let fly at him over the terror he put us through, but he's autistic and that's what autie kids do. So I can't be mad with him.
Spouses tend to be the first in the line of fire, so I want to scream at my husband that it's all his fault.
But he's the one who fenced in a play-yard for Bob and screwed bolts on the gates, and nailed chicken wire to the garden fence and gate to stop Bob clambering through them. Bob's autism and bolts for freedom are not his fault, so it would be grossly unfair to be angry with James, who is an ace husband and dad.
So that just leaves me to be mad with.
And suddenly the anger-depression relationship actually means something to me.
I'm not sure yet how to channel this anger, but I recognise that it could actually be used positively, instead of allowed to burrow deep within me and eat me from the inside out.
I'll have to get my thinking cap on about that one.