So Angry

SO ANGRY

Lydia walked around the kitchen, slamming the doors on the cupboards with enough force to rattle the dishes within, muttering to herself.

“How many people live in this house?" she groused.  "Why is it that I’m the only one who can manage to shut a damn cupboard door!”

She grabbed a mug and poured herself a coffee. She leaned against the counter, trying to get her breathing under control.  

She was really pissed. But why? Was it really just the fact that neither of her children had mastered the intricate art of shutting a cupboard door after getting something out?

No. That was just a symptom, not the cause. She knew that. No one gets this angry over cupboard doors, or empty toilet paper rolls, or books and jackets dropped at the front door.

Did she resent that Jaden and Kyle thought that she was their personal concierge? One hundred percent. And that they were disrespectful—Kyle in particular? Another one hundred percent. It felt like they expected so much—no, too much—from her. And all that resentment was bubbling up, turning to anger, making her want to scream.

She took another breath. She was annoyed at them—a lot—but they were teenagers, and teenagers were expected to be annoying. And her boys did not fail in that category, not by a long shot. But the fact that they both forgot her birthday last week had really pissed her off—so much so that she refused to talk to them for two days. She had been so mad. At the time, she had understood how someone could become violent. The boiling rage made her want to scream and lash out, furious—not just at the boys, but at the enter world.

She didn’t know why she felt this anger so intensely, but she did know that she had to get control of her emotions before she spun completely out of control.

But how?

She could take up drinking, she supposed. It was what her mother had done. But that didn’t seem like an avenue she was willing to consider. How many nights had she found her mother passed out in the living room, television on, playing to no one, empty wine bottles littering the kitchen counter. How many times had her mother raged at her and her sister about imagined wrongs and transgressions when she was drunk? How many nights did she spend hanging out with her friends because she couldn’t bear to be at home with her mother?  

Did she want that for her children? No. Of course not. No one who had lived with an alcoholic would want that for their own children. Yet, there were generational alcoholic families, she knew. She wasn’t sure, but she suspected that her sister was well on her way to emulating her mother. 

She could exercise. She had friends who lauded the benefits running, or yoga, or kickboxing, or biking—a myriad of different activates. They spoke of the endorphin high, or the feeling of euphoria a good workout could produce. But her anger exhausted her. All her energy was used up by her rage.

Enough introspection she though, pushing herself away from the counter.

She had to get ready for work. Ahh, work. Another place she found herself raging. Someone drank the last cup of coffee and didn’t make another pot? Rage! Someone took the last box of paperclips, and didn’t tell anyone? Rage! Paper jam left in the copier? Rage! Someone stealing her apple from the break room fridge? Rage!

As Lydia walked up to her room, she considered her reactions to—if she was being honest—what were minor annoyances. Normal people didn’t react this way. Healthy people didn’t want to kill an apple thief. She shouldn’t be exploding into a furor over the small stuff. But she was. Way too often. Her rage was affecting her job. And she needed her job.

After her shower, she dressed and scanned her image in the full length mirror. She’d lost quite a bit of weight, and her clothes hung on her. She looked sloppy, and knew she should go shopping, or even have her work clothes altered. She wished she knew how to sew, then she could do the alterations herself. But her mother had been too drunk and too disinterested to teach her …

The pressure started to build up in her head. Just the thought of the selfishness of her drunken mother made her blood pressure spike and her heart thump. She screamed at the top of her lungs, her torment filling the air. The feral sound frightened her—her own uncontrolled rage, her hate for her mother, her murderous reaction to a mere memory. It scared the hell out of her. She needed to get back in control of herself.

Breathe, she thought. Just breathe through it.

Standing stock still, Lydia concentrated on her breathing. In and out, in and out, until she could feel a modicum of calm return. Not all the way back to calm, but she didn’t feel the need to go over to her mother’s house and bash the woman who had given birth to her over the head with an empty wine bottle.  

Yes. She needed help. Now. Before it was too late. Before she did something she regretted. Lydia picked up her phone, and called her doctor.

*****

“I know things have been hard for the last little while. And I have not been doing a good job at being your mother.” Lydia looked at her boys, Jaden and Kyle. 

They were seated at the kitchen table, each in their “usual” spot.

“No shit, Mom,” said Kyle, the younger of the two brothers.

Lydia felt her anger rise, but struggled to control it.  

Instead of screaming at him about respect, she quietly said, “Language,” and continued speaking evenly. “I’m going to start therapy.”

Kyle flopped himself back in the chair, crossing his arms across his chest. He was just sixteen, and was sure he knew it all.

“About fuckin’ time,” he said, looking at the ceiling, not making eye contract.

“Dude!” said Jaden, who was eighteen and not prone to teenage temper tantrums, “Not cool.”

Kyle looked at his brother and rolled his eyes.

“As I was saying, I’m going to start therapy. I’ll be going twice a week to start with. Plus, I’ve signed up for an anger management course, to teach me better coping skills.” She paused. “I want to be a better mother. I don’t want to be angry all the time.”

“You’re a good mom, just a little stressed, that’s all,” said Jaden.

Kyle uncrossed his arms, sat up in his chair, and gaped at his brother.

“Are you fuckin' kidding me? A little stressed? Who threw my dinner—plate and everything—out the back door, because I didn’t jump when she said dinner was ready?”

“I was there, dude. She called you like a million times. Dinner was getting cold.”

“Who cares? We don’t eat together anyways. Sitting in front of the TV is NOT a family dinner.”

“Don’t be a jerk,” said Jaden.

Lydia looked at her children. She hadn’t realized that how angry Kyle was. She’d been too busy being mad at the world to see the anger in her younger son.  

God, she thought, it’s like I'm giving him a template for how to be an angry young man. She shook her head, How have I missed all his pain?

Kyle crossed his arms again, sitting back in the chair. Everything about his body language said he was closed off, not willing to be part of the discussion.  

Lydia remembered the dinner incident, vividly. She’d gotten home from work, and threw in dinner. Nothing spectacular, just some chicken, potatoes, and salad. In fact, Jaden had made the salad without being asked, which had helped. When it was ready, she’d called up to Kyle. No response.  

“Kyle! Dinner!”

Nothing. She called up three more times, getting angrier each time. She could feel the pressure building up in her temples.

“Maybe he’s got his headphones on. I’ll text him,” sad Jaden.

Five minutes. Still nothing. And dinner was getting cold. She’d stomped upstairs, flung open his door.

“Dinner! If you’re not down in two minutes, I’m throwing it out!”

Kyle had looked at her, contempt painting his face.

“Whatever,” he said, going back to the book he was reading.

She’d whirled on her heels and stomped back downstairs. Before she even reached the first floor, she heard the slam of Kyle’s door.

Instead of yelling at him, she walked over to the kitchen counter, grabbed his plate, swung open the door to the backyard, and frisbeed his plate out the door, scattering food and broken crockery all over the back patio.

Kyle must have heard the crash, because he came flying down the stairs.

“What the fuck, Mom!” he’d said, “That was my dinner! What am I supposed to eat?”

“I don’t care,” she’d said, and at the time, and had meant it. She was so angry she was grinding her teeth.

“I fuckin’ hate you,” he’d said, stomping back up to his room.

That was last week. She looked at him sitting stone-faced across the table. By the looks of it, he still hated her.

“Look,” she said, “that kind of reaction is why I need to see a therapist. I don’t want to be angry all the time.” She gazed at each boy separately, making eye contract with Jaden but not Kyle. “I’m pretty sure you don’t want me to be angry all the time.”

“Who gives a crap? You’ll still be a shitty mother.”

“Kyle!” said Jaden.

“It’s true! What other mothers rage at their kids the way she does? She’s psycho!”

“Just shut up,” said Jaden. “Don’t talk.”  

Jaden turned to his mother.  “Therapy will help, and you’ll be happier,” said Jaden, trying to smile. “I want my happy mom back. I miss her.” He put his hand over hers.

Lydia’s eyes filled with tears.  

Kyle sneered at Jaden, shaking his head. “Suck up.”

Jaden pulled his hand back and turned in his chair to look at Kyle.

“No, not a suck up, just someone who cares. If you didn’t behave like a spoiled brat all the time, maybe Mom wouldn’t be angry all the time. Trying to make you happy is a full-time job. You don’t do anything around the house to help, you don’t talk to anyone, you stomp all over and slam doors, and play that stupid death metal at full volume. What makes you think that anyone else wants to listen to that shit? You are so selfish!”

“Fuck you!” screamed Kyle, standing so quickly that his chair toppled over backward. He fled to his room, slamming his bedroom door so hard, that pictures bounced on the wall.

Like mother, like son, Lydia thought, shame colouring her face.

 Jaden ran up the stairs behind Kyle, following him to his room. Lydia could hear them yelling at each other.

She should be reacting to Kyle’s outburst. It was her job, not Jaden’s. 

Why hadn't she noticed? Jaden was trying to hold the family together. He was only eighteen, and it wasn’t his job. She considered her older son for a moment. He had changed, too. A lot. He’d gotten a bunch of acceptance letters from every university that he applied to, some with scholarships. But he told her that he was going to stay an extra year in high school—to improve his marks, he'd said.  But, he’d already been accepted, so that was a lie. Failure to launch? Not Jaden. He was smart, athletic, gregarious, mature, ready for university.  He just didn't want to leave. Why?

She thought about all the other recent changes in his behaviour.  

When had that happened? Why hadn’t she noticed? Not the in-your-face changes like Kyle, but still colossal changes. Hadn’t he quit the basketball team a couple of weeks ago? He said that he needed to work on his school assignments, and that it was taking up too much of his time. And when was the last time she’d seen Sophie, Jaden’s girlfriend? They were usually attached at the hip.  But she hadn't seen her for weeks. He’d also cut way back on his hours at his part-time job. He was abandoning his life outside of the family.

Now, he was at home all the time, always there, instead of being out there, living his life. No more friends coming over to play xBox and staying for dinner. No more borrowing the car to go see Sophie. No more hanging out with Kyle. In fact, the two of them rarely spoke anymore. Jaden seemed to have cut himself off from the world. Now he was just home. It was almost as if he was babysitting her.  

Her son was babysitting her. Humiliation flooded through her. He was supposed to be out exploring the world, not at home making sure his mom didn’t spiral out of control. Over the last month, how many times had he tried to talk her down from her rage? She thought. A lot. Too many. More shame.

Lydia headed up to her bedroom. As she passed the family room, she saw Jaden sitting on the couch, laptop open on the table in front of him.  

“Night,” she said.

Jaden turned to look at him mom. “Night. And don’t worry about Kyle. I’ve got this.”

She walked up the stairs and down the hall to the main suite. She stepped inside, and closed the door. She needed to have a talk with Caleb, her husband, the boys’ dad.

“We are so screwed up, Caleb,” she said, looked across at the bed. “Why did you have to die? You’ve been gone thirty-two days. We need you.”