Anger

I think I should write a little about this uncomfortable subject. Anger is a rather verboten subject in general, and certainly VERY verboten when you are discussing children, and VERY VERY verboten when discussing anger with special needs children. If you want to read excellent essay on anger, read chapter 9 in Anne Lamott's book Plan B, Further Thoughts on Faith. For my own part, I am a relatively laid-back, mellow, good-humored individual. But when I blow, I blow. Talk to my husband. There have been times (usually in the middle of the night) when I just lose it altogether...I can remember one time in particular: Ian had smeared his poop all over his mattress and I was all for throwing the damned thing out (the mattress, not Ian.) John was in favor of trying to clean it. I started doing this weird jig-like manic dance all over the kitchen floor while yelling at the top of my lungs. My husband just stared at me in bemusement and waited it out. As quickly as I blow, I diffuse, so of course, I started laughing at my ridiculousness. I am a redhead. These things happen.

Where Ian is concerned, I am often amazed at how patient I can be. But I better not pat myself on the back too vigorously, because there are those "other times." Let me describe the most recent one:

John was rubbing my neck (I have arthritis and bulging discs and degenerative disc disease in my neck--fun times), and it caused me to have a sudden massive headache. Right at this moment my daughter tried to contact us via Skype, but we had some technical difficulties, so I told her to call me on the phone in a few minutes as I was heading upstairs to lie down. As I was heading up the stairs, Ian came home, and he was in full-tilt LOUD mode. He was just a-roarin' and a-shriekin' and a-yodelin' to beat the band. I escaped upstairs and became prone on the bed while holding the phone in my hand in anticipation of my daughter's call. John came upstairs to check on me with Ian hot on his heels. Ian stood right next to me and BELLOWED in my ear at the top of his lungs. I lost it. I mean I really lost it. I shouted "SHUT THE F*** UP!!!" and threw the phone at him. There was silence. Ian looked at me like I had grown another head. I was drowning in guilt and shame. Ian crawled in bed with me and put his head on my chest and I wrapped my arms around him. I thought "I just cursed at my disabled son. I'm scum." But this passes. I am human. I get angry. Sometimes I get angry at my beautiful aggravating special needs son. For the record, I have only seen my husband get angry at Ian a handful of times in his18 years, if that much. What sets him off is when Ian hurts me. One time Ian grabbed me by the hair and was yanking me around the bathroom. I called for John and he pried his fingers out of my hair and then held on to Ian's shoulders and shouted in his face. It's so rare for John to express anger that I was stunned. It upset John so deeply that he had to go to bed.  John is probably the best man I know: gentle, kind, even-tempered. But he has his moments too.