Wet, Hot, Rage

If there is one thing that I really hate about myself, it is the way I react to anger.

I cry.

And then I get mad that I am crying and I get more angry and cry even more. It is a vicious, horrible cycle.

When I cry because I am angry, it is a whole different kind of crying. I never sob or weep. That's for really sad, really anguished crying. When I am angry, I just can't stop the flow of mad, hot tears.

My husband and I are both in a very angry place right now. But not at each other. No, we are united and bonded by our anger.

Except all these white hot tears produce a head full of snot and a headache that makes me nauseous.

We're both angry about his work situation. We're mad at my daughter's softball coach who my husband has nicknamed FUBAR. We're mad at the annoying violin parents. And we're mad about Patrick's situation in a way that even Patrick isn't.

While Patrick can roll with the punches and say, "It's frustrating, but I understand..." I want to go on a slapping spree. He can say, "Well, it's a known complication. What can you do?" I want to get my own scalpel and start stabbing people in the stomach. It's a mother's reaction, I think. Reason doesn't matter. Nobody gets to hurt the people I love. Nobody. I don't care what the circumstances are.

I'm mad at my own things too. I'm mad that people think they really know me, just from reading what I write here. I'm mad that people think they understand my relationship with Patrick, just from what they read here. I'm mad that people think they have insight into my marriage, just from what they read here.

If you're going to make snarky comments about me, you probably shouldn't do it to my best friend who's in the hospital. That will just double my anger.

The amount of rage I feel toward the people in that hospital right now is all out of proportion. Yes, Patrick is still there. His abscess hasn't gone away. It has grown. And he's in a never ending shut-up-and-color, sit-there-and-wait mode. He might have more surgery tomorrow. He's not sure.

His room is a hole and his new roommate is a raving vagrant. I'm starting to think he's slipped into a black hole of a hospital that he'll never escape.

My husband pointed out today that part of the reason I am crying and unable to move past my anger is because I have no outlet. I have no fight to fight. Because none of this is about me.

As soon as I have time, I will update Patrick's blog with the details he wants to share. It will be more fact-based and less emotion-based than my ranting here.

It would mean a great deal to me, if you could keep him in your thoughts.

The good news? I haven't cried at all since I started to write. But I think I'll go have a good cry now.