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Self-Care > Anger: Help or Hinderance
Irritations...the world is out to get me. Friends, family, no one can do anything right. Trivialities I could always let go before now loom large. Those who offend receive my wrath. Anger smolders near the surface to erupt at the slightest provocation. My sensibilities are damaged, my mind one enormous bruise exposed to the world and injured by the slightest touch. Friends have not forgotten me. They continue to reach out, though their efforts are often met with displeasure and contempt. It's just me against the world. This anger consumes all. It's the focal point of my existence. I've signed up for painting lessons to fill the time, to fill the void. Today's artistic attempt must be a still life--a conch shell, a vase, a music box must be arranged in some pleasing order. But it's all wrong, there's no life in this shell. I can't get it right. "Shells are the most difficult," the instructor says. She with the brush, dabs a little here, a little there. "Why are you putting red here?" I ask. "Because I see red," she answers. But I cannot see red, nor do I see any rhyme or reason to her strokes. I'm left with a shell I can't recognize. "Build on the values," she says. What values?! This is a nonsense I can't handle. I won't remain. I walk out, never to return. It's Easter-time and I must shop for the Easter baskets. Going into the stores, I wish someone would notice Alex's absence and ask about him. I'm incensed when his life and death are ignored. But when it does happen, I don't know how to reply. My moods are so sullen, I often surprise myself in my reaction to others. We've had a special picture made of Alexander, and the children accompany me in my search to find just the perfect frame. I've brought the picture, holding it up to this frame and that. Such a kindly clerk, she meant no harm. Oh, you don't have that one with you." I want to destroy her and could have. It was on the tip of my tongue: "No, he's not with me. He's dead!" But I think better of it and simply reply, "No." What is it about human beings that make us want to lash out and hurt others when we are hurt? In public places I often see parents with tired, fussy children. I have always cringed when frustrated parents physically abused their small children, but now my reaction is violent. It upsets me so that I cannot remain nearby and I want to scream at them that they don't know what they are doing. I see in that screaming child the suffering of my own dead son. "Be thankful that you have your other children." How many times have I heard those words, and how strange and inadequate they sound to me now. Of course, I'm grateful for the children, grateful to have something left. But Alex's death is an irreplaceable loss. Why don't these people know that? "It's meant to be...God's will...he's better off...you've been chosen as a shining example for others..." Deliver me from people who have all the answers! Doctors are high on my list of enemies. Of the six doctors who saw Alex in the last few months of his life, I'm not speaking to any of them. Phil, a medical student and personal friend, can see both sides. But today he looks like a doctor. So much anger--had it not been for a great deal of wine, I would not have been able to say those things. Years of suppressed rage and hatred toward the medical community are vented, and he is the target. My accusations are totally out of order and very unfair. Phil will allow me my anger and my pain, but friends are hard to come by these days. I must not abuse the ones I have. It's Little League season, the first game of the year is ahead of us. This is my oldest son's activity and has nothing to do with Alex. Or does it? I've made no mental preparation for this first, allowing it to come upon me without realizing the implications. Driving to the game, my mind is racing. Alexander was born during baseball season. He attended his first game at five days of age, never missing a ball game till now. It was jubilation that exquisite day, the day of his birth. He had not been born two minutes when plans were being made for Alex's baseball career. By the time he could stand, the coaching had begun. And now comes the total realization that Alexander will never play ball. I can feel the impending disaster, but it is too late. Entering the gate, too many sensations, too many people are crowding in on me, These are summertime friends, many we've not seen since last year. It was inevitable; it had to happen sooner or later. "Hello, hello. Good to see you. Where's your little guy--I'll bet he's getting big?" "No--he died." They shrink from us; we've ruined their day. They avoid us like the plague for the rest of the season. I need not repeat it again and again. The word spreads like wildfire, and we're spared many more embarrassing encounters. We're generally ignored and I add it to my growing disgust about people in general. We're at a social disadvantage. We can present to the world only what we are, be that good or bad. There is no finesse for presenting an image which is not real, to show ourselves in any better light. The social games that are played on all levels seem ridiculous to me now and totally beyond my emotional capabilities. Small talk is tedious and the trivialities that make the world turn seem all but absurd. I can only participate in open, honest relationships and will accept nothing less in return. At this point others are ready to see us move on. But for us, the pain is still acute, the enormity of our loss is only now becoming totally apparent. While my need for understanding is increasing with each passing day, the resources of most of my friends to help is nearly exhausted. Friendships based on my former life may or may not fill current needs on both sides. Tragedy strips human beings of the protective covering they use to hide from their own inner fears and insecurities. The attitudes of others toward us are not so much determined by how much they care, but rather by their own personal attitude toward life and death. For some, our situation is far too great a threat to their own personal equilibrium. They can choose to escape from my pain, but that choice does not exist for me. I am becoming more and more selective in seeking out sounding boards, those to listen, those who can understand. Grief has become too complicated, too confusing to share with anyone whom has not been personally touched by crisis. No other perspective can bring any source of strength. As old friendships are put on hold for "someday" miraculously new support people surface to fill the void. I've never had a stronger sense of being watched over and cared for by God Himself. Invariably when the road is too rocky, the right person is sent to show me the way. Those who can no longer help in the emotional sense must still be praying for me, because aside from a weak, "help me," I've little to say to God. The religious questions hang heavy. Since Alex's death, God and I have a healthy respect for each other, yet I keep my distance. If anything my spiritual conviction has multiplied, feeling His presence in the most unsuspecting ways. I've questioned, not God's existence, but rather His good judgment and His love for me. Prayer is still the ultimate stumbling block. Hundreds of prayers were offered for Alexander's healing. There are those who will argue that Alex was healed, the most perfect of healing. I cannot disagree, yet this concept is not compatible with my expectations. I wanted him healthy and alive. "Ask and you shall receive." Why didn't it work? Prayers, once food for the soul, now feel strange to me. Each time a prayerful thought occurs my mind is triggered. Why weren't my prayers answered?! Why? Why? Why? Between my husband and me, the mood is abrasive. Small quirks are magnified out of proportion, little irritations we'd learned to tolerate in each other years ago come back to haunt us. The old insecurities, those helpless childhood feelings, come to the surface to get in the way of mature interaction. We struggle to keep some semblance of our former selves, to tap back into the safety of the dynamics that allowed our relationship to exist all these years. I live with the constant fear that another tragedy will befall us before we have picked ourselves up. That helpless out-of-control feeling permeates all. The children are defensive, argumentative, difficult to get along with, their nerves on edge, their self esteem also hanging in the balance. They must surely feel as if their existence in life is of no value, that Alexander was everything to us. It's not so, and yet his loss has become an unreal, all-consuming focus in our lives. Joe and Bethany are in constant confrontation, far more damaging and serious than the normal sibling squabbles. And together the two older converge on Amanda, tormenting her six-year-old existence. Their world has fallen in and manifests itself in anger. The three of them are at each other constantly. Amanda, who has not shown any outward signs of grief for weeks, suddenly shares the depths of her emotional turmoil. It's just a minor mother-daughter confrontation, "Put on your shoes." But it explodes from inside of her. "My life is ruined. Nobody knows that I have feelings, that I am sad and that Alex is dead. Nobody cares. My friends don't care. Why didn't they come to the funeral home? It was for children, too." Just a baby, but she faces the same social problems we adults face. Many of her friends have been instructed to avoid talking about Alexander. To Amanda it is an insult, a sign that they don't care about her or her grief. Death is part of life and life should not be ignored. One morning I heard her talking back to Sesame Street. They were singing a song differentiating living creatures from inanimate objects. Joyful moppets sang, "I'm alive, I'm alive." And she screamed back, "So what? My baby brother was alive, and now he's dead!" Grief represents for us a series of surprises. The fabric of each day is punctuated by hostility and outrage. We hurt and we fight back, and our pain manifests itself in anger! Don't tell me that you understand, Reprint Permission Originally published by Bereavement Publishing, Inc. 1-888-604-4673 (HOPE). |
