I’m MAD!

I hate getting angry. My father had a temper. His face would turn red, and he would explode. Sadly, I seem to have inherited the potential to do just the same. So, I don’t do it often. I fight my anger, causing my blood pressure to alarm doctors. The stored up energy makes it ever so much more impressive when I do launch.

I am angry at a disease. Not my disease, someone else’s. I hate a disease that will take a brilliant person and turn them into a blathering idiot, slowly, giving them time to see the decline and know it is coming. What an evil disease. If I ever needed proof that Satan exists, dementia would be it.

So I found myself in a rage, with no outlet. I’ve lost a good friend to dementia…again. My mother-in-law once warned me that this losing of friends comes with growing older. It made her mad, too. She was better at dealing with her rage than I am, though.

I flashed back to my mother’s dementia and how I could never quite get the hang of dealing with her. One day she was upset because there was a spider on the ceiling.

“There’s no spider there, mom.”

“Yes, there is.”

“There’s no spider there, mom.”

“I’m afraid of it. Please kill it!”

“There’s no spider there, mom.”

Responding to her had become rote. I no longer even noticed what I was saying. A well-meaning pastor took me aside and said, “What does it hurt you to play along with her? She’ll be dead in a few days.”

Chastened, I went back in to my mother’s room and said, “Oh, I see it now.” I took a pillow and smashed the non-existent spider.

My mother flew into a rage. “There’s no spider there. You’re just humoring me. I count on you to tell me the truth!”

Um. Yeah. Dementia. You. Can. Not. Win.

So when my friend became so much worse, I had to finally admit, I’ve lost him. He’s gone into a world where what he believes is real and I am merely window-dressing.

So what am I to do with this anger? Scream at the devil? He doesn’t care – that just makes him laugh. Throw things? I seriously considered it, but I’m just not that type. I did bash my head on the wall — which surprisingly helped and I’m sure went a long way to furthering my own demise.

My blood pressure skyrocketed. I checked it and realized I was nearing the “really should be in a hospital” point, so I put the meter away. Some things I don’t want to know. Not looking avoided hospitalization and saved a ton in medical bills.

But I was still angry.

Days later, I’m still angry. Thank heaven for hockey games so I can scream and let out some of my buried aggressions.

This is a useless anger, a shapeless thing, an animal roaring in my gut.

I pity the person who gives me an outlet, a legitimate use for this anger.

Until then, I have enough potential energy to launch the space shuttle.

Of course, they’ve killed the shuttle program. That’s another thing I’m angry about.

How DO you handle anger that you are not free to express?