Incomprehensible

I’m negative. It’s true. You probably don’t know that, unless you’ve lived with me. Who I am outside my house isn’t fake, it is just exhausting. Draining. So when I’m home, when I’m with the people who I live for, who I love more than life, I’m terrible, cantankerous.

It’s true. It’s embarrassing. I’m intolerable, and I know it, and although I know it and although I bite my tongue and tell myself that it is wrong, I remain cranky. I snap, and were I a lower animal, I probably would bite.  I lash out with words and tone in nastiness so detestable, I can’t stand myself.

 My children are more precious than any analogy I could insert here, and yet, when my temper has bubbled to full height (and it does) I explode in loud torrential spurts of vengeful language. I say things that under circumstances less tense would curl my fingers into protective fists. Things for which I would scold other tongues. I hear myself and can’t at times believe that such things could be said. I hate it. 

But worse than the actual words, which I throw like darts, is the tone with which these words are thrown. 

Like a whip, tssss, “I don’t want to hear it.” 

Tssss, “I said sit down.” 

TSSSS. “NOT ANOTHER WORD.” 

TSSS “GO TO YOUR ROOM  N  O  W !”

 My mom had a paddle. Not a real paddle, but not just one either. She used the paddles that at one time had a rubber ball tethered by a stapled elastic cord. Tsss, against the back of my legs. Tsss, went the paddle. TSSS, “because I SAID so.” When the paddles disappeared (or split), she used the flyswatter. It afforded less of a tsss and more of a fwop. FWOP. FWOP. FWOP. She got more air with the swatter. The swatter never disappeared. She could bite her tongue. She remains able. I’ve never learned how.

My mom and I don’t say that we love each other out loud. In fact, the last time I told her was when her mother, my Mother (grandmother) lay dying. I’d just said goodbye and returned to the waiting room where my mom sat in all her stoicism (something else I’m incapable of). I didn’t know what to say and couldn’t comprehend the situation, so in desperation I grabbed her hand in mine and said, “I love you.” That's the last time we told one another. That was almost eight years ago. We don’t say it, but we are like sisters and best friends in that even what goes unsaid, and often what goes unsaid, is simply and profoundly what is. We love one another with a most permanent and absolute bond. And yet, I sting her, the backs of her legs, the side of her cheek, the inner most vessels of her heart with contemptuous words. And, God, the instant it comes out the better I feel and a second later, the worse. 

I admire the well-fueled and quick-witted Beatrice and Katherina. Although, I’m convinced that God and Shakespeare refused both the gift of children. Beyond the conceptual (pun intended) as well as the logistical constraints posed by a 5 ACT play, which because it is a comedy must end with a wedding which cannot occur before the fifth act, I’m convinced neither would provide a home more suitable for children than Lady Macbeth. Beatrice had Benedick. I have Jason who, although I accost him for his own quick tongue, is no Dick. And while I admire both Bea and Kate, I am indeed, no shrew. But when in battle with my equally armed foe, who on most days is also my closest ally, I doth throw slights and hurtle expressions most scandalous with which my sole desire is to prick mine enemy. Damn it.

There are times when words, generally my most valuable ammunition, prove ineffective in conveying my discontent. Oh, wait. I mean, sometimes, I am so pissed off that words don’t even work. The words don’t even exist. My mouth opens, my arms and hands and fingers burst into the air around me and flail mindlessly, and sounds emit worthy of exorcism. “WHHHAAAGGHHHTHHHMMMMUUUGRRRHHHHSHHHMMM” and then it rises to a squelch “EEEYYYAAACCCHHHHIIIIISSAYYYYUUUUDDD….” A noise piercing and grating and all-around most uncomplimentary. My throat sore, my heart tight, my head underwater in frustration and desperation.

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