Rage

 

Well, it happened.  This morning, Grief ushered Rage back into the party.  Not so much ushered.  Rage crashed down upon my head like a piano falling from a third-story window.  People told me Rage would come, that one day I would be angry at Scott.  I didn't believe them.  Turns out they were right.

I woke up at 2:00 this morning from bad dreams, and immediately felt crushed by Rage.  I tossed and turned until the alarm went off a few short hours later.  Rage never loosened his grip.  I got up, walked into the bathroom, and started cleaning up the cat pee on the tile.  Lily, the 18-year-old cat who Scott rescued as a tiny kitten, refuses to use the litter box now, despite three vet visits and three rounds of medicine to treat her persistent UTI.  So every morning, and often in the afternoon when I get home from work, I have to clean up cat pee on the bathroom floor.  

I didn't ask for this.  

With no warning, Rage exploded in my veins, and I unleashed a string of expletives that would make a longshoreman blush.  Lily was sleeping soundly in the living room, but both dogs were horrified by my outburst and came running into the bathroom.  Ernie was trembling, and Juno had her tail tucked.  They both tried to attach themselves to me, and in the process, walked through the puddle of cat pee on the floor.  Rage boiled to Fury.  I closed the bathroom door, made them sit while I washed their feet, then wiped up the puddle of pee.  

I didn't ask for any of this.

I never wanted dogs.  The agreement was always that if we got a dog, she would be Scott's responsibility, not mine.  When we got Juno, that was the deal.  Scott walked her, trained her, fed her, took her hunting, and took her to work every day.  I loved her for sure, and took her hiking and backpacking, but she was Scott's dog.  Then we inherited Ernie.  He blended seamlessly into the dog routine with Scott and Juno.  

Now I have two dogs and three cats, none of whom I adopted.  Scott brought them all home.  On my hands and knees on the bathroom floor, wiping up a puddle of pee, Rage lifted slightly, and I was able to see their sweet, furry faces gazing up at me, wanting me to feel better, wanting me to be okay.  I am afraid I am failing miserably at all of this.  

"I'm sorry.  I'm sorry," I repeated over and over, looking each of them in the eye and hoping they would be patient with me.  

Rage continued to simmer as I got dressed, laced up my shoes, and ventured into the darkness in the wee hours of the morning to take the dogs for their walk, leaving early enough to allow time for my own workout after the walk and still arrive at work on time.  Scott did the dog walks.  That was the deal.  Now it's on me.  

I DIDN'T ASK FOR ANY OF THIS.  How dare you leave me with all of this?  HOW DARE YOU?

I stomped up the hill, fuming.  

I don't want any of this.  I don't want to do any of this.  I am so tired of all of it.  I don't have it in me.  I can't do any of this.  

Then I heard Scott whisper to me, I'm sorry.

I shook my head.  I know you are, but it doesn't do me any good, does it?

Rage continued to swirl around me, smashing into me and suffocating me.  I finished the walk, did my workout, headed to work, and somehow made it through the morning.  I had a break at lunch, enough time for a quick ride.  

As I was changing in the locker room, a woman asked, "Are you going for a bike ride?"

"Yes," I replied quietly.

She raised her eyebrows.  "Have you seen outside?"

"Yeah," I said, shrugging.  "I have the gear for it."

I walked out into a biting north wind, raindrops intermittently splatting against my glasses.  My mind spun along with my legs as I pedaled down Main Street to my chosen route for the day.  Rage hung with me for a long time, but slowly, almost imperceptibly, I felt him fade into the background.

I'm sorry, Scott whispered again.

I know, I replied.

I know how irrational it is to be mad at Scott.  Nothing about it makes sense, nor is it helpful for me in any way.  Feelings are irrational, though, and Anger is as real as the bike I was riding.  As I started a climb, I thought about my furry family waiting for me at home.  I love them all and wouldn't trade them for anything.  I enjoy my early morning dog walks in the darkness.  I thrive in the darkness.  It feels like the world is only mine, like we are in on a secret.  I get to hear the elk bugle, the coyotes howl and yip, the horned owls hooty-hoot to each other, see the moon set and meteors burn across the sky.  It's a magical time.  

By the time I finished my ride, Rage had retreated to the corner.  I am sure he will make a resurgence, maybe even tomorrow, but I can't think about that right now.  "Just let it go," a friend suggested.  Yes.  I would love to let it go.  I would love to let it all go.  I am so tired of dealing with all of it.  I have "processing fatigue."  All I can do is continue to acknowledge all these big, annoying, frustrating feelings and know they won't last forever.