She’s lost her temper, no warm up, no warning. The rush of blood hits the surface and whoosh out it comes. The shout. It’s loud, it’s frightening for those in the room and it’s completely unacceptable behaviour for a woman old enough to know better.
The Daily Apology
But it’s hard to control. No. It’s uncontrollable. She’ll try counting to ten, she must try taking deep breaths. Must try remembering everything is OK. Her world is a Good Place. But somehow it doesn’t seem to work. The anger just errupts.
Who said the drugs don’t work they just make you worse? Maybe Richard Ashcroft was wise after all and not just up his own arse on his own self importance as an ‘artist’. Maybe they didn’t work, but their withdrawal seems violent and disorientating.
Is that was causes these irrational outbursts? Is that what sends her running in tears to the next room, just for a few minutes, just to breathe? Maybe. It’s an easy enough excuse. And something she knew would happen. But somehow no matter how much provocation is involved shouting at a child just feels so wrong. Shouting at an adult who loves her just feels wrong (afterwards, it feels bloody wonderful at the time – a drug all of it’s own).
How broken was she to take these drugs? Did she think she was so malfunctioning that an artificial block on a chemical in her brain was the answer?
It was for a time. For a very long time actually. But somehow there’s something primal about truly feeling again. Just being really cross. Being really happy. Being really sad.
So the daily apology is due. To the other adult in the house. The one who doesn’t deserve her wrath. All he does is try to love her, try to keep them all functioning. It’s not his fault that sometimes the way he does it makes her want to hit her head hard against the wall.
“I’m sorry. I couldn’t stop it. You don’t deserve it, none of you. I’m not myself at the moment. That’s all. Please don’t be upset. I love you so much. I’m sorry.”
And that’s it. The daily apology. It’ll get used again tomorrow and the next day and the next day. But maybe soon she won’t need it. She can consign it to the past. She will remember it with a wry smile because she no longer needs it.
She looks forward to that day.
Inspired, as ever, by Josie’s Writing Workshop at Sleep is for the Weak. I chose the prompt: She