Retreat #4: Rage
My head throbs. I have no Tylenol or aspirin. I rarely get headaches and therefore don’t carry pain-relievers with me. This headache feels different, as if a pill won’t touch it anyway. “This headache feels different…” Fear stabs through my belly. Almost twenty years ago, I had a five-day migraine, and I prayed never to have one again.
Today, I’m afraid I’m headed for one. I settle on the couch and tell my headache, “I’ll sit and listen to you until you’ve told me all that you have to tell me.”
A memory comes: the flare of anger I felt four days ago, followed by arthritic pain slicing through my fingers. I was angry with my husband, but I didn’t let him know that. “You destroy your body in order to spare your husband’s feelings. You avoid conflict with him but you carry the discord in your muscles and bones, in your blood.”
I agree. Yes, that’s true. I spare others and slay myself in the sparing.
“You’re choosing to hurt your physical body rather than tolerate the feelings of aloneness that come with confrontation. You’ll swallow your rage and act as if things are fine—smile, have sex, be considerate—rather than risk standing alone in your way of seeing things. You rationalized your anger away and now it’s exploding in your head."
I nod. This makes sense to me.
My headache eases. I change out of my nightgown into jeans and a sweater, and go for a walk. But during the night, a headache wakes me. I wake again at 6:30 with a severe headache. I drink a glass of water and return to bed. As daylight creeps into the room, my headache worsens. Before long, a sour taste floods my mouth and my teeth feel on edge with the metallic warning of vomit. I shuffle to the washroom, lean over the toilet bowl, and heave into it. My rage is back, assaulting my head. This is going to do me in if something doesn’t change. I know that I need to take action when I get home.
How can I live in a way that’s more congruent with who I am? What will I do to change the destructive dance of my marriage? The incident that angered me will be a week old by the time I return home—too old to bring up with my husband. Although it’s a small incident, it’s an example of how and why things need to change. I move to the couch and begin to journal: “I feel impotent in my anger and frustration. Yet, frustration is my point of power, for it indicates to me what I do not want. What is it that I do want? I want to feel respected, valued, cherished. What actions would make me feel cherished? What feels respectful to me? How do I want to be treated?”
I know what I’ll do. I’ll write a word-picture of how I’d like my marriage to be. I’ll avoid vague words like “supportive”, “respectful” and “loving”. Instead, I’ll describe actions that feel supportive and respectful and loving to me. When I get home, I’ll give this description to my husband. It’s one way of taking a stand for myself—a way that I feel I can manage right now.
My fingers fly across the keyboard of my laptop. I write four pages. I’m surprised that I have so much to say. And then the thought comes: You’re being unrealistic; you’re expecting a lot.
Hush, I say to the judgmental voice; now is not the time for you to speak. I’m in the thick of defining what I want, and it’s hard work. Hush…hush…
My headache weakens.