He’s stomping down the hallway, approaching the closed bedroom door. The beer on his breath blows out his nose and mouth. Bull-like, he scratches his foot on the hardwood floor.
“I know you’re awake,” he screams at the door and notices the lamp on the nightstand flicking off. “I know you’re not asleep.”
Inside the bedroom, she pulls the covers over her head. Here it comes, she thinks, bracing for the next ridiculous and inevitable scene, a now trite and tired act.
He throws open the door, holding a beer can, his shadowy figure filling the frame. She pretends to sleep.
“I guess you’re going to ignore me now! You always ignore me. You don’t care. You don’t care about me. You don’t give a shit,” he says, slurring his words.
“Please go to sleep? I get it. You’re drunk and depressed, and I’m not going to engage with you,” she says, her voice small beneath the shelter of the sheets.
He laughs, hearty and derisive. “I knew you’d say that. You don’t give a shit. You don’t fucking care if I die. You’re a stone wall. You don’t care,” he says and searches the darkness of their bedroom for the familiarity of a shape and finds none. He sighs. “Fuck it. Just fuck it.”
It’s a Thursday night, and they both have to work early in the morning. She squeezes her eyes and prays he’ll go to sleep.
While I’ve never struck another human being in anger in my life, the emotional aggression can be every bit as hostile and toxic.
|
Then something inside of him clicks, and he leaves, muttering to himself and retreating to the futon in the basement. He knows his behavior was repugnant and knows it needs to stop, all of it—the drinking, the medication vacations, the self-pity and, more importantly, the rages. He knows his wife doesn’t deserve to be the brunt of his seemingly inexorable fits of anger and vitriol and sadness—no one deserves it.
But it’s been occurring since he was a teenager and he still hasn’t found a way to control it. He knows he’s behaving badly, and he knows there are no excuses. Mental illness does not excuse bad behavior.
This man, of course, is me.
♦◊♦
I’m not a psychologist—my degrees are in English—but I’ve read enough to know that anger can be an outward manifestation of depression. In other words, instead of bottling the self-loath and despair that often accompanies depressive episodes, those emotions are re-channeled outwardly as anger and rage, and the people closest to you often find themselves in the line of fire.
My mental health issues, which began as an adolescent, have still not been solidly diagnosed. There will always be a spectrum when it comes to pinning your thumb on a mental illness, seeing it’s near-impossible to ascertain how a person is thinking or feeling, and a professional doctor or therapist can only take someone at their word.
For me, however, the panic attacks and crippling anxiety and depression started in high school. These bouts of rages, usually fueled by the substances I used to self-medicate, followed soon after. While I’ve never struck another human being in anger in my life, the emotional aggression can be every bit as hostile and toxic.
I know the bouts of raging bullshit need to stop completely. No excuses.
|
The rages always seem to coincide with bouts of depression. During these prolonged spells, fighting through the doldrums, I have a tendency to take all of my inward loath and dissatisfaction and project it toward the people I love. This behavior, of course, exacerbates the depression and sends the whole system spiraling into tempest of anxiety.
But—and I firmly believe this to be true of all mental illness—it’s still not an excuse. As aforementioned, there is no excuse for hostile behavior toward anyone. There is no excuse for the raging bullshit.
Those of us with mental illness must concede to this basic truism: Your mental illness does not excuse you from being a kind and decent human being, and you must always try to be better.
I’ve taken steps toward addressing the corrosive behavior that has strained my marriage and relationships with loved ones. After many years of resistance, I’ve started medication and counseling. The process has been slow and sloppy, and the solutions for self-treatment are usually the last things I want to hear, but it’s getting better and, at a torpid pace, I’m improving.
But I know the bouts of raging bullshit need to stop completely. No excuses.
♦◊♦
He’s stomping down the hallway, his toe scratching the hardwood floor. His nostrils are flaring, his blood coming to a boil. “You don’t care,” he screams as he charges into the bedroom. “You’re always on my ass, and you don’t do anything to help!”
She turns on the lamp on the bedside table, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. “That’s not true. I love you and want you to be well,” she says. “Now go to bed.”
Her 14-year-old son stomps his feet. “Be nice to me!”
She yawns, her head falling to the pillow. “You’re just like your father,” she says and closes her eyes. “And I am nice.”
Never has a truer line been uttered.
—
Photo Credit: Flickr Creative Commons/Attribution License (Flabber DeGasky)