I like to be in control of myself. I like to think that I am the kind of person who acts of my own free will at all times. My father used to say how much he admired my strength of character. I should hate to be a slave to drugs or drink or tobacco, as this would take my independence from me. There have been moments in my life, however, when a demon has taken over, the demon of uncontrollable rage.
I must have been about three years old when I first became aware of the terror and force of this anger within me. It is something that lies dormant, before springing itself upon me without warning. One cold, dark night my father went outside to fetch a bucket of coal and I followed him. I can't recall what triggered off my display of anger but I remember losing control and screaming in rage as I thumped my father with my little fists, losing control completely. A white-hot rage was burning deep within my soul, making me want to lash out and cause pain to the person who had offended me, who happened, also, to be someone I normally adored.
The storm passed and horror and remorse and shame and confusion followed. I ran in to my mother and tried to hide in her voluminous skirt but she pushed me away. I felt so vulnerable, so rejected, so helpless, so utterly drained. My father didn't say anything and I think he was as baffled as I was by my outburst. Neither of my parents had much understanding of child psychology and no attempt was made to help me come to terms with what had happened. Looking back to that night all those years ago, I can only imagine that my father had said something in jest that scared me. I know that, as a child, I was always terrified of the dark.
Four years later, my brother, Ted, had to deal with a similar outburst from me. I think he dealt more skilfully with it, as I have always been able to laugh in hindsight at what happened. We were on our way home from school, walking throughWaterford
I was twirling around and stamping my feet in rage. Ted offered me the ruler and begged me to hurry along or we'd miss the train. Normally, the fear of missing the train would have overridden all other fears but my anger was consuming me. "Make him give me back my ruler when I gave it to him," I screamed.
"Make him give me back my ruler where I gave it to him."
I don't believe I was that worried about having my ruler back. It was more a question of possessing a weapon with which to exact revenge for the perceived injury. I was far gone when I thought Ted could reverse time! That is the logic of the kind of rage that sprang up from nowhere that afternoon so long ago. The desire to inflict pain was there, the desire to exact more than the pound of flesh due to me.
A policeman appeared and shouted crossly at Ted to take his screaming sister home. Continuing my chant as I reluctantly moved on, I was vaguely scared of the policeman, but still beyond the appeal of logic. Perhaps that is why we sometimes use the word ‘mad’ when we mean ‘angry’. I was ‘mad’ at Ted, insanely, illogically ‘mad’, out of control, beyond reason. Somehow, we reached the station and my anger had subsided as quickly as it had risen, but I never forgot that day. I would have felt washed out, drained, frightened and ashamed, perhaps resentful that Ted had placed me in such a situation. He would have been completely baffled. He offered the ruler over and over to me and begged me to take it but that wasn't good enough. His pleading fell on deaf ears. That kind of rage feeds on itself and multiplies like bacteria. Not only is it unreasonable but it escalates beyond control. Only this morning my sister inNew Zealand
I have suffered sporadic outbursts of temper throughout my life but none as intense as those two occasions in childhood. Although I can sometimes feel contrary and cross and intolerant and I still shout in anger occasionally, I hope that I shall never again lose total control of myself. No matter how hard I try to analyse what happened on those rare occasions, it doesn't make sense to me. It scares me to think that the potential to erupt violently lies so close to the surface; perhaps I am not as invincible as I have always believed myself to be!
I must have been about three years old when I first became aware of the terror and force of this anger within me. It is something that lies dormant, before springing itself upon me without warning. One cold, dark night my father went outside to fetch a bucket of coal and I followed him. I can't recall what triggered off my display of anger but I remember losing control and screaming in rage as I thumped my father with my little fists, losing control completely. A white-hot rage was burning deep within my soul, making me want to lash out and cause pain to the person who had offended me, who happened, also, to be someone I normally adored.
The storm passed and horror and remorse and shame and confusion followed. I ran in to my mother and tried to hide in her voluminous skirt but she pushed me away. I felt so vulnerable, so rejected, so helpless, so utterly drained. My father didn't say anything and I think he was as baffled as I was by my outburst. Neither of my parents had much understanding of child psychology and no attempt was made to help me come to terms with what had happened. Looking back to that night all those years ago, I can only imagine that my father had said something in jest that scared me. I know that, as a child, I was always terrified of the dark.
Four years later, my brother, Ted, had to deal with a similar outburst from me. I think he dealt more skilfully with it, as I have always been able to laugh in hindsight at what happened. We were on our way home from school, walking through
I was twirling around and stamping my feet in rage. Ted offered me the ruler and begged me to hurry along or we'd miss the train. Normally, the fear of missing the train would have overridden all other fears but my anger was consuming me. "Make him give me back my ruler when I gave it to him," I screamed.
"Make him give me back my ruler where I gave it to him."
I don't believe I was that worried about having my ruler back. It was more a question of possessing a weapon with which to exact revenge for the perceived injury. I was far gone when I thought Ted could reverse time! That is the logic of the kind of rage that sprang up from nowhere that afternoon so long ago. The desire to inflict pain was there, the desire to exact more than the pound of flesh due to me.
A policeman appeared and shouted crossly at Ted to take his screaming sister home. Continuing my chant as I reluctantly moved on, I was vaguely scared of the policeman, but still beyond the appeal of logic. Perhaps that is why we sometimes use the word ‘mad’ when we mean ‘angry’. I was ‘mad’ at Ted, insanely, illogically ‘mad’, out of control, beyond reason. Somehow, we reached the station and my anger had subsided as quickly as it had risen, but I never forgot that day. I would have felt washed out, drained, frightened and ashamed, perhaps resentful that Ted had placed me in such a situation. He would have been completely baffled. He offered the ruler over and over to me and begged me to take it but that wasn't good enough. His pleading fell on deaf ears. That kind of rage feeds on itself and multiplies like bacteria. Not only is it unreasonable but it escalates beyond control. Only this morning my sister in
I have suffered sporadic outbursts of temper throughout my life but none as intense as those two occasions in childhood. Although I can sometimes feel contrary and cross and intolerant and I still shout in anger occasionally, I hope that I shall never again lose total control of myself. No matter how hard I try to analyse what happened on those rare occasions, it doesn't make sense to me. It scares me to think that the potential to erupt violently lies so close to the surface; perhaps I am not as invincible as I have always believed myself to be!
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