(With thanks to the Simpsons)
I grew up in a moderately angry household. My parents yelled, my brothers yelled; I yelled. Occasionally we'd break stuff too. Often when trying to break someone else. I memorably threw a pine frame rope chair at my younger brother when he had the temerity to sit in it when I was out of the room during an ad break. My Dad once pegged a peach as hard as he could at my head when I'd been an arsehole to him out in the orchard where he'd been spending four hours a day after work, and most of the weekends, to try and maintain its health and I'd basically refused to help him. Once, in another house, Dad had chased me with snarling intensity down the corridor and it was only my wrong-footing him at a junction, faking a turn to the right that enabled me to evade his pursuit and flee out the front door while he recovered.
I'm twenty years removed from being in that household. But, alas, upbringing and genetics both means I still have a tendency to get my crank on.
I try, try and try not to let the monster out. But I let it out this morning when I headbutted the door to the bedroom.
theWife had torqued her back, theBoy was being devilishly tricky to wrangle to get him clothed and fed and ready for pre-school, and I had a particularly yucky work day ahead. Oh and my guts were a roiling blaze of trapped fecal matter induced pain.
The need to express it physically seized me and the nearest thing was the door. So I slammed the door against my head. As in I lowered my head then repeatedly whacked the door against it, gripping with whitened knuckles the door's edge in order to cranially abuse it.
Unfortunately for me I picked the weakest spot in the door for my head to hit. Right in the middle. I smashed my balding noggin fair into it and sure enough smashed in the front of the door. After the fifth frenetic whack I calmed down and realised with acute horror at what I had done.
Yep, I'd put a rage hole in the bedroom door. All because a confluence of crap had landed and I'd been unable to express it in a proper, moderated and constructive manner.
It meant for an uncomfortable conversation with theBoy as I drove him to daycare. We're always on at him for reigning in his Id and asking him not to attack or assault his physical environment when he doesn't get his own way. And there's his dad acting like a maniac, whacking a door repeatedly against his head.
I explained what I did was massively wrong and how sorry I was. And how a near forty-year-old man still had anger eruption issues that belong to someone younger than he.
This also makes the second rage hole in the house, the first one being from a milk bottle back from when theBoy was still a baby that I threw at the wall opposite the door to his bedroom. That was when theBoy refused to take the bottle after my having tried to settle him for twenty minutes. The rage hole got spack-filled and the discoloured patch was later covered with a pin-board.
This new emblazoned rage hole ... now covered with a poster.
It was when I got to work and sitting at my work station that I first noticed that I'd actually hurt myself in the process of expressing myself via portal abuse. I reached up and discovered I'd scratched the top of my bald scalp, some ugly reddened lines now evident to anyone who sees me when I am sans hat (1).
I detest this part of me, this uncontrolled part that can bubble up to the surface now and then. Where I go all primordial and/or medieval on some unfortunate object or location that is within my wrath zone. In the last house I remember an old phone that had been playing up had been euthenised by me when I dashed it with fury against the carpeted floor after it yet-again fucked up and refused to work.
Anyway, it's all very embarrassing.
What it is to have yet another genetic trait that once was useful but no longer is; frenetic anger meet disposition to store fat deposits. Yay, I'm angry and fat.
Curse you, Darwin!
(1) Update: Speaking of reddened marks on the scalp...