Love, Anger and Indifference

Anger, unexpressed, turns inward but leaves a mark.  I pound my fists against my own chest in frustration and self-disgust.  Very efficient, two birds with one stone.  Once, looking down while changing clothes at the gym, I saw accidental bruises.  In embarrassed surprise, turning to my open locker door for a shield from prying eyes.   So that’s what happens when anger turns inward.   

The absolute value of x

But I don't want to write with my fists.  I prefer to write with my calm, measured fingers.  Writing that is clearly conceived through years of craft, that gingerly considers the double helix of  love and anger.   I have to admit that I still love my husband even now, in a limited, rueful way.  Restricted, neutral, arms held tightly at my sides between the two straight lines of absolute value.   Once upon a time I did love him. so intensely that I thought I would burst, heady days of early love, clawing lust, shortness of breath, manic nights where sleep was not necessary.   Looking into a benevolent mirror foggy from a steamy shower.  Sweaty picnics on the floor of the studio, drinking champagne.  Van Morrison murmurs poetry on the stereo.  Linden Arden stole the highlights.  T.S. Eliot joined the ministry, joined the ministry.

And then twenty years went by.  And now we look into a different mirror.  Harsh fluorescent cold tiled locker room.  Bodies sagging, failing.  Falling arches, ugly feet.  Stick legs.  Pot bellies and cellulite.  Faces unprotected by forgotten sunscreen.  Faces that have lived in the sun and wind, laughing, crying.  Faces that once felt love but now can only muster indifference, regret. 

He snores next to me.  Something called apnea can be quite dangerous.  I know that sympathy is required.  But I only feel stabbing annoyance that I telegraph with angled elbows and shaken shoulders.  Wake up, wake up, you are snoring!  Then, changing course, soothing, placating, please try to stop snoring, you need to breathe, you are not getting enough oxygen.  

But secretly I am pleased that there is something concrete to hate him for. Something he can't talk me out of when I complain.  Because I have a mood disorder, I can't be taken seriously.   I rail against endless injustices but I am dismissed airily with a wave of a hand.  How long since my last shrink appointment?  Have I had my meds adjusted? Surely that’s what my tedious and pathetic rantings are really about.  

So snoring is good.  Real, measurable.  I could record it if I wanted to and play it back to him.  I imagine his reaction, see his face go white, recognizing the truth of this accusation.  Doubt would play on his face.  The same face in response to the revelation that the kids are aware of his drinking, a story for another time.  Dawning acknowledgment that I am right after all.  Despite all the things that are wrong with me, I really am right.  Really really really.  For true and for serious.  

I savor the triumph even as it wanes.