I should have known it was coming; all the signs were there. Easily irritated. Highly distracted. Total lack of focus. Not enough patience to finish unloading the dishwasher, tidy up, read a full chapter, truly listen to a podcast, or meditate. There was no noticing. That’s part of it. 

It’s Never About What It’s About

So, when my frustration over finding the “Seasons and Episodes” section of Hulu, and my lengthy search for where we left off on This Is Us kept taking me in circles, I threw the remote control and screamed cuss words. 

The remote control was a satisfying throw because it fell apart and the batteries rolled across the floor. I’ve slammed doors before and had to open them and slam them a second time because it just wasn’t enough.

The Lamp

My son loves to tell people I threw a lamp at him. My correction is always, “No, I didn’t throw a lamp AT you. I threw a lamp, and you were in the room. If I’d have thrown it at you, I would have hit you.”

I didn’t.

It was soon after the crash ending of my first life by sudden death of my husband of 21 years. I was back to teaching so I know it had been close to 2 months since “the day.” I came home from school and as I remember it, had a slight altercation with Michael’s bicycle, which was parked in the wrong place in the garage, and my car had a new scratch.

Michael was lying on the sofa watching TV. I said something about the bicycle, and he made some lame excuse, never breaking eye contact with his show. 

I snapped. I went for the closest, largest, breakable object: a five-foot, beige, ceramic floor lamp. It was kind of heavy, but I picked it up and smashed it on the ground. Maybe against the wall.

The next thing I remember was crying and crying and running the sweeper. 

This doesn’t happen often. I am not a violent person. But right now, with broken families, broken hearts, beautiful cities torn apart by war, the consistent and constant gaslighting by politicians who could take measures but won’t, no authentic dialog, muddled truth, no compromise toward solutions, all leading to a sense of helplessness. it’s just time to break something. And cry.

The morning after I threw the remote, BF and I went to the gym to bike off steam. A woman was there, stretching, blasting Lady Gaga over the sound system. She offered to turn down the music and I assured her it was okay. “I had a meltdown this morning,” she said.

“Me too,” I said. I didn’t bother to tell her it was actually the night before. I went to the back room, set up a bike, plugged in my earbuds, blasted my own Lady Gaga. And cried.

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