Boiling Volcanoes of Anger

I have found that my anger is like a boiling volcano, which basically means I cook the fire of fury first.  I boil my barbs, I invoke my insults.  Yes.  No volcano worth it’s lava spews anything molten out without cooking, boiling, melting it first, and I, and my lava are no different.  Whilst the day started out musically and lava free,  my family in their usual lava lighting way, threw lit matches (sometimes burning trees) into a an otherwise dormant volcano.  These were some of my lava lighting moments:

• Distribution of assets – my children take my stuff.  Now because I have a memory of a sift, I like my things to stay in the same place.  And I like to keep them.  Like notebooks, like stationery, like clothing, I dunno, my things.  Sometimes they are brazen and wear / use my stuff in front of me.  My eyebrows shoot up, my lava boils, and they know it.  My eldest daughter however is in the “smeh” phase – she doesn’t care how I react and may even kiss / smile at me.  This disarms me, but that right there is lava boiling stuff;
• The Headphone Monster – in line with the distribution of assets is use of Mom’s headphones.  By everyone.  And what’s cute is that sometimes someone will be using my headphones and look at me as if I am the one being inconvenient for requesting time to I don’t know, like use my own headphones.  Even cuter is that we break Mom’s headphones too.  Break as in one side only works, which Mom finds out at inopportune times.  Like when she so wants to shut out the world and write, cook, in transit, trying to ignore Uber Drivers etc, and I can still hear reality.  BOIL;
• Husband inspection of pots – my husband (who is a Johnny come lately in the kitchen) will inspect my pots.  You’re burning this, that’s too salty or watch that or take that out the oven.  I cannot in mere words express the bolt that goes straight into the core of my volcano.  A bolt that ignites swells and like rough seas lava oceans in me.  And if I don’t spew lava at that point, I will plan my attack and ensure that a significant number of barb bolts are directed his way.

So I felt like I boiled today.  Spewed a little today.  But as much as my volcano erupted, my anger is transient.  It passes.  And afterwards I’m likely to do something to make it up to everybody.  Like make homemade sausage rolls for lunch for tomorrow so everyone has a lovely, crisp, lovely filling sausage roll.  I might even bake them in the morning so they’re warm.  But because I plan my boil, I did add a little too much nutmeg.  They’ll only find that out when they bite into (angelic music playing) the sausage roll they waited for, that they’re hungry for.  And I will have my revenge.  Be part of those who support us as opposed to those who don’t.  I am 4 M’s Bipolar Mom.

These are a few of my favourite things…

So although it has NOTHING to do with my upbringing, where I was raised, or our race and income reality, my mother played the movie The Sound of Music.  Repeatedly.  And I freaking LOVED it.  A “babysitter come mother” that could make “play clothes” (we didn’t have stuff like that) from the curtains, sail down the river singing, climbing trees singing.  Singing.  Ok there was a lot of that, but I DID find myself singing Do Re Me more so la I’d like to admit.  That’s not the point.  Today I found myself humming the song a few of my favourite things, and thought about the ones that are in my house now, that I love, that help, that keep me feeling good.

• A lack of kitchen or bathroom curtains – both my chickens and I believe that curtains in the bathroom and kitchen are simply ways to have stew / soap / mould on fabric / blind,  Yeugh.  No thanks we have none in our home.  Instead, we have a red heart with clinkly bells hanging in the kitchen as our curtain.  We have lots of loving hearts here, so it doesn’t matter that the window is “open”:
• “Failures” become inventions – for some reason my cake recipe keeps flopping.  The cakes sick in, in the middle.  So sunken cupcakes become mini banana filled caramel flans. And the kids love them and say I should make them again.  Sure.  Just need to make the exact same mistakes again;
• Room Parties – we will all randomly be doing our own thing in the house and then I will lead my younger children into my eldest son’s room.  Whether he liked it or not, we would end up making toasted cheese’s / hot chocolate / whatever is in the cupboard and it would be a fun.  And it would be a party, and we would laugh until our stomach’s hurt;
• Sprinkle Bells – during the festive season, one of us would get sleepy during the day.  But the others wouldn’t want that one to go to sleep.  So we made a pact that we could do what I would call “Sprinkle Bells” – singing any festive song, you could sprinkle water on the asleep / sleepy person.  Let’s just say I was regularly wet and not liking this tradition so much.  But seeing my little girl laugh, I felt (and feel remembering) jolly all the way;
• No tickle pacts – my eldest son and I both HATE being tickled.  Ok it’s a love hate thing, but I don’t like it.  And we both would tickle each other the most.  So we promised each other from that day forth we would not tickle each other, and protect each other in the event that another tickle attack loomed.  Sometimes we broke the pact.  But we’d immediately sober up and walk away from the tickle.

But as with the song, there are bad things too.  They have seen me cry endlessly, curled up and nothing could make me happy even when they squeezed me.  I wanted to be happy so much.  I would always try to tuck my tears away and sometimes I could.  And sometimes I couldn’t.  But this is not a sad story.  It is a happy one.  It is about a family finding out how to learn to live with mental illness, understanding that we never stop learning.  I don’t have a license to behave badly, but they don’t have a license to treat me badly.  That applying to both my family and the world.  And armed with my favourite things in my mind and heart, I’m going to assert that treating me properly stuff even more.  Raindrops on Roses… Be part of those who support us as opposed to those who don’t.  I am 4 M’s Bipolar Mom.