When I was a child, my brother developed a habit of stealing and then planting evidence. My mother would come up missing a pair of earrings or more often cash, and it would be found in my room. No amount of protesting made the slightest difference. My daddy would arbitrate and once restitution had been made or punishment inflicted, he liked to say that it didn't matter anymore. Every instance of false accusation became a brick in my foundation.
I watched the home inspector crawling in the dirt under the house, ducking and weaving his way through insulation and debris and pipes, and thought that for all the world, I would not want his job. I also began thinking about the foundations that things - and people - are built on and that for as long as I can remember, my foundation has been built on anger.
It's a deceptive emotion, often hiding behind a hypocritical smile and simmering just below the surface. It expresses itself in frustration at petty annoyances and sees a conspiracy in the non workings of things - a dripping faucet, an obstinate light socket, a faulty front door lock, my own carelessness. My temper explodes when I least expect it and wreaks havoc on the offending item, be it a hair dryer that suddenly doesn't work or a drawer that refuses to close properly. I don't seem able to calmly appraise and deal with these insignificant molehills, preferring to shriek every curse I can summon and then annihilate them. I refuse to face the fact that the flaw is in me - that these overreactions to what I see as defiance in inanimate objects is a reflection of my own impatience, my own failure to work properly. Rage can be immediately accessed and retribution doled out - hell hath no fury like a tired, rapidly aging, and suspicious old woman faced with five crying cats and no way to open a can of Nine Lives. In my right mind, I know that this is misdirected fury but in the heat of the moment when I can't see or think straight, I yearn for a sledge hammer or better yet, a bulky and heavy firearm - anything with the potential for mass destruction would do. Despair needs an outlet and the louder and bloodier, the better. It's not enough that I win these silly battles - I need to win and scorch the earth when I'm done. I take no prisoners.
Of course, this sort of rage with people would soon have me incarcerated so I'm forced to temper my anger with pleasantries, put on a happy face, remember my manners. It's an exhausting process and often leaves me feeling divided if not outright schizophrenic - I am, at heart, a fraud and in fear of being recognized and having my true feelings exposed. My inner child is still in the midst of a lifelong temper tantrum, still wanting to throw things and scream and pitch a fit. This would be indelicate in the real world.
The inspector brings his leveling instrument to the kitchen, lays down on the floor and props it up on one end with pocket change until it reads perfectly straight. Old houses are like people, he tells me cheerfully, we settle some with age. I imagine this is supposed to reassure me, a clever but overused metaphor he undoubtably pulls out at every home inspection. Nothing to worry about, he adds with a friendly smile. This is good news and I'm caught off guard by the sudden notion that there's nothing I would like better than to box his ears. Instead, I smile as he expects me to, as required. He writes a brief report on the kitchen table, tolerantly putting up with the young black and white cat twining about his ankles, then takes his leave with an encouraging wave. I feel like I can breathe again, as if my two selves have come together, if only for a little while.
There are times when all this anger is so distant that I forget about it. There are times when I think it may suffocate me. But most of the time, it sits and waits, patient and sure of itself, napping until the time is right for a perfect strike, when I imagine I have been harmed or slighted or, worst of all, falsely accused. It leaps to my defense as fiercely as a trapped animal and although it fights back with every weapon it can find, it fights covertly and only in the chaos of my mind.
Anger always matters - it holds the bricks together, withstanding any siege of reason or forgiveness. It builds a poor house but makes an unassailable foundation.
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