Fire and Water

Anger and guilt go together for me. In that order. I got good at it at an early age. I can remember running up the stairs after my mother; my father was not far behind. I can remember my own yelling, my mom’s crying, and my dad’s deep, calm voice. What I can’t remember is what caused all of this. I also can’t remember how many times it happened. More than once, I’m sure, but I’ve distilled it all down to this one scene that I replay in my mind.

What happened that made me so angry? Whatever it was, it was a match struck in a dry forest. The match disappeared in the flames of anger. Deliberately set. A type of arson. Anger is an accelerant, a shortcut that scorches and consumes other emotions. It’s voracious and pernicious. I started this fire, and it wiped away all traces of its origin.

As I grew up, Mom and Dad were loving, but not very expressive, demonstrative or animated. I do remember Dad’s hearty laugh from downstairs. In trying to reconstruct this scene, I've surmised that my anger was a way to provoke an emotional response. I've learned through life and teaching that all of us at times need that, and that negative attention is better than none at all.

The pattern was established: Get angry; watch Mom crack and run off, into the bedroom and shut the door, crying. Dad comforts me as I beg to see Mom, to apologize. He calmly says, "Not right now. Wait a while." Is this comfort what I was seeking all along? The guilt floods in now, a wall of water putting out the flames, but presenting new dangers as its waves pull me—pull me under.

These emotions were very confusing to a child, and I’m still trying to find the words for them, all these years later. I'm still trying to find why I reach for the match at times. It happens with those closest to me. Is it a level of intimacy? A test of love? Fire and water. A rough metaphor that works for now.