You know that feeling you get when you're on that terrible amusement park ride, Tower of Terror or Freefall or whatever they call it- where they lift you up and then drop you out of the blue (literally) and your stomach flies up into your heart and your heart flies right out of your mouth?
That's the feeling I get when I meet my husband's angry gaze, and that anger is directed at me.
Sheer terror...and a splash of exhilaration. Mostly fear though. Right? Or is it excitement? I never can tell. It's always just a crap-load of heart-stopping emotion that freezes me right in my tracks.
And speaking of amusement parks, we were at Disneyland when this happened last; my sisters and mother (the usual gang) plus my husband. Just a normal family excursion, no kids. Only- at least for me- it was going to become a lot more than just an excursion.
I've always had a problem with my temper. My mother calls it "flying by the seat of my pants" and my husband calls it "being a woman". My mother encourages it- I can hear her shrill voice now... "We're independent! Feel your emotions, don't suppress them! Life is too short!" Whereas my husband, the alpha male of our relationship, is more like "I'll kick your ass if you raise your voice to me." And that's that.
You're probably wondering how these two people can coexist as two of my family members, let alone go to Disneyland together- you see, my mother has no idea Adam has more power over me than the sun has over the earth. She married twice and divorced twice, deducing from those experiences that all men are unworthy and women should not mingle with them. So, as a result of careful planning and deceit, she thinks my husband is a nice young man that wouldn't hurt a fly.
Ha.
Back to my temper...it is uncontrollable. It is a separate entity, unchecked by reason and stability. A pain in the ass. In fact, I used to take medication for it- the psychiatrist deemed me bipolar.
Then Adam came along. Adam doesn't like psychiatrists. It took all his self-control not to dump the entire container's worth of pills down the drain. Well, not at first...but a year later, he had gained more trust from me than I'd given to anyone before, and the time had come for him to test the love I had for him...I remember the day clearly.
"Do you trust me?" he asked gently.
"Yes, of course, Adam."
"Then you need to believe me when I tell you this. You are not bipolar, Sam."
"But the psychiatrist-"
"Screw the psychiatrist. He doesn't know shit about you. I know you. I know who you are. I know what goes on inside you."
"I know you do...but..."
"But nothing. You're done with these, and that's that. Now you will take them and you will pour them down the drain."
"Adam...please."
"I will not have my love find comfort in either the word of a stranger or the supposed healing power of the drugs he subscribes to you. Poor them down the sink, now."
I still remember the clinking sound of the pills sliding down the ceramic sink.
Now, I know what you're thinking. Why would Adam know better than a doctor with a degree?
I don't know myself. All I know is that I haven't been to a psychiatrist since, nor have I needed one. The temper, however, still exists, but I'm not bipolar. He was right. So basically you could say that Adam cured me of my supposed bipolar disorder. If not for him, I would still be taking drugs for it today, still experiencing the side effects- the depression, fatigue, lack of energy...
Back to Disneyland. Now that I've described my background in a nutshell, you know that I am at the amusement park with my sisters, my feminist mom, and my old-fashioned, dominant husband.
I hate to blame the incident on such superficial things...but I'm going to anyway, because I like putting the blame on other things besides myself. Like the heat- It's southern California, for crying out-loud. I hate heat. Also, the children...stupid kids. I like kids, I really do- just not in line for Space Mountain, crying and arguing and falling and poking and whining and fighting. And finally, unfortunately, my family...I guess you could say I'm annoyed easily. They have mannerisms, I have mannerisms, we step on each others' toes- I am hot, annoyed, and easily irritated, and so when we sit down to eat and my concerned husband puts his hand on mine, I shrug it away with a curt, "Don't."
Luckily my family is elsewhere, buying food or something, I don't really remember.
"Sam?"
"Adam!" I exclaim. "For Christ's sake, let it go."
Adam withdraws his hand, and I can't help it- I look up, and search for his eyes. I then realize that I am on the Freefall ride- the anxiety rising as it lifts higher and higher...
And I find Adam's eyes, dark and flat and furious...the cart stops lifting. It shakes. And then it drops. I am plunging downward as my family returns with food. Adam smiles and makes a curt excuse for the both of us, and I get up and follow him as he expects me to. I hear the funeral march as I walk.
I'm not even conscious of where we're going. He finds some obscure corner behind some building in an alley that is quiet and empty. When he stops walking, I do as well, and nervously wait for him to speak. I hold my wrist in my other hand, make patterns in the dirt with my foot, and don't look up from the ground. I feel like a small child up until the moment when he suddenly turns around, grabs me by the waist, and slams me into the wall. Then I feel truly feminine and grown-up, because a very mature, adult warmth begins to gather in my lower region; it is simply an automatic response to being sandwiched between the literal brick wall and the brick wall that is my husband. All I can do is gasp like a fish out of water and struggle weakly.
The worst thing is that he doesn't even yell. He whispers. And his voice is silky smooth, utterly hypnotic.
