The Anger Scale

I have peaked. That was the top of my tantrum. That voice represented my limit. Then it’s rewind, back to the beginning as my inner travelator of emotions clanks back down to one. 

I take a deep breath in through my nose as I pack books into a translucent folder. I then begin my daily hunt for the car keys. This fun undertaking entails scrambling around underneath the dining room table, throwing quilts off beds and finally shoving my hand down the side of the couch. I forage around amongst unknown entities that probably have their own DNA, until I find the cold bunch of keys.

“Right, in the car. Now”. 

The car is a new space. A space where I hope we can all be friends.  

“Right kids, seatbelts on! Let’s get this show on the road!”.

It always amazes me how quickly I go from the demon of hellfire to a rosy cheeked loving mummy in the 10-metre walk from house to car. But I’m so used to the demon by now that my recovery from his wrath is swift. It has to be.

After a few door slams, some running back to the car for forgotten water bottles and some gentle forehead kisses, they’re all gone. Dropped off to school, day-care and kindy. All that’s left in their wake is the ghostly mummering of my precious daughter.

“I am the queen of you”.

Yes, my darling, you are the queen of me. You are the queen of everyone. If that’s one thing I teach her in life, then that’s OK. It’s a compliment. But, I sit in the car alone, wondering if a counselling session or a parenting course might be in order.

I start the engine and with a sigh, I drive out of the carpark. 

It’s my day off. My day for writing and cleaning. I can chill a tiny bit. Relax until the cycle starts again at 2.30. Until pick up and the predictable dinner demands. Until the sulky refusal of vegetables and the request for three bedtime stories not one. I feel my irritation rise with each confrontation, but I mostly keep the beast at bay. Mostly.

Tick, tick ,tick.. 

It’s 9pm by the time they’re all dreaming. Not much is left apart from some stale rice crackers and an episode of Bondi Rescue.  

As I reach in the fridge to find the last piece of Fruit and Nut, I hear a wine bottle chink in the door. I keep it there for guests. It looks cold, crisp, with littles lines of condensation running into each other down the glass. I look at it.  

“Hello wine”, I say. Then I close the door. 

No wonder I used to drink so much. Morning mayhem and having a disgruntled monarch for a daughter takes a toll on my nervous system. Booze was my friend in these times of need. I could numb out all that stress. Kick back, finish a bottle and let the day ooze out of the souls of my feet.

Now, I don’t have that pleasure. I have to deal with it. Get over tension without the aid of alcohol. It’s difficult not having a crutch. Nothing to soak up my mood. I do find myself questioning my decision to stop drinking at times, like, “What am I doing? Why am I doing this?”. 

I feel like it would be easier to just start again, have the ability to drown out bad days. Maybe I could just have one, take the edge off? But, I don’t. Me drinking again feels like spreading butter with a bread knife – it feels all wrong. Unnatural.  

I head to the kitchen and switch on the kettle. I choose a Rooibos tea bag from the ceramic pot and I stand at the kitchen bench tapping a teaspoon on the surface, for no reason other than it being the only noise I can hear. 

Peace.  

As I sip on my tea, I tell my husband about the day. About the ups and the downs. About the tears and tantrums. We go over what’s going on, how we can do better, what we can change and I admit I feel like I’m failing at times. He does too.  

“Everyone feels like they’re failing, it’s human nature”. 

He’s right. The only important thing is being aware. Being conscious of what I’m doing wrong and then changing my behaviour. I try. I fail. I try again. 

Then it’s time for bed.  

I don’t even think about a drink. It never crosses my mind. It’s in my fridge but not in my world. I deal with problems by talking about them, not pouring wine on them. It feels good. I still get things very wrong with my parenting, but at least I’m present to witness my failures. 

I’m ready for what tomorrow will bring. After a rest, I will be prepared for battle.  

Ready to start again at the bottom of the scale. 

I make a promise as I lean over and switch off my bedside light: “Do better, don’t shout so much and don’t let anyone be the queen of me”.

But tomorrow is another day. 

Originally published here.

Victoria lives on The Sunshine Coast on the East Coast of Australia. She has three uncontrollable children, a very patient husband and a dog. She’s been sober for 2 years and writes about her zig zaggy journey in her blog www.drunkmummysobermummy.com. Victoria is currently writing a book about parenting, alcohol and life as a sober mum. 

You can follow her (in a non-stalky way) on Instagram and Facebook.