my husband jerked me to hell and back for the last nine months as we slowly realized our chutes weren't opening and the only thing left to do was brace for impact. the whole way down i was a screaming, crying, stomping, writhing, eyeliner-running-down-my-face-stumbling-through-a-dark-forest-until-my-silky-peasant-dress-tangles-on-some-braches-and-i-fall hot mess. seeing myself become that was like looking in a mirror during a full moon and watching as i turned into a werewolf, and not the sexy shapely type with only strategically placed fur patches confidently enjoying all that werewolf culture has to offer. the weird, confused, 'waking-up-in-the-closet-of-the-elementary-school-3rd-grade-classroom-naked-with-pieces-of-maintence-man-in-my-teeth kind that gets discovered and killed by the hero of some OTHER movie where i am the bad guy, immediately. and i never get to experience the rich heritage of my werewolf brethren or how cool it is to be a freakin wolf.

it was that, more than anything that had to do with our marriage or him or any of that carefully woven tapestry of abuse he called a relationship, that pushed me to say "get out, it's done." and he did. quick like a little bunny, before the cartoon dialogue bubble of my words was out of my mouth. 2 days before his son's birthday, 5 days before christmas. one more message on his way out the door, "look how easy this is for me, look how quickly i transition to 'single guy apartment hunting', and what took you so long to decode my passive aggressive hints i employed instead of admitting i'm only interested in an effortless marriage, and being forced to connect with you on even the most basic of levels is too much work, and i want out."

he leaves me to every difficult task of our descent into hell, forces all decision making into my lap and lies limply while i carry the dead weight of raising our son while sweeping 50 tons of his apathy and abuse out the door. then he skips out like he's going to a birthday party and i am left in a wrath of khan world of clenched fists and screaming in rage to the heavens and emotionally unsatisfying conversations with spock.

i break things, i throw things out the door and second floor windows, i yell until my ribs are sore and i induce asthma attacks. i burn things. i hurt my foot kicking in a wall and limp for a week, ashamed to admit to anyone what really happened. i get migraines and have panic attacks. i become impatient with my son, i take things out on him i shouldn't, and see a nightmare unfold as i take this innocent that is my center and my peace and my reason for staying alive and my proof that the blind burning irrational eternal love that he inspires in me actually does exist, and i dump my disappointment and self loathing all over him. i take the issues his father is not man enough to resolve and punish my son for it, i take the poison i have been force fed and shove it into his trusting open mouth. i become worse than the worst name i ever called my husband at our lowest moment, i become a failure worse than my worst fear.

i write, i paint, i talk, i channel, i meditate, i play, i think, i stretch, i hope - all these things directed at my anger, all designed to dilute the rage and dissipate the knots in my psyche that keep me crying randomly and uncontrollably and sinking into blue despair. like an addict i turn myself over to a higher power, my son. i find myself stripping away every unimportant thing: doing dishes, dressing in anything other than pajamas and sweats, cooking well balanced nutritious meals, and am suddenly endlessly in playgrounds, abandoning my need to go grocery shopping, in favor of my higher power. standing in toy aisles as my higher power runs from one thing to the other pressing buttons and driving trucks, wondering why i used to say no to him so often when everyone has a much better time when i say yes. yes to ice cream. yes to twizzlers for breakfast. yes to letting him spray paint my bathroom wall all by himself (yes. i actually did that.) laying on the floor with him wearing a tiger puppet on my hand as things pile up on the floor and furniture, and dust settles on us like a fuzzy blanket of dirt. surrounded by chaos, i work to find level ground. grimy and always a little sweaty, my son rides a unicycle on the high wire, breakfast twizzler in each hand, because adults make balancing so much more difficult than it actually is. maybe we don't have enough sugar in our systems.

and then i woke up this morning and suddenly its christmas eve. we had hoped we could pull off an amicable show for our son but even that was too much for us. so now looking down the barrel of passing our son back and forth for his split holiday i realize, i am freakin ok with it! i saw him for the handoff and he was crying and mopey and as the two of them drove away to see his family which i never have to see again (bonus) i realized i forgot it was christmas. i forgot to dread it i forgot to feel bad about it i forgot to be sad i forgot all of it and just wrapped presents and made plans to be with my family and forgot that it was different than the way it always was. i forgot i'm supposed to be pissed off all the time because my life is ruined.

so you know what? the next time you find yourself throwing a pile of cherished high school football jerseys on a barbecue or peeing on a toothbrush or driving your car through the front window of a wallmart because you have lost control and you are more anger than human and it will not stop until you are running away from an exploding helicopter - then you say "i'm gettin too old for this" - and the credits roll over bloopers - know that in some way, it's ok. sure it's unfortunate if there's innocent victims, like if you burn down an old age home or something, but anger is a loud inconsiderate tenant and it hasn't paid rent in months and it's friends are shady and it's always fighting with it's girlfriend in the hallway and it's got to go. it would be nice if it packed it's bags quietly and left with dignity, but if it needs to be dragged screaming down the hallway in the middle of the night wearing nothing but black socks and wax lips so be it. don't judge it just get it the hell out any way you can through as many differently shaped orifices as possible. because no matter how it happens it does happen, and then it's out. and then you can use that room for scrapbooking or sex slaves or whatever you're into. and maybe you'll find yourself on christmas thinking about christmas, and not all the things that suck. and maybe throw a few bucks for hospital bills or funeral costs or whatever because whatever it takes to get the acid from burning your insides its WORTH IT! i know it doesn't make sense that i set fire to carpet but it felt great let's go carpet shopping WORTH IT! you caught me at a bad moment when you bumped into me with your cart and i'm sorry i flipped it over and i understand why you have to spray me with boiling hot dog water WORTH IT! i don't remember ripping the telephone pole out of the ground with my bare hands, but let me use this stick to pry the electrified children off the fallen wires. WORTH IT! that one might feel like a reach but no it's totally WORTH IT! anger is like a tiny andy dick in your stomach, washing down pills with a whiskey sour, stumbling around knocking things over and sexually harassing everything he gets his hands on while throwing up his breakfast twizzlers. it's you or him, are you gonna lie down and take andy's dick? get him out by any means necessary, because it's WORTH IT! if you can take back a minute of your christmas WORTH IT! if you can remember who you were before you were perpetually bent from being kicked in the stomach WORTH IT! you know officer, i think i did know his penis was going to stick to the freezing cold flag pole, but i went ahead and stuck it on there anyway, and you can chain me to a guy named "ball-cupper" and i will break rocks to build the kardashian's pyramids in the hot sun because it's WORTH IT!

a minute of joy. the lightness of happiness. best christmas ever. thank you, santa.