Blind Rage
The act of getting angry without causing pain
One of my favourite stories from childhood is about a man that was always afflicted by rage. One day, while in character, he saw a reflection of himself in a mirror in his hallway and he stopped. Staring back at him was a thing he didn’t recognize. As he paused to study his rage-contorted face, he saw a wild animal growling back at him. I can’t remember where I heard or read this story, but the picture of the man beholding a beast in the mirror has stayed with me.
My man or beast moment happened one day when my first son was about 4 years old. We were home alone. I had slept off while he was playing on the bed beside me. On waking, he was nowhere to be found. After checking his room and his other hideouts, I found him in the kitchen surrounded by 3 dozen half-chewed sachets of evaporated milk. Earlier in the day, I had given him a sachet and told him to ask me whenever he wanted some.
There was milk all over the floor — one month’s supply, wasted.
I was livid.
I grabbed a plastic spatula, which was the closest thing my hands could find and I beat him till the handle broke off. I can still hear his screams as the spatula rose and fell. He was just 4 at the time, and this one event tops the list of my biggest life regrets.
