My lungs burn from fighting the screams. My fingers pulse from the rush of blood through my arteries. Tears press my eyes as I fight for control. Fight the rage. Don’t let it consume me.
I walk. I pace. I clean my house. I clench my jaw until my teeth beg for mercy. I cannot let the rage out to play.
This anger is not just known to the parents of children with disabilities; every parent understands. Our children are in need and we are powerless. It doesn’t matter if your child can run across the playground or not.
The only difference is how often we feel the anger. How often we see the injustice. How often we must fight for our children’s basic needs. Constant fighting creates constant anger. Constant anger creates rage.
It is a rage that could burn down an entire office building with one glance. We’d love to watch the bureaucracy that impedes our children’s well-being burn to the fucking ground.
But we can’t do that. Being angry doesn’t help us get what our children need. We’re called irrational parents and ignored if we express anger. So we swallow it and let it burn us to the ground. We become shells of ash and bone so that we can smile, sign another form, make another phone call, and manage the chaos that is the American healthcare system.
We clench our jaws and beg for help. For our children. For ourselves.
We need a break. A chance to breath. An opportunity to clear out the debris in our souls that block the sun’s warmth. We need someone else to hold this anger for a little while and let us rest.
It’s easier to call this anger “anxiety.” We’re anxious from the stress of caring for our special needs kids. Anxiety is acceptable. Anxiety can be managed. Medicated. But anger…?
If we could let anger go for a brief moment, perhaps we could learn to direct it in useful ways, rather than swallowing an anger bigger than the ocean. Bigger than the sky. Bigger than us.
I take another deep breath and let it absorb the chaos in my blood, my singing blood that is filled with fear, depression, and rage. I send my anger out into the night where it mixes with the anger of a million caregivers who are up too late watching over our loved ones: parents, spouses, children, friends.
We are tired. We are furious. And we are no longer silently being your martyrs.