Adult Tantrums

Trepidation.  That's how I approach this subject.  Yes, my blog topics deal with personal issues.   In fact, what ranks more personal than placing death and loss under a microscope, without adjustments or calibration, then sharing what I see, feel,  or avoid, I've shone a spotlight into my soul to people I've never seen or expect to meet.  As unprepared to meet you, dear Reader, as I was to encounter the face of my daughter Courtney's death, I had no choice.  It happened. Irrevocable, undeniable, and unchangeable. 

My way of "picking myself up and getting back in the race, " writing became my opiate of choice.   The pain wouldn't allow me to dissemble or "prettify" ragged,  jagged feelings.  They all gushed forth.  Thank you for traversing death's circuitous terrain with me. And begin to recover at a snail's pace.  "It's been a long time coming,  but I know change is gonna come.  Yes it will," at least that's what singer Sam Cooke promised

Now, however, I confront a subject as gingerly as I would an abscessed tooth: Adult tantrums. Ouch! Not the garden varieties---the agitated customer toward a department store employee.  Nor the prolonged bobbing, jabbing, and weaving between political factions or simply a fracas after prolonged stress and strain.  No, this type of meltdown occurs among close relatives, by birth or adoption; or might-as-well-be-cause-it-feels-like-a-blood-feud.  I speak of one adult behaving like a two-year-old, tantrum thrower; or when one individual feels justified at being mad-as-hell and justified, even if age separates them by a generation or decades.

Of whom do I speak? A daughter, sputtering in anger and hanging up the phone. Or turning her back on Mama, Granny, or respected (until now) auntie or uncle, sister or brother-in-law, in unabashed fury and dismissal.  For what? Why? A real or imagined offense.  Like the drama, any two-year-old acting-out tyrant, at least a month or two months early.  When mommy said "No," firmly, Baby Girl, she fell to the floor kicking heels and rolling side to side and screamed as piercingly as only a toddler can. Quite a performance.  Worthy of "The Diva" nickname.

Understandable, and probably anticipated from a two-year-old.  But when I add 20, 30, or 40 years (or more?). Well.  I could throw a cold glass of water toward the face.  I could choose not to address the behavior until my temperature lowers to the normal range.  I could talk to relatives or friends about it, but I'd be too embarrassed,  Since I'm an expert on dodging confrontations, I could just pretend it didn't happen.  Hmm.

 No! I choose finally to meet the tantrum where it found me.  "Grow up, Girl! Grow up, Dude! What in the world is going on with you? I've tried ignoring you, refusing to speak until you've cooled off, or pretend I don't recognize your number or text.  Nothing works, and  I doubt anything will. Stop it, right now, and come look in your mirror. Do you see pretty or ugly? Tell the truth and shame the devil! I see a caricature that looks more clownish than anything.  Your behavior stinks.  It's hardly a pleasant sight. You're mad at me? I'm disappointed in you.  I'm unfair, selfish, and crazy as hell? Alright.  What's your excuse? What's your investment in this situation? When you're ready to show respect, we can talk---but not for a while.  I'll let you know.  Until then, hasta la vista.  See you later, alligator."