She knew that the rage she felt was completely out of proportion to the trigger that released it. Yet this awareness did not change the fact of it: a seething, white-hot serpent of fury lay coiled round her heart, and just when she thought that it had gone back to sleep, her three-year old came waltzing out of her bed again, giggling, and it reared up, injecting its venom into her veins.
The poison took effect instantly, sending a wave of pressure across her chest, down her arms and up her neck, squeezing her temples and grinding its way into her forehead. I don't have time for this bullshit, she said to herself, as she hustled her child unceremoniously back to bed, barking her displeasure all the way. Her actions inflamed her even more, sending her spiraling into despair for her parenting skills, impatience with her own emotions pounding against her skull. She was so ashamed of the anger that reared its head day after day that she could barely speak of it, and she kept it cloistered away, like Mr. Rochester's wife in Jane Eyre, refusing to recognize it or to know it, its ugliness and wildness an self-imposed weight on her already heavy heart.
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