Scream Therapy

I don’t scream on roller coasters–I tend to smile (grimace?) while being whipped around curves and flung upside down. I don’t scream at scary movies, although I certainly may jump when caught off guard. I sometimes scream when one of my children (or my husband) hides and jumps out to startle me, but those vocalizations are pretty short and sweet. The times I do scream–full throated shrieks, sometimes terrifying those around me–are when I am frustrated. Generally with myself.

We’ve all done those things, right? The things that cause trouble or pain or a mess and could have been prevented if we were just a little more careful. It’s those moments when I will let out a primal yell at the top of my lungs. It’s like a release valve–the exasperation has built up so quickly that I have to let it out immediately or I will burst. (Well, in a way, I do…) Yesterday was an excellent example of this type of venting: I was making a trip down to the basement while carrying too much stuff (always trying to be efficient!), including a 64 ounce plastic bottle of apple juice. As I reached for the light switch with my elbow, the juice slipped from my grasp. It headed away from me in slow motion as I grabbed for it, dropping the rest of my load as I reached. Alas, the fall was not slow enough for me to catch the container, and I stood there watching the bottle bounce down the carpeted stairs. There was just enough time for me to hope that it would remain whole before it reached the bottom. The cap came off, the juice came pouring out, and I shrieked. Twice.

I believe there is a difference in my screams, and to me at least the scream of frustration is pretty obvious. It’s different from the scream of pain when I turn an ankle or cut myself while chopping onion (they are spheres!)–although such screams generally are followed quickly by a screech of frustration given that they are preventable accidents. I’m pretty sure my family can recognize them too, as they rarely come thundering down the stairs to see what boneheaded move caused my most recent outburst. Instead, whomever is home sneaks down slowly, wanting to wait until the steam has dissipated before checking on me. Yesterday, I had the apple juice all cleaned up before the only son home peeked around the corner, quietly asking if I was all right.

And of course, I was all right. The aggravation may build up swiftly, but it is liberated even more rapidly with the scream. So when I explained what happened and Spenser said “but it was a little bit funny, right?” I agreed while we laughed together. It wasn’t amusing in the moment, maybe, but it was very shortly thereafter. In fact, it’s not just the bouncing of the juice bottle that is entertaining, but also my reaction to it. I may feel a little foolish at my propensity to scream, but perhaps that is my opportunity (or one of several) to “make sport for [my] neighbors,” as Mr. Bennet says to Lizzie in Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. Feeling foolish in the moment is not the same as being a fool, however. As Joan Rivers said, “When you can laugh at yourself no one can ever make a fool of you.” What a way to live.