This holiday I will join my family in giving thanks for loved ones, for the harvest, for our healthy food.  But quietly, I will offer another prayer of gratitude:  for my inner tyrant.

It is 1:30 in the morning.  I am wide awake.  I blame Bob.  His blood sugar took a plunge in the night, and he had to get up to deal with it.  In the drunken state of low blood sugar, he was about as silent and subtle as a a turkey trying to run on a polished hardwood floor.

At 1:30 in the morning, in the final crunch of our farm season leading up to the Thanksgiving harvest, sorely sleep deprived most nights, I have no mercy for him.  I am only angry.  I wait until he settles back to sleep, then creep downstairs to my office.

I don’t go to my desk.  I slip outside with the dogs and stand and look at the stars, trying to let them wash the boiling, unacceptable rage directed at my husband from my head.  It doesn’t work.

I come back inside.  I still don’t go to my desk.  My thoughts are too ugly.  I go to the floor in front of my biggest windows.  I take a place on the rug where I can feel the heat from the woodstove, and gaze up at the stars outside.

They are still beautiful, and I am still angry.  And as I sit there at the beginning of what will prove to be a sleepless, yet seemingly unproductive night, my anger broadens.  It is unfair to be angry only at Bob, after all.  Better to be open-minded at this hour, and contemplate the rage I feel for everyone on my list.

I am angry at Saoirse, who at eleven, still insists on a bedtime story, even when I am ready to collapse from exhaustion.  I am angry at her because she disapproves of how I am teaching and parenting Ula, whose vision impairment has come to dominate our daily lives.  I am angry at Saoirse because she has figured out that, with my time and attention diverted, she can sneak by in her schoolwork without doing the writing assignments and projects that will solidify the lessons and expand her creative tools.

I am angry at Bob for having diabetes.  I am angry at him for whatever he ate in secret that caused him to miscalculate his insulin dosage.  I am angry for the nights I wake up and worry about him, that one miscalculation of insulin may cause a catastrophe, and that I might sleep through it and fail to help him..

I am angry at Ula.  I am angry that it seems I can no longer enjoy a simple quiet cup of coffee with Bob in the morning, before I have to start figuring out how to work her vision therapy into our chaotic farming family schedule.  I am angry that, no matter how many times I teach this seven-year-old basic sight words, she cannot identify them when reading, and she must approach every printed word, no matter how familiar, as though she has never seen it before.  I am angry that her care demands four extra hours of driving each week, and endless disruptions to our schooling rhythm.  I am angry that I have a smart kid who wants to know the physiological function of tears when we cry, but who instead has to practice drawing squiggles between two lines, who can barely write her own name.

I understand that none of this anger is acceptable.  And speaking of the physiological function of tears, they begin to flow as I watch the stars.  They pour down my face as I ponder the troubles of all those dearest to me, and confront my deepest anger, which is directed at myself.  This is not who I am supposed to be.  This rage is inconsistent with my identity.  I am a caring mother.  A loving wife.  A compassionate human.  Bob did not choose diabetes.  And he manages his diet carefully enough.  Saoirse did not choose to be temporarily neglected for her schooling.  She did not choose to be as opinionated as her own mother about matters of “the right way” to raise children.  Ula did not choose for her eyes and brain to refuse to communicate.

The hard edge of anger at my family now softens to a pillow of self loathing, and in those dark hours of the night, I am smothering myself with it.  My inner tyrant, a part of me that I find frightening, has shown herself under the cover of darkness, and I am hating her.

There is much work that could be done in the quiet of these hours.  I could do some bookkeeping.  Sort through the turkey orders.  Edit some writing.  Do some lesson planning. Dice fat for the rendering pot.  Sew up the toes of socks.  Thankfully, I am wise enough to know when tears take precedence over to-do lists.  I let them flow.

Sometimes, I just need the dark moments.  In the safety of the starlight, I let them ripple out of my body until my stomach unknots and I feel the strength to begin addressing the normal problems of life once more.

I lose track of time.  After a spell, I find my way to my desk, and boot up the computer to review my schedule for the day.  Interestingly, at 7:30, I have a phone appointment with Fran, a friend of mine who has been trying to write a book for a few years now.  A little over a year ago, we began having phone meetings once per month to work on her research and writing process.  Her ideas are important ones.  They need to get down on paper.  They mean a lot for sustainability.  For happiness.  For the advancement of local food politics.  I want her to succeed.  But lately, she has stalled.  Her commitments have been interfering with her research.

Fran is devoted to her community.  She identifies needs, gets people organized, makes things happen.  From my perspective, she doesn’t say no to anyone, and she always honors her word.  So last month, I gave her a smack-down.

“You need to get in touch with your inner jerk,” I bluntly explained.  “Writers aren’t nice people.  Not always, anyhow.  We have to have a mean, selfish streak if we’re going to chart our own course.  Cancel your commitments.  It’s time to get the book done.”

Her only assignment for the last month was to wipe her calendar clean for the first quarter of 2015.  She had to make calls to break commitments.  She had to promise to tell people “no.” At 7:30, she was to call in and report on her progress.  My hope for her was that she was learning to love her inner jerk, because it is this part of us who alerts us to the obstacles in our life’s calling, and fuels us to take corrective action.

How funny, then, that I should be encouraging her to love this dark part of her self, yet hating my own inner tyrant, my own inner jerk.

I slump back in my desk chair and reflect on the very lesson I am trying to impart to Fran.  The tyrant is as much a part of me as the compassionate woman.  The compassionate woman reads to her children even when she is exhausted, but the tyrant locks the office door and keeps them out so that the paying work can get done.  The compassionate woman ends the reading lessons before the stress and strain bring tears, but the tyrant stands in offices, makes phone calls, and writes letters, refusing to leave or take “no” for an answer, until her child gets the help she needs.  The compassionate woman puts good food on the table to maintain blood sugars, but the tyrant reminds her husband that, ultimately, he is responsible for his own health.  Truly, the tyrant brings about as much positive change as my inner angel.

My limited understanding of psychology is that the tyrant is a primitive part of my brain.  She is not as evolved as my conscious mind.  But even though she comes from a more ancient part of my being, her function in my modern life is no less important.  I need this tyrant.  Maybe I have to wait until the cover of darkness to unleash her, but I cannot chart my course in this life without her.

The last of the Thanksgiving turkeys have been harvested.  Over the next few days they will find their way to the homes of 100 families who will gather around the table and give thanks for their health, for their loved ones, for the roof over their heads, for the nourishing food at their tables.  I  will joyfully share in that gratitude.  Then, as I do every year, I will slip away after the plates have been cleared, and put on the movie that I watch every Thanksgiving: It’s a Wonderful Life.    I will pour myself a splash of bourbon, take out my own holiday delicacy, a homemade chocolate truffle,  and prepare to weep my way through the film.  But this year, I will watch it differently.  I will pay attention to George Bailey’s darker side.  I will raise my glass to it.  Honor it.  We cannot all forever be the people we imagine ourselves to be.  But, quite often, it is that dark side that illuminates the best part of us, that brings us to where we need to be.  I will quietly raise my glass and give thanks to my own inner tyrant, to my ugly side, to my darker half.  Because it is owing to her hard work that the light shines so brightly on all the rest of it.