There was a time I had stood up for myself, David against Goliath, by wildly throwing dishes in the kitchen. Like an out-pf-control robot I lifted and pitched one thing after another, ceramic plates, planters, cups - my eyes scanning the counter for the next weapon even while one was still being discharged.

When the coffee carafe shattered even I was scared and Tom wrapped his arms around me and carried me up the stairs, telling me to get in bed and stay there. I did get in to bed, embarrassed, and crying, but amazed at the conviction and rage that had erupted from ME! How far would I have gone, I wondered? I played out the scene over and over in my mind: was that what preceded reaching for a knife? I could see why there was a defense called ‘temporary insanity’.

I came to realize that it was that same rage my father must have felt during his own out-of-control moments when a thousand chards of life’s precious moments were strewn across the living room carpet. What were wedding gifts, pictures of us, trinkets, chandeliers, chairs and china – now piles of spent rage to be cleaned up by my mother once the police left.