Most people have probably heard of the faux word “hangry.” It’s a term that describes how one feels when one is so hungry that one becomes angry. Snickers has made a few commercials that highlight the phenomenon. They’re the ones where the character is being portrayed by a famous actor known for being a bit ornery (Roseanne, Joe Pesci, etc.) who is behaving badly. 
The friends give said person a Snickers bar and they become themselves, once again. Hanger is a fairly regular occurrence in our home and I was glad to finally have a term to describe the Satan spawn that emerges from my children when they have a blood sugar crash.
I got to thinking that we could use a few more expressions to help us illustrate our emotional states. Like when I’m so tired that I want to cry I could use a word like desausted (despondent and exhausted) or when I’m so busy that I become manic, which causes memory loss. I move quickly, but usually with an edge of panic. This could be called frogetful (frazzled and forgetful.)
My family would probably like a word for what I become when I discover that they have created a mess and not cleaned up after themselves. They could use it like a warning shout. Instead of, “The British are coming!” they could shout, “Mom’s filurious!” (because the filth makes me furious.)
This usually happens when I’ve been out of the house and the people with whom I live have been left to their own devices. Recently, my son informed me that when I am out and they are alone with their father, about a half-hour prior to my scheduled return, my husband experiences his own emotional breakdown. I believe it already has a word and that word is frantic.
According to eyewitness accounts, it begins with a time check. When it has been discerned that my return is imminent, orders begin to fly, “Your mother is coming home. We all know what that means (this would be an ideal time for filurious.) Unless you want to be on the receiving end of her rage, MOVE!”
I’m not sure that he even gives specific instructions. It seems to just be random yells of, “Make sure you put the things away!” and “For the love of God, the dishes!” Those who were willing to speak of the experience (on the condition of anonymity) have described a memory loss that is consistent with PTSD.
I am not unaware of this condition. As a matter of fact, last week I had the occasion to speak with my youngest about body language. She was upset about something that had happened and I was trying to explain that how we stand, whether or not we make eye contact and other key indicators speak to those around us without using words (whether we mean to or not.)
I explained that a perfect example is when I’m filurious. I am normally a verbose woman. There are lots of things I need to say. But when the filuriousness hits, I become painfully quiet. I answer in single-word sentences. Or, if it’s a particularly bad spell, I may answer with just a blank look, not looking directly at the speaker, but staring through him, causing him to examine his own worth. It’s more effective because I do not make eye contact. Also, I move quickly, with my head mostly down. And there is a lot of slamming: doors, pots, shoes. I’m not picky.
Until the mess has been cleaned up, I am completely consumed by filuriousness. Once I can see my sink and counters, and ALL the freaking shoes are put away (seriously, how hard is this?? There are SHOE bins. Right next to the damn door. You take off the shoes, you put the shoes in the bin. This is not quantum physics. I’ve seen crows better at simple tasks than my people) there may be a slight receding of rage. It’s not guaranteed and is directly tied to the time between this bout and the last bout. The longer I go without having to explain to my family that we are not living in the chimpanzee habitat of a zoo, where it is acceptable to toss feces about the place, the less filurious I become.
Not only was my youngest trying to hide the fact that she was laughing as I imitated my own psychosis (thereby cheering her up,) she was also beginning to understand how we are able to speak without saying a word.
Of course, eventually, there are lots of words, because my people have not learned how to properly deal with filuriousness. They continue to press me. They prod and coax. And they ask crazy questions, like, “What’s wrong?” or “Why won’t you answer me?”
I never, ever, respond to the first question (Seriously? Like they don’t know? When I still have my coat on and am loading the dishwasher?) but I can assure you, there are many answers being given — inside my head. Because I really like my family. And when I’m filurious, the kind words are few and far between. OK, let’s be honest, they don’t exist. Unless they’re dripping with sarcasm.
“Do you want help with that?”
“No, of course not. I love coming home after a 10-hour day, walking in the door, tripping over your smelly-ass shoes, and practically falling into a sink overflowing with dishes. WHY WOULD I WANT YOUR HELP? IT’S CLEAR YOU ARE NOT CAPABLE OF HANDLING THIS SITUATION.”
I think a strong word like filurious would be good for all of us. We could put a name to the syndrome. Because admitting the problem is the first step. The second step is them learning to clean up their shite. Because after a long bout of filuriousness, I am freaking desausted.
Filurious breakdowns are often followed by a headache and me wondering how I have failed so significantly as a wife and mother. The best treatment for my stress headache is a nice, cool eye pillow. OK, it’s the second best. But some people frown upon drinking before noon, so I compromise.
You can make your own eye pillow for very little money. These instructions from popsugar.com are great because you can customize every detail. For example, you can switch up the herbs using the ones that you like the best. Or you may find a plain fabric suits you better than a pattern. This way, there is plenty of open space to write things on the eye mask – things like “breathe” or “relax” or “leave me alone or I’ll kill you.” Be creative.
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Laurie Nigro, is the mother of two biological children and one husband. She also takes care of a menagerie of animals that leaves throw-up around for her to step in in the middle of the night. Laurie’s passionate about frugal, natural living, which is a nice way of saying she’s a kombucha-brewing, incense-burning, foodie freak who tries really hard not to spend money on crap made by child laborers. You can hear her rant about her muse (aka husband) and other things that have no bearing on your life, in this space each Sunday.
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