Filled With Anger

I was raised in a home filled with anger. My parents, both difficult people and each on their second marriage (and dealing with a very non-Brady blended family) had what I would characterize as a stormy relationship. My siblings and I were often pulled into their private dramas, or used as pawns by one to irritate the other. My mom was an explosive yeller, my father a taciturn withholder. She would scream and he would stop speaking to her. You might think growing up in this atmosphere would make me an expert at ANGER, but rather I am terrified of it, and now I see the legacy I have created with a daughter who struggles as much as I do to express her anger at all, much less effectively.

When she was nine I bought her a book called Stick Up for Yourself hoping to give her some of the skills I knew I was lacking. We went through it together but that was a long time ago. Last week something came up and though I could tell she was getting angry at me she refused to speak up. In that moment it was clear to me this is what I have modeled for her for most of her life. When I get angry, like many women I know, I cry rather than try to find a way to express it. It’s time for us to take this on together and help each other learn how to get mad like it’s our job.

I’ve pulled out our book, and for research I re-watched Inside Out, making a point to pay attention to Anger. My biggest take-away from the movie is that Anger makes bad decisions with little thought to the consequences which I’d say is accurate in many cases. We have to learn how to be better than that. For an assignment I asked my daughter to try to pay attention, and notice when she feels angry, not to do anything, but just take note. I will try to do the same.

I spent the first half of my life denying I had any anger about anything, despite frequent nightmares, clenched teeth, and the feeling that if I let go of the sadness and ‘other feelings’ that had a silent grip on me I’d drown in the ensuing flood of all that I held inside. For years I refused to shed a tear feeling certain that once I started crying I’d never stop. I was almost thirty by the time I’d cried all those held in tears, and unearthed that pent up anger.

All my romantic relationships (shockingly enough) were with people who had no trouble expressing anger, particularly with me, for everything from the stupid things I said or did to their lost keys, books, or parking spaces. This is Psych 101 folks; I was recreating my childhood in hopes of getting it right, when there was no way to make any of these situations right, past or present. It didn’t take much time for me to regress into my meek shell at home, while at work I was able to call on the strong, decisive woman I had cultivated over the same years spent in those dysfunctional relationships.

Unfortunately for both of us, the self my daughter was exposed to was the weak and submissive one. I was aware of this, and in fact it was one of the galvanizing reasons I found the strength to leave that last relationship. I made the choice to sacrifice living with my daughter full-time so I could provide her with a peaceful home that wasn’t filled with anger, instead of the one where I was unable to stand up for either myself or her.

And now here we are my daughter and me trying so hard to be good to each other we both silence any anger that we feel, in spite of the fact that we’re in the safest place either of us could be to do just that. My job is to teach us both how to give that suppressed anger some air and light, to let it out and work through it. My mission to give her the tools I didn’t have when I became an adult so when she makes a home it is one that’s not filled with anger, but with love and plenty of space for healthy disagreement.