I grew up with a lot of anger within me starting from an early age. I can hardly remember how young I was the very first time I simply "lost it". Thought it wasn't only me. In therapy, I'm learning how significant genetics can influence and play a big role in establishing our emotional blueprints. Maybe it seems obvious when you put them in a sentence together like that, but it wasn't to me.
Anger, depression, compulsiveness, perfectionism all run in my family amongst other emotions. The walls inside my old home in Bethpage were riddled with bumpy plaster covering up all the gaping holes and dents made by our fists. Our knuckles are permanently swollen and discolored from the constant abuse. Jason held the top position on the leader board while I followed closely behind in second place. Both of us have been suspended from school for violent behavior in classrooms, around students, and other faculty members. Doors were slammed, desks were thrown, lockers were punched, teachers were sworn off. He's got more interesting stories than I do, but I had my fair share of violent outbursts. I didn't think I was doing anything wrong. What do you think?
I've had many years since then to dissect my anger and think about where it comes from, why it's so explosive, and what I can potentially do about it. While I've significantly mitigated my explosive temper over the years, I'll admit to undergoing only a handful of relapses since, almost always within the context of a romantic relationship. The other place was at home with my mom. Just recently, I've been relapsing again with some very serious explosive anger. The intensity would be so strong, it'd overcome my entire mind, body, and heart. I became completely overtaken, powerless, and possessed by the intense anger coursing through every vein. I became verbally and physically violent, unleashing the excess anger with my fists against walls and marble countertops to my dismay. Not even physical pain from the throbbing contusion in my hand was enough to distract my anger. There was just so much of it with nowhere to go but out.
The last time I can remember losing myself to anger like this was just over five years ago. Does this mean I've regressed? If this was the first, second, or third time it's happened, maybe I'd think so. Knowing this has been a chronic issue throughout my life, I know better.
My therapist recently told me I might be chronically depressed. In fact, he simply stated, "You are depressed." There wasn't a single doubt in his voice as he followed it up with, "I think you may be chronically depressed." Depression can intensify anger by altering both my perception of experiences and my own emotions to seem worse than they actually are. Depression can result by believing there are a lack of options in any given situation. Many times, it feels like there are no options. Black and white thinking contributes to this. It's either right or wrong, either my way or your way. I am a perfectionist, and I have gone in and out of depression my whole life. Here's one clue behind my anger.
Being born into a Christian family, growing up in a church, and being faced with some very adult bullshit was great at cultivating a life constantly immersed in guilt. I felt guilty for many things. I felt guilty for not praying before a meal, for not reading the bible, for wanting to skip out on church, for not feeling devoted enough to my religion, for not crying at retreats, for not raising my hands and sobbing like the person next to me, for not wanting to clap my hands and sing, for not being strong enough to approach the alter asking for forgiveness, for not honoring my parents, for masturbating, for having sex before marriage, for having sexual thoughts, for feeling really happy, for feeling really sad. The list goes on. I never had anyone tell me it was okay to be human, to be imperfect, to simply be. Instead, guilt was tactically used against me to manipulate my mind into believing I had to do things to be a good person, to go to heaven. I've had quite a few experiences during my religious days from intense retreats and revivals, to demonic and spiritual possessions, to exorcisms, to people speaking in tongue. It was all very confusing looking back in retrospect.
Overall, I felt a lot of guilt. Subsequently, I also felt an incredible amount of shame. Shame didn't help me speak the truth or speak at all. Back then, I was too young and perhaps weak to know how to harness the power of shame. I didn't know how to empower myself through shame with vulnerability. I was a terrible communicator and expresser of emotions back in the day. I was terrible at it because I didn't know how. I never practiced. I was always too ashamed to express my true feelings, my doubts, my questions. I lacked confidence and self-esteem. I didn't feel deserving of being listened to. I didn't feel like I had anything useful or worthwhile to say. I didn't feel I'd make any sense at all. I didn't feel anyone cared. I didn't believe I was strong. I didn't speak.
Over the years, I've cultivated a personality trait where I kept things inside myself. I bottled things up and convinced myself the bottle will never fill up. I trained myself to hold my shit in, sometimes literally, and to be strong by sparing others the burden. It was perhaps the only way I could feel strong.
Of course, my bottle isn't infinite, and my bottle does fill up. Eventually, the bottle shatters, and my anger comes out. When it does, there's different degrees of anger I experience. Much like hurricanes, there are various categories of intensity. Similarly, it's downright scary when it happens. When a CAT 5 storm hits, I'm frightened for my myself, by myself. When my mind blows, the whole world changes color. A different pair of lens falls over my eyes, and the world looks like an altered version of hell, if there ever was one.
This past Sunday on the second day of 2011, my bottle broke. My mind blew. This time was different. This time, it broke completely with nothing to replace it. There weren't any bottles left and until I could find a new bottle to replace it with, my anger was completely exposed, out in the wild, gusting, swinging wildly, madly, lashing out on everything it can find to release itself, from itself. It couldn't take the work of just one person to calm the storm, to dissipate the anger. This time was different. I needed more. It took my lover, my friends, my family, my coworkers, my acquaintances, myself, and most importantly, time.
Asking for help can be humbling. It is also incredibly liberating. Having another set of eyes, ears, and shoulders bear witness to my anger, hear the frustration, and feel the gusty winds blowing is truly liberating. Asking for help is empowering more than anything else. One can never feel loved if one never grants themselves the opportunity to be loved. I granted myself the opportunity to receive love and support from those around me. I got it. I've relearned this very important lesson yet again, and I am truly grateful. Truly grateful.
No comments:
Post a Comment