Summary

The author discusses their experience with aggression as a learned response to a challenging upbringing and an abusive past, acknowledging the lack of choice in their family situation and the necessity of resilience.

Abstract

The article delves into the personal narrative of someone who has endured a difficult family life and an abusive marriage, leading to a hardened demeanor as a survival mechanism. The author reflects on the harsh lessons of childhood, where emotional expression was met with ridicule, and vulnerability was equated with weakness. Despite the desire for comfort, the author feels isolated in their pain. They describe a competitive dynamic with a sister who masks her hurt more effectively, and the author's own struggle with internalizing anger to avoid showing vulnerability. The article suggests a complex relationship with aggression, where it is both a regrettable and an instinctual response to perceived threats, serving as a form of self-defense and a way to maintain a tough exterior.

Opinions

The author views their strength as a byproduct of their environment rather than a chosen trait.
They believe that emotional expression, such as crying, is often met with negative reactions, reinforcing the need to suppress feelings.
The author harbors resentment towards their past, particularly the lack of control over their family circumstances and the resulting trauma.
There is a sense of futility in the author's situation, with the notion that despite their resilience, there is no "happy ending."
The author acknowledges the paradox of using skills learned from trauma, reluctant to let them "go to waste," yet recognizing the unhealthy nature of this coping strategy.
The author perceives their aggressive responses as a reflexive defense mechanism, akin to an "attacker born out of the ashes of the attacked."
They express a desire for comfort and support, indicating a contrast between their tough exterior and their internal longing for empathy.

Aggression Isn’t the Answer, but It’s My Response

He taught me too well

If you fold, you lose.

I can’t swim too well, but I learned to stay afloat in my household because I had to. People think that telling me how strong I am is a compliment. They don’t understand that I didn’t choose this. We don’t get to pick the families we’re born into: with the light of legal adulthood at the end of the tunnel, we resolve to make it from point A to point B. There’s nothing glamorous about it. There are no happy endings here.

Some things aren’t good or bad: they just are.

Growing up, I learned a lot of things.

What you want doesn’t matter.

How you feel doesn’t matter.

If you cry, expect laughter.

If you fold, you lose.

As a woman divorced from an abusive husband, my trauma resume is stacked. I have a laundry list of skills that, despite knowing better, I have decided to put to use. I hate to see anything go to waste.

I don’t like to cry because it doesn’t help. The throbbing of my head makes me dizzy, and even though it’s not something I’m accustomed to, I want somebody to comfort me. Somebody who doesn’t exist…not yet, anyway.

My sister plays the game better than me…not that she isn’t hurt. She just wears it better.

If you fold, you lose.

Can you gaslight the gaslighter?

Swish, swish

Can you yell a little louder?

Swish, swish

I’m just angry.

I swallow and swallow and swallow my anger until my insides swell and it bubbles up and out of me. There’s more where that came from: heaven help me. I’m overwhelmed but can’t let them see it. Achilles heel but I wear steel-toed, 2-pound, shock-resistant, waterproof construction boots. I don’t want anybody to see my weakness even though I’m painfully aware of its existence.

If you fold, you lose.

“If you don’t like me, get in line,” that’s what I tell people. Ice in my voice doubles as ice for my pain. They don’t know that this carefully crafted facade is a painkiller: I don’t do drugs, but it doubles as Advil for my heart. I live in fear of the day when they’ll catch me before I’m ready: wounded animals tend to be more aggressive than their healthy peers. My responses are knee-jerk reflexes: I swing before I think, and in a game of words, I don’t miss.

Defense becomes offense when your opposition doesn’t hit back: there’s nothing like an attacker born out of the ashes of the attacked.