I’m Still Angry

I’m still ashamed.

Victims carry their secrets for years…

We have seen it.

After years or decades of keeping silent, victims decide to come forward. Sometimes, it is so the perpetrator can be convicted because of his crimes. Others, it is so other victims know they are not alone.

Why do they keep silent in the first place?

It doesn’t matter if it is sexual harassment, physical abuse, or emotional violence…there is a particular component of shame added to the mix.

The victim simply doesn’t want anybody to know about it.

Isn’t it bizarre?

Someone does something to you. The other person keeps going on with his/her life. And you? You get to carry the burden.

Some abusers even tell you: “you don’t want anybody to know, right? Imagine: what will they think of you?”

My parents used to hit my siblings and me when we were kids.

Dear reader, I’m going to pause for a moment here because it has taken me decades to say (to write) that sentence aloud.

They had many reasons to do it.

Sometimes, it was because one of us four would spill water on a table. Other times, because while washing dishes we would break a cup or a plate. Or because we decided to play with Mom’s makeup. Or because we got a boyfriend.

Any reason was a good enough reason.

I grew up in the 80s, so I know what some people are thinking: “It was still quite normal. It just was the way things were”.

You know what?

It never felt normal. Never. Not even once.

I refuse to accept that causing physical and emotional pain to your child can ever be considered normal.

Once we were teenagers, the physical harm subsided…to be replaced by verbal and emotional abuse. We were informed that we were stupid and selfish. That we were idiots. That we were ugly. That we couldn’t be trusted. In particular, I was told I was the “fat one.”

And there was strict control over all of our activities. Something that persisted even when my big sister and I entered college.

When I was in elementary school, some of the teachers knew. I remember one teacher telling me: “Your parents are very hard on you and your siblings, aren’t they?” My reply?

“Yes.”

And that would be it.

None of us dared say it aloud.

And no one dared do anything about it.

As I said…those were different times. It was the normal thing to do.

My life went on.

Sort of.

It’s hard to call it a life when you are already 18 years old, in college, supposedly on your way to building your own life…but every time you get back home, you are terrified.

“What will happen today?”

“Will I be screamed at?”

“Will my father throw a plate at me today because the printer is not working correctly?”

“Will I be accused of being a slut?”

“Will my mother call me an idiot today?”

“Will I be called a pig instead?”

“What will happen today?”

Welcome home

A home is supposed to be the place where you feel safe.

Where you can rest and relax and fully be yourself because you are surrounded by the people you love. People who love you back.

The place where I lived rarely felt like home.

And yet…(and this is the freakiest part about emotional abuse) these were my parents. But they hadn’t the slyest clue on how to do this job.

A few months after turning 18, I had it. My big sister, who at the time was already 21, had been helping my father with some projects on the computer. Things weren’t working out quite well.

He got angry…

He screamed at her and threw stuff around…

I remember her hunching over the keyboard, weeping, waiting for a hit to come. Although it had been years since the last time they had beat us, we were always on the lookup, not wanting to be caught off guard.

That was the moment I decided to run away from home. I just couldn’t stand the idea of this being my everyday life.

Fun fact: at that particular moment, I wasn’t sad or scared.

I was angry. Furious. I think that’s what gave me the courage to go ahead.

I concocted a plan with a few friends and escaped.

I lived with a friend for a few months. I got a job at a video store. It was forbidden for us to work, so this was a big deal for me.

My parents went looking for me. “Why did you leave?” they asked.

I remember the look on their faces: they were genuinely puzzled.

I told them the reason.

Yeah, I had to tell them; apparently, they had no idea that their way of raising us was hurtful. They told me things were going to change: I would be allowed to have a job, I would be allowed to go to academic conferences, and to go out with my friends…

This was one of the strangest moments in my life. You see, all of the above are normal things a woman on her way to adulthood is supposed to do…why were they being “given” to me as special treats?

The cherry on top of the pie?

For the first time in his life, my father told me he loved me. He even hugged me.

I didn’t know he loved me. He had never said it before.

But I knew that they had spent the best part of the previous day looking for me. They had gone to some of my friends’ houses, advising them to beware of what I might tell them: “She’s not well. She tends to make things up.”

So I did not go back that day. In fact, it would be several months before I decided to go back to test the waters. I did it after talking a bit with my sisters and after being told by one of my friends that perhaps I was being too harsh.

So I went back. And yes, things did change. The screaming went away, and so did the throwing of things.

But there was one thing that bugged me.

It felt like an act. Like something that was being given to us out of mere kindness. As if it weren’t normal to go back home after a long day at school and work…and feel safe.

Was I supposed to be grateful for being “given” this?

Why am I so ashamed?

Why have I been afraid for so many years of people finding out about this?

After my son was born, I suffered from postpartum depression. I won’t dwell too much on it right now because that would be a whole different story.

So that first year is kind of a blur. Despite it, I can tell you that I discovered what unconditional love is: I learned to love my son.

Indeed, just the sight of him would fill me with a desire to make him happy, to keep him safe.

I realized something funny: I didn’t know how to say it.

I literally had to force myself to talk to him and say things like, “My love, my dear, my little one…”

I had to pull the words out of my mouth as if I were reading a script.

Later on, it became easier. But it shocked me how unnatural this parenting thing felt to me.

As my son grew up, things would happen. He would accidentally drop items or just do the naughty things kids do: grab an extra cookie, or keep playing for a bit longer after he was told it was time to go to bed.

That’s when I found out there was a monster living inside of me.

The second I realized my son was disobeying me, a bubbling rage would rise in my chest. I would scream at him and scold him in a way I knew was completely out of context. I had to learn to stop myself from doing this.

The autism diagnosis that came when he was three years old brought even more challenges. The fact that I discovered that I’m autistic too changed things even more (although it did explain a lot).

I can tell you it takes all of my effort to grab the monster by the throat and tell him to go to hell. Sometimes it is so difficult that I just resolve to leave the room and put as much physical distance between my son and myself as it is possible.

I thought that once I became a mother, I would understand my parents better. I would finally “get it.”

And yes, I kind of understood. At the same time, I understood even less.

In parenting, there are moments when you lose your cool. No one is perfect, and no one teaches you how to be a parent. I can understand that.

It’s true: no one knows how to do this parenting thing.

There’s no handbook. And you can’t really practice beforehand.

Still…

How can you look at your child’s face and see the pain and the fear your actions are causing…and then decide to go ahead with the hitting and the bullying?

That part? That’s the part I don’t understand.

Very few people know this about me. Very few.

And whenever there’s a family reunion, this topic is never brought up. It’s as if we all have agreed that it never happened.

It has become this unspoken thing that hovers over us. And I find myself in a difficult spot.

I don’t want to carry this with me for the rest of my life. I don’t want to carry the pain, the fear, the shame. The resentment.

I tell myself that they did this because they didn’t know any better. Because they were tired after working long hours. Because they were worried about having to pay a mortgage and putting food on our table.

I get it. I do. And I realize that thanks to them, I got a full education. I know I wouldn’t be the person I am today if it weren’t because of them.

And I’m beginning to like who I am today.

But…

I can’t help to notice that, to them, it was just easier to keep us afraid instead of having actually to parent us. It was easier to do to us the same thing their parents did to them.

I can tell that now they see the magnitude of what they did. I can see the regret in their eyes. They do wish they hadn’t done it.

But they did it. They chose to do it.

Many times. For years. And it shaped us. It left scars on our bodies and souls.

It is my job to deal with those scars. No one else can do it for me. But I do wish I didn’t have to do it.

Aftermath

I’m still ashamed.

I’m still angry.

Scratch that: I’m furious.

How can the healing begin when I’m ashamed that these things were done to me? When rage clouds my mind when I least expect it? When anger fills me up for the stupidest of reasons?

I am aware of this anger. Aware enough to hesitate before I react. I know that’s progress.

That’s all I know at the moment.

I understand that a lot of the self-sabotage I engage in derives from my formative years. I know that my eating disorders and search for perfection also come from this place of pain in me.

However, it is not my parents’ responsibility to “fix” me.

This is on me now.

Because I did learn a thing or two from all of this.

I learned the importance of pausing before you react. Because our mouth tends to say things we’ll later come to regret, especially when we see the pain it causes in our loved ones.

I learned the value of telling your children that you love them. That you will always love them. That the mistakes they make are something to learn from, not the one quality that will define them.

I learned it is essential to hug your kids at least once a day so that when they grow up, they know they are huggable and lovable.

I learned that you exercise in front of your kids and invite them to join you, so they can learn to lead a healthy life instead of calling them “pigs” or “cows” to see if this bullying makes them become thin.

Yeap. I did learn a lot.

Forgiveness?

Now that’s a loaded word.

I know, I know…forgiveness is good for the soul. It will help me deal with the anger.

Another fun fact: I did forgive.

I noticed something. The anger I feel is not directed at my parents. It’s totally and completely directed at me and the people I love. Screwed up, right?

When it comes to my parents, I feel…sadness.

I look into their eyes, and I see their regret. There’s not an inch of doubt in my mind that they wish they hadn’t done the things they did.

They are on their own path to forgiveness. In a way, they have it even harder: they have to forgive themselves.

They are in their own learning process.

And they do try. I see them reach out to us, looking for a connection, for common ground. For some fleeting moments, it does happen…and then it comes apart.

Maybe we need more practice?

When will this “end”?

It won’t.

We will all always be on the path to learning. We have to be brave and face the past, so it’ll stop taking over our present.

In a way, writing this piece is a part of that.

How to get over something I don’t even dare talk (write) about?

I have to heal myself, so I won’t spread this disease to the people I love. Hopefully, that will be the most important lesson of all.