Originally Posted/Written 2013
That is probably not a very inventive title – I’m sure it’s been thought of before. But here I am claiming it for myself. I’m an angry girl. I believe my emotional self to be around 11. Only, I look back at myself at 11 and marvel at how “mature” I was. Maturity in this case being a heavy mixture of having to repress the emotions of a child and the longing to escape. So twenty years later, I feel like I have physically escaped. I am married, a mother, removed from the chaos… and it is now that I am settled into my new life I can only conclude that at age eleven, some higher form of myself took over, stuffed that little girl with her big emotions into a trunk for safe travels and then I inadvertently unpacked her with the silverware.
Not only is she still angry but she’s had the last twenty years to lay the many emotional landmines of events I couldn’t deal with at the time…landmines that my husband triggers by breathing some mornings. War time is intense. My husband will have earned his Purple Heart for his valiant efforts to the cause.
So anger is not only swift and strong in me but it is my go-to emotion when I am frustrated, scared, tired, insecure. It’s right there. I, of course, try to tamp it down. I know in my head it’s not the right emotion…but its the fiercest one. I still feel like I need to be on guard of any changes that take place around me. Nothing ever felt good when it changed when I was a kid…I am forever waiting for the bottom to drop out. And I can’t fully trust that those who say they love me will take care of any needs I may have – no matter how big or small. So I feel like the anger is my safety – a lot of people put up walls, I have an electric barbed wire fence. My husbands a hell of a jumper though. No problem, clears it every time.
Only that is when the grenades and flares start shooting out…You’ve all seen the movie; the fighting, the inevitable hostage situation, the cute negotiator, sweat, tears, make-out. End Scene.
And I am slave to a pattern. This anger is exhausting because I feel so damn guilty for having it and letting it effect my family and I work at a feverish pace to figure all this shit out before the next time. But behind all of that, I am starting to feel more sad that this is what I was pushing down at that young age..that these emotions are the legacy of my childhood.
I also have never felt more determined to learn how to live in peace with myself. A lot of the rage within is self-directed and entirely misdirected. But there is the deep wish that there was no rage at all – no matter if someone really deserves it coming there way. I’m tired. I have other shit to do. A family to enjoy. Happiness to feel instead of fear. Eventually, my rage will be fewer and farther between the norm of my experiences. I have to believe that.