They say that depression is anger turned inwards. Of this, there is much that I know. I try to get past my anger, but it has always been here. It seems I get over one hurdle to find another waiting. My childhood was constant inner rage that presented outwardly as depression. During my teen years and early adulthood, it took a more self-destructive turn. By the time that I returned from living with my mother and the man that killed her, I was a virtual tornado. At that point, I was destructive in a physical sense. After he killed her, I went back to inner-turmoil and the depressive side of it. I was so lost in my grief, I did not have the energy to fight the world around me.
It always seems a struggle. I do not wish to have this inner volcano/tornado raging within me. I do not want to have the violent outbursts that I did twenty years ago. I do not want to walk around with a clenched fist, praying that someone says the wrong words to me so that I can release my anger on them. During my teen years, all I wanted was the opportunity to beat someone senseless--for the wrong person to say the wrong thing so that I had an excuse to physically release my rage. I had so much anger but no idea where to direct it. Some emerged in my art, some through writing; but mostly it consumed me and became self-loathing.
I don't think it is really in me to hurt others. When I had the opportunities to physically fight, I would stop myself before letting the anger release. I think I was too afraid of crossing that line. I remember having a girl try to fight me once during my early 20s. She decided that I was some sort of threat to her relationship and felt she needed to kick my ass to prove herself. She came at me, pulling my hair and being ridiculous. After I had her on the ground and was on top of her, there was that part of me that saw myself grabbing her head and smashing it off the ground, repeatedly--that rage in me wanted nothing more than to just release and didn't she ask for it? But I remember having her pinned on the ground and just thinking it was all stupid. I got up and walked away. She didn't truly earn the anger that was pent up in me. To release it upon her would have been an error on my part.
Surprisingly, it took several years of being hit by my abusive boyfriend before I ever raised a hand back. Logic, with my own anger issues, would suggest that I should have sought out the opportunity to release my own anger. I suppose I was probably drawn to his anger in some subconscious manner. I was drawn to him and I know a large part of that was understanding how he felt. I knew he had anger issues, perhaps I just simply related and thought we would work through them together? I honestly can't say, now. I do know that often his anger had little to do with me as a person, but when he was drunk or high--I still became the target. Often, he was mortified the next day upon seeing the physical damage he had done.
The gentleman that I was with for two years was very emotionally abusive and likewise, claimed to have no clue the following day of the damages he had created. But since words are like the wind and leave no visible marks, his sober remarks were nearly as bad. He would become angry that I was upset and hurt by his statements and would deny having ever said such. He would go into tirades about how I was crazy; he wouldn't say those things; on and on--day after day. But what I learned about myself was that I had painful things I could have said back, but I loved him and didn't want to hurt him in return. And I think also, he was much as the teenage me--praying for that wrong word to be uttered so that he had an excuse to unleash the physical rage. Much like my father, he would get angry that I couldn't be drawn into fights and would unleash verbal hail and brimstone bent on my destruction. Much like with my father, I would retreat inside myself and only tears would show my inner-distress.
Eventually, the fear began to subside; the PFA was granted; the police incident was over--I was able to begin moving beyond the utter shock and disbelief. Disbelief at how the two-year gentleman, my father, family and friends--were all much different people than I believed them to be. People that had all professed to love me, care about me--people that I loved deeply--not only turned their backs upon me and cast me out, but spit upon me and made my life hell. Much of this, I began to realize, was due to having faith in and trusting people that never truly cared for me. I saw, with hindsight, all the signs I ignored, all the places I forgave when I shouldn't have, the love I should have never offered to begin with.
To quote a kindred spirit, tonight: "Anger is passion offended." So much wisdom when those four words are strung together... so much truth...
As my shock wore off, it was replaced by blind rage. Rage that people I trusted and loved would act as they were acting. To know that relationships that had meant everything to me had all been a facade. My trust in people as a whole faltered. I isolated myself and let only a handful of people into my world. At times, I even doubted their motives. After all, I never thought the others would turn against me as they did--who can ever truly be trusted in this world when our own family would destroy us given half the chance?
There were times during those months that I wanted more than anything to release my physical rage. My artwork increasingly became violent scenes that I hid away, disturbed by the deep anger I was harboring. I was too fearful to truly tell anyone what I was feeling--after all, my father tried to get me committed on the premise of being suicidal and homicidal when there wasn't an ounce of truth to it--what would happen if someone found out how truly angry I was now? I didn't even feel safe crying in my own house for fear that it could some how be used against me. There were times I was sure that I was going to explode.
One of my closest friends saved me during Father's Day 2010 when my rage was again consuming me. He explained it to me as such: "Who needs fire when you have got plenty inside? Create and recreate. It is what you do best. The art of creation and destruction are but one in the same. Just destroy with a smile on your face and don't get rid of what you truly need."
And so, through my writing and art, I prevent the rage from becoming physical. My hands now release my anger through images and words. This provides temporary sanity. It is the only release I have at the moment. Soon, I can begin working the soil again and find sanity through kayaking and nature. For now, I create my story; I destroy my pain and anger.
Months after that Father's Day, the same friend also provided these words: "I have never doubted the fact that our families are our worst critics. Give your brother room and time. He will remember how to see you. The heart seldom forgets. Until then, don't discount your own vision for yourself...You must continue. If anything, you must not forget your worth. You are going to be a better you. One day, they will rise to meet you on a ground unseen by them. Pity them, if it helps... but continue. You are better for it, hard as it may be. You are not alone."
These words still carry me. It has been an immense struggle to rediscover my own value and worth. It is hard to see one's own good when the ones you loved have marked you as evil. The worm planted in the brain questions it and asks "What if they are right? Am I evil?" And seeds of doubt are sown.
I try to remind myself that it is better that they are no longer in my life--they did not deserve the gifts of my soul--my own value can not be based on their negativity and misery in life. But it is still so hard sometimes. I am still the young girl consumed by rage. I am still the angry teenager full of self-loathing. I am still the young adult struggling to find myself. I am still the wounded child that just wants to be loved and accepted. I am still growing and finding myself.
At times, I recognize that they do not know me. I recognize that they never did. I recognize that I am much more than they realize. They do not deserve to have me in their lives and I do not deserve them, either. But it still hurts. I am thankful for my current relationships. I have good friends and have weeded out many, thanks to those events.
I am grateful to be in a relationship where I am treated well and while I sometimes struggle because it is foreign--he is patient. I am learning to open up and trust again. Having a supportive partner is amazing and well worth the wait. I also recognize that much of the beauty in this would be missed had I not had the past relationships and heartbreaks. He reminds me of my worth and value when I am down; I struggle to believe him. He is an anchor in a sea of confusion. I pray that I do not disappoint him or let him down.
Part of not letting him down is learning to heal so that I may be a better person for him. Part of it is learning to keep my anger in check lest it consumes. I work on these things as much for my own sanity as for him. I do not wish to be that person. Anger hurts. Mine often rages within and becomes depression. I know these aren't true pieces of me. I know I need to learn to cope, to forgive, to heal. To move on and enjoy the present. I want to live in the here and now--but the here and now still offers many triggers that dredge up the past and the anger. So I vent as I am able and continue digging up the boulders. I will eventually succeed. I know this now. I will be stronger because of these past struggles. I will be okay.
It always seems a struggle. I do not wish to have this inner volcano/tornado raging within me. I do not want to have the violent outbursts that I did twenty years ago. I do not want to walk around with a clenched fist, praying that someone says the wrong words to me so that I can release my anger on them. During my teen years, all I wanted was the opportunity to beat someone senseless--for the wrong person to say the wrong thing so that I had an excuse to physically release my rage. I had so much anger but no idea where to direct it. Some emerged in my art, some through writing; but mostly it consumed me and became self-loathing.
I don't think it is really in me to hurt others. When I had the opportunities to physically fight, I would stop myself before letting the anger release. I think I was too afraid of crossing that line. I remember having a girl try to fight me once during my early 20s. She decided that I was some sort of threat to her relationship and felt she needed to kick my ass to prove herself. She came at me, pulling my hair and being ridiculous. After I had her on the ground and was on top of her, there was that part of me that saw myself grabbing her head and smashing it off the ground, repeatedly--that rage in me wanted nothing more than to just release and didn't she ask for it? But I remember having her pinned on the ground and just thinking it was all stupid. I got up and walked away. She didn't truly earn the anger that was pent up in me. To release it upon her would have been an error on my part.
Surprisingly, it took several years of being hit by my abusive boyfriend before I ever raised a hand back. Logic, with my own anger issues, would suggest that I should have sought out the opportunity to release my own anger. I suppose I was probably drawn to his anger in some subconscious manner. I was drawn to him and I know a large part of that was understanding how he felt. I knew he had anger issues, perhaps I just simply related and thought we would work through them together? I honestly can't say, now. I do know that often his anger had little to do with me as a person, but when he was drunk or high--I still became the target. Often, he was mortified the next day upon seeing the physical damage he had done.
The gentleman that I was with for two years was very emotionally abusive and likewise, claimed to have no clue the following day of the damages he had created. But since words are like the wind and leave no visible marks, his sober remarks were nearly as bad. He would become angry that I was upset and hurt by his statements and would deny having ever said such. He would go into tirades about how I was crazy; he wouldn't say those things; on and on--day after day. But what I learned about myself was that I had painful things I could have said back, but I loved him and didn't want to hurt him in return. And I think also, he was much as the teenage me--praying for that wrong word to be uttered so that he had an excuse to unleash the physical rage. Much like my father, he would get angry that I couldn't be drawn into fights and would unleash verbal hail and brimstone bent on my destruction. Much like with my father, I would retreat inside myself and only tears would show my inner-distress.
Eventually, the fear began to subside; the PFA was granted; the police incident was over--I was able to begin moving beyond the utter shock and disbelief. Disbelief at how the two-year gentleman, my father, family and friends--were all much different people than I believed them to be. People that had all professed to love me, care about me--people that I loved deeply--not only turned their backs upon me and cast me out, but spit upon me and made my life hell. Much of this, I began to realize, was due to having faith in and trusting people that never truly cared for me. I saw, with hindsight, all the signs I ignored, all the places I forgave when I shouldn't have, the love I should have never offered to begin with.
To quote a kindred spirit, tonight: "Anger is passion offended." So much wisdom when those four words are strung together... so much truth...
As my shock wore off, it was replaced by blind rage. Rage that people I trusted and loved would act as they were acting. To know that relationships that had meant everything to me had all been a facade. My trust in people as a whole faltered. I isolated myself and let only a handful of people into my world. At times, I even doubted their motives. After all, I never thought the others would turn against me as they did--who can ever truly be trusted in this world when our own family would destroy us given half the chance?
There were times during those months that I wanted more than anything to release my physical rage. My artwork increasingly became violent scenes that I hid away, disturbed by the deep anger I was harboring. I was too fearful to truly tell anyone what I was feeling--after all, my father tried to get me committed on the premise of being suicidal and homicidal when there wasn't an ounce of truth to it--what would happen if someone found out how truly angry I was now? I didn't even feel safe crying in my own house for fear that it could some how be used against me. There were times I was sure that I was going to explode.
One of my closest friends saved me during Father's Day 2010 when my rage was again consuming me. He explained it to me as such: "Who needs fire when you have got plenty inside? Create and recreate. It is what you do best. The art of creation and destruction are but one in the same. Just destroy with a smile on your face and don't get rid of what you truly need."
And so, through my writing and art, I prevent the rage from becoming physical. My hands now release my anger through images and words. This provides temporary sanity. It is the only release I have at the moment. Soon, I can begin working the soil again and find sanity through kayaking and nature. For now, I create my story; I destroy my pain and anger.
Months after that Father's Day, the same friend also provided these words: "I have never doubted the fact that our families are our worst critics. Give your brother room and time. He will remember how to see you. The heart seldom forgets. Until then, don't discount your own vision for yourself...You must continue. If anything, you must not forget your worth. You are going to be a better you. One day, they will rise to meet you on a ground unseen by them. Pity them, if it helps... but continue. You are better for it, hard as it may be. You are not alone."
These words still carry me. It has been an immense struggle to rediscover my own value and worth. It is hard to see one's own good when the ones you loved have marked you as evil. The worm planted in the brain questions it and asks "What if they are right? Am I evil?" And seeds of doubt are sown.
I try to remind myself that it is better that they are no longer in my life--they did not deserve the gifts of my soul--my own value can not be based on their negativity and misery in life. But it is still so hard sometimes. I am still the young girl consumed by rage. I am still the angry teenager full of self-loathing. I am still the young adult struggling to find myself. I am still the wounded child that just wants to be loved and accepted. I am still growing and finding myself.
At times, I recognize that they do not know me. I recognize that they never did. I recognize that I am much more than they realize. They do not deserve to have me in their lives and I do not deserve them, either. But it still hurts. I am thankful for my current relationships. I have good friends and have weeded out many, thanks to those events.
I am grateful to be in a relationship where I am treated well and while I sometimes struggle because it is foreign--he is patient. I am learning to open up and trust again. Having a supportive partner is amazing and well worth the wait. I also recognize that much of the beauty in this would be missed had I not had the past relationships and heartbreaks. He reminds me of my worth and value when I am down; I struggle to believe him. He is an anchor in a sea of confusion. I pray that I do not disappoint him or let him down.
Part of not letting him down is learning to heal so that I may be a better person for him. Part of it is learning to keep my anger in check lest it consumes. I work on these things as much for my own sanity as for him. I do not wish to be that person. Anger hurts. Mine often rages within and becomes depression. I know these aren't true pieces of me. I know I need to learn to cope, to forgive, to heal. To move on and enjoy the present. I want to live in the here and now--but the here and now still offers many triggers that dredge up the past and the anger. So I vent as I am able and continue digging up the boulders. I will eventually succeed. I know this now. I will be stronger because of these past struggles. I will be okay.
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