Let’s talk one more time about anger. I had my private lesson today, and I mentioned the argument with my mother that I recently had to my teacher. I was still upset with myself for letting it get as far as it did, but I totally did not see the trap in time. That’s what made me mad at myself, though. I’m usually really good at seeing the traps in time and neatly side-stepping them or jumping over them completely. Here’s my post on the subject from yesterday.
It’s been a lifelong study in patience when talking with my parents. I really hate when I lose my temper because what’s the point? In addition, I just don’t want to unleash it willy-nilly. I do believe in the power of anger, but I don’t want to let it run unleashed.
When I used to spend an inordinate amount of energy keeping it tamped down, it was so tiring. I was really afraid that if I let it out, it would just explode everywhere. It was self-defeating behavior, but understandable. My therapist at the time asked me what I thought would actually happen if I let it out. I didn’t know for sure, but I did know that it would destroy the whole world.
I knew I wasn’t important at all, but I also was made to feel by my parents that every little mistake I made was the end of the world. They had no sense of proportion, which is one reason I don’t either. Another reason is because of my broken neuroatypical brain.
When I was a teenager, I was a hot mess–and deeply miserable. My parents were very much into saving face and maknig sure that we never appeared ‘wrong’ from the outside . We weren’t supposed to hint at anything other than a perfect family. One example that was seared in my brain happened when I was a teenager. My parents were out playing tennis with a few of their church friends. Another of their church friends (a woman) called, wanting to speak to my father. I told her that he was out playing tennis.
When my parents returned, I told them their friend called and that I told her they were out playing tennis. My father got mad at me for that. He said I shouldn’t have said it because it was family business. I didn’t understand that. Why was it such a big deal that he was out playing tennis with his friends? He did elaborate that she might feel bad because she wasn’t invited, but that didn’t feel like the whole reason.
It wasn’t until many years later that I figured it out. My father had a series of affairs since I was very little. I don’t know when I realized it, but he always had at least one sidechick–from the very conservative and sexist Taiwanese church we belong to. Everyone knew about it, and I was amazed that he didn’t get his teeth punched in. I guess that wasn’t the Taiwanese/Christian way. Anyway, the woman they were playing tennis with was a longtime side chick of my father’s. The woman who called from him was probably an ex or a future sidechick. That made much more sense to me than any of my father’s explanations. Yes, he was a highly secretive man, but that wasn’t an explanation in and of itself.
I try to be as compassionate as I can, but there’s a coldness at the very core of my heart/soul that I can’t quite explain. I’ve always known it’s there, and I’ve always tried to make sure that it stays where it belongs. I’ve been ashamed of it and thought it was my failing for so long.
However, dying (twice) changed my mind drastically about it. I always say three things brought me back to life. Love, luck, and Taiji. However, the more I think about it, I have to add a fourth thing t o the list–spite. I would not say I was a contrarian, but many people would/have/do. I would say that I tend to have opinions that are at odds with most people’s, but it’s not a deliberate decision and it’s not to be a jerk.
I will admit, though, that I take a quiet, but momentarily vicious flash of spiteful pride when I am successful at something people thought I would fail or when I am proven right about something that no one saw coming.
That nugget of spite is most definitely one of the reasons I came back to life. It wsa me saying to the universe, “You want me to die? Well, fuck you! I’m not going to do it.” Even though I’d spent most of my life up until that point wanting to not exist, in that moment, my spiteful soul wanted nothing more than to live.
Spite, like anger, needs to be let out in small doses. I have to not let it consume me, though. I told my teacher that it was so hard to bite back what I was about to say to my mother. I could feel the heat in my cheeks as I clenched my teeth. I gritted them so hard, I thought I would crack a tooth. I was clutching the phone with all my might, as if that was my talisman against the thunder raging through my soul.
I took several slow and smooth breaths as my Taiji training had taught me. I told my teacher how I was on the brink, but Taiji brought me back from it. I felt physically ill, both during the conversation and after. She said that the afterwards part was because the adrenaline had to go somewhere. That made a lot of sense to me, but it still sucked.
I was telling her how I regretted letting it get out of control beacuse I was usually so good at catching myself. She pointed out that I had stopped myself before I did went off the cliff. She’s right, but I still feel like I should have been able to spot the trap sooner. Then again, parents are so adept at pushing your buttons because they’re the ones who installed them.
One flaw is that I always feel like I have to have the last word. Whether it’s spoken or just internal, I have a hard time shutting up if I feel I’m being misunderstood or that I’m not getting my point across. In this case, it didn’t matter beacuse my mother and I were talking at cross purposes. I don’t remember who said it, but in order to have a conversation, the two parties have to agree on the starting point and some of the basic beliefs.
I don’t believe in the Christian God. Period. My mother believes in the Christian God. Period. There really is no compromise of those two positions. It’s like when my mother was trying to convince me to have children for fifteen years. I (unwisely) told her that my boyfriend at the time had decided that he wanted children. I had made it clear that I did not want them. At all. To him, I mean. So when he started talking about wanting them, I said then we would have to break up. He was not pleased with that answer, but what was I supposed to do? Lie to him? Say I wanted them just to appease him?
My mother said, “You could compromise by having one”, and she wasn’t kidding. Another time, she said I could adopt a black baby to match my cats. This time, she was kidding, but not really. Then there was the time when she flat out told me that it didn’t matter if I wanted kids or not; it was my duty as a woman to have them.
Because nothing is going to make the idea of having children more appealing than telling me I was nothing but a brood mare. That proved that she did not know me at all. The fact that she thought that was the way to get me to have children still blows my mind. I mean, maybe it would have worked on some people, but most definitely not on me.
In the end, I am glad that I managed to bite back the bile that I had been about to spill all over my mother. It would have achieved nothing other than make both of us feel horrible. Which I most definitely did not want to do. My teacher said that it was a win for me because I was able to stop myself from saying anything that I could never take back; I’ll count that (barely) as a win.