Tag: anger

on finding my way (again)

[unattributed image of Catbells, in the Lake District, UK — a favourite walk]

Like so many here on this earth, there is a lot going on for me right now, from every angle: in real life, in the wider world, psychologically and medically. The last few weeks have brought brilliant peaks — and some very tough troughs.

Troughs: I’m having more nightmares. This is of course a CPTSD reaction — I reckon in response to the relentless disclosures of sexual abuse and assault, alongside the disgusting failure of those who are able to hold others accountable — utterly failing to do so. Some nightmares for the first time place me in a bed as a child, with the clear knowledge of my abuser approaching. Others place me in charge of protecting children in a large house — and no matter what I do, the door to the abuser waiting outside swings open.

Carrying this distress through the days, feeling like I must pretend that I am not distressed, when I really felt like screaming — sent me back into therapy for a few sessions, with my wonderful and long-term therapist, whom I have called upon several times in the last 12 years. I am so grateful for her compassion, her understanding of me as a person and writer and survivor — and the permission she gives me to simply feel and accept this anger, this grief, rather than turn to my default: something is wrong with me.

These resurgences of anger and grief have been the undercurrents of these last few weeks, indeed. And I continue to ride them out.

Through them though, emerges the crystal conviction again and again: I will not turn away. I will not shrink. I hold my nerve, I bear witness. Because I survived, and this surviving brings me closer to what must be done. I have room in my heart, and the strength to link arms with thousands of others.

And the peaks — ah the PEAKS! They are footholds up this rocky path: healing, centring, empowering. I wedge my feet ledge by ledge, not knowing quite where the next breath will come from — but come it does, thank goodness.

So. PEAKS to follow here over the next few days. Thank you for coming with me – we got this, together.

anger

Safe to say it’s been a grim few days, on top of already grim days, on top of a hard year.

I was raised never to be angry. Never to disrupt. Never to raise a fuss. For abuse victim survivors of any sort, anger can bring with it a variety of outcomes, all bad: more abuse perhaps, to ‘put you in your place’; more attention, which may draw eyes to the abuse, which in turn will definitely destabilise your life — and make everything worse. This repression of anger is familial, environmentally necessary. It kept my father from flying off the handle, from making everyone suffer.

But it’s also often cultural: be reasonable. Somehow this has become the reigning metric of so many of our lives. And it has its roots in the primacy of logic. We are encouraged to stand back, to be ‘objective’.

Of course this whole ‘reasonable’ approach has the effect of removing us from our emotional selves. It downplays our emotions, our views, and ultimately is a form of gaslighting: you don’t really feel this, how could you think/feel this, and finally, you’ve got it all wrong.

Case in point: the last time I spoke to my father, in 1987, it was on the phone. I was shaking with fear and anger, struggling to hold the earpiece to my ear. I said that I wanted him to accept responsibility for what he had done to me, that it was sexual abuse. His response was to laugh, and say I’d been reading too many magazines. I then said that unless he did as I asked, he would never see any future children I might have. He laughed again.

***

In fact: he never did see my children. In that moment, that last conversation with him, I somehow managed to hold onto the importance of what I felt, of right and wrong. I somehow, and possibly for the first time, managed to speak to him, however terrifyingly hard it was — and it was — with my whole self.

This won’t be the only post I do about our whole selves, and what this means to me.

For now though I’ll say that I’ve got better at anger. I’ve got better at not always having logical reasons, at not having to explain every last thing — at just feeling something. Feeling something is not in itself threatening, not in itself dangerous.

So what do we do now with these equal measures of anger and despair? When it sometimes seems that any full-throated reaction is ‘too emotional’, ‘too political’, ‘too extreme’?

Sunday January 25th, the day after Alex Pretti’s death, I felt, like a lot of people, incandescent with rage. And grief. All day. And I couldn’t see how I was going to get out of it. Would I just have to get used to this hopelessness — would we all?

At the end of the day I had a text conversation with family. All of us are distressed. We all have loved ones in the US; we all care.

I said that I was so angry, didn’t know what to do with myself. Our younger son M wrote:

…you can have a day of being furious

…but the goal is not to trick yourself into thinking

you’re fighting BY getting angry.

In other words: anger is the justified by-product. Of grief, of horror, of despair.

But it’s not, in itself, The Fight. In itself, anger does not do any useful battle.

How do we ‘fight’ then? How do we make sure we are heard? How do we make a difference?

We are heard by being whatever loud means to us — through the written or spoken word, through image, through music — in our houses, on the streets, on the phone. By breaking barriers, pushing through the societal and familial boundaries we have been hesitant to question before now.

It is very much time to ask questions and demand answers, and to keep doing it, to press and press at it all. I think we know this. It’s time to stand together. To break all the silences which form the hierarchies which control our lives — the ‘families’ if you will, which declare how we should act and what we should say.

Nope. No more. It’s time.

I’m so grateful to son M for giving me some clarity through my overwhelming feelings. And yeah: I’m extremely proud to have played a part in raising him.