My mother used to say she never let me be angry. And I understood why. She grew up with such mean, harsh people, she needed me to be happy. And I obliged as best as I could. I wanted her love and learned to be a perfect accessory—I glittered and sparkled and shined.
But underneath all the right things I learned to say were my feelings. Even angry feelings. But because I knew my anger wasn’t wanted, it came out secretly, through hurting myself.
It took decades to understand that anger isn’t a bad word. That my angry feelings just needed to be felt and understood. That anger has good things to share, like what feels ok and what doesn’t.
It took decades to realize I don’t need to keep my anger a secret bc I fear it’s an inconvenience to others.
This doesn’t mean I need to fire off my anger like a bomb, it means I can communicate-to-be-understood in a way that lets myself be heard and known.
And now that I have a child of my own, I try so hard to remember to pause when he’s angry before reacting impulsively, because I know I’m wired to try to fix his anger.
And when I do remember to pause and access my adult self, I tell my son that his feelings are important to feel, even the difficult ones. That they have important messages to share. And that if he would like to share what his anger feels like, I’m here to listen.
And when I forget to pause and I react as if yet another person is taking over the emotional landscape and I will not allow it anymore, I try not to wallow in guilt too long. And as soon as I can access my adult self, I go to my son and re-pair the way I always hoped the adults from my childhood would have repaired with me.
-JLK
