My mother was so upset when I started opening up about my trauma symptoms.
She told me that they were all in my head, and that my anxiety and memory loss and intrusive memories were signs that I needed to let go. That I was dwelling on the bad in my life, and wouldn't find peace until I moved on.
I told her, "I've tried moving on. Moving on didn't solve my problems, it just stitched a filthy wound shut. Now it's infected, and leaking out again. I need to deal with it now, or it will never get better."
I said that I had been depressed, and scared, and angry. That sometimes I hated myself. That sometimes, existing was unbearable.
She told me I was a good person, and I shouldn't hate myself, and life was good now, so I should focus on that.
She told me she didn't understand why I was choosing to hold on to old news.
I told her once, "I'm not following my bad memories. I'm walking down the street, until they hit me out of nowhere like a truck. And I'm tired of being hit by trucks. I want to find whoever's driving and get them to stop. That's not the same as wallowing in self pity. That's finding the source of the problem."
Some days I would be angry, and I would say, "I'm angry about what happened."
She would reply, "Anger won't bring you peace. Anger will kill you."
I said I didn't intend on being angry forever, but I hadn't had a chance to be angry yet, and I was allowed to be angry now. I would be angry now, and when I was done, I would feel other things, and nobody else was allowed to tell me how to feel. My anger was mine, for a second or a lifetime, and if I wanted to be angry forever, then I would. That wasn't my plan, but it was my right.
My mother never seemed to understand. She kept saying, in one way or another, that bad feelings were optional, and if you didn't choose to repress them, then your pain was your own fault.
We fought about that a lot, until I learned not to talk to her about it.
I'm not angry all the time, now, but sometimes I am. Sometimes I'm smooth and sharp and cold, and it makes me happy.
For a long time, I thought I couldn't feel anger at all. When bad things happened, I was sad and unsurprised.
Anger is outrage, and denial, and grief, and determination. Anger is the fuel of self-preservation, self-defense. Anger is safety. Anger is protection. Anger shields the people I love. Anger is a warm electric blanket that could burn my house down with misuse.
I have emotions now. I didn't realize I was numb before, but I was. Now, I feel happy, and scared, and content. Uncomfortable, too, and excited. Anger came first, though, and I'm grateful to it. Anger was the one that stepped up and said, "No, they aren't going to live with this anymore."
My mother doesn't understand, but I do. I've found my peace.
tangentwithtanner
stormborns
