Still, anger controlled me more than I could control it.
CLOSED HANDS HOW TO
Those fights were an excuse to release all that pent-up anger and frustration that I didn't know how to process. In a way, it felt good to do that for them since I couldn't do it for myself. My friends are everything to me and I'm fiercely loyal to them. There was freedom in allowing my emotions to take control of me and not be responsible for my actions. In the moment of blind rage, there were no regrets, especially since I was exacting revenge on behalf of others. But because I had so much anger built up inside myself, when others would give me a reason to let it all out, violence felt necessary.
It's not like I could ever express the real source of my anger to my dad anyway. I never sucker punched anyone or started a fight for myself. The strange thing is, any anger I felt on my own behalf, I kept it in. I recognized my own tendencies for giving extreme responses only three years ago, yet it's something familiar that I've done my whole life - it's what I learned from my dad. My dad used to punch walls, so I would throw my cellphones, and then need to constantly replace them. This same pattern played out in my romantic relationships later on, where I would say the harshest things imaginable when I would feel upset. He would keep repeating this line on a daily basis and I grew numb to the words, eventually dismissing him. It's a wonder now that I never thought that there was anything wrong with that - it was just part of normal life. My dad's tough love was the only kind of love I knew.ĭad would say something like, "Oh, you two are making me so upset that I'm going to get cancer and die." His purpose for saying things like this was to intentionally tear you up on the inside by saying the harshest things possible, to extract the most guilt possible. My dad's tough love was the only kind of love I knew, not holding anything back behind the weight of his hand or his words. Some days were worse than others, but this was a daily occurrence. We were expected to somehow know right from wrong, without any real guidance, so I never learned why something I did was wrong.
I would mispronounce a word or do something bad, and physical punishment would be dealt with no explanation of the correction. I remember moments after my parents' divorce and living with my grandparents my father would get so easily frustrated with me and my brother. It was in times like these, I could recognize how I was truly my father's daughter.
The next thing I know, I'm slamming a girl's head into a concrete pillar, my fists flying in a blind rage on someone I don't even know. All anyone had to do was ask me and I agreed. A friend would ask me to beat someone up for revenge, or because someone was a cheater, or because someone told a lie that got someone else in trouble. I'm not exactly built like a fighter, but people knew I would fight for any reason. I USED TO BEAT UP people for other people.
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