I could see he was frustrated with me.
And I was 16. I pushed it. I pushed as far as I could towards the line. Maybe the testosterone was just fueling me to tip-toe towards that line. Inch by inch. The frustration in me just kept on building. And the only way I knew to deal with it was to keep running my mouth. Kept running towards that line.
Until I, of course, eventually crossed it.
He pushed the table, filled with plates and food, across the room and I darted for the door. I was barefoot, crying and panicking as I sat in the street. My head fell to my hands. I wanted to scream. I really really just wanted to fucking scream.
Maybe we’d all gone too far this time.
I grew up in chaos.
And yet, in a lot of ways, I was lucky. My parents were generally supportive. They fed us well, loved us and encouraged us. We were active and given our fruits and vegetables. We were, as many people would put in, privileged.
The thing about privilege is that while we’re all given a leg up in some ways, there are always a hundred little more intricacies in our lives that can’t be accounted for. And while some people stack up immutable characteristics as the only measurable way to stack up how easy our lives are, it’s hardly ever that simple.
My household was the opposite of how it is now. We used to scream. Everyone yelled a lot. Blamed it on our Italian heritage. I know now that the way we reacted to each other was a learned behavior. Behaviors passed down from my abusive grandfather(physically and mentally) to my father. He abused him and then dad abused us. Just — thank god — not physically.
I learned, though, that I am not an anxious person by nature. I can’t be, because left to my own devices, I’m actually extremely calm. I went years without so much as raising my voice to another person. I’ve gone years without having a panic attack. And I’m mostly calm these days.
But there’s always that small amount of programming deep down. Those terrifying days of having him scream in my ear out of nowhere. Or her coming home and all of us knowing we couldn’t talk to her about literally anything when she was in a mood.
I guess I just have to emphasize to you and let’s be honest myself that this kinda childhood wasn’t normal. That it hurt me. And it continues to hurt my family. I want to emphasize the importance of establishing strong communication. Of connecting through authentic and validating channels with your children.
Of fixing your own fucked up head before reproducing. Or at least working on it after you do. Because so many of us are damaged. Really damaged. And I no longer believe it was us.
I truly believe there are roots. And those roots are hard as fuck to dig out.
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Originally published on Medium
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