Survivor's Anger
Part 1: The Elephant in the Room, Part 2: Releasing the Rage & Part 3: Safety in Relationships
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Video #9 of 12-Part Series
Video Transcription
Part 1: The Elephant in the Room
I have felt enormous rage toward the three men who committed incest and tortured me for eighteen years, from the time I was three until I married at twenty-one. I am so angry about what they did to me, how they physically hurt me and scarred me emotionally. I am incredulous and appalled that no one stopped them. I’m furious that I had to deny and suppress my anger to survive. Accessing and working with my anger has been one of the most challenging aspects of healing for me.
My work with anger has had three distinct, and still ongoing, phases. The first phase was to realize that I was indeed angry and to see how that anger presented to the world.
In my family, my anger was not allowed. Only my father could be angry, and he used his anger to decimate the person with whom he had problems. My father enjoyed his anger; he reveled in repeating the story of how he had brought the other to his knees. If he hadn’t destroyed his opponent, he had failed.
But my mother’s anger was passive-aggressive. She didn’t want any overt expression of anger, often saying to me, “Laurie, you just have to let it go” even when my anger was warranted.
This is what I grew up with—the belief that anger was only used to punish, but that it had to be suppressed. What did I do with my anger? I suppressed it, but it often squirted out sideways in cutting remarks or withdrawal. Unknown to me, the big anger of abuse often connected to the everyday anger of living, making what I was feeling out of proportion to the event. I usually wasn’t aware I was angry. However, my husband and children will tell you I was plenty angry and showed it--not always in good ways.
This was one of the first things my therapist and I worked on. I needed to learn that anger was a a normal emotion, and that there were appropriate and useful ways of bringing anger toward another person. I could be angry and still be safe. Anger, done well, highlighted a need to be in conversation, to work through something that just wasn’t right. Ron tried time after time to help me see what I was doing, how I was mimicking my father, but I couldn’t incorporate his lessons. Finally, one day, I looked up, mid-tirade, to see him pale and shaking from the force of my anger. That got my attention and activated my shame. I was ready to learn a different way.
First, we worked on taking the attack out of my anger. I learned to speak what I was feeling, rather than accuse Ron of all the things I thought he had done wrong. I learned to ask, what part was I playing in the disconnect, and how might I have helped create it. That lesson proved difficult for me—I didn’t want to see I might be at fault, even a little--and my attempts at mastery continue today. I learned to recognize that what happened between us was not intentional, but was a misunderstanding or a miscommunication. I learned that anger, spoken well, could clear the air and make us both feel better. That was a huge revelation—and relief—for me.
I wish I could tell you that I learned the lessons well and quickly. Boy, I wish I could say that. The truth is these lessons are ongoing. These days, I mostly do a much better job recognizing my anger and bringing it toward Ron or my husband in thoughtful and productive ways. But there are still times, especially when I get scared, that my anger squirts out in harmful ways. Thanks to a lot of patience and love on both men’s parts, I get to start over and try again. I’m happy to say I do anger better, but not always perfectly. Undoubtedly, I will have many more opportunities to practice before I am done!
I can now deal with the “everyday” anger of living with other people. But I was, and sometimes still am, deeply afraid of my rage around abuse. The second phase of anger work was getting in touch with my suppressed feelings. I’ll talk more about that in the next video.
My work with anger has had three distinct, and still ongoing, phases. The first phase was to realize that I was indeed angry and to see how that anger presented to the world.
In my family, my anger was not allowed. Only my father could be angry, and he used his anger to decimate the person with whom he had problems. My father enjoyed his anger; he reveled in repeating the story of how he had brought the other to his knees. If he hadn’t destroyed his opponent, he had failed.
But my mother’s anger was passive-aggressive. She didn’t want any overt expression of anger, often saying to me, “Laurie, you just have to let it go” even when my anger was warranted.
This is what I grew up with—the belief that anger was only used to punish, but that it had to be suppressed. What did I do with my anger? I suppressed it, but it often squirted out sideways in cutting remarks or withdrawal. Unknown to me, the big anger of abuse often connected to the everyday anger of living, making what I was feeling out of proportion to the event. I usually wasn’t aware I was angry. However, my husband and children will tell you I was plenty angry and showed it--not always in good ways.
This was one of the first things my therapist and I worked on. I needed to learn that anger was a a normal emotion, and that there were appropriate and useful ways of bringing anger toward another person. I could be angry and still be safe. Anger, done well, highlighted a need to be in conversation, to work through something that just wasn’t right. Ron tried time after time to help me see what I was doing, how I was mimicking my father, but I couldn’t incorporate his lessons. Finally, one day, I looked up, mid-tirade, to see him pale and shaking from the force of my anger. That got my attention and activated my shame. I was ready to learn a different way.
First, we worked on taking the attack out of my anger. I learned to speak what I was feeling, rather than accuse Ron of all the things I thought he had done wrong. I learned to ask, what part was I playing in the disconnect, and how might I have helped create it. That lesson proved difficult for me—I didn’t want to see I might be at fault, even a little--and my attempts at mastery continue today. I learned to recognize that what happened between us was not intentional, but was a misunderstanding or a miscommunication. I learned that anger, spoken well, could clear the air and make us both feel better. That was a huge revelation—and relief—for me.
I wish I could tell you that I learned the lessons well and quickly. Boy, I wish I could say that. The truth is these lessons are ongoing. These days, I mostly do a much better job recognizing my anger and bringing it toward Ron or my husband in thoughtful and productive ways. But there are still times, especially when I get scared, that my anger squirts out in harmful ways. Thanks to a lot of patience and love on both men’s parts, I get to start over and try again. I’m happy to say I do anger better, but not always perfectly. Undoubtedly, I will have many more opportunities to practice before I am done!
I can now deal with the “everyday” anger of living with other people. But I was, and sometimes still am, deeply afraid of my rage around abuse. The second phase of anger work was getting in touch with my suppressed feelings. I’ll talk more about that in the next video.
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Video #10 of 12-Part Series
Video Transcription
Part 2: Releasing the Rage
The second phase of anger work was to connect to my suppressed rage around abuse, to learn to feel it, then to express it—both verbally and physically. I was scared witless. Showing anger toward my abusers was a ticket to being hurt, and hurt badly. It easily could have led to my death, as my abusers were often out of control. I could feel how big my anger was; I knew how destructive anger could be. I was scared of my own anger; scared I would hurt someone with it. And now I was being asked to connect to it and express it.
This work has been painstakingly slow. Learning I am safe is an integral part of it. When I began to recognize that what I was feeling in my body was anger, I could describe it—stomach ache, headache, a pressure in my chest that flowed up my throat only to get blocked. For a long time, that was as far as I could go.
When my therapist Ron and I would identify anger feelings, he began to ask me to press my fingers against the side of the table. No, simply could not do it. If I were standing, could I press against the wall? Nope. I was sure that doing so would make my dad and grandfather appear.
Eventually, and I am speaking of years here, I was able to get out of the chair and pace the room. Any physical expression was huge progress. Recovering from memory regain, I began to be able to scream and pound pillows on the floor. Ron offered to hold the pillow so I could punch it, but my fear of accidently hurting him prevented that.
Pounding pillows got some of the anger released, but it was not satisfying. I knew those were pillows—I wanted to pound something that could be hurt, could break—like my abusers’ faces. Pillows, the bed—none of that really let me release these destructive longings.
As I worked with anger, more and more feelings were released from the boiling kettle of rage. The lid, tightly sealed, was now rocking and was ready to fly off. What to do? I decided to actually break things—in this case, glasses and fine china from Goodwill that I threw against the wall. Writing the names of my abusers on the glasses and then flinging them at the brick exterior of my house, watching them shatter, was immensely satisfying and reduced the backlog of anger. Cleaning up the glass was not fun, but worth it.
I was not yet able to confront my parents and express my anger toward them. I needed to, oh how I needed to, but I believed I needed to stay in the family more. When I saw that I could not, due to their denial and continuing to scapegoat me, I finally got the courage to say what I needed to say—in letters to each of them. I let it all out—anger, grief—a lifetime of emotion poured out. Reading the letters aloud to my therapist Ron before I sent them elicited many emotions—elation at finally speaking my truth, anger, grief, pain so deep it was physical. I was afraid when I mailed the letters. I didn’t know what my parents would do. I received no response, but mailing the letters helped me get out of the anger loop and reclaim my authority.
I created a life-sized effigy of my grandfather, but for many years, fear kept me from working with it. Only this past fall, seventeen years into this work, was I able to express the intense anger I felt using the effigy. That I could do so was in no small part because Ron’s new office (in a bank) contained the old vault—a perfect room for screaming and slamming the effigy against the wall, stomping it, hitting it with my fists. No one could hear; no one got hurt; and I didn’t inadvertently destroy something in Ron’s office. Releasing that anger was immensely healing.
The third phase of anger management—creating safety while being angry with Chuck and receiving his anger began about two years ago. I’ll talk about that in the next video.
This work has been painstakingly slow. Learning I am safe is an integral part of it. When I began to recognize that what I was feeling in my body was anger, I could describe it—stomach ache, headache, a pressure in my chest that flowed up my throat only to get blocked. For a long time, that was as far as I could go.
When my therapist Ron and I would identify anger feelings, he began to ask me to press my fingers against the side of the table. No, simply could not do it. If I were standing, could I press against the wall? Nope. I was sure that doing so would make my dad and grandfather appear.
Eventually, and I am speaking of years here, I was able to get out of the chair and pace the room. Any physical expression was huge progress. Recovering from memory regain, I began to be able to scream and pound pillows on the floor. Ron offered to hold the pillow so I could punch it, but my fear of accidently hurting him prevented that.
Pounding pillows got some of the anger released, but it was not satisfying. I knew those were pillows—I wanted to pound something that could be hurt, could break—like my abusers’ faces. Pillows, the bed—none of that really let me release these destructive longings.
As I worked with anger, more and more feelings were released from the boiling kettle of rage. The lid, tightly sealed, was now rocking and was ready to fly off. What to do? I decided to actually break things—in this case, glasses and fine china from Goodwill that I threw against the wall. Writing the names of my abusers on the glasses and then flinging them at the brick exterior of my house, watching them shatter, was immensely satisfying and reduced the backlog of anger. Cleaning up the glass was not fun, but worth it.
I was not yet able to confront my parents and express my anger toward them. I needed to, oh how I needed to, but I believed I needed to stay in the family more. When I saw that I could not, due to their denial and continuing to scapegoat me, I finally got the courage to say what I needed to say—in letters to each of them. I let it all out—anger, grief—a lifetime of emotion poured out. Reading the letters aloud to my therapist Ron before I sent them elicited many emotions—elation at finally speaking my truth, anger, grief, pain so deep it was physical. I was afraid when I mailed the letters. I didn’t know what my parents would do. I received no response, but mailing the letters helped me get out of the anger loop and reclaim my authority.
I created a life-sized effigy of my grandfather, but for many years, fear kept me from working with it. Only this past fall, seventeen years into this work, was I able to express the intense anger I felt using the effigy. That I could do so was in no small part because Ron’s new office (in a bank) contained the old vault—a perfect room for screaming and slamming the effigy against the wall, stomping it, hitting it with my fists. No one could hear; no one got hurt; and I didn’t inadvertently destroy something in Ron’s office. Releasing that anger was immensely healing.
The third phase of anger management—creating safety while being angry with Chuck and receiving his anger began about two years ago. I’ll talk about that in the next video.
Video Transcription
Part 3: Safety in Relationships
Hello, my name is Laurie Tucker. I am a sexual abuse survivor and author of the book, What Odd Things I Thank You For: Discovering Grace in a Shattered Life.
In the previous videos on anger, I have talked about learning to recognize when I am angry and how to express it in productive ways. I have spoken about my work to contact and release my suppressed anger around abuse. Today, I’d like to share how my husband Chuck and I are learning to express our anger in ways that create safety for both of us.
I have said I needed to feel safe to begin to work with my anger—safe from my abusers, safe from family members who denied the truth of what happened. I also needed to feel safe doing this work around my husband. Chuck grew up in a family where anger was denied and never expressed. Doing so, got you ostracized from the family. He learned as a small child not to anger his mother; her disapproval was a powerful deterrent. His fear of expressing his own anger was excited as I tried to express mine. My doing so elicited disapproval and withdrawal from him—the very person I most needed to support my healing journey. I responded with fear, withdrawal and more anger.
It has taken us a long time, and joint counseling, to understand each other’s history and beliefs around anger. We’re each learning to work with our own anger, with the inevitable anger of partnership, and my need to express my anger around abuse.
I am learning to tell Chuck that the anger I am expressing is abuse anger. Chuck is learning that my anger is not directed at him personally, and can let it go over his shoulder without incorporating it. He has learned that he can ask for a break when it feels too much—and return later to the conversation.
I am learning to recognize when my abuse anger has gotten attached to the feelings of the moment. I cannot yet catch myself in the moment and often my expression of the present anger is out of proportion. We agree to end the conversation then, promising to return to it at a time we agree on. When I cool down and can actually think logically, I can see what I am doing and I apologize. Doing so let’s us start the conversation again, this time rationally and carefully.
When Chuck is angry at me, I often respond reflexively, withdrawing in fear—going quiet, leaving the room, and not meeting his eyes. Chuck is learning that I am not punishing him by withdrawing, mimicking his mother’s actions. I am working not to flee in the face of his anger, which is often loud and physically expressed, but to stand up to it and stay in the room, in conversation. This frightens me still, but every repetition helps create a new paradigm for us.
We have had conversations about what each of us would like to hear in times of anger, what we could say that would make the other person feel safe and loved. These words, so helpful, are sometimes hard to say when anger is on top. It’s hard to think and to remember in those moments what would be helpful. I have created cards for Chuck of what I need to hear; he carries them in his pocket. After all, you never know when or where anger will come into the conversation. His motto: be prepared!
Learning how to be angry with each other has been one of the gifts of our forty-four-year marriage. It is a relief for me to hear Chuck’s anger rather than feel it energetically without context and get scared. He feels the same way. We can now talk about what is wrong and what we need to do to fix it. We don’t get it right first time, every time, but with help from our therapists, repetition, and lots of good will, we do much better. I never thought I would be grateful for anger, but I am. Anger, lovingly-expressed, is a powerful intimacy. It has made our marriage stronger and richer.
Thanks for listening. I have enjoyed sharing this part of my healing journey with you. I wish you blessings for today. Goodbye for now.
In the previous videos on anger, I have talked about learning to recognize when I am angry and how to express it in productive ways. I have spoken about my work to contact and release my suppressed anger around abuse. Today, I’d like to share how my husband Chuck and I are learning to express our anger in ways that create safety for both of us.
I have said I needed to feel safe to begin to work with my anger—safe from my abusers, safe from family members who denied the truth of what happened. I also needed to feel safe doing this work around my husband. Chuck grew up in a family where anger was denied and never expressed. Doing so, got you ostracized from the family. He learned as a small child not to anger his mother; her disapproval was a powerful deterrent. His fear of expressing his own anger was excited as I tried to express mine. My doing so elicited disapproval and withdrawal from him—the very person I most needed to support my healing journey. I responded with fear, withdrawal and more anger.
It has taken us a long time, and joint counseling, to understand each other’s history and beliefs around anger. We’re each learning to work with our own anger, with the inevitable anger of partnership, and my need to express my anger around abuse.
I am learning to tell Chuck that the anger I am expressing is abuse anger. Chuck is learning that my anger is not directed at him personally, and can let it go over his shoulder without incorporating it. He has learned that he can ask for a break when it feels too much—and return later to the conversation.
I am learning to recognize when my abuse anger has gotten attached to the feelings of the moment. I cannot yet catch myself in the moment and often my expression of the present anger is out of proportion. We agree to end the conversation then, promising to return to it at a time we agree on. When I cool down and can actually think logically, I can see what I am doing and I apologize. Doing so let’s us start the conversation again, this time rationally and carefully.
When Chuck is angry at me, I often respond reflexively, withdrawing in fear—going quiet, leaving the room, and not meeting his eyes. Chuck is learning that I am not punishing him by withdrawing, mimicking his mother’s actions. I am working not to flee in the face of his anger, which is often loud and physically expressed, but to stand up to it and stay in the room, in conversation. This frightens me still, but every repetition helps create a new paradigm for us.
We have had conversations about what each of us would like to hear in times of anger, what we could say that would make the other person feel safe and loved. These words, so helpful, are sometimes hard to say when anger is on top. It’s hard to think and to remember in those moments what would be helpful. I have created cards for Chuck of what I need to hear; he carries them in his pocket. After all, you never know when or where anger will come into the conversation. His motto: be prepared!
Learning how to be angry with each other has been one of the gifts of our forty-four-year marriage. It is a relief for me to hear Chuck’s anger rather than feel it energetically without context and get scared. He feels the same way. We can now talk about what is wrong and what we need to do to fix it. We don’t get it right first time, every time, but with help from our therapists, repetition, and lots of good will, we do much better. I never thought I would be grateful for anger, but I am. Anger, lovingly-expressed, is a powerful intimacy. It has made our marriage stronger and richer.
Thanks for listening. I have enjoyed sharing this part of my healing journey with you. I wish you blessings for today. Goodbye for now.