Why Am I So Angry? Part 735

An essay on the spring equinox is at https://ritualabuse.wordpress.com/2012/02/13/the-spring-equinox/

I know that dealing with ritual abuse — or anything, for that matter — is a spiral process. You work on something, it’s miserable, and then there is some sort of closure and you reach a level place where life is not so bad. After a long or short while, more surfaces and you plunge back into the misery at a deeper level.

When it has been a long time since I revisited certain parts of my childhood, it takes me by surprise. I know about this spiral process, I have lived through it many times before, and I don’t expect the calm to last forever. Still, I am always taken unawares.

And it makes me mad. It’s like housework: as soon as you have gotten everything clean and tidy it starts to become dirty and messy and it is time to clean all over again. (I remember Peggy Seeger, Pete Seeger’s sister, singing the folk song  “The Housewife’s Lament.” It really speaks to my condition. You can listen to it and read the lyrics at http://www.songlyrics.com/seeger-peggy/housewifes-lament-lyrics/)

Ritual abuse makes me much, much madder than housework. That’s because what went on in the cult is far filthier than any kitchen or bathroom could ever be. The memories are disgusting, revolting. There just aren’t words for how awful they are. Not only do I have to remember it, but I had to live through it. Nobody should have to live through it, never, never, not ever. Let alone a little kid.

So here I am again, up to my armpits in filth. I know it won’t last forever, but it sure feels eternal. I have faith that when I reach equilibrium I will be in a better place than before I sank into the muck because that’s the way it was the other times. But meanwhile I have to endure it for as long as it takes.

And that is why I am so angry.

Why Am I So Angry?

There is an article on Halloween at https://ritualabuse.wordpress.com/2011/10/02/samhainhalloween/

I ask myself that a lot. Often the answer from inside is “because I was abused in a cult, dummy.”  Gee, thanks, folks. Sometimes it’s more concrete, like “Because it is Halloween, dummy.” (It’s true, except for being a dummy.)

I am indeed very angry. People aren’t generally aware there’s a part of me that wants to kill. Kill many people. Indiscriminately. Torch buildings. Pull wings off butterflies. Etcetera, etcetera. I am very aware of these feelings.

That kind of behavior is against every thing I believe and strive for, every moral cell in my body. It’s against the way I have consciously been trying to live since I was a teenager. So I won’t do it, of course, Never have, never will. But I still want to.

Although my initial desire is to destroy everything in sight, it isn’t too hard to redirect my rage. It feels wonderful to tap into the defiant anger that motivates me. I feel powerful, confident, effective, even joyous. I can use it to fuel constructive behavior, knowing how offended *they* would be, how thoroughly disapproving. Knowing also that being nice, good, kind, loving, means that they failed miserably; when they realized that, they were totally ashamed of themselves. It’s not my fault that being nice humiliated them.

I’m well aware of where my anger came from and why I use it constructively. It’s rebellion, pure and simple, and a rejection of the values they tried to instill in me. I can see still myself as a child, gritting my teeth and saying to myself, “You can’t stop me. I’m going to do it anyway. I’m going to do what I want in spite of you. I don’t care what you do to me.”

I couldn’t do what I wanted then, of course, because they outweighed me, outnumbered me, and had legal authority over me. But now I am as big as anybody and I am free to make my own decisions and to I do what I want, when I want. Sometimes it’s hard, and I know that sometimes I will fail, but I don’t care. I’ll do it anyway.

I was a stubborn little girl, a stubborn young woman, and I have recently become a stubborn old woman. Yes, I’m doing what I want to, despite them,  three hundred and sixty five and a quarter days a year.