Anger Justified As a Reaction To Being Different
Upon my birth, I was immediately dubbed by my grandmother as the black sheep of the family. Although she did not specifically call me “the black sheep”. She gave me other names instead, and those names quickly spread throughout both sides of my family as names to throw upon me for nicknames.
I was frequently called “kooky”, “weirdo”, “strange”, and “cursed” – although no one would call me “cursed” to my face for the sake of not speaking this word out into the spiritual realm against me. I suppose they didn’t want to hurt my feelings either, as if the other names they called me were not bad enough, many in my family believed I was cursed by God.
My grandmother had based my outcast status on the phenomena of my birth. My grandmother was apparently in the birthing room with my mother as I was being delivered, and she looked on in horror as I was born. My birth was considered to be some type of anomaly to her – a curse as she perceived it – all because I was born inside of the amniotic sac and had to be cut out of it.
This supposed phenomena is said to occur in 1 in 80,000 births and is often known as an “en caul” birth. Some cultures refer to this phenomena as being born with a veil. Whatever the case, my grandmother did not like it, and her dislike about the situation of my birth was transferred as her dislike of me.
In fact, for all of the days that my grandmother was alive, she never referred to me by my name. Not once! She referred to me as “that girl” or by one of the many nicknames she had branded me with which were not even derivatives of my real name. She would not even refer to me by the shortened version of my name that I was called by others. This always baffled me because she treated me differently compared to my siblings and her other grandchildren.
Yet, interestingly, I was the grandchild she used to help her with all written forms of communication because she did not know how to read English. She would not even allow my mother to help her. She only wanted to use me. She seemed to believe that I was born with some type of gift, and she was going to make use of it.
So when she felt the need to praise me, then that is what I was always praised for because to her I was “smart” beyond my years. However, this same grandmother was always so very dismissive of me and let it be known to others that she did not like me at all. She, in fact, had conditioned my aunts, uncles, cousins, and other people to believe that something was wrong with me. During that time, there was very little understanding of my autism.
Nevertheless, I was considered to be different … an oddity. I was told that I spoke entirely too proper and sounded like I did not even belong in the country of my birth. This distinctiveness about me made me a target for jokes, teasing, and bullying by others. Yet, at the same time, I was never a chosen one. I was almost always left out a lot … forgotten.
I was always chosen last for games and activities even though I was somewhat good at certain sports. I was not allowed to be a part of any groupings with other children. So, I grew up spending an enormous amount of time alone, but at some point during my early childhood, I would figure out that I enjoyed spending time alone. I gravitated towards solitude a lot.
I actually knew that I needed to spend time alone because I did not like a lot of noise, and I specifically did not like being around a large group of people. It was enough to spend time around my family before I needed a break from them too. I also did not like going outside unless I could be alone.
During my outside time as a child, I would climb my favorite tree and just live inside my head. I’d wish upon a life that I could freely live to be me, believing that I had been born during the wrong time and to the wrong people because I felt so different. Of course, there was no one else around that I thought I belonged to either. Everyone around me seemed to signify that I was so very different. It was hard to be me.
Over time, I’d internalize sadness over slights and hurts. I just couldn’t understand everyone’s dislike of me. I didn’t realize that so much of what I’d experienced were merely people’s own fears, insecurities, envyings, jealousies, and projections regarding me. That took me a long time to figure out. In the meantime, I just felt like I was hated, and I felt that I was hated a lot. People even told me they hated me, including my mother.
It didn’t take much time before I was infilled with a lot of anger. That internalized sadness had nowhere to go. I didn’t allow it to be expressed because I could not. I was always forced to keep my emotions inward, hidden away. If I expressed any emotions that my parents or other adults deemed as negative, then I was punished and ridiculed for it.
I learned to hold every emotion inside of me until I became numb. Yet, there were countless times I could only feel anger. It was an explosive type of anger. It was an inwardly burning anger. It was often rage. Sometimes, my sadness would so overwhelm me that I couldn’t help but cry the anger out of me. Although this was sometimes helpful, it just wasn’t always enough because I was surrounded by people and forces that seemed to thrive on provoking me to inhabit anger.
It wasn’t until years into my adulthood that I recognized this anger. It had a tremendous grip on me. It subdued me. It was always there. I grew conscious of this fact the more I began to walk the path of healing. The journey has been worth it, but it has not been easy. Sometimes I still feel an immense anger especially as it relates to reliving many aspects of my past. Yet, at the same time I’ve learned that this has been most helpful in the process of my healing.
The anger can be overwhelming though. That’s why it’s been so therapeutic for me to journal and blog my experiences. In many, many of my experiences with narcissists and narcissistic abuse, I have never been able to adequately express my anger. Not only were my emotions diminished in these toxic relationships, I was also diminished as a human … worth being alive.
So, there are many times that I have blogged an experience all because on some level, I felt that I was still angry about it. In fact, as of late, I’ve had what I felt was some volatile anger in regards to situations dealing with narcissistic people that left me feeling as if I was never able to unchain my voice in the way that I desired which showed that I was standing up for myself. So, much of my anger is uniquely about me and the lack of power I felt I utilized in those toxic situations.
There’s really nothing I can change about those things now. I can only move forward and allow myself to release the anger. I already know that those who perpetrated their vileness against me cared little about my anger then. So I know they don’t care about my anger even now. I know it’s up to me to walk it all out and let it flow out of me so that I can heal. At times there seems to be so much though.
My anger is justified regarding the experiences I’ve had with being mistreated by people. However, any actions I take against others is not so clear-cut in justification. It is never righteous to take my anger out on others, and it is never a good thing to retaliate or seek revenge. It has always been best for me to deal with myself and be accountable for my own behavior. I can’t control anybody else.
I’m not angry because I’ve been cast aside as different. I have embraced my differences. I love who I am. I believe much of the anger I’ve experienced comes from the fact that my voice has been ignored, shut down, and silenced for so long. Now it no longer matters to me what others think and how much they don’t want to hear me. Maybe I don’t have anything they want to hear, but none of that matters to me anymore. It’s done. I’m good. I’m moving forward. I will remain different, but I won’t remain silent.
My Voice Unchained 