My father was a man consumed by rage. After long hours at work or other exhausting activities, he would return home, often in a foul mood. His anger had a way of exploding over the smallest things—dishes left on the counter, shoes scattered on the floor, or papers cluttering the kitchen table. He was intolerant of chaos, a trait that clashed with my ADHD. If I was told to let the dogs in but forgot to wipe their muddy paws, I would panic at the thought of the inevitable consequences. I would scrub frantically, but deep down, I knew it would never be good enough. His anger would turn on me like a storm.
Today, I no longer have contact with my father for various reasons—primarily because of his toxic behavior, which prevents him from being part of my children’s lives. Yet, even after all these years, his anger continues to haunt me, impacting my marriage in profound ways.
Anger has a way of altering a person’s face. It twists and contorts features, causing eyes to widen or narrow and brows to furrow. When I was a child, being told to “Look at me when I talk to you, damn it!” meant having to hold back tears. Crying would only provoke further anger, as I was warned that I’d “have something to cry about.” I felt powerless, trapped in a cycle of fear and rage.
Every time I heard my full name bellowed from downstairs—“JENNIFER LEE, GET DOWN HERE!”—I braced myself for an onslaught. I never knew what triggered it, but it was clear that I would bear the brunt of his fury, regardless of my efforts to behave well. I learned to hide and watch for signs of anger, knowing that sooner or later, it would find me.
Fast forward to my life now: my husband, although generally calm and kind, experiences moments of frustration. His job as a teacher can be taxing, especially when he deals with chronic pain. When the house is messy or the kids are demanding, he sometimes snaps. His anger is not explosive like my father’s; it manifests in a change of tone and a quickened voice. He rarely directs his frustrations at me, yet the echoes of my past resonate. I feel as though any display of anger, even if it is not aimed at me, could somehow become my fault.
So, instinctively, I freeze. I shrink in on myself, my voice rising in pitch, desperately trying to disappear. The fear of anger—especially male anger—grips me. I often find myself crumpling into tears, pleading for him to stop raising his voice. I just want the tension to dissipate.
Yet, there are times I muster the courage to push back. He’s my partner, not my father. I might yell in response, demanding he stop raising his voice, even if he’s just made a simple request. “I didn’t yell at you!” he argues. “You did!” I retort. But to me, any raised voice is a trigger, a ghost of my childhood haunting me.
This reaction has led to countless misunderstandings and fights in our marriage. My husband feels stifled, as if he can’t express his frustrations without fear of triggering a deep-seated response in me. “How do you think it feels?” he snaps. “I’m not allowed to have emotions here!” And he’s right. I don’t know how to break this cycle. Just the sound of an angry male voice sends me back to that helpless child.
I’ve forgiven my father for many things, but the lasting impact of his anger on my psyche? That’s a wound that remains unhealed. I carry this burden every day, and it continues to shape my relationships.
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Summary:
My father’s unresolved anger continues to influence my adult relationships, particularly with my husband. The fear of male anger, ingrained from childhood, creates a cycle of tension and miscommunication in our marriage. Despite my efforts to break free from this cycle, I often find myself overwhelmed by his frustration, leading to emotional confrontations that echo my past experiences.
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