Updated: June 27, 2017
Originally Published: September 9, 2016
Tonight, I find myself in a familiar position as a mother. I was unable to put my eldest child to bed, overwhelmed by the emotions surrounding his first day of school tomorrow. The thought of him embarking on this new journey brought tears to my eyes, prompting me to hand off bedtime duties to his father.
I usually scroll past posts from mothers who lament their firstborns starting school, thinking to myself, “I won’t be that way,” and “If only they could let go.” Yet here I am, hiding in my daughter’s room, feeling like an emotional wreck as my husband reads my son a bedtime story. This boy is my first teacher; he has accompanied me through all my initial experiences of parenthood. Together, we’ve shared laughter, tears, and faced some intense challenges.
Having grown up in a household rife with abuse, I can now express this without fear or anxiety. The memories of living with my mother’s unpredictable behavior, constantly on edge, still linger. I remember the frantic “rage cleaning” sessions, hoping to avoid her wrath. Yelling was often followed by physical punishment; the sound of drawers rattling still triggers memories of wooden spoons used in anger. I recall countless times hiding in the bathroom, trying to escape her furious banging on the door. I was determined to break this cycle; I vowed I would not pass these traits onto my children.
As I stand beside my son’s bed, I reflect on his first smiles, laughs, and words. However, I also remember my first outburst of anger — a minor incident that ignited a fire within me, leaving me surprised and ashamed. Although I never crossed the line into abuse as my mother did, the rage simmered beneath the surface, ready to spring forth like a wild animal. In those moments of frustration, I would often lock myself in the bathroom again, desperate to contain my emotions and prevent harm.
Where did this turmoil originate? I knew its roots and felt a deep sense of shame. These aren’t the types of stories typically shared during playdates, where mothers discuss baby milestones and swimming lessons. No one talks about needing to scream into a pillow to avoid losing control. I was supposed to do better.
The journey has not been easy, and it continues to be a challenge. However, I chose a different path. Unlike my mother, I have a supportive partner and friends who offer guidance. More importantly, I made a conscious choice to prioritize my child’s well-being over my pride and the internal voice telling me to manage alone. I refuse to raise a child who lives in fear, flinching at every movement or worrying about their parent’s reactions.
I have fought hard to reach this point with my now six-year-old. My younger children have only experienced minor outbursts — a door slammed or a raised voice. They have not witnessed the tears I’ve shed over my inner demons. With the help of my wise therapist and my supportive husband, I have learned to manage my anger. Instead of lashing out, I breathe deeply, sing, and repeat mantras to keep calm. I confronted the fear that haunted me in childhood and transformed it into understanding. As a result, I can see clearly and allow minor annoyances to pass without succumbing to rage.
This is where my tears arise. My eldest child is a mirror reflecting my own challenges and growth, often resembling a younger version of myself with his vibrant personality. He has been a teacher, revealing that I hadn’t fully processed the nightmares of my past. Parenthood has a strange way of bringing forth the very demons we thought we had outrun, presenting them in the form of the children we love.
So here I am, feeling grateful for the lessons he has imparted while grappling with guilt that lingers deep within me. I know that I am not perfect and have encountered my share of anger, but I am hopeful that the joyful moments we’ve shared outweigh the darker times I’ve faced.
I share my story openly, refusing to let this struggle remain unspoken. If we don’t address these issues during casual conversations, how can we break the cycle? The women who listen to my “anger confessions” provide the support I need. If we remain silent, we risk raising another generation of children who walk on eggshells, and that is something I refuse to do.
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In summary, breaking the cycle of parental rage is a challenging but essential journey. By acknowledging our struggles and seeking support, we can create nurturing environments for our children, free from fear.
Keyphrase: Breaking the Cycle of Parental Anger
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