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The Upside of Anger

For many years there was a piece of wood in my basement, buried in a box, hidden under a blanket. It was old, with small sections splintering from the sides and a large, brown stain on it. Once in a while I would go down and take the two-by-four out of its tomb. Holding it there, in the damp, dark, lonely cellar, I was reminded of the dark side of anger. See, innocent children have a light in their eyes, a joy that comes only from being a kid. One day, when I was nine years old, that light in my eyes went out, only to be replaced by darkness. And it took me 17 years to come back into the light.

I was born to a mother who had no desire to be a parent. She was into men, and with my father being long gone, she was attracted to those who were volatile and cruel. When I was seven my mother met her boyfriend, John. He was a brooding African-American man, six-foot-two-inches tall, 200 pounds, with black eyes and a shaved head. He regularly wore wife-beater tees - appropriate for his conduct - showing off his strong arms and ripe muscles. Two years after they met, my mother shipped me off to live with my aunt and uncle in Chicago for the summer as she secretly married John. To my dismay, I had to go back.

One late December evening after dinner, I sat in my bedroom playing video games on my Atari. The room had pink walls, a twin size captains bed made of dark pine, and pink carpeting. I was a girly girl then, with shelves of Barbies and Cabbage Patch Kids lining the walls. I also loved to read; it was my escape. My room was my sanctuary and I loved that it had locks on both doors.

I had the television volume up high, trying to compete with the loud music coming from my parents’ room. Around 10 that night I turned off the game and TV and was alarmed by what I heard. Under the music was shouting coming from another room in the apartment, and after a second or two I realized that it was just the usual suspect. My mother was being beaten.

This was not a new thing. Over the past couple of years I had learned to mind my own business and block out the horrific sounds. It could have been something as simple as he hadn’t liked dinner that set John off. Or he could have just had a bad day at work. Either way, my mother and I knew better than to arouse his anger. There were numerous times when I, myself, couldn’t sit down in class, and when the teachers had asked why, I would just say I fell. I had spent many nights hiding in the corner of my room, hands covering my ears, trying to stop the sounds of my mother’s cries.

However, on this night, I must have lost my mind. One moment I was cowering in the corner, the next I was standing in the doorway of their bedroom.

“STOP IT! I CANNOT TAKE IT ANYMORE!” I shrieked from deep within.

Then I ran back to my room and lay in the fetal position in a corner behind my bed, shivering.  There was a door on the left which led to the stairs and outside. I glanced at it, wondering how far I could get before I’d get caught. But it was too late.

Under the door that led to the living room the lights from the Christmas tree became dim as it opened and large, dark feet emerged naked on the pink shag carpet. John appeared above me, grabbed me by the arm, and threw me wildly onto the bed. In one fell swoop I felt the bones in my body crack as he hit me with a 3-foot long piece of wood. Then I felt blood trickling from my forehead. Then, nothing. He continued to take swings at me until I either stopped screaming or his arm got tired. I don’t remember getting to the hospital or how many stitches I received, but I do remember that on that night, my mother never came to my rescue.

It was a neighbor who saved me that night. I never found out which one, but I was grateful. I recovered from a fractured pelvis and bruised skull in only a couple of weeks, but nothing was the same. I was shocked to find John in the house when I returned from the hospital days later. The neighbor had somehow recanted her story and I had just taken a nasty fall down the stairs while sleepwalking. Gosh, had the police truly fallen for that? I looked at my mother - a strong woman by most standards - and was disgusted. How could she let this happen, not only to herself but to her child, and still let that man back in?

From that night on I never slept well again. For what seemed like a long time, things calmed down. But about four months later, the screaming started again and I was in my old standby corner, with hands over ears. It was at this time that I started drinking. I would sneak some of John’s Colt 45 a little at a time. Then, I started stealing money so I could buy my own. If anyone asked, it was for my parents. Back then, a nine year old could get away with it. Now I get carded every time and I’m 31.

One night I tried to do something unspeakable. I grabbed a knife from the kitchen, snuck into my parents’ bedroom, and stood over John with the large blade above his chest. I could get away with it, I thought; I was just a kid. But in the end, I couldn’t. I was not him. I replaced the knife, went back into my room and cried. That was the last time I cared about my life.

My mother eventually smartened up, and when I was 13, we moved out. After six years of being abused she decided she had had enough. Thank the Lord!

By this time it was too late for me. I was living in a cold, dark space somewhere deep inside. My childhood was gone with the swing of the first fist. School, home, life in general was, for me, not a safe place. In junior high I was teased and beat up a lot. I was smart then, got really good grades and enjoyed reading. But I was quiet and the kids didn’t understand me. I fought back, usually losing the fight, but not always.

The last time I was attacked after school was by a girl named Rashida. I was walking down the street on my way home when she jumped on my back and began choking me. I was scared to death and inadvertently sliced her face open with the point of my compass, which had been in my hand innocently enough. No one ever bothered me again.

I was always looking for ways out of my life, yet I was never suicidal - I didn’t want to die. My way of leaving was through alcohol. I had gotten my first taste at age nine and had progressed accordingly. By the time I was 15 I was drinking six-packs of beer before and after school. I would drink until I could no longer feel.

Then came the children. My mother, who had done such a terrific job with me, decided she wanted to be a foster parent. I had been such a disappointment to her that she felt the need to try again. The children came and went, none of them matching the perfection of the first one, Anthony. Anthony came to us as a three-week-old PCP addict and for three years my mother dressed him up in only the nicest clothes, never spending less than $100 on his outfits.  He was her perfect little darling.

My mother once told me she wished that she had had an abortion. She had wanted a different life and I had screwed everything up for her. For this I had paid a heavy price. I had been punished for being born. I was a worthless specimen, she said. Nothing good could come from me. It was then that I realized that she was angry too. And like generic traits, this was something she had passed down to me, through a series of life events. I refused to be like her.

But one beautiful fall day when Anthony was two-years-old, I hit him. He was being a normal toddler but was getting on my nerves. I had picked him up from the babysitter after school and sent him to his room to watch “Batman” on television while I made his snack. I don’t remember exactly what he said to me, but his response set me off in a way I still cannot explain. I exploded, back-handing him on the face, and as he fell to the floor, I knew I had gone too far. Was this who I was now? Was this the person I was destined to be? I picked him up and caressed his face. I apologized for hitting him, and he looked me square in the eyes and said he loved me. I started to cry. I knew then, at 17-years-old, that I was in trouble.

A year later, after taking parenting classes, his mother won back custody of him and he left our home. Although I was glad to not have the responsibility of taking care of Anthony anymore, I missed him when he left. My mother cried for a week.

Years went by and my drinking got worse. I couldn’t go one day without getting drunk. It was all I could do to numb the pain. For five years my mother and I fought. I moved out, moved back, and then moved out again. I got pregnant, and after a fight with my mother where she kicked me in the stomach, I had a miscarriage at nearly 22 weeks. But the kicker was still to come.

At 23, I was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. I was shocked. How could someone so young have cancer show up out of nowhere? My world was turned upside down. I was feeling sorry for myself and the fury inside me built up to explosive proportions. At this time I was a college student again, living on campus at SUNY Farmingdale, when my roommate started a fight with me. I was four years older than she and should have known better than to let her get the best of me, but I was hyped up on Vicodin and extremely unstable. I smashed her face up against the wall so hard it left a dent in the drywall. In return she hit me with the phone, and as I grabbed a lamp, ready to pummel her, the resident assistant on our floor rushed to the room. We were both expelled from the dorms and I left school, moved back to Brooklyn, and lived in the apartment of an old friend.

I was dejected, and being sick didn’t help the situation. I had had surgery to remove the tumors from my uterus and ovary, but every day I worried that they would grow back. I was taking experimental treatments as part of a test for a new cancer medication, which made me ill. I had headaches all the time and was generally depressed. Although the doctors told me I would probably be fine, I didn’t believe them.

I moved into a tiny studio near the Staten Island ferry. I felt cursed, that my life was purposefully miserable and I was going to die alone. I had lost most of my friends because of my dreadful attitude and was not talking to my family. Everything had gone to shit. I sat alone in the apartment, staring at the wall. I didn’t eat. I barely slept. I didn’t leave the house other than to go to work and to get the necessities. I drank everything all the time. Although I had a best friend, I had no other healthy relationships with people.

Although I generally stopped speaking to my mother, once in a while I would call her to find out what’s what, trying to keep that relationship alive. But later decided that it was just a lie, and eventually I stopped calling.

I’ve received updates from my grandmother, as she lives not far from my mother. She had gotten married again, this time to an Egyptian, who traveled back and forth between the States and Cairo. He never hit her, but one day – when he could no longer handle her relentless bitterness – he left and never went back. My mother, like a poisonous snake, had destroyed everything she touched. I hear she now wanders alone through her large three-bedroom apartment wondering how she got there. I could name a few reasons.

The downside of anger is if it is deep, it can consume your entire being for a long time. It causes people to take their own lives and the lives of others. Anger is the basest human emotion. But when it is gone, really gone, it can feel as if the world has been lifted off your heart and the sun is shining once again. I found my way into the light again, in a most unexpected way.

Believe it or not, my life was saved on September 11, 2001. I was working at JP Morgan Chase, one block from the World Trade Center. I had gotten to work at eight in the morning and was geared up for a normal day. But as we all know, nothing was normal about that day.

I got home by walking over the Manhattan Bridge, then down 4th Avenue to the Verrazano Bridge. From there I took the bus over the bridge and to my house. When I got home my shoes were still covered in a thick layer of ash. I took them off and stared at them for a long time. I turned on my computer and watched MSNBC’s news coverage of the day – videos of planes crashing into buildings, people leaping out of windows, and buildings slamming to the ground. All I could think of were the thousands of people who had just gone to work and were now dead or dying. Suddenly I felt then need to go to the basement.

The long walk down the dark corridor usually scared me, but on that evening, I had no fear. The smell of mold and dampness took hold but I did not waiver. I unlocked my storage bin and opened the green plastic box. I ripped out the blanket and felt relieved to find it was still there. It looked rotten and I felt sad for it. I picked up the old piece of wood, the one that I had kept hidden for so many years. After seeing on the screen everything that had happened on that gorgeous September morning, something in me was sad. But it was not sadness for me, but for others. And for the first time in my life, I no longer felt angry. I stood in that basement and cried, not for myself, but for the little girl who never got the love she needed. I was no longer that person. I had a good job, had great coworkers – one of whom I was in love with - and I was generally happy with my life.

The piece of wood looked frail in my hands, and as I closed the plastic container, locked the storage bin, and walked back up the dark stairs, I knew what I needed to do.

I stepped outside, into the backyard of my building and lit a fire. With the World Trade Center site burning in the distance, I threw the old two-by-four into the flames. It crackled and smoked, the brown blood stain on it turned to black. And as the old piece of wood turned to ashes, so did my old self. I sat in a plastic beach chair, watching it burn, and every so often glanced back at where the Twin Towers used to be. The smoke billowed from both blazing fires and I cried again. On the most horrific day in US history, I found freedom from a lifetime of anger. I found my self worth.