When the Rage Left

On what remains when the rage no longer does.

Photo by Roma Kaiuk🇺🇦 on Unsplash

I wish I could say it was because I’d done a whole programme or was steadily working towards it. But the truth is, I woke up suddenly, and it was gone. The absolute rage I felt towards my parents was simply no longer there.

Days were spent with me circling this space in my heart that had held this ball of rage for so long. There were scorch marks, scars of anger and hurt that had sat in this space since I was a young child. They hadn’t been the ones to rape me. They made mistakes in how they handled it, and their subsequent actions and behaviours showed their colours as parents. There was neglect and a slew of other crimes. Many experienced by others in their relationship with their parents too, but compounded by the sexual abuse, it was a layer cake of pain.

It fuelled the anger. It was the root of it all. As an adult, it grew as I could see, even more clearly, the disparity between how they treated me and my brothers. Jealousy, through the lens of a child, is never one that holds hands with logic. It doesn’t help when the child carries this emotion into adulthood. The adult doesn’t learn to study the feelings because to them, it simply was.

So, now, to discover that it was all gone was strange. Where did it go? Why did it go? What do I do now? There was almost a sense of guilt, because the lack of rage meant I was open to being with them. The guilt was not simply about this willingness; it was also that I was hungry for it. Hungry for their time.

I couldn’t tell you how this change in me was impacting them. I don’t know if they’ve even noticed the change. To them, I am the difficult one. Reliable and dependable but difficult. It’s been told to me more than once. Possibly there is relief, as I don’t make it so difficult for them to ask for help anymore. Something that happens with some frequency in this season of their lives. There are still frustrations on my end, but there is a tentative sense of gladness to be in this space.

Strange, I think, for both sides.

Looking at them from this place also means I have noticed that they have aged. It is more confronting than I thought it would be. I had often said that I didn’t want future me to wake up and look back, wishing I had spent more time filling the bank of memories with my parents, and regret it when I couldn’t do it anymore. Watching them now as they navigate a world that is moving much faster than they are, I wonder if I have left it too late.

Have I only returned to be with them in their twilight, when really I should’ve been there for all of it? There is still irritation, because really, what child doesn’t want to throttle their parents at least twice a week? But I laugh at it now and shrug. As if accepting that is who they are. Even this confuses me. Is it me who has changed? Them? Or is it simply an awareness that I can fight the tide, or follow it and hope it doesn’t take me to shore too soon?

There has been no forgiveness.

This I can say with certainty. There has been only acceptance of what was. Nothing anyone does can change the past. No one will say words that will erase the hurt and the fear that have pervaded my entire life up until this point. I don’t think it’s necessary. As a parent of two adult children myself, I think there can only be acceptance that each of us tried our best with what we had. They failed. That’s the truth of it. But really, would they have succeeded, especially when it came to handling my abuse? Would they have known how to deal with it perfectly? Possibly not, because the truth is, what parent would?

The questions have sat unanswered for so long; I realise it was easier to draw a line in the sand. There’s almost an overly simplistic approach to it now. “That was then, this is now.” To some, it has an air of giving up, but I disagree. It’s not giving up. It’s accepting what cannot be changed. Not for lack of trying. It is the way things are, and now, accepting this, the difference is in me. I feel lighter.

I do not need to forgive to do this. I do not need forgiveness for myself. Forgiveness was never the goal. If it was, I do not think I’d be able to reach this space, because how do you forgive? How do you forgive something that simply was the background of your life for as long as you can remember? There is no metric for it.

So, once again, I trot out that word. Acceptance.

This time, though, I allow it to sit with me and accept all that it is and all that it is not. Will it be enough? I don’t know, but for now it does not sit uneasily on my shoulders. If anything, I find life more peaceful as I use it to shield me from the winds.

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