TRAIT THREE
March 2, from “Strengthening My Recovery” daily reader
“We are frightened by angry people and any personal criticism.” BRBp.11
“It’s insidious – the abuse we experienced. For many of us, our caregivers didn’t just get mad, they got angry and enraged. And it could be over something simple. Maybe we were out doing normal kid stuff, but because we had an angry parent waiting at home, we were never sure what to expect. We were repeatedly blindsided with accusations that said we were no good, selfish, irresponsible, uppity, or a whole host of other shaming language. Or maybe it happened to a sibling, which was just as bad because we knew it could be turned on us at any time.
Is it any wonder that as adults we almost visibly flinched when we were faced with angry people? We carried the fear of being criticized with us like a banner that said, “I’m an easy target. I won’t even argue with you because I don’t have a voice.”
But as we start to find our voice in ACA, we begin to separate the anger from the words, and the words from reality. We do not deserve to be talked to ‘like that.’ And we didn’t deserve it as a child. We were innocent! And now, as we learn to reparent ourselves, we can tell our Inner Child that we will protect them when someone is angry or critical. We can do for ourselves what others should have done for us.
On this day I will remember that another person’s anger is not mine. If I hear criticism, I can separate truth from fiction.”
My Experience:
Quieting of the voice does horrendous damage. I remember watching, as a 6 or 7 year old, a child get hit and killed by a speeding driver and never saying a word about it to my parents for fear of being blamed. I carried this nightmare around for 40+ years. I carried around the inability to speak my truth for 40+ years for fear of being blamed and/or punished. I am starting to find my voice. Check it out.
Raymond
Fiery mop glistening in that certain way
Fair skin sun kissed that warm spring day
A simple boy who wouldn’t even harm a fly
Joy brought on from the simple pleasure of playing outside
As he ran around the yard he turned to the street
Where in the middle, he did meet
The hot wheel that came around the corner screeching
Turn back, turn back my mind beseeching
To no avail, his small frame leapt into the air
Floating up there like there were no cares
As his boots rested motionless now on the tar
His limpness now lay at the rear of the car
At six years old, to watch is a crushing endeavor
What I didn’t know, this image would haunt me forever
To survive I pushed this visage way inside
To try to forget the day that Raymond died
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