Anger that comes from anger.

My therapist tells me that there are parts of me which are still little. And much as I hate to admit it, he's right. As I look at how I feel, I realise that I feel like a lost scared little boy living at the bottom of some huge mansion within a huge vault/cave sitting at a console. On the console are levers and buttons which I have to press or pull from time to time to ensure the outside world thinks I'm doing ok. The only problem is, I don't know which buttons to press or which levers to pull anymore..

And I'm scared. Really scared.

It's like my life has happened without me. Like I am in a back compartment on a train hurtling along at 125 miles per hour. Only the train is my life. I know this is me, but can't work out how I got here. How did the house extension get there? How did the company get there? Woooaaaa. I'm out of control. Like a dream. Someone else's dream. I have no control. Hurtling along.

How did this happen? Why am I so scared? Why do I feel so lost? Why aren't I in the middle of my own life, able to savour each moment? Why can't I relate to my wife as an adult? She longs for an emotional connection that I am unable to understand. I try - but trying is just pressing buttons and pulling levers. It doesn't do it for me wife. And I'm not surprised. It's not doing it for me any more either.

So, focus on the feelings. Where do I feel them? In my goin, gut, to my heart. In my chest. What do I feel? Pain. Loss. Hurt. Grief. Anger. Why? Because I was told what to do when I was little. More than that, I was utterly dominated. My dad crushed me. Gave me no way out. Penned me in. I tried so hard. To please. To gain acceptance. But it wasn't forthcoming. I followed his puny way. Tried to live to his impossible standards. Just hacked out the insides of me instead. Where's me? Where am I? No room for that, because being me was not an option.

Me. WHAM. But.. I. WALLOP. Wait a minu CRASH.

No room to manoeuvre. Have to do what dad says, or else. There is no option. The only other option is to be on the receiving end of rage, anger, rejection, domination, crushing, pain. And none of it my fault. There is nothing I can do. Nowhere I can hide. Nowhere I can be me. Mum encourages me to go with the hits. It's just his way. He doesn't mean it. WHAM. CRASH. WALLOP. SHOUT. RAGE. Don't say anything Mark, you'll just make it worse.

Meanwhile - inside I die.

Now - what do I feel now? Well - a mishmash of emotions and feelings. Like a tangled pile of spaghetti. Pull at one emotion, and a whole load of others follow it. Pain. Hurt. Loss. Grief. Anger. Rage.

Anger. Anger that I vowed I would never show. Anger that is so destructive. So corrosive. So dominating. So controlling. So nullifying. So crushing. How can I be angry at my dad's anger when my dad's anger was so violent and negative. If I get angry - surely I will be acting out of the same spirit. Oh my mind says it's ok to be angry, as long as you don't "sin". But deep inside me, every fibre of my being has trained itself not to be like my dad. Yet - I feel anger. And when I look at it, I want to shout. Scream. Wallop. Crash. Cry like a warrior. Punch. Kick. Stamp. Then I must dial it back - because anger is what I trained myself not to do. But my mind and therapist and wife say - no, it's ok to be angry. It's normal. But it's so ingrained within me.

Anger. I feel it as I write this. Anger. A tensing of the chest. A rage. An inferno. A crushing. A desire to crush. In my heart. Chest - down my arms. I want to get it out, release it, let it go. ARRRRGGGGHHHH. But I sit here, silently tapping on my keyboard.

I can't be a little boy anymore. I can't be eight, and live the life I should have had when I was eight. Or ten. Or twelve. Or fifteen. Or even eighteen. I can't go back. I can't relive it. I can't do the things I should have been allowed to then. Wear the clothes. Change my hair. Listen to music. Pull girls. Hang in a crowd. Go for a pint. Go to a nightclub. Have a laugh..

No. No choice. The guilt and pressure from both parents was immense, and it was not possible to run from it. It was like a choking cloud of ash from a volcano which was at the top of the mountain you lived on. You knew if you stepped one inch in the wrong direction you would be consumed by molten lava. I REALLY HAD NO CHOICE. It wasn't that I was weak. It wasn't because there was something wrong with me. It wasn't because I wasn't strong, able to stand up for myself. No. It was because my parents were so dominating in every area of my life that I HAD NO CHOICE.

And now I'm grieving what I could not do. What I did not have. The choices I could not make. Bugger. Bugger. Bugger. Bugger. Bugger the lot of them. Bugger. Bugger. Bugger. Bugger. F Jklf jSF ASJF HJKASF ASF ASF HASDF ASF ASF ASF ASF HHqir 9UT9TUpghhhjjjfSNFIOAwg klasgjgS JOIGKLAS GJKH Awgtr aipwg jasg JWH IWUGIFKG JHASG J.

They smeared their domination with a sugar coating of crap yucky sentimental love plus a triple dose of yucky christianity. Honour your parents. awkfj ;fasdf as jfasf asdgf asd kl;asg kl;asfg kl;g kl;asg jaskg askg jasg jg hhb. It sucked. It sucks. It still sucks. I hate it. I loathe it. I can't stand it. Crap. Fuck off. I don't want anything to do with it. Get off me. GET OFF ME. I don't want anything to do with you. You trampled all over me, then made out it was my fault. I believed you, thinking there was something wrong with me, and that everyone was against me. Turns out that everyone is NOT against me, and that there is nothing wrong with me - other than the wounds inflicted by my own parents. Gee thanks. Brilliant. One job as parents - and that is to parent. Waa-waaa. Nil points.

I need to go and pull a figurative head of a figurative body. Or something..