pt 3 // anger

Anger.

Anger is an emotion characterized by antagonism toward someone or something you feel has deliberately done you wrong. Anger can be a good thing. It can give you a way to express negative feelings or motivate you to find solutions to problems. — American Psychological Association

At the root of many angry feelings is a sense of powerlessness. When we are unable to correct or improve a situation—traffic, being fired, a breakup, a chronic illness—our frustration, sadness, letdown, and other negative emotions often converge into anger. — Harvard Health

If rock bottom was a destination, I could give you the directions. Just take a left at childhood sexual abuse/childhood trauma motorway, follow that to abandonment as a child street, continue through forgotten teenager crescent, stay on that to fight-or-flight highway, take the carrying-the-load wife lane, and you should come to I’m-Fully-Fucked-Up Road.

Angry. Powerless. Hands tied and heartbroken. (And like really, really tired.)

I love the saying, “Valleys taught me things no mountaintops ever did.” Because, I tell you what, I learned more about myself in that location than anywhere else in my life. For me, the saying is true. When the going gets tough...

I can’t remember the first thing I did after I finished crying. I just know that I refused to let myself stay there any longer. I was not going to allow my grief to take any more from my boys. They had lost enough by this stage. I was not going to let my house turn to shit or shut down my business. Reality had hit, but I wasn’t going to settle into “this is my life now.” I had enough grit, determination, and probably spite to make it. You know when someone pisses you off, and you go into hyper-independence mode? “I’ll do it myself” mode?

I lived there.

Finally, grief had left the building, and Anger had taken her place.

I remember sending my very straightforward, no-bullshit cousin a photo of my full trolley. It was a win. Like, I had the ability now to do my groceries—LOL. I used to speak on stages at conferences, educating people on how to influence others authentically, close deals, and grow their teams. Now I was celebrating the fact that I could spend enough time in public filling a trolley and afford to pay for it. Pretty sad, really, for someone who had worked nonstop her whole life. A slap in the face. Which angered me more. Which motivated me more.

Years later, I’m still sitting in anger. I get a headache, and my first thoughts are: “I fucking hate him” and “I hate my parents.” If I wasn’t carrying childhood trauma and the full-time load and responsibility of the kids, maybe I’d get sleep. Maybe I’d have the brain capacity to remember to drink water or eat properly. Maybe I wouldn’t be so stressed all the time. The constant weight of carrying it all really hurts your shoulders and neck. I don’t care what anyone says—being a solo mother is the hardest position to hold in the world, and you cannot possibly understand it unless you’ve been through it. And I will die on this hill preaching that. Actually, the only thing harder is having someone watch you do it and do nothing.

You’d think that my mum, having been a solo parent of four with no support as a young mum herself, would be some kind of solace and support. Instead, as I get older, I just hate her more than I did as a teen. As you age and reflect, you start to really see things differently. As a mother, I started to see how monumentally I was failed as a child by the very people who were supposed to care for me. Cue more anger.

That time my soul was sold to the devil.

I spent my teenage years being passed around to family friends and even neighbors because my stepdad and I could not see eye to eye. (It’s really hard to reason with a functioning alcoholic and a mother who’s checked out.) But it all came to a head one night when my mother was working, and I was at the local bistro. I had gotten the job right in front of my parents while they were there having dinner—I simply asked if they had any waitressing positions. I worked after school until closing at 9 p.m. a few nights a week and then walked the 2 km home. I would get there around 10:30 p.m. My parents knew this. They definitely knew because my first pay-check of $100—they took $70 for rent. And did so every week.

I was 13.

Things at home were always on eggshells. My siblings and I all knew it. One night, I came home from work. My mum's car wasn’t there, the house was locked, but I could see my stepdad in the front room. I knocked. No answer. Knocked again, louder. Still nothing. But I saw movement—he knew I was there.

It was freezing as it hit midnight. My neighbours across the road, who had always been good to me, called me over. They offered me a ladder to climb in through the window. I lifted the latch, and there he was—sitting on the bed, watching me. I said, “Why can’t you open the door?” He slurred something, reached for the latch—and then pushed the ladder away.

I fell. I fucking fell hard onto my face. My head smashed into the concrete edging boulders. Either I’m concussed or there is now 4 street lights where there was 1.

Head first right into the rose bushes and bricks. My lip busted, my arms and legs covered in thorns. My neighbours were in disbelief. They picked me up, walked me to their house, iced my head and my lip, and just shook their heads.

That night, I saw clearly—everyone else could see it but my own mother.

You may as well have called me the Big Bad Wolf because I just about huffed and puffed that fucking door down after that. He must have been a good builder because the door didn’t budge—not even with the full-size wine barrel I tried to push into it. By this time, it was 2 a.m., and my mother pulled up from work, having just finished looking after two disabled girls (go figure). I blurted out, in a rage and near tears, what had just unfolded, and she didn’t seem the slightest bit fazed.

I’m thinking, WAKE THE FUCK UP, WOMAN. I AM YOUR DAUGHTER!

She has since apologized for not choosing us kids when we needed her—but only after her divorce, when she needed us.

Not even 48 hours later, I was on a plane to my biological father’s place in an Aboriginal community in South Australia. A father I hadn’t seen or heard from in years. A father who had never had me in his care. A father who moved around constantly from state to state. A father who was a known alcoholic with bouts of hitting women. A father who once broke my mother’s wrist. A father who, from memory, did time in jail? I don’t know for sure, but I just remember being told he was “on holiday.”

My “parents” booked and paid for this ticket without even checking with him. All I had was an old envelope with a return address. I kid you not.

The only good thing about this move was that I would be in a different state from my abuser—or so I thought.

So, I get on this plane. I had $30 to my name because, you bet, they took my last week of rent money. I think it was a three-hour plane ride, a 2 hour coach, and then an hour-long bus ride. I arrived at the bus terminal, and talk about culture shock. We had all our bags checked because it was a “dry town.” No alcohol allowed. Sniffer dogs, too. It was red dirt for miles and a huge shipping dock. Everyone was either Asian workers off the ship or Aboriginal. I was about the whitest sister you ever did see.

All I had was this envelope address and now $18 because I’d bought some food on the trip. I found the nearest taxi stand and asked the driver if I had enough to get to this address—and, if it was the wrong house, if he could bring me back to the bus depot. He agreed.

My heart had never pounded so fast in my life. I was thinking of all the different scenarios, making sure I remembered all the good sleeping spots I’d spotted on the way here in case this wasn’t where he now lived.

Knock, knock.

A woman answered. Fuck. My heart sank. Fuck. I honestly thought I was sleeping in a bus depot that night. I asked the lady if she knew a Robbie Charles. She looked at me funny, like, who the fuck is this white girl, and what is she doing at my door?

Low and behold, she called out, “Robbie!”

OH MY GOD.

My father came to the door and said, “simone*, is that you?” (my older sister -name changed). I replied, “No, Dad, it’s Jas,” and I watched all the blood drain from his face. He couldn’t talk for the next three hours—hell, for days, really. He kept looking at me as if I wasn’t real. He said to me, out of all his kids, he was expecting Chad* (my eldest brother) to be the one at his door.

Well, surprise, motherfucker, it’s me. And I’m here to stay.

I spent the next week cleaning his house, ruffling his girlfriend’s feathers, making him give me money for food, and making actual meals. I enrolled myself in school and took over the spare bedroom. I remember the school office being like huh? Where’s your paper work, where’s your parents? Where did you come from!? They contacted my old school and they were dumbfounded. They didn’t even know I had left and shocked I was in another state. I was SRC captain for my year, was in the league team, drama club and had 3 awards to collect at the next assembly. My drama teacher called the school, She had only a week before asked me to teach her church youth group girls a dance for the upcoming presentation. But aparently I was like a really bad kid, enough to be sent to this place.

The first week, I shared a bed with my dad, whom I hadn’t seen in years, and it wasn’t the slightest bit weird. The ladies at the op-shop were so kind and gave me all the bedding and furniture I needed. Within a month, I had made a home, a bedroom, started school, and gotten a job. I was moved from Year 8 to Year 10 because the work was so easy for me. I was really popular at school with both students and teachers, and we had a ball on the weekends at the local swimming hole.

My dad started to sober up and walk me to and from school every day. He started cleaning, caring, and making me seafood for dinner every night. I had never felt this type of care before. My dad cared about me.But only because it was convenient. And in the back of my mind, I knew that. He didn’t care when I was a state away or an hour away. He cared because, right now, I was in front of him. And I made him.

It wasn’t all smooth sailing, though. His girlfriend hated me because I took away her drinking money, so they fought a lot. The police visited a lot. They had domestics down the main street.

One time, he stole a bike from the bike shop after an argument in town and rode it home. Next minute, our house was surrounded by police, and I was mortified because I had a friend over. I remember thinking, wow, they know him well. They knew him on a first-name basis. He yelled out to them that he’d only come out if they didn’t cuff him. Omg, my dad is literally negotiating with the rural police. They said, “Okay, Robbie, we won’t. Out ya come.”He looked at me with a smirk, brushed his dark, thick, long hair, and said, “Watch this, baby girl. I’ll be back in an hour.”

And back in an hour he was—with a court date.

That about sums him up, really. Smooth criminal. Literally.

Things in town were getting bad. I can’t remember what caused it all, but something big was happening. We had people sleeping in our driveway, asking for food and alcohol. Kids were there too. I would go out and share food, but my dad told me not to anymore. Houses were getting broken into, main streets smashed up.

During this time, my mum had been calling every night, crying—drunk—telling me how much she needed me back because I was the only one who looked after her. I could tell things weren’t good there. Things weren’t good here either.

I was at the shops one time, which was rare as they were out of town and we didn’t have a car. There was a mini stand from Colgate giving out toothbrushes and mini toothpastes. I asked if I could have a few for the kids at school. He said no, one per person. I tried to explain it was for the black fella kids sleeping in my driveway, but he wasn’t budging. So I wrote a letter to the address on the back of the little bag it came with and asked Colgate if they could send some more to me for the kids in my driveway.

A week later, thousands of these little teeth packs got delivered to me. My dad just laughed. I had to ask my neighbor with the car to help me take them to school. My principal was flabbergasted, and I got a community award.

I’ll never forget that little black girl in my driveway. Us 2 kids sharing a bowl of fruit loops. Both homeless in some way and here I am getting an award for wanting to give her a toothbrush. Just didn’t seem right.

...

Next stop, Barossa Valley.

I don’t know the details as to why I was sent to my half-sisters mum's house a few hours away. My timelines are blurry and I have blocked out a lot. I believe it was because My dad knew he couldn’t take care of me anymore. I really don’t know. I don’t know how long I spent here. Maybe a month or 2 could have been 3 months. I didn’t feel at home here. I felt like a burden. I felt bad and knew I didn’t belong. I costed them money. I had really bad anxiety not that I knew that’s what it was then. I made a silly game in my head that if I felt yucky in my tummy I would brush my teeth. Probably also to use up all the mini toothpastes in my bag too. I brushed them so much my gums bled every day.

I don’t know how it all unfolded but I knew my sisters mum was on the phone to my abuser, so I started listening at the door. She was asking who was paying her to care for me and I wanted to die right there in that moment. My memory is sketchy but I believe he offered to pay for my flights back. Then he asked to speak to me. I hated this but in that moment I also wanted to high tail it out of a place I was no longer wanted, so I felt. I knew there was a catch to this. This has taken me years to process. Just going to write this my blood pressure is both skyrocketing and dropping.

I’m sickened, embarrassed and have replayed this so many times in my head. I was praying that my sisters mum listened to my phone call like I did hers. He asked me if anyone else was listening. I said no. Triple praying to god that she was. He said to me that he would give her the money for my flights and that because he did that he was going to anally rape me.

This shit changes your DNA.

I spewed in the shuttle van on the way to the airport. Freaking out that my sisters mum would get a cleaning bill for that, I near passed out on the plane. I was shaking through the Airport. I didn’t want to leave the airport knowing he was going to pick me up. I rang My god almighty saviour uncle Rosco to pick me up from Sydney airport. He was there in 25 minutes and I didn’t leave his side for about a month.

…

I had a doctor’s appointment booked for sudden weight loss, fatigue, blurry vision, and hives. Over two weeks, the rash spread—starting on my neck and taking over my body. My cousin told me I should see someone, but by day seven, I was struggling to breathe. My joints swelled, my throat started closing. Cue ambulance.

I had to leave my little boys with my 12-year-old because their dad said I was faking it and refused to take them. Turns out, I was basically having an anaphylactic reaction to stress. My body is allergic to the high levels of cortisol—and I was producing it in mountains.

So, what’s happening? There’s a direct link between stress, mental health, and physical reactions. Studies show a bidirectional relationship between atopic disorders (allergies) and mental health issues. Inflammatory cytokines and neuropeptides mess with:

• The Hypothalamic-Pituitary-Adrenal (HPA) Axis – The system controlling stress response, mood, and body regulation.

• The Peripheral Nervous System (PNS) – The connection between the brain, spinal cord, and body.

A survey of adults with stress-induced anaphylaxis found 12% met the criteria for PTSD

(it's me, Hi, I'm the problem it's me) Higher rates of psychiatric conditions were also reported.

So, Jasmin, you’re having an anaphylactic reaction, Probably a nervous breakdown and I’m re-Diagnosing you with Complex PTSD and you’ll be staying in tonight.

Fuck. The boys.

…

This was a catalyst for change.

I had to be ok for my boys because there was no one else who would.

So that’s where I started my rebuild.

Anger. I’m still angry. I still have physical reactions to my past. I have tics when I drive alone. I scream in my sleep. At times I dissociate. I have triggers like McDonald's napkins. I hate seeing signs that say “Windsor” and I will never let my boys have sleepovers.

Writing this and the research I’ve done on anger, I’ve really just learned that angers real name is grief. If you sit with her long enough she’ll tell you that she’s hard to face but no so heavy to carry.

I’ve come to terms that my grief will now just be apart of me. I will continue to have the burden of secondary losses of a lost childhood. But the more I face anger, she’s not the red firing volcano that I thought she was, she’s just like Te ka, the lava monster from moana. And all that she was missing was her heart. A forgiving heart.

I wonder if I’ll ever find mine.

I’m out of words. For now anyway.

jx