The Rage I Learned and How I Unlearned It
An angry mother, an absent father, and the cone of silence
At 16, I volunteered with the Special Olympics, and I came home from a bowling event to find the house dark. No lights. I was confused. My parents’ vehicles were in the garage, but there were no lights on. When I entered the den from the garage, my mother was on the loveseat crying. I rarely saw my mother cry, and seeing her in a dark and chilly room was bothersome. I was 16, so I wasn’t sure what to say or do, but I asked her if she was okay.
“Fine,” she replied in a crisp tone. I stood there, looking at her, unsure of what to do, when she said, “Leave me alone” in that same brusque tone. I knew then that I walked into the cone of silence that descended on our house periodically.
I walked upstairs to my room, turned on my light, and closed my door. The door to my parents’ room was closed, and I could see a light underneath. I knew better than to disturb my father when a door was closed. His tongue, inherited from his mother, was scalpel-sharp, and I didn’t need any cuts that night.
I went to my room and closed my door quietly.
My parents never fought out loud. The only screaming in the house came from me yelling at my younger brother whenever he did something to annoy me, which usually meant listening in on my phone calls, bursting in my room to take a picture of me, and talking to me.
However, my parents used the silent treatment when they were upset with each other. I believe my mother, whose mother fought with words and fists and whose father would walk out, felt silence was the better way to show her displeasure in something my father did. She used the silent treatment on me periodically, and it felt like a knife cleaving me from her presence.
That night, I pushed my luck, going downstairs to ask my mom what was for dinner. “I’m not cooking,” she replied coldly. “Get your own dinner.” For many years, until I moved out, we had many nights where she’d decide she wasn’t cooking but wouldn’t tell us until someone asked or the hour grew late enough for me to realize there would be no dinner. I tried cooking for all of us, but then she’d refuse to eat, coming down later to make herself something to eat.
I believe my mother was depressed and experiencing perimenopause. Her retreats into herself were cloaked in sadness, and I don’t believe she understood what was wrong with her. This is conjecture as she passed away 13 years ago. But reflecting on my own struggles with depression, I see similarities. I suspect my mother was unhappy in her marriage, in her living situation, and in herself. She always seemed so strong to me, but in hindsight, there was more happening inside her. She never wanted to admit to depression, but she would diagnose the rest of us with it. Mental illness, she often implied, was a weakness, and with statements like this, made it difficult for me to admit to my own struggles with depression.
Growing up in a silent household is painful. My father turtled into himself and was unapproachable until my mother stopped being mad at him. He would either bark answers to our questions or ignore us. While they were in one of their silent fights on the weekends, my father would leave early in the morning, not saying a word to any of us, and he would return in the evening, again, not saying a word. He’d make himself a sandwich, watch some TV, go to bed, and wake up on Sunday to do the same thing. Although he existed, he didn’t.
His absences frightened me at first. In the age before cell phones, we had no way to get in touch with him or know if he was okay. I felt like I held my breath throughout the day when he was gone, and I could finally breathe when he came home. I was also scared that my parents would divorce, but as time passed and these silences seemed to grow frequent, I began hoping they would divorce just to end the stress on us.
Witnessing their silences, some of which would go for several weeks, took a toll on my own mental health. Each time I walked into their house, I was on tenterhooks, unsure of what to say or do. My stomach would ache, and my eczema would flair. I’d scratch my arms, neck, hands until they bled. Those tension-filled silences were painful, and I was anxious and depressed. I was anxious about going home and listening to my mother criticize my father’s shortcomings while my father wouldn’t speak to me. Those periods made me feel insignificant. My inner voice grew in power during this era, reminding me I was worthless and useless. I was fat and ugly. No one loved me. I hadn’t reached the stage where I believed the world would be better off without me, but it wasn’t too long until I had those thoughts. I felt guilty, like I was somehow responsible for the “cone of silence times,” but I was never certain why I felt guilty. I didn’t know who to speak to, and I felt I had to choose sides. I believed my mother wanted me to choose sides. I didn’t want to get in the middle of their silent time, and I used avoidance to keep myself sane.
I could feel my mother’s anger; it was icy and its tentacles reached us all. She spat ice and disdain at my father, and at anyone who dared intervene. Her anger was often aimed at me too: if I slept in too late on the weekends, if I didn’t pick up my shoes, if I left a mess in my room. I never completely understood where I went wrong, but I knew her anger. It seethed yet bathed the atmosphere in ice.
I couldn’t move out; I was going to college and working a part-time job, not making enough money to live on my own. When they were in the throes of the silent treatment, I struggled with anger, lashing out at my friends and coworkers. My anger knew no bounds. I’d use obscenity toward those I loved, or I’d slam the phone down if a conversation wasn’t going my way. Coworkers would criticize me for my negative attitude, which would further upset me. While driving, I was quick to “fly the bird” at anyone who offended me, and when I drove, I drove with ferocity, recklessly, not caring about others.
The atmosphere in the house was icy, icicles hung from the ceilings. My only safe space was my room with the door closed, and often, my closed door would incense my mother further. She threw anything she could find of mine at it. Many nights I was startled by shoes or books hitting my door. If I didn’t wake up at her preferred hour, she would get out the vacuum and use it outside my door, slamming it into my door. Once or twice, she allowed our dog to jump on my bed; the dog wasn’t allowed upstairs, so bringing her to my room was vindictiveness. The sound of her voice shouting my name in a frustrated tone was enough to make me run downstairs to find out what crime I’d committed and to hurry to fix it.
I struggled to focus on my school work, preferring instead to go driving aimlessly for hours. I would head for the mountains with no specific place in mind, just the desire to put as much distance between my mother and me. Or I’d go to a library and spend all day reading or doing school work. With my father gone, and with me gone, my mother’s rage grew, encasing all corners in the house with her iciness. As soon as we’d return, she’d stomp upstairs and slam shut a bedroom door, and we wouldn’t see her the rest of the evening.
Emotionally, I struggled to form friendships because I knew there was something wrong with me. Plus, as I’d learned at home, I was always doing something wrong that upset people. I decided I was better off alone, and I found my own shell to turtle into. Silence. My own brooding silence. Others have seen me as “confident” in my quiet, but they never knew I was quiet because I was afraid of doing something wrong, not confident.
My brother was smart; he moved out at age 20 and never again returned home to live. I wasn’t that smart. It took me another two years before I could finally move out and away. I went to Texas; it was as far away as I could get from home but still be able to drive back if necessary.
My move didn’t help my depression and my silence grew too much to bear; within a year of my move, I stood on my apartment balcony, thinking about jumping over it, doing something to end the pain I felt. I ran the scenario several times in my head, thinking about how to land in a way so as not to survive. I wanted to be finished with misery, with silence, with feeling like I wasn’t enough.
That night, I made a conscious choice not to jump over the balcony, and in the subsequent years, I faced a number of significant challenges, professional and personal, that plunged me deeper into depression. There were bright spots too: marriage, a baby, a house. But my inner voice managed to override my bright spots, reminding me constantly of my worthlessness. I kept this silent, but my sense of worthlessness leaked out in other ways: defensiveness, throwing things, silent treatment.
By the time I was 35 and driving on a highway to work, I seriously began to consider nudging my car into the concrete median that divided the highway. It was about 3 feet tall and solid concrete. My inner voice encouraged me to try it, to see what would happen. Each day I made it to work safely, my inner voice told me I was a coward, a loser, and reminded me that I was unlovable, everyone would be better off without me. At work, I wore my depression like a mantle, freezing out anyone who attempted to get close to me. I preferred self-isolation in my classroom, including eating lunch alone. I didn’t socialize with other teachers, preferring instead to come to work, do my job, and go home.
I had a wonderful husband and a beautiful toddler, and I wanted to leave this earth. To end the anguish I suffered. To end my low self-esteem. To end my critic’s voice.
My baby and my husband motivated me to see my doctor and ask for medication, which helped me feel what I believed normal felt like. Even keel. Happy. Sad sometimes, but my happy days began to outnumber my sad ones.
My parents’ times of silence motivated me to embrace conflict in a way that sought solutions and resolutions. I learned to listen to other people’s feelings and criticisms, and I worked to improve myself. When I feel furious with my husband, I tell him I need time to think, and I leave for a while. I’m never gone all day, but when I return, we resolve our problems. Our child never experienced screaming matches or cones of silence; instead, he saw us communicate.
I struggled with self-worth as teens do, but my parents’ silences affected me, and my brother, deeply. I am proud that I advocated for myself when I was thinking about suicide, tamed my inner critic, and learned a better way to cope with conflict.
