My father was perpetually angry. After long hours at work or engaging in various activities, he returned home drained yet furious. His temper could ignite from the smallest things: unwashed dishes, shoes on the floor, or even a cluttered table. He detested chaos, but I struggled with ADHD. For instance, I might be asked to let the dogs in, but in my distracted state, I’d forget to wipe their muddy paws. I’d panic as those footprints discolored the kitchen floor, knowing full well what would follow. Despite my frantic cleaning efforts, I could never do it well enough. His anger, already simmering, would shift toward me in an instant.
I’ve cut ties with my father for various reasons—his toxicity and unreliability mean we don’t involve him in our children’s lives. Yet, his anger still lingers, haunting me and impacting my marriage profoundly.
There’s a transformation that occurs in someone’s face when they’re angry. It twists their features; the eyes widen or narrow, and the brows furrow. When my father would demand, “Look at me when I talk to you, damn it!” I learned to blink less, staring until his face blurred into an indistinguishable shape. Crying was not an option; doing so would only provoke him further, leading to threats of giving me something to truly cry about. This approach fails to stop a child’s tears. Instead, I became terrified. His rising anger created a vicious cycle from which I felt trapped. As a child, I had no control over his rage.
Even today, his anger terrifies me, affecting my personal life. I can still hear him bellowing my full name, “SARAH JANE, GET DOWN HERE!” I never knew what had triggered him, but I always knew I was about to face the consequences. To this day, I loathe my full name because of this. I learned to hide from him, observing subtle signs of his frustration, knowing that sooner or later, his anger would be directed at me, regardless of how well I behaved.
In my adult life, my husband occasionally experiences anger. He is typically calm and kind, but like anyone, he has his limits. After a taxing day teaching and coping with chronic pain, he sometimes loses his temper, often triggered by the house’s mess. Having cleaned just the day before, he finds himself overwhelmed when the kids scatter their toys everywhere or refuse to stop whining.
When my husband snaps, it’s not what you’d call yelling. His voice remains steady, but the tone shifts, becoming sharper and more impatient. He doesn’t hurl insults like my father did. In fact, I am rarely the target of his frustration. Yet, to me, anger feels like shrapnel. When a man expresses anger, I instinctively brace for it to be directed at me. No matter how innocuous the situation, I believe I’ll eventually bear the blame.
So, when my husband shows frustration, I freeze. My voice shifts higher, and I shrink away, often finding refuge in my phone, trying to become invisible. I dread the prospect of his anger turning toward me. Inevitably, I break down in tears, pleading for him to stop raising his voice. I’ll do anything to make the yelling cease.
Sometimes, however, I respond with defiance. He is my partner, not my father. I muster the courage to yell back, demanding he stop raising his voice when he’s merely made a request or altered his tone. “I didn’t yell at you!” he insists. “You did!” I retort, bewildered. “I only changed my tone.”
But my understanding of yelling is deeply rooted. I carry the weight of my childhood experiences with me every day, where every elevated voice echoes as a threat. When my kids argue, I cover my ears and shout for silence. During real fights with my husband, when his voice genuinely rises, I ultimately dissolve into tears, willing to agree to anything to halt the perceived yelling.
This reaction has led to countless conflicts with my husband over the years. He feels stifled, unable to express his anger or frustration without fearing my response. “Why is it that only you can have feelings in this house?” he snaps. “I can’t even get mad at the dogs without you cowering. How does that feel for me?”
Pretty awful, I admit. Yet, I struggle to change my response. The sound of an angry male voice sends me back to that frightened child within, rendering me small and terrified.
I have forgiven my father for many things, but the impact of his anger on my psyche, particularly my instinctual reaction to male anger? That remains unforgiven.
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Summary:
This article explores the long-lasting effects of a father’s anger on adult relationships, particularly in the context of marriage. The author reflects on childhood experiences of fear and tension stemming from an angry father, revealing how those early experiences have led to anxiety and conflict in her adult life. Despite having distanced herself from her father, the emotional scars remain, influencing her reactions to anger in her husband and others.