Sometimes I wonder how I have survived this long. I suffered from depression as a teenager and have struggled with anger and rage for much of my life. Rage is not uncommon in my family tree: from murders to domestic violence, it is an all too familiar occurrence. And yet somehow I managed to not let it destroy me as it did with so many others.
I realized early on that I never wanted to become my father, so I avoided alcohol and outward violence the best I could. Real violence that is—my brothers and I did plenty of sparring to release pent up energy when we were younger. Such is the job of a big sister: you entertain the younger ones and, as a bonus, get to remain a kid for longer, even though it comes with additional responsibilities. At around thirteen I started to become violent with my mother and was sent to live with my dad. Looking back, I think it was that experience that really helped to mold me, including helping me better control my anger. I could finally see my abusive father become a dad, which helped to heal our relationship and let me see that there was a man behind the rage; a man that I always loved, but rarely saw.
Shortly after my dad started dating an old girlfriend, she moved in and began the process of pushing me out of my dad’s life. I eventually moved back in with my mom, my teenage violence replaced with depression and suicidal thoughts. I was bullied at school, on the bus, and at the bus stop, and even occasionally outside of my home. The constant insults and attacks created both anger and fear within me, making me feel that I was not safe from my bullies anywhere and driving me further into depression. I was mostly picked on because of my curly hair—they knew I wouldn’t fight back, not wanting to get in trouble for violence from a school that clearly favored anyone over my own family.
We lived in a townhome complex that was overpriced for the shoddy upkeep, with my mom working two jobs to pay the bills and feed our family of four. It was never my home; that would always remain the house in Pleasureville where I spent most of my childhood. Even today that place feels like home, though my dad sold it years ago. It was the only place where I ever felt happy. It was an older home with outdated electric right next to a members-only bar and restaurant, but the house had character and a huge yard. In fact, my parents bought it for the yard before I turned a year old, completely unimpressed with the house itself.
I still struggled with anger into my twenties, often seeming grumpy and just overall miserable—because that’s what I was: miserable. I could never place why, just that I hated everything. My little brother was learning about Buddhism and I started looking into the religion. The various religions of the world have always fascinated me, but it was heavily frowned upon by my mother’s Mennonite family. Buddhism made sense to me, specifically the idea of reincarnation until reaching enlightenment. The world started to make more sense once I accepted that I did not believe in Christianity and that my personal beliefs were more aligned with Buddhism. I felt less rage, though my anger and grumpiness remained, I just had them better under control.
A few years later I discovered a show on National Geographic called “The Dog Whisperer,” starring Cesar Milan. I was fascinated by this man’s natural talent with dogs, but more so his grasp of nature. I bought his book and read it, expanding my comprehension of the world and confirming what I had already known about the animal kingdom. From the idea of being confident and assertive to redirected aggression, both in humans and dogs, it was as if my brain unlocked knowledge that already existed within. His techniques were not about dog training, instead focusing on the behavior of the humans. I didn’t have a dog at the time—I desperately wanted one and wasn’t allowed by the rental complex rules—but Cesar’s teachings clicked in my brain. I started to refocus my aggression into assertiveness, eventually becoming the confident leader so many have known me to be.
In 2009, my mom and I moved into a tiny apartment after she lost her job. It was then that I realized how much of an impact my environment has on my mental state, specifically, nature and trees. I was always an outdoor kid, but that ended when my parents divorced and I lost my yard. I still went outside, just not as much as when I lived in Pleasureville. I became a teenager focused on grunge music and everything U2 rather than going outside into nature. Still, we had lots of greenery and trees in the townhouse complex, but that ended when mom and I were forced to move to what became known as my “concrete hell.”
My mom had lost her job after the company decided to move production to Haiti. My job did not pay enough to support the household, which was just my mom and me at the time, so we moved into a small apartment owned by someone my mom knew. The apartment was the first floor of a semi-detached house—four rooms plus a small bathroom. My bedroom was a pass-through room, giving me no privacy as both the kitchen and bathroom were connected to my room on one side and our small living/dining combo room and my mom’s bedroom on the other. That was it: two bedrooms with exterior doors, a small room between the two bedrooms that served as a living and dining room, a compact kitchen with one section of countertop space, and a little bathroom. There was a small fenced yard, but you had to walk between the two houses to get there—a claustrophobic space that was nothing but brick and concrete. The yard was not ours, so we could not plant trees or a garden, and I still was not allowed a dog, so I spent very little time out there. We planted some flowers and it was then that I realized I needed nature to survive. I felt much better when we moved to Lebanon: we were surrounded by trees and nature, I got a puppy, and eventually I started an ornamental garden, beginning with my first Nikko Blue hydrangea.
After over a year of job hunting, I decided to continue my education and attended Harrisburg Area Community College, eventually taking a philosophy class called “Comparative Religion.” It was there that I learned about Taoism and Confucianism, two religions that made sense to me. While Confucianism is mostly a philosophical way of life focusing on humanity, I interpreted Taoism as a respect for nature. Taoism’s main premise is to live in harmony with the Tao, or “The Way.” To me, this meant nature: nature is everything and one cannot go against it. It made complete sense to me, and once I accepted that everything was nature, including my own struggles with rage and anger, I became mentally stronger. I no longer felt grumpy all the time, going with things as they happened and trying to accept that everyone had flaws, not just me.
My anger still remained, and remains to this day, but it is more controlled. Menopause shortened my temper again, pushing me back to the lack of patience I had in my twenties, but without violent outbursts. Fortunately, aside from when I was thirteen, my violence has always been targeted at inanimate objects, such as punching pillows, breaking sticks, or the one time I stuck a screwdriver in the wall. I have learned to walk away from others when I reach that level of anger, secluding myself until it subsides. This was a lesson my husband still doesn’t quite understand—when I reach that level of anger, it’s best to not agitate the tiger. I shut down completely from interacting with others until I can calm down, usually by taking naps that then throw off my sleeping habits. Sometimes it only lasts a few hours and sometimes it can be days of avoiding human interaction, or at least interaction other than the forced fake customer service most retail workers have learned to present on days when they just aren’t in the mood for people.
I have suspected for years that there is a genetic defect in my family that affects how the amygdala works—the part of the brain that triggers the fight or flight reaction. It seemed that for most of my life I was stuck on “fight” mode, ready to lash out for such small and petty incidents, but recently that has switched to “flight.” I still struggle with anger, it’s just that my anxiety has surpassed it farther than I ever thought possible. I suspect I might be suffering from a chemical imbalance due to early menopause, such as low testosterone, and when I am able to afford healthcare again, that is one of the first things I plan to discuss with a doctor.
However, I still maintain some level of inner balance, though no where near what I once had achieved. My mental balance is much more delicate now than it ever was, with the slightest trigger sending me into a rage or, more likely, a spiral of anxiety and depression. Someday I hope to achieve that level of balance again, but it cannot happen as long as people are trying to kill my plants and we financially struggle so much. It’s like one hit after another without time to breathe in between.
Even in my darkest days, I still try to remember that lesson I learned from Taoism: nature is everything. I’ve had people tell me I need to find Jesus to help with my anger. I usually laugh—I grew up in a Christian family with Jesus and the Christian God, and yet it wasn’t until I found Buddhism that I started to lose that anger. It wasn’t until I connected with nature through Cesar Milan’s understanding of dog psychology that I learned to be more assertive and confident—a Mexican man with no formal training or higher education. And it wasn’t until I discovered Taoism that I was able to become balanced with nature and the universe, allowing me to let go of a lot of darkness and eventually find love. It was these that made me the assertive leader so many appreciated—the occasional hero who could fix anything. I didn’t need Christianity or Jesus. I needed to find my own path and connect with nature, my source of sanity.
This is the Way.