An Angry Child: Part 1

It’s a fact. As a child, I was incredibly angry. I don’t remember why I was so angry. I mean, I understand why I had reasons to be angry, but I don’t remember how or when it all started. Either way, I was angry.

I didn’t like anyone to help me. I didn’t mesh all that well with kids my own age so I hung out with older children mostly. I was conflicted, confused, and overly aware of sex and it was making a messed up child.

I remember literally yelling at adults who honestly wanted to help me in elementary school. I rejected both aid and advice. God knows I needed it. Sports was where I accepted coaching.

With the exception of my stint into 4-H, sports were where I found structure and discipline. It was everything I needed in a time when I really needed a lot.

Elementary school was rough. Between the bullying, not feeling like I belonged, the awkward and unfortunate sexual awareness and confusion, the intense family drama happening… I was so angry. I was so desperate for something. Anything. I wanted to be seen. I wanted for someone to ask me what was wrong because there was so much that just wasn’t right.

I made a lot of mistakes as a child. I often look back with guilt and embarrassment. With the exception of sixth grade, sports always were my outlet. Basketball was my favorite. Unfortunately, in sixth grade basketball my anger issues really reached a point of new drama.

The coach didn’t do anything wrong. When I say he grabbed and touched too much, it wasn’t in an inappropriate way. He would physically move people by grabbing their jerseys and I hated it. So, I quit the team. Rather than tell the coach what was bothering me, which I know he would’ve listened to, I left my team high and dry with barely enough players to even function.

I regret that. I understand I was twelve and I was keeping so much bottled up I didn’t know how to articulate what I was feeling. Even still, I hate that I did that. It wasn’t fair to him, it wasn’t fair to my team, and it wasn’t fair to my own mental health.

I felt so guilty that I almost didn’t tryout the next year. Thankfully I did because I really found peace playing basketball in middle school. At the time, I was just so angry at the world and I didn’t want to be touched. I felt violently serious about that at the time.

I spent the next five years letting guys touch me in completely inappropriate ways. It’s ironic that I quit a team over platonic touch and compensated by doing a complete 180.

I wasn’t a total slut. It isn’t like I slept with or even kissed these people. But there was a slew of guys I just let touch me in ways that made my hands tremble from anxiety and my heart race in fear. I’m not blaming these guys. I didn’t really say anything. I know that it wasn’t cool that they just assumed because I didn’t say no that meant yes, but I digress.

I wasn’t happy. I hated being touched, I hated who I was, and I was still. So. Angry. I felt desperate to fit in somewhere, or maybe I was just desperate for someone to hear me. At the same time I knew something was wrong with me. I could feel it every time I tripped with the basketball or got dizzy during a sprint in track. But doctors were saying I was just a girl and a hypochondriac, my family was broken, I was so confused about everything, and despite it being a lot better I was still being bullied.

High school was challenging. I didn’t understand what was happening with my body because according to numerous doctors and specialists, I was just a girl and nothing was wrong with me. So I decided to take a year off sports for my body to heal.

With no sports, I didn’t really feel like I belonged anywhere. And I floated. I floated through groups I had no business in with people I didn’t belong with. And before I knew it, more not less people were touching me. Moving was getting harder. To be honest, I felt myself fracturing. I was terrified all the time and I never really felt safe.

In eighth grade I started seeing a psychologist, and though I didn’t really say any of this, it helped. Still, through the years I had vivid daydreams of a teacher asking me why I missed so much school, or why I argued so much with them, or any of the other number of why’s I’m sure I gave them. Because for every single why I wanted them to ask me, I had a why for every time they didn’t.

Why weren’t my cries loud enough? Why didn’t anyone ask me why I was so absent all the time? Sure, I was genuinely sick a lot, but I went to school all the time not feeling well. I could’ve made it work.

I know that despite feeling disappointed that no one ever asked me why, I didn’t begrudge my teachers for it. They had a heap of other students and responsibilities, I felt selfish for wanting their attention too. I knew I needed help, but I didn’t know how to ask for it. I didn’t then and still don’t really understand how to help myself. I don’t understand fully what I even need help for.

I knew I was struggling on my own and I didn’t want to be. Sometime in the middle of sophomore year I realized I didn’t hate the world, I hated who I was. And the anger I felt was mostly directed towards myself. It was time to make changes. I genuinely felt weighted down, like I was suffocating. I was so unhappy that some days I didn’t want to be alive anymore and I knew that that feeling wasn’t right. I felt out of control…

~JessaSage~