The Two Men Who Make me Cuss

I am deeply sensitive to tone, energy, and argumentativeness. I am a lover of peace and quiet. I crave it like I crave ice cream, wine, and a good cocktail (in no particular order).

The men in my nuclear family seem to thrive on argument and debate in loud, animated, voices. I feel, with a side order of aggression.

We all like to be right. Only, I can be right in a soft, demure, voice.

I grew up in a mostly quiet house, except for the occasional scream from my mother, or the sound of a 1950’s, heavy, green, hand blown, glass ashtray hitting the wall, after my mother discovered my father was a man who had no idea how to be faithful. She actually discovered it years earlier, but kept hoping he would figure it out. He never did.

Despite my father’s misbehavior, he almost never raised his voice. Instead, he would push my mother’s buttons to get her to raise hers. I don’t remember ever seeing him visibly angry. He was a pretty cool dude. Chill -for the most part.

As I got older, I remember him cussing a lot when he was trying to make a point or add some spice to a story. He was a master embellisher. I was often appalled by his choice of words, some of them quite vulgar —but he never yelled them! Instead, he went for the shock value. He was actually a hilarious character. Although, my mother didn’t think so.

I would speak to my father on the phone at least once a week, once I got married and we moved from Los Angeles, to Texas. I know, right? What was I thinking?

“Dad, why is the music so loud in your apartment? I can hear it all the way in Texas! Are you trying to piss off your neighbors?”

He was living in Long Beach, at the time, a stone’s throw to the Pacific, in a senior apartment building.

“These old mother fu@kas who live here can’t here.”

He never cussed at me in anger. That is, until I was an adult. He was in his 80’s. Even then, it wasn’t a direct cussing me out, it was more like, “You motha fu*%as could be giving your daddy at least a hundred dollars a piece, every month.” I guess we were his retirement plan. Me and my siblings, could never do enough for him as he aged. He had this sense of “the world, and especially his children, owed him something.” Kind of like my son thinks now. Apple…meet, tree. Except it passed by me.

Nevertheless, my dad is gone now, and I remember him fondly. He left behind his penchant for the word motherfu@%as. He gifted it to me —in his will.

I only use it selectively —a lot more inside my head than out of my mouth. I’m not a confrontational person, unless you fu*k with me. Then, what comes out of my mouth ain’t cute.

Growing up, my brother Kevin, who is three and a half years older than me, hardly talked at all, at least to me or my mother. She raised us in a 3-bedroom, section 8 apartment, as a single mother. Kevin was always talking on his private phone line to his girlfriend, when he was at home. When he did talk to me, he teased me relentlessly, but never explosively. Occasionally, he pushed me to the edge. I remember once chasing him with a steak knife. I ended up cutting my hand, and not him.

My mother was a screamer. She was the kind of mother who literally screamed over spilt milk. I tried my best to never to spill milk. I didn’t want to hear her scream. It made me nervous. So, I was a pleaser for the most part, until I became a teenager. Then, all bets were off. I snuck around to do my misbehaving, and I was pretty good at not getting busted.

At the age of 61, post raising challenging boys, two of them with autism and explosive anger. There were often raised voices in this house. Screams. Oh! And plenty of cussing, once they became teenagers and learned all of the words from their friends at school. My husband and I didn’t cuss around them —until they were teenagers. I guess that was my karma.

Anyway, my nervous system is now fried. Picture that egg, in the commercial, “This is your brain on crack.” Does anybody remember that?

I don’t want to, nor do I have the energy to participate in petty arguments. I like to keep my energy clean, peaceful, and positive. But if you push me, I will go there. There are only two people on this earth who can push me to my edge. I married one of them, and gave birth to the other.

When someone upsets me, I overthink it. I analyze it, and try to understand it, much longer and harder than I would like to. I try to identify the root cause of the behavior.

In my autism parent training over the years, I learned that behavior is communication. I’m always trying to figure out why in the hell people behave the way they do?

Earlier this week, my first-born came at me with explosive anger, all the way from California. This was via text. I was working, so I wouldn’t answer my phone. He is 30 years-old, autistic, and can have big reactions, especially with me. I have always been his safe person.

I was angry —hurt, but not devastated. Sadly, I’m used to this response from him. I’ve had 30 years to try to understand his behavior. Sometimes, I think I’ve figured out the motivation —the root cause is behind it. I’ve concluded that a lot of times, it makes no fu*king sense. AND no matter how much I want to figure him out, that may never happen.

So after this ugly text, I gave him the information he needed to help him make a sound decision. Then, I set a boundary. I blocked his number on my phone, so he couldn’t text or call me. Therefore, my nervous system would no longer feel under attack, at least for the rest of the day.

And yet, even though I was angry with him, I still worried about him all day. Not enough to call him, but still…concerned. I hate that about me. I can’t control what my heart does. I can absolutely loathe his behavior. I’m a work in progress, creating and enforcing boundaries, both for myself and my family. Love and loathing can co-exist.

I knew his response was not about me. Still it was unacceptable. I knew his behavior was about him not feeling well. (His eyes were sensitive, red, and burning.) His reaction was more about the anxiety of being at a new job after not working for a long time, and not quite knowing what to do to feel better, without walking out of his job.

(Thank God, he didn’t leave, I found out later, when I had his father call him.)

The irony? I was more angry, hurt and devastated by my husband’s tone of voice two days before. He was being his argumentative self. Getting animated, using dramatic facial expressions and body language, that to me, conveyed disgust, and frustration first thing in the morning. It was much ado about nothing. It started as a benign conversation. I mean, I was still laying in bed. My body and mind was not ready for that. I had to get up and leave the room. Even then, I could feel my heart rate going up.

My body and mind felt a lack of safety. It’s almost like a state of being because it happens so often, and has for years. I was the diffuser in our house. I was the referee. Trying to keep a lid on the emotional reactions from becoming full-on meltdowns. My amygdala stays on alert, leading to chronic stress, among other things. Sometimes, I feel like my fatigue is permanent. My body tells the truth of the story.

I was still processing the anger living inside my body, from my husband’s behavior, when my son disrespected me the following day.

I have felt more anger in the last ten years, than I have in my entire life. I think it’s because I’m fully awake now. When my kids were younger, I was in survival mode —fighting for their survival and mine. You can’t have little explosive black boys running through a white world. I tried to control all of it, which is of course, impossible.

Now, I’m paying attention to what my needs are, what is acceptable, what is not, and where to draw a boundary.