NYC-Feature Story

Walking Away From the Fight
Therapy is teaching me a new way to handle my dad's anger

By Anonymous

One day about a year ago, my dad and I were driving through an unfamiliar neighborhood somewhere in suburban New Jersey. I'd told my dad where to turn, but he'd ignored me, and now he refused to admit that was why we were lost. As usual, our disagreement escalated into a huge fight.

"You have such serious problems!" he yelled. "You have so many issues I don't even know what to do with you."

"Just leave me alone!" I shouted. I hated that arguments with my dad could never be about just one thing. He seemed to see each fight as an opportunity to remind me of everything I'd ever done that he didn't like. He talked in absolutes-I always did this wrong, I never did that right. It felt like our relationship was just one big fight we kept coming back to over and over again.

All My Fault?

"You need to be in therapy!" he yelled. "You're disturbed, and you need to get some therapy and work on your issues!" He violently jerked the car into reverse, attempting to execute a three-point turn at the bottom of the dead-end street where we'd somehow ended up.

I started sobbing. I wanted to jump out of the car and run away. My dad's words made me feel like all the problems in our relationship were my fault, that there was something wrong with me that had to be fixed before I could be the daughter he wanted.

He made it sound like a therapist was an auto mechanic who'd pop open the hood and tweak something in my brain so that I would run smoothly. Then my dad would drive off into the sunset, and we'd live happily ever after.

My mom tells me my dad wasn't always like this. He used to be artistic, spontaneous, patient and even fun, she says. I can hardly believe that the avid photographer who traveled across Europe by bicycle was my dad. The dad I know is gruff, short-tempered and constantly fretting over money and his job.

His Illness Changed Him

He's been that way since I was 2, when he developed a rare disease called transverse myelitis (TM). TM damages the myelin sheath, the protective coating around the spinal cord. It can be fatal, and survivors are left with nerve damage that can cause paralysis, fatigue and chronic pain.

My dad survived, but one of his hands was left stiff and useless, and he was often in pain. He managed these problems with physical therapy and daily medication, and eventually no noticeable physical signs of his illness remained. But those who are close to him know it changed him.

He became completely engrossed in his work and spent most of his time at his office in the city. When he came home to Westchester in the evening, I barely saw him. I'd hear his car pull up in the driveway and wonder if I had enough time to run to my room.

Same Fight, Every Night

The front door would open, and Dad would call, "I'm home!" If we didn't respond quickly enough, he'd start yelling that no one in this family cared about him enough to greet him after a long, hard day at work.

Even if we called out "Hello!" as soon as he opened the door, he'd still find something to be angry about. "Why is the mail never on the front hall table?" he'd bluster. "Why is the kitchen always such a mess?"

My mom would say his name in a tired voice, but he'd cut her off with more complaints. Then he'd stomp upstairs to lie down.

I hated having to play out this same scene, night after night. On the one hand, I knew why he was yelling. Traveling on a crowded, stuffy train for nearly an hour made him feel ill and achy. I knew I should forgive him because I didn't really know how he felt, and if I were in his place, I might be angry too. But I still felt like shouting, "It's not fair! I didn't do anything to you!"

My mom must have felt the same way, because she'd often snap back in response to each of his criticisms. Then the kitchen door would slam shut, signaling that their "discussion" was about to explode into a full-out fight.

Refusing to Prove Him Right

My parents finally separated when I was almost 16, and I felt such relief. I thought that reduced tension between my parents would help my own relationship with my dad. But instead of making things easier, the divorce made things harder.

I was used to rarely spending time with my dad, but now my sister and I had to go to his house every week. Before, when my dad and I fought, my mom would step in and attempt to diffuse the situation. Now I had to face him alone.

A few weeks after the fight in the car, my mom tentatively suggested it might help me to "talk to someone." I told her I wanted no part of it. After all, according to my dad, therapy was only for the "disturbed." If I went to therapy, it would prove him right. Besides, any problems I did have were nobody's business. I didn't need anyone's help.

But part of me almost wished my mom would force me into therapy. I wanted to get help without having to ask for it. I was overwhelmed by anger, sadness and self-doubt.

Sometimes, without warning, I'd feel like I couldn't breathe and that I didn't exist, or the world didn't exist. It was like I'd suddenly been dropped into a bad dream. I'd want to run around and shout to make myself wake up and come back to the world, but I'd feel frozen in place. These occurrences made me feel isolated and scared.

Filled With Contempt

Other times I was filled with contempt for myself. I was just another melodramatic suburban teenager who hated school and whose parents were getting divorced. My problems seemed trivial. A therapist probably wouldn't want to waste her time on me.

Then, about a week after my mom's suggestion, I started talking to a close friend about how I was feeling. She told me that she used to suffer from severe social anxiety. When she was 13, it got so bad that she couldn't go to school, and she barely left her house for a year. I was surprised to hear this. My friend sometimes seemed shy compared to loud, outgoing me, but I never would've guessed that she once couldn't even go out to see a movie.

She told me that she could identify with how I was feeling and that it sounded like I might be having panic attacks. I hesitantly told her I was thinking of seeing a therapist, unsure of how she'd react.

"I can give you the name of mine if you want," she said. "He's really good."

I thanked her and said I'd think about it.

Allowed to Tell the Truth

After that, my mind was made up. I told my mom that I wanted to talk to someone after all. She made an appointment for me with Jim (not his real name), a psychotherapist who was doing my parents' divorce mediation.

I came to the first meeting not knowing what to expect. I couldn't quite believe that I was supposed to tell some guy I'd never met before all sorts of personal information about my life.

I was scared that after I'd told him all about the stuff between my dad and me, he would tell me that my dad was right, that I was the problem and everything was my fault. Nervously, I sat down on the scratchy couch in Jim's office, my eyes on the floor.

"How are you?" he asked me.

"Fine, thanks," I told him, without thinking.

"Are you really?" he asked. "Is everything really fine?"

I was surprised. This was the first time that I felt like someone who'd asked me how I was actually wanted to know the truth. Not everything was fine, and I was allowed to say so.

Controlling My Reactions

I've been seeing Jim once a week for almost a year now. Each week, I've become more comfortable opening up to Jim and telling him what I'm going through. He's a good listener, and he gives me advice on how to deal with my dad. One of the most important things I've learned is that I can't always control the situation I'm in, but I can control how I respond to it.

The easy reaction in any conflict is to let my emotions take over, leaving me angry and hurt. The difficult reaction is to stop and think about why the other person is acting the way they are, and then choose not to get upset. It takes work, but I do my best to use this technique when I find myself in a conflict with my dad. Although it's not a perfect system, it has helped me a lot.

On a recent Tuesday night, my mom dropped my younger sister and me off at my dad's house for dinner. Dad wasn't home yet, and neither of us had thought to bring our keys, so we sat down on the step to wait for him. After 20 minutes, his car rolled into the driveway. He got out, slamming the door behind him, and strode over to us.

"What are you doing out here?" he asked gruffly. He dug around in his coat pocket, pulled out his key and jammed it in the lock.

"Well, you were late, and we didn't have a key-" I began.

"Oh, so it's my fault is it? Everything's always Dad's fault around here, right? Well maybe if you'd been responsible enough to have your key with you, this wouldn't have happened."

I looked down at my sister, but, as usual, she kept her mouth shut and looked away. "I'm sorry Dad," I tried to explain. "It's just that it's in my other bag, and I didn't think I'd need it since you're usually home when we get here. I mean, I'm assuming you ended up taking a later train…"

My dad jiggled the key back and forth impatiently, trying not to drop his briefcase and overcoat. "What train I take is not the issue here! You need to start taking a little responsibility for once in your life instead of always making me the bad guy." The door opened with a click, and we all stumbled into the house.

Not About Me

I was starting to get really mad now. I wanted to shout, "I need to take responsibility? Look who's talking! You're the one who always blames things on other people!" Then I stopped and took a breath. "This is not about me," I said to myself. "This is about Daddy being tired and the train being too hot. This is about him being stressed and having a headache. This is not about me."

"I'm sorry for anything I've done to make you feel that way," I said carefully. "I'm also sorry if you're not feeling well tonight. I'm going to go work on some homework now, but let me know if you need any help with dinner."

As I walked down the hallway and shut my door behind me, I could hear Dad yelling about who did I think I was to walk away from him in the middle of a discussion like that and how I was shutting him out of my life by refusing to communicate with him.

Although I wanted to run out of my room and tell him he had it all wrong, I took a book out of my backpack instead. I decided not to let him draw me into an argument that would accomplish nothing more than both of us yelling at each other for a while.

Therapy Isn't Magic

That night, at the dinner table, my dad suddenly turned to me. "I'm sorry I got mad at you earlier, but I wasn't feeling well," he said quickly.

I groaned inwardly. My dad is a notorious "sorry but-er." To me, "sorry buts" are less apologies than excuses. But I could see that it was difficult for my dad to say even this much, so I said, "OK," and we all went back to quietly eating our spaghetti.

My dad and I may always have a difficult relationship. Therapy isn't magic. It doesn't necessarily make things better for you; it gives you the tools to make things better for yourself. Some days I wish I would never see my dad again, and other days I wish we were closer.

One More Difference

My dad and I are different in many ways. Our opinions clash on everything from national politics to my frequently unmade bed, and many of our fights stem from these differences. But I think our fights escalate because of our similarities. We both like to feel in control, and we can be very stubborn. If we both act the way we're naturally inclined then we become stuck in an ongoing cycle of conflict. These standoffs can only end when one of us changes the way we respond to the other.

I hope that someday my dad will stop seeing therapy as a negative thing because I think it might help him to learn about the choices he can make in his own life.

But I realize that I can't change him. Instead, with work and help, I'm changing myself by learning a different way to respond to conflict than the one he taught me. I'm creating one more difference between my dad and me, but this one might actually end fights instead of start them.