Today as I was preparing my breakfast not thinking about much but for the mundane of getting ready for the day ahead, like a shot, it dawned on me that I am terrified of people getting mad at me, and that I do a tremendous amount of to avoid that at all costs.
Presently, it's with my husband and before him, boyfriends, but ultimately it was to avoid my Dad's arbitrary rage that might be unleashed at the drop of a hat.
Sure as adults we know that someone being angry shouldn't be that troubling, but with the echo of experiences from childhood that are the root of the fear, there is no logic that eclipses that gut feeling.
I know that Jacob articulated that this week when he called me at work and told me that the toilet had overflowed; he didn't have his glasses on, he was late for work, and he had to enlist his father who set loose a screaming frenzy of blame, accusations and incriminations to his child who just had to pee. Albeit, we have intricately demonstrated the process of stopping that overflow, but in the case of the unawares, there is no cause to make it seem a malfeasance. But, we do, yes us. Me the person who also has managed to yet again repeat the most hated of hated.