Even at a young age I felt the force of my anger and how it set me apart from others. I observed other sons interact with their fathers and I saw they were loved and supported. As a result, they held a calm, patient completeness I marveled at. My father seemed to relish my mistakes as an opportunity to belittle me and aggrandize himself.

I suffered the consequences even when young. I lost my temper during a friendly sand lot baseball game at another kid’s birthday party when my team started to lose. I stomped about then let loose a torrent of “fucks.” The following year, my brother was invited to the party and I was not. I made myself conspicuous when the birthday boy’s father picked up my brother hoping against hope that I’d be included. I watched the car full of happy kids drive off without me and felt defective and less than, moping around the house by myself. It was the first time, but certainly not the last that my rage left me marginalized on misfit island. Trust me, it’s a lonely place to be.

It wasn’t hard to see where my anger originated if you were looking. Was anybody looking? My father bedeviled by demons I’ve only learned a few sketchy details about was almost always sodden by copious amounts of alcohol and barbiturates, and launched a constant barrage of verbal abuse my way. “Nice job Freddy Fuck-up! “Goddamn your eyes!” “Get your fat, fucking head out of the way,” and on and on and on, my self-esteem steadily whittled to a threadbare wisp.

His rage often turned violent. A stiff backhand slap to my cheek. Sometimes punches. I willed myself to be invisible to him, but often failed. Waiting for it in a trembling heap felt worse than the actual thing. He had a penchant for chasing me with swift, ass-numbing kicks. If I made it to the downstairs door, he didn’t deem it worth his while to chase me beyond there and I could go to my room and try to put myself back together again.

Inanimate objects were often the focus of his dys-regulation. When I was ten, he hurled our small Sony TV through the window and down the back door stairs. His rage casting an anxious pall over the house, all of us waiting for the next explosion and whatever damage it would bring. I found myself, ducking, cringing and constantly on edge for what was coming for me directly or due to the unfortunate consequence of being in his blast radius.

One day when I was fifteen, he launched into a sustained rage that lasted hours after my mother finally left him. He tore up everything in the house. Paintings and pictures, shattered glass, torn photographs, everything ripped off the walls, the entire stereo system heaped into the burning fireplace. Me and my friend arrived at the tail end and found him sitting in the middle of the living room on the floor, with cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, and a tower of his wedding dishes between his legs as he flung them one by one like frisbees against the wall. From the perimeter, I started to walk in and my friend put a gentle but firm hand on my shoulder saying, “you can’t go in there, you’re coming to my house.” I stayed there for a month, in a safe, blissful peace. I’ll never forget this kindness.

At the same time as he was destroying our family, himself and my self-esteem, he worked the outside community like a seasoned politician. Young people thought he was cool, irreverent and anti-authoritarian. He’d buy your drink, lend you some dough or even put you up if you needed. He was anti-war, pro-American Indian and didn’t shy away from the use of most any substance, all of which endeared him to 1960’s-1970’s Cape Cod.

Though he’s been dead for forty-six years people still come up to me to sing his praises. “You’re Dad was so cool! What great guy!” They’re gob-smacked when my face naturally falls into a “how can you believe that grimace.” The aphorism “street angel, house devil” aptly fit the old man.

Where did all this leave me? As a kid the only strokes I got from him were for my athletics. So, I became uber-competitive, unable to tone it down because if I didn’t win, then I really was Freddy Fuck up and had nothing to offer him. I was also the sorest of losers because if I lost, I didn’t just lose, I was a loser.

In school I hated rules, the crowds of kids and the authority of teachers spiked my anxiety. If I didn’t understand something immediately, I flooded with anxiety and anger, my lack of understanding and patience became stolid opposition. My teachers, having no idea of what was going on at home found me oppositional, disruptive or just plain incapable. I didn’t just get F’s, I was an F.

My temper felt uncontrollable. It overwhelmed me and when I expressed it by yelling, fighting or smashing things, people withdrew, fearing my response and not understanding the depth of it or why I was so troubled. Once I calmed down, I felt a looming, onerous sense of guilt and shame. I was behaving exactly like the old man. There wasn’t anything worse than that.

Predictably I started to self-medicate all my “negative affect states.” Anger yes, but also a torrent of shame, self-loathing, depression and anxiety. For a while, alcohol provided sweet release and calmness as well as an increased ability to connect with others socially, but ultimately, as I saw with the old man, when you go to that well too often, the consequences start to pile up and become dire. As my alcoholism progressed, it laid bare the deleterious aspects of my personality and my insecure woundedness.

At twenty-eight, my life broken by alcohol and drugs I reached the conclusion that I needed help. I decided I didn’t want to self-destruct like the old man did. I wanted to put down the booze and drugs for good. When I did, I had to face myself and learn to deal with my feelings. How could I stay sober and deal with my anger, anxiety, depression and shame? In part two I’ll share how I’ve learned to better cope with my anger and how you can too!

PS/ I’ve spent more than four decades in recovery and over thirty years as a therapist. Through all those years, one lesson has come up over and over again: Mindset matters greatly!

I recently released a new mini-ebook—Developing a Mindset for Recovery—that puts that idea front and center.

It’s written for anyone considering recovery, anyone early in the process, and clinicians who want something simple and clear to use with clients.

You can get it for FREE when you subscribe to From Wreckage to Recovery (or for $3 on Gumroad).

I hope it’s helpful. And I’m grateful to everyone who has supported this work.

—Tim