Professor
Blinded by Anger:
Will
Adolescence in my household was full of the horror "stories" that my parents probably told to their friends just to show how bad they had it with their teenager at home. I say, "stories" because my very conservative parents had a convoluted view on what growing up in a country outside of India was like. The changes that I went through were not drastic in my eyes, but to my homely parents, they were outrageous. In a matter of years I had gone from a child that spent the majority of his time outside of school with his parents, to one that wanted to go right back out again the second he set foot in the house. On more than one occasion I was told that I "treat the house like a motel, coming home only to shower and sleep." This truly was not the case, but to my parents staying out later than eight in the evening two days a week was one day too many.
The conflicting views I had with my parents often frustrated me and I chose to act out, which was a poor choice. As I looked around at my friends and saw the social lives they were having, I often grew furious. My best friends would get together to play video games, but my parents refused to give me permission to do the same. I did not understand why I could not walk three houses down just to spend time with people who I grew up with. Having simple requests denied for so long, eventually led me to rebel. I began to leave without saying a word and stopped caring about the trouble I would get in at home once i got back. This way, I figured, they would yell at me and leave me alone for the rest of the day. When they did try to talk to me, I did what a typical teenager would do when he or she didn't get what they wanted; I would slam my door and stomp around my room, wanting to be left alone. In a rage I'd throw books, blare music, and even punch the walls just to take out the anger. I should have understood the signs when I looked at my wall one day and realized I had punched through it.
Perhaps it was cliché, but the biggest symbol of my rebellion was the motorcycle I purchased my junior year in high school. My parents, if they were not before, were more furious than ever when I came home with it. To them, I had gone over the top. To me however, I had found my independence. It was something that they had no control over because it was mine. It aided me, at least in my mind, in showing my parents that I could take care of myself. The motorcycle was old, a blue 1973 Yamaha TX500 with white accents. It constantly refused to turn over, the electric starter would constantly fail, and the kick-start was not dependable. There were times I wanted to kick it over because it had frustrated me so. The difference though, was with a little bit of work; I was able to fix the problems, something that I had never been able to do with my parents. With time, I began to understand it, work with it, and even began to consider it a reflection of myself.
Things with my parents however, did not get better. Arguments would constantly break out, and I felt more anger than ever. The main reason for this was because I had become defensive about the motorcycle, and it was a daily thing my parents would lecture me about. Towards the middle of junior year I got into a ferocious argument with them and found myself in that same mood as when I saw my fist go through the drywall of my room. I left in the midst of the yelling to the garage, turned the ignition of the motorcycle, and raced out of the neighborhood. Through the rage, I blindly sped through the streets until I reached unfamiliar back roads. I pushed on in an attempt to just take myself further away. Focused by anger, I attempted to increase the space between me and home, so much so that I did not notice the road curving to the right. Even the thought of slowing down failed to cross my mind as I flew forward. The front wheel hit the curb on the opposite side of the street, and the back wheel came up over me. The motorcycle somersaulted, and I rolled along with it into the field. My back hit the ground, which caused me to release the handlebars. I landed flat on my back, with a first row seat of the motorcycle flipping into the air and crashing to the ground. Somehow not hurt I stood up, walked past the scattered wreckage over to what I had focused my life on, realizing what I had done.
The bouts of anger that erupted from me, and even the damage I caused at home, should have been enough for me to realize that I was not in control of myself when I was angry. It took the destruction of something that I cared about for my eyes to open and realize that the actions I had taken were destructive. This wreck caused me to reflect on myself, and even to present day I find myself thinking about the things that crossed my mind as I stood there. I realized that when I let anger take over, I could think nothing else. My senses were gone and my mind would flood with rage. Drawing from this experience, I have learned to deal with my anger. When something frustrates me with my parents, I sit them down and let them know. Doing so has taken a positive turn with my parents because it seems as if they understand my side of the argument now. The realization I had that day has ultimately changed me, and luckily it was just a motorcycle that was wrecked, because I believe if I had followed the destructive path I had been on, so would have been the relationship with my parents.
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