About a year ago, I sat in a high school auditorium, really early for church. I had mis-remembered the time and showed up at the end of what I thought was the beginning of the first service. After the closing of the first service and people started to leave I realized I had it wrong. I was new and searching for a place to worship. So, because I was there and not about to admit defeat, I stayed and waited. As I sat there for twenty minutes I read the handout. I never read those things because I’m in either too much of a hurry or just don’t want to. Seeing how it had my full attention for twenty minutes before I started scoping out the church hotties not with girlfriends, I read.

On the front cover was a story about this woman and her past. It started out in such a way that grabbed my heart. She was angry, constantly angry. She fought with her husband and her children. Yelling, throwing things and causing huge scenes. It wasn’t until one morning when, during one of her rages at nothing in particular, she saw her past threw her daughter’s eyes. On the floor, cornered away by the fridge was a crumpled piece of her daughter trying to be as far back as she could be. Crying and trying to remain unseen from her mother’s rage, she saw herself as a little girl in the same way. It took her back to her childhood and the pain she had from her father. Her story was much different than mine, but all the same her father played a big part in her break down. In years of counseling, she came to a place with God and herself where she felt safe, safe enough to confront her dad with the pain he had caused her. When she came to him in love, and truth he denied having ever hurt her and that she was making it up. He, after many years, never caved, but she moved on, let go and became less angry.

This story stumped me that I kept it around. I kept pushing it around my dresser, throwing it in the back of my Bible because I knew there was something about it I couldn’t throw away. I felt like I knew her. I knew, even then, that I was destined for this sort of break down/realization of what kept drowning me.

Have you ever watched “James Bond” and saw him go through a metal door? You know the kind, the ones that open in one quick steel-knife motion and close just the same? That’s what I think about when I hit college. Spring of my freshmen year, I walked away from the love of my life, my major and future plans. I don’t remember exactly when, but shortly after all those changes I felt the blade of the steel-knife like door close me from the rest of the world. My happiness, joy and hope walked out and anger, loneliness and broken spirit entered in.

Just ten minutes ago I had that moment. The moment that I saw myself and could have cried.

A little under a month ago I got a second dog (Pippa). She came to me not as I expected her to. She was dirty, sick and smelly. She was scared, very scared and completely un-teachable. I had rescued her from the same people I had gotten my first dog (Molly). Molly was a walk in the park, but Pippa was another story. I was patient with her and quick to start teaching her the rules. She soon got better and learned that inside is not the same as outside. Since I’ve added a second dog, Molly and Pippa have not stopped playing. They love each other and Pippa does what Molly does. I’ve noticed, though, that since the addition of the not so perfect dog I started training wrong. Snaps on the nose replaced time out and loud “no” replaced better correction. I kept thinking my quick to anger was related to everything else and that once I got over the many hills I had been on, I would be better. Well, I also thought that once Pippa learned to go outside we would not be doing accidents inside. I was wrong on both accounts.

Tonight was the pentacle of pottying inside. Twice I found pee spots (one old and one in action of). The second one I found myself very angry. I disciplined her quickly and put her in her crate. I was so angry because I knew she understood outside was good and inside was bad. What made me more mad was that she didn’t even let me know. She has thing to let me know she needs to go and I got nothing. What sparked this similar experience as with the woman I mentioned before was after I had put her in her crate, cleaned up the mess and what not, I went to her crate and just stared her down. My brain couldn’t wrap around anything but anger. I just sat there, said nothing and stared. She knew she was in trouble because she wouldn’t meet my eyes. It hit me when I realized I wanted her to feel bad. Yes, she’s just a dog and ten seconds after she did it, she had no idea why I was staring her down. I get that, but I can’t help but think the behavior I have towards my dogs is the kind I will have towards my children, so this discipline is very important to me.

I sat there and watched her eyes, her throat and her body. She didn’t move. She swallowed slowly and her eyes constantly looked to the left. Once I saw all those things I saw myself.

(That has to be the worst way to describe oneself as when they looked at their dog they saw themselves, but work with me; I’m going some where I promise.)

I saw myself after every fight I had had with father. I saw myself motionless, fighting tears – never looking directly in the eye. I can remember the “I’m sorry” after every hurtful word, after the time he grabbed me and threw me out of a room. I can remember him asking for forgiveness because of what that made him feel like inside, but knowing he would do it again in the future. I remember hurting and never letting it show. I remember thinking “one day…I won’t ever let him do that to me again.”

Today…tonight, in my anger, I became him. I wanted her to feel pain through my eyes. I wanted to deep within my person react in a higher, angry way, but (because I don’t abuse animals) I separated myself from her. I took a step back and realized I couldn’t use “house, family, job, etc.” as excuses to pretend my anger was just misplaced. I have no place for it. I need no place for it. Luckily, she is a dog and won’t remember that in ten minutes, but what if that had been my child? What if I had stared, yelled or displayed over the top anger to my child? I would have been repeating the cycle I never wanted to repeat. Sorry is great, but doesn’t cover the words you said or the hurt that they felt.

I am glad this is something my therapist and I are working through, but I never realized this until just these past couple of months. I never thought of my dad as a bad dad, but rather me as a bad child. I never wanted to see my dad wrong because he was my dad. I will say my dad is human as we all are and I can’t be angry at him forever. There are a lot of great things he did amidst the bad ones. It’s the just bad ones that burned more; caused more tears and the need for better healing techniques.

In terms of Pippa, well, she’ll have accidents (hopefully less than more). She will be out of time out soon and hopefully all the wiser of her potty behavior or cause me to steam clean my carpet, yet again. Ugh…dogs and carpet. The worst pairs in the world!