The last time I saw my friend Rick, our evening descended into a yell fest.
He and I were playing Scrabble when a disagreement erupted about word lists.
This brought us to a stalemate. We needed resolution before the game could continue. Yet we were both fixed in our positions.
And so began the descent loop.
I’d present. He’d dig his heels. I’d circle back with ridicule and mockery.
He’d return with derisive antagonism.
And with each exchange we got louder and bolder.
As I participated I realized there’s no one else I communicate with in this way.
Anger plays no part in my other relations. Peaceful resolutions is my usual route when differences come up.
But Rick and I go to the mat.
We’ve come to this before. It’s the way he and I end up tackling disagreement and conflict.
Our voices rise and peak as we desperately try to get across. But the other isn’t listening.
Eventually, we scale it back and resolution finds us.
That’s how it went that night.
We agreed not to play word games anymore. We played cards instead.
We left on good terms, having shared a great meal, good laughs and a verbal slugfest.
I wondered later about how I was able to participate as I had. To join wholeheartedly in the vitriolic mayhem and then glide smoothly back to home plate.
Truth is, it felt normal.
I grew up in a home of quick tempers and ready anger — anger in word, tone and voice.
Consequently, I’m able to defend and communicate in this way.
But for days after, I felt depleted. Exhausted. As though I’d been physically beaten.
Growing up with verbal violence is having grown up with abuse.
I‘m a victim of domestic verbal violence. So is Rick.
Those of us who grew up with violence know a different language.
We access indignation easily and can act on it. We can duke it out instead of listen.
And we fight blithely until we’re hauled by our better senses to middle ground.
Middle ground is always there. There’s always a place we can meet.
I usually prefer to get there with respect and reason.
But when I succumb to violence, no matter how familiar it feels, it usually hurts the next day.