Some readers may suspect that I went to confront him about what he’d
done, to ask for an apology, or to work out some kind of
accommodation—some arrangement whereby I could leave the room the next
time he went into angry-dad mode, lest I be triggered once again. But
that’s not what happened.
My professor’s anger was hardly unjustified. This was a class full of
adults. No one past potty-training deserves so many warnings for the
same offence. Even in that state of high dudgeon, he was never a threat
to me or anyone else. And it would have been selfish for me to ask that
he modify his behaviour to placate me. People lose their temper. They
get angry. Sometimes they yell. It’s my job to learn to cope with this
reality of the world—just as it is everyone’s job to prevent angry words
from spilling over into actual physical violence.
I take responsibility for my own fragility despite the fact that none
of my childhood abuse was my fault. I was born into the wrong house and
lost the parent lottery. This gives me some specific problems I must
overcome in order to lead a good life.
Take It from Someone Who Has Suffered Real Physical Abuse: Words Aren’t Violence – Quillette