The Chaos Within

There’s a storm inside me that I can’t always control. It’s unpredictable, violent, and exhausting. It doesn’t just affect me—it seeps into my relationships, tearing through the people I care about the most. I can see the wreckage it leaves behind, but in the moment, I feel powerless to stop it.

When I’m triggered, it’s like something inside me snaps. It could be envy, a feeling of inadequacy, or the frustration of not getting what I want—whether it’s space, attention, or reassurance. Whatever it is, it sets off a cascade of emotions so intense that I lose sight of everything else. Rage bubbles up, uncontrollable and disproportionate, and in those moments, I become someone I barely recognize.

Sometimes, it’s a quiet rage—passive-aggressive, cold, and punishing. I block my boyfriend, leave the house without a word, or retreat into silence, making my absence a weapon. Other times, it’s explosive. The anger takes over, and I lash out in ways that frighten even me.

The worst moments are when the rage morphs into something darker—paranoia, despair, and a sense of complete emotional disintegration. In the middle of an argument, I’ve spiraled into what feels like a transient psychosis. I lose touch with reality, becoming aggressive, yelling, crying uncontrollably. It’s as if the world narrows down to my pain, and there’s no room for reason or perspective.

When the storm finally passes, shame and guilt rush in to take its place. I replay the things I’ve said and done, the destruction I’ve caused, and I feel sick with regret. My mind goes to dark places—I tell myself I’m a danger, not just to myself but to others. The thought terrifies me.

My sister says I don’t take people’s feelings into consideration, and she’s right. In the heat of the moment, all I can feel is my own pain. It’s not that I don’t care—I do, deeply. But when I’m triggered, that care is buried beneath layers of anger, resentment, and the overwhelming need to protect myself from feelings I don’t know how to handle.

The shame is the hardest part. After an episode, I look at the person I’ve become, and I hate myself for it. I hate the way I’ve hurt the people I love, the way I’ve let my impulses control me, the way I’ve made a mess of things that could have been good. I feel guilty, terrified that I’m pushing people away, that one day they’ll have had enough and leave for good.

And yet, the next day, it’s as if a switch flips. I wake up feeling normal, like the chaos of the night before was just a bad dream. I can laugh, smile, even feel good about my relationships again, as if nothing happened. But the people around me don’t forget so easily, and the weight of their hurt lingers, even when I’ve moved on.

I know this isn’t sustainable. I know I need help. My medications probably need to change, and I need to face the fact that I’ve been abusive and manipulative in ways I never wanted to be. I’m afraid of what I’m capable of, afraid of hurting the people I love, afraid of losing them. But more than anything, I’m afraid of myself—of the storm I carry, of the darkness that creeps in when I’m not strong enough to keep it at bay.

I want to be better, not just for the people I care about but for myself. I want to understand why I feel this way, why I act this way, and how to stop. Because deep down, I know there’s more to me than the chaos, more to me than the person I become in my worst moments. And that’s the part of me I want to find again.