What is rage. ^trigger warning?


Everyone’s felt it. Everyone will probably feel it again. Some might share the same rage experiences, others might differ.

Rage for me, is something I’m used to, no that’s I lie, I’m still not used to it.

It starts in my bones, my hips, specifically, they ache, and in like one ironically graceful movement, my head will turn, like I’m trying to release the tension building in my neck, I’ll often exhale loudly.

It’s like a warning sign, that a beast is building inside my body, and screaming inside my head. I lose all patience, I grind my teeth out of frustration.

I try to suppress it, push it down deeper, so deep inside of me that I’ll have a little control.

It only makes me rage more when I realise that I’m only sitting on my bed, nothing is happening, nothing is triggering me, that confusion fills my head, causing me to lose the fight against myself.

I’m irritated at my own presence. Someone is shouting at me to stop, but I’m all alone. I feel like crying because I can’t control this emotion, building momentum inside of me, clawing it’s way to my skin, tearing holes in my body to escape.

I’ll want to scream as I slap myself in the head, my hair entwining between my figures as I pull on it, fighting to not rip it completely from my scalp.

I try with all I am to just count.
1, 2, 3 I will never make it to 10.

My whole body is aching, screaming, I want to lash out, I want to hurt myself, I want to hurt anyone in my presence.
I want to break anything and everything that my trembling hands can reach.

I try to suppress it, I’ll hit myself, I’ll hurt myself. I fight with all I am to stay away from anyone.

But, I just can’t control it. I just snap. I explode, so quickly from the inside out, my heart starts racing, I feel like I’ve just injected a shot of meth into my arm, like I’m indestructible, my hands no longer shake, my nails dig into my palms as my fists form, as they blindly connect with any object in my path. Everything I destroy is so sickly satisfying, to the point, where I’m sexually craving the same treatment from someone else, I want hands around my throat, the centre of my sexual need, completely abused.

My throat is burning from my screaming and my verbal abuse at inanimate objects.

Then, it’s black. Everything feels black, I fall to my knees as I feel the adrenaline no longer pumping through my veins and I just fall into myself. The pain starts.

My head body, my body aching, the blood, the things I’ve destroyed, tears will stream down my face, my body trembling as guilt and shame begins to cover me, like a blanket. Hiding my body completely, consuming me again, with another emotion, caused by myself. I hate myself more. That voice starts whispering, to just give up, just end it. I feel scared, no, I’m terrified. Just laying there, listening to my heart, my head, plead with me to just end it all.

That’s, that’s what rage feels like to me.

I’m scared to let people stay near me. It happens so quickly. I don’t feel like myself. I’m not even sure who “myself” actually is.



It’s certainly interesting when people find out I’m a drug user, (I don’t have specific drug of choice, it all depends on my mood, ranging from H, to acid)

Some people are surprised, some denial, and others, well I have lost “friends” to say the least.

Regardless of their reaction, and their judgment, they all ask the same question, which is usually blurted out in nothing short of confusion and curiosity, maybe even some care?

Some assume, that I self medicate, or that I want to die, want to hurt myself, that I hope I overdose.

Some assume it’s pure stupidity, not that I disagree with that assumption.

Up until recently, I also found it difficult to explain, especially because I don’t use in a party setting very often, it’s regularly by myself, which also lead to their confusion, and fuelled the assumptions that I was trying to hurt myself, or self medicate.

Unable to give an acceptable answer as to why, I would just always say no. Especially if they asked if I was planning on stopping, which made them assume I was a hardcore addict.

Sometimes I would agree, that I am addicted, not to a specific drug, but for what happens, which makes little to no sense for someone who hasn’t used.

So, I decided to put serious thought into it, not just so I can explain myself, or maybe justify my actions to others, but to understand why I do it.

I’m not trying to hurt myself, even though I fully understand the dangers, the risks, the damage the various drugs I partake in can cause, I don’t want to use drugs to kill myself.

I don’t self medicate with drugs, I’ve been down that road, and from my experience, it made living with Bi-polar extremely worse.

I’m an addict in the sense, that I enjoy it, I don’t need it to survive, to function. So after going over my answers, and questioning myself as I do best, I realised..

I do drugs, because I like to lose my mind. I enjoy feeling out of control, or a different version of myself, not because it provides artificial happiness, because it provides me with a moment where I can see things from a different perspective, I can think, without judging myself, or bullying myself. Different drugs provide me with different emotional thought processes, and euphoria, but they all provide me with a sense of losing my mind.

I can understand that my reasoning may not make sense, I don’t expect people to understand, until you live a life where your own mind is your enemy, it can be releasing to lose it.

Which is peculiar, because while I love the high, I prefer the come down, where the drugs are leaving your system, and the high is passing, my body may ache, but I feel myself coming back into reality, with what I can relate to as, a fresh of breath air. Allowing my mind to get lost, and give me momentary peace and artificial happiness. I find myself more capable to see the “good” around me, I feel I appreciate myself, and things more, even if it only lasts a day, or a week.

I could almost use the analogy, that my brain is a battery that has gone flat, all I need is a jump start, and I am able to perform for a little while longer.

I know, someone out there reading this, is probably not making any sense of my answer, and that’s completely okay.

We all have something that helps us get through the day, but even more so at night.

While I am expressing my personal opinion on my drug use, I do not condone drug use, or am I making an attempt to glorify it.

If you feel like you are dependant on substances, it is okay to seek help. Your life is important, and while I am sharing my thoughts on my personal use, do not think that the same process will happen to you. Drugs are illegal and dangerous. I am aware of the damage I am doing to my body, and if you are not a user, the damages are not worth the risk of hoping to reach a state similar to mine. Drug addictions can ruin your life, and turn a bad situation into a worse one, so whatever you are going through, please know you do not need to rely on substances, there are people who care, and people who will help. Please understand that if you are not a user, it is certainly not worth the risk, and while I enjoy it, and continue I do wish, I never started.


Being me.

Imagine, just for a moment, there was a bee stuck inside your head.

You can hear it.
You don’t know why it’s there.
You can’t get it out.
And it will never stop.
Only you can hear it.

Imagine, how insane you will begin to feel, experiencing this over, and over.

Now, imagine, trying to explain the bee in your head to someone. Imagine how it would feel as you watch their facial expressions change, ranging from humour, to confusion. How frustrating it is, all the while that bee, is just getting louder and louder.

When you reach a state of mania, consider how insulting it can be, to hear the people you have told about your bee, question it more.

but, how can you have that bee, if you’re happy? You can’t just pick and choose when you hear the bee, I’m not sure there is a bee at all.

Sometimes, that bee is my friend. Sometimes, that bee has the ability to make me hyperactive, and full of love, and life. That bee fills me with the desire to buy and do everything, at once! The bee controls my sexual desire, helping me feel sexy and attractive. That bee shows me just how exhilarating things can truly be. I feel like I can do anything and everything!

But most of the time, that bee is determined to kill me make me hate myself, completely.

That bee gets louder, more frequent, and I begin to feel irritated, frustrated and full of rage, that bee shows me how uncontrollable I can be. I want to hurt you, I want to hurt me, I want to hurt the world.

The bee never shuts up. The buzzing pushes me into the darkness of my own mind, where madness carves it’s own reality, either into my skin, or into my mind.

My body, and my state of mind, consists of nothing but blackness, terror and pure undefined hate, all because of that bee.

Imagine sitting next to someone, a perfect stranger, and wishing you could have their mind, and whatever troubles they are going through, just so you could experience a life without the bee buzzing.

That bee causes me to lose my bearings. Have you ever gotten on a train, and completely forgotten where you were going because of how loud that buzzing is?

Nothing at all seems worth it, when you’ve endlessly tried to shut that cunt up.

I cannot trust my reactions, I cannot trust my thoughts, I cannot trust my being, I cannot trust myself.

That bee has caused me to forget who I am.

I hope, you never hear that bee.



dealing with rape.

There is no set guideline of dealing with sexual abuse or being raped.

It often takes years of mistakes, pain and allowing yourself to be in situations that will only further hurt you to realise that you will never get over it.

It’s only when you decide to let it stop controlling you, do you reach a state of where you are most comfortable with yourself again. Maybe then, the dreams will stop, you’ll be able to deal with sexual activity, maybe you’ll even start to understand yourself and love yourself again.

Or maybe you won’t, maybe you’ll just glide through life, rather than comfortable, but comfortably numb.

I’ve found that the only way I achieved comfortably numb was when I accepted it. When I was okay enough to say that I, was raped

you have to be strong

Bullshit, you do not have to be strong, be weak if you want, cry if you need. Hate the world, hate yourself. It’s how you heal. It’s how you learn to cope, to deal, to overcome being raped.

I stopped believing it was something I could get over and started realising it was a part of my life, there’s nothing I could do to change that, no matter how many bottles I drank, how many pills I took, how many scars I left, nothing makes it go away, but you.

You lost control, you need to take it back. Stop fighting it, stop fighting yourself.

Out of everything in my useless, pathetic life, my rape, is the only thing, that doesn’t hurt me; anymore.


Alice in wonderland.

“who are YOU?” Said the caterpillar. Alice replied rather shyly “I-I hardly know, sir, just at the present, at least, I know who I WAS when I woke up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times several times since then”

“What do you mean by that?” Said the caterpillar sternly “explain yourself!”

“I cant explain MYSELF” Alice said, “because I’m not myself, you see”

“I don’t see” said the caterpillar

I never thought, for even a moment that a quote of a child’s book, would be the literal meaning to my actual life.

Sometimes in a sad way, sometimes in a way that brings my own comfort.

I’m yet to fully understand why.

Maybe it’s because, I haven’t completely understood myself yet? or maybe it’s because I have difficulty explaining myself?

Or maybe, it’s because I think that my explanations aren’t making sense to the person asking me?

Do we ever truly know who we are?


A dress, fit for a wedding…?

I still remember when boyfriend stuttered out those words, every girl dreams of hearing, “will you marry me?” As his hands shook, opening that tiny ring box, exposing a ring that I could see that he worked hard for, stumbling his knees, I felt nothing back that cliche, magical moment without hesitation, I squeaked “yes” and for a brief moment, I thought I was happy.

Happy someone finally accepted me, that’s what you do when you want to marry someone, right? Accept them?

It was only until I had the realisation that I had to wear a dress, in front of not just my soon to be husband, but his entire family. Was I ready to let everyone see my scars? Would I get to live the dream of feeling like a princess, looking to my king as he takes my hand and makes me his wife? Or would I have to sit there, and look at my wedding pictures, knowing that I asked the photographer to photoshop what the make up isn’t covering, and feel like I’m hiding myself again, and let it eat my insides because I ruined my body?

So it left me with the same bullshit thoughts and the feelings associated with the constant battles about my self harm, and suicide attempts. Do I hide myself, like always or do I expose myself, and let the world see me? Am I actually strong enough to do either or those options?

I’m not sure, with having thought about this, if he was to ask my hand again, if I would say yes or no. He is such a beautiful man, loving, caring, gives me support like I’ve never known.

Why am I not thankful?! All my life I’ve begged and pleaded to be loved, and to be loved by someone who will never hurt me, and now I finally have it, I’m constantly questioning if I’m making the right choices
Making him, happy. A beautiful soul deserves nothing less than everything

He has talked about the infamous white dress, with nothing but passion and excitement squeezing into the pitch of his voice, giving me detailed thoughts about the moment he sees me, wearing a stunning couture gown, strapless, perfectly fitting my body.


Exposing my scars, making that beautiful dress, and that wonderful moment, tainted by my hate.

I want to be proud, stride down that isle, a woman becoming a wife, maybe I should expose myself, let his family see, let them talk, let them as questions BUT how will those questions be answered to his younger family members?

she’s sick, she has bi-polar, she can’t help it

I’m so uncomfortable with letting people see, let alone children, who’s innocence is beautiful.

Maybe I should cover up? Maybe lace sleeves wouldn’t be all so bad, I would be the same person I am right now, hidden, covered up from the world. I’m yet to find the reason why both those ideas seem so uncomfortable and depressing.

Maybe because, I feel being married is an opportunity to become a newer version of myself? Maybe it’s the day where my life actually begins.

And maybe that’s also the terrifying part? Because I will be changing? Maybe I’m terrified that I won’t change, maybe the fear is coming from the thought that it I don’t deserve it. I think, maybe, I just don’t deserve him.

Opportunities happen constantly, some rewarding, some punishing.

What helps us to decide when to take that leap of faith?