The Guilt That Follows an Episode of 'Borderline Rage'


It happened again. A couple of days ago. I succumbed to my rage. What’s the reason you may ask? It was because of a small joke made by my mom that my mind somehow found offensive at that time. It sure is frivolous, but ended up drawing rage from the darkest corners of my mind.

I couldn’t think. I couldn’t breathe. Oh wait, maybe the rational part of my mind did, but it was overpowered by my emotions like a clean sweep. And the result? Yelling. Wailing. Complaining. Hurting myself. It took me hours to finally calm myself down to sleep. And of course, there was help. My parents understood. I was grateful.

This post is not about what happened to me after. It is about the things that were running through my mind during the rage.

I was a monster who lost everything good about her during those few hours. I could see my folks feel pain, disgust, anger or helplessness, but could do nothing about it. All I kept thinking of were ways to end the pain, or where I’d stand from now on in the minds of these people who saw the unfortunate, destructive part of me! It was unbearable.

The next day, I woke up with an empty feeling in my chest. I couldn’t talk to my parents the way I did previously. I felt ashamed. I knew they were the only ones who would stand by my side. Maybe it’s their unconditional love, or maybe it’s an obligation because I am their child. Reasons didn’t matter, but I was scared that our bond has broken a little. But they’re family and they’ll stick around.

This brought me to the next level of introspection. My interpersonal relationships.

I come across as a really chirpy girl who can socialize with utmost ease. I can be the girl you’ve known for so long in just a little time. But can I be your friend for long? The answer to that is, “I don’t know.”

Over the years, I’ve experienced fear of abandonment, and that made me possessive, jealous, dramatic, etc. I used to push the buttons of the people who wanted to stay until they reached the breaking point. It wasn’t deliberate, though. I just wanted to make sure they’d stay at my worst.

But with time, I have grown out of it. But it was replaced by my newfound trust issues and now, I don’t let people in at all. A lot of people have told me I shouldn’t let my past hold me back, or that I should be more open.

But let me tell you why I fear doing so. Because I know many people cannot deal with the faces of my borderline personality disorder (BPD). Because many people cannot deal with the pain and trauma the third degree burns to my emotions caused me. Because my worst self makes me a monster who knows nothing but rage. It makes me someone who throws poisoned darts at others. It makes me someone who drains others of their emotions, and sometimes even physical energy.

Yes, at my worst, I get manipulative, attention-seeking, dramatic, demanding, bitchy and desperate. But I want to tell you it’s not the real me. And I don’t mean any of it. When you think I am twisting your words or turning the tables, I am scared of trusting you. When I am narcissistic, that’s because I want to uphold my self-respect in case anyone is trying to plunge my guard down. All in all, it’s a defense mechanism.

I confess I am scared deep inside — of ruining all my relationships, of never having friends for life and end up being alone — because I fail to make people understand that I don’t mean things I say during my breakdowns, or because I am unable to control my emotions as much as I’d like to. I get envious when people hang out with their friends for life, because I’ve never had one, and I’ve never known what it’s like to be in one friendship for a long time. But more than anything, I am petrified of having to be a person responsible for driving people away from her own life, without any conscious fault of hers.

So, at the end, I only have one question to ask. Will I be accepted with this dark side of mine? Are you patient enough to experience the rainbows with me, or just leave during the storm? What’s your answer?

Unsplash photo via Usama


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