I Know Rage.

I wish I didn’t sometimes, but I know her, creeping up my spine, coiling around my heart until my
breath is shallow and my vision narrows, in the palm of my hand when my nails break flesh, the art
of forming a fist and then letting go without throwing the punch you so desperately wanted to. But
it’s hard sometimes, harder than I’d like to admit. The desire to hit, to break, to destroy is
overwhelming. It’s not that I enjoy violence for violence’s sake—I know the pain it leaves
behind—but there’s something undeniably exhilarating about the thought of release, the split
second where the world shatters with the force of my anger.

Sometimes, there’s too much of it, and I don’t know where to put it. It overpowers everything in its
wake, relationships, friendships, words that once shot I can never recall, erasing everything in its
path like a forest fire. It feels primal -embedded in me, something so beyond all reason and logic.

I’m quick to anger, I think it’s from my father, but somewhere there’s the lash of my mother’s words
too. Stinging, biting, bitter. And yet, always there, always lingering. I’m not a fan of fights, to be very
honest. It leaves me exhausted and vulnerable in ways I hate. Beneath the ‘cool girl’ persona is a
heart so fragile it scares me sometimes, of what I would do if I ever let someone break it. But inside
still, there it lies like the fire warming my blood, and the ice to my burns, she’s unbreakable in her
wrath.

The worst part is, I know this side of me shouldn’t exist so naturally. I shouldn’t be so quick to react,
to lash out. I tell myself it’s not really me that it’s something I’ve learned or picked up along the way,
but I know better. This rage feels like it’s been passed down, stitched into the very fabric of who I
am… Is that why forgiveness comes so hard to me and violence so easily?

Violence shouldn’t come this naturally to me. Not that I ever actually throw hands (lies). I don’t
know what parts of guilt and shame and maybe, just maybe, pride, have encouraged me to pen this
down, but there is something sadistically satisfying in ruining someone to tears when they do you
wrong. I was never a sweet tooth, but revenge is always going to be my favourite dessert.

I’ve always hated the guilt that follows. After the storm has passed, after I’ve said things I can’t take
back or hurt people I care about, the shame sets in. But there’s also a twisted sense of pride, a dark
satisfaction that lingers. Because in the moment, when I’ve let my rage take control, I feel powerful.
Like I’m unstoppable. There’s something almost intoxicating about it, the way I can make someone
crumble just by channelling that fury.

I guess what scares me most isn’t the fact that I feel this way, but that part of me enjoys it. There’s a
comfort in the rage, a sense of control. And maybe that’s what I’ve been looking for all
along—control. In a world where so many things feel uncertain, where people disappoint you and
promises are broken, anger is the one thing I can always count on.

But then, once the anger fades, once the dust settles, what’s left? The rubble of relationships, the
debris of bridges burned. And I’m left standing there, alone, with nothing but the faint echoes of my
own rage. It’s a lonely place, this aftermath, where the fire dies down and I’m forced to confront the
emptiness I’ve created. The silence is deafening.

I’m trying to be better. Trying to find ways to channel the anger into something more productive,
something that doesn’t leave me feeling hollow afterwards. But it’s hard. It’s like fighting a part of
myself, a part I’ve known for so long I don’t know who I’d be without it. Anger has been my
companion, my protector, my weapon. Letting go of it feels like letting go of control, and that
terrifies me more than anything. But when I wield it less like a shield and more like a sword, I turn
into someone I don’t recognise. And that terrifies me the most. So, for better or for worse, I might
just let it go.

• anger
• ASHOKA UNIVERSITY
• feelings
• rage
• thoughts