Sadness with a Switchblade

My rage wore war paint. But it was never the real enemy.

I didn’t cry — I snapped.

I yelled.
I threw shit.
I slammed doors.
I rolled my eyes so hard they almost flew out of my goddamn head.

Not because I was just angry.
But because sadness felt too risky.
Too quiet.
Too naked.

So I sharpened my sadness into a weapon.
I tucked it inside a blade and called it “fuck off.”
I hid it behind sarcasm.
Behind busy.
Behind “I’m fine, just tired.”

But really?
I wasn’t tired. I was fucking devastated.

✦ The Mask That Fit Too Well

Rage was the only emotion anyone ever respected in me.
Not grief. Not fear. Not softness.

People listened when I was angry.
They backed off.
They shut up.
They stopped asking for more.

So I learned: if I want space, I bark.
If I want to be heard, I explode.
If I want control, I burn bridges just to light my own damn path.

And deep down I knew —
I wasn’t mad at them.

I was mad that I’d been pretending for so long.

✦ Crying Felt Like a Fucking Trap

Have you ever sat down to cry…
but instead punched a wall with your mouth shut?

That’s what it’s like when sadness isn’t safe.

When you’ve been taught that tears get ignored — or worse, used against you —
you learn to cry in defense.

Not with tears. But with fire.

And that fire feels holy.
Like, “I might be breaking down, but at least I get to choose how I shatter.”

✦ Anger Made Me Feel Less Alone

Here’s the cruel joke: rage feels like power… until it doesn’t.

Until you’re alone in your room replaying the fight.
Until your voice is hoarse from screaming and you’re still misunderstood.
Until the person you love most starts flinching when you enter the room.

I didn’t want to be scary.
I didn’t want to lose people.
I just didn’t know how to not go nuclear.

Because I never learned how to just say,
“I’m sad. I feel abandoned. I feel broken.”

That felt like asking for more pain.

So I armored up instead.
I chose the switchblade over the sob.

✦ How Rage Leaks Out (Even When You Swear You’re Fine)

Let’s be real — rage doesn’t always look like screaming in someone’s face.
Sometimes it’s quieter. Sneakier. Dressed up as “just having a bad day.”

But that’s the thing about unprocessed sadness —
it doesn’t just sit politely in your chest. It spills.

Snapping at your partner over dishes that aren’t even yours
Posting passive-aggressive shit online that you swear isn’t about anyone
Going zero to 100 when your kid asks one too many questions
Flipping out in traffic because someone didn’t use their blinker
Rolling your eyes at someone who’s just trying to help
Being rude to the barista who spelled your name wrong — again
Ghosting people so you don’t have to explain why you’re not okay
Slamming doors just to feel like you still have impact
Sarcasm as a default language, especially when you’re hurting
Secretly wishing someone would just fucking ask what’s wrong
Not knowing what’s wrong — just knowing you’re ready to fight something

That’s not just anger.
That’s grief looking for a way out — and finding a knife instead of a hand to hold.

✦ The Girl Behind the Blade

Let’s talk about her.

The version of me who held her grief so tightly it became dangerous.
The one who laughed it off. Who never needed help. Who swore she was just “built different.”

That girl was a masterpiece of survival.
But she was exhausted.

Sadness is heavy, yes. But rage?
That shit will eat your fucking insides if you keep swallowing it.

And I was choking on it.
Every fight that ended in silence.
Every night I didn’t cry because crying felt like losing.
Every apology I never gave because “they should’ve known better.”

I built a fortress out of flames.
And then I wondered why nothing tender could survive there.

✦ Burnout, But Make It Emotional

You ever hit that point where even being mad feels like too much work?

Where you snap at someone, then just… stare at yourself like,
“What the fuck am I even doing?”

That was me.

I burned so long I couldn’t even tell if I was mad anymore.
I just was.
Permanently clenched. Permanently ready to fight.
Like life owed me an apology and I was gonna punch it out of the sky if I had to.

But nothing came.
No relief. No catharsis. Just more wreckage.

Because rage can’t grieve for you.
It can only scream over the funeral music.

✦ Grief in Disguise

Here’s what no one told me:

That underneath my rage was heartbreak.
That underneath the control was fear.
That the anger wasn’t “too much” — it was too alone.

I wasn’t the villain. I was the warning sign.

I didn’t need to be “less reactive.”
I needed to be fucking safe enough to fall apart without being punished.

But safety doesn’t fall from the sky.
It’s something we build inside. Slowly. Painfully. With shaky hands and new words like:

“I’m not angry — I’m hurting.”
“I’m scared.”
“I need a minute.”
“I’m grieving something I can’t name.”

✦ What No One Could See

People saw the attitude.
The harsh words.
The withdrawal.
The fight, the noise, the mess.

What they didn’t see?

The way I sat in my car for 30 minutes after an argument, holding back tears that felt radioactive.
The way I broke into tiny pieces every time someone walked away from me.
The way I prayed — not to God, but to anything — that I’d learn how to be soft again before I destroyed myself.

I didn’t want to stay angry.
I just didn’t know how to be anything else and still survive.

✦ The Funeral for Who I Pretended to Be

At some point, I had to bury her.

The me who weaponized grief.
Who confused defense with identity.
Who wore fury like perfume and called it empowerment.

She got me through hell.
But I’m not in hell anymore.

I’m here.
Still tender.
Still tense.
Still trying.

But also learning:

That crying is strong.
That asking for help is holy.
That sadness isn’t weakness — it’s evidence of how deeply I give a damn.

And that anger?
It can still sit beside me…
But it doesn’t get to drive.

✦ Journal Prompts (when sadness shows up with sharp edges)

What am I really feeling underneath this anger?
Where did I first learn that sadness wasn’t safe?
When was the last time I let someone see me soft? How did it feel?
What kind of safety do I need to let the grief move through me instead of explode out of me?
What has anger protected me from — and what has it cost me?

✦ One Last Thing

If your sadness feels like a weapon right now, I get it.
If you’d rather scream than cry, I get it.
If you’re holding your grief in your teeth because you’re afraid you’ll fall apart if you let it out —
I fucking get it.

But you don’t have to keep slicing the world just to prove you’re still bleeding.

You can lay the switchblade down.
You can unclench.
You can whisper “I’m not okay” without bursting into flame.

Because you don’t need war paint anymore.

You need rest.
You need truth.
You need softness — the kind that holds, not hides.

And babe?

That softness is where the real power lives.