My Rage Against Myself by Terri Rimmer

I wake up this morning and I’m a completely different person than I was the last three days.

Although I’m on five medications for bipolar disorder, depression, and anxiety, I’m exhausted, because I’ve just come off a rage roller coaster over the weekend.

My hormones are out of whack and I can’t afford to go to the doctor so I just have to suffer through this.

Last night someone I used to be friends with threatened to call the cops, accusing me of not taking my meds, claiming that I was harassing her when all I was doing was defending a mutual friend.

I never met rage until I was 12 when the bottom fell out of my life and I had to go live with my mom and step dad after my dad finally had to answer for abusing my sisters and I. I was getting physically abused at Mom’s house then and bullied at school. The bullying actually started way before that.

The only refuge was my mind – not a good place.

I can remember once I started driving often times I’d be behind a school bus at a red light and the kids in the back would turn around and make faces at me, laughing at me. Inside my blood would boil and I would just sit there stone-faced, knowing there was nothing I could do. But, inside I wanted revenge. I knew there were just kids but I was furious. I felt so helpless, once again, from being abused, bullied, knowing there was nothing I could do.

It shouldn’t have been a surprise that I followed in my mom’s footsteps and became an alcoholic.

That’s how I stuffed my rage.

I always said I’d never become like her but I surpassed her.

The only difference is I got recovery.

But never from rage.

I was never willing to give that up. That terrified me, drove me, got me up in the morning, kept me going, helped me survive, made me fight to stay alive, fed me, drowned my thirst; etc.

With all the head injuries I’ve had in my life I practically begged doctors to give me a CAT scan but they never would. I even pursued research studies where I could get one but then I’d be told I didn’t qualify and my heart would just sink.

I am certain, beyond a shadow of a doubt there is something wrong with my brain.

Tears pour down my cheeks as I write this, my soul is so tortured, my chest is tight from being cyberbullied, bullied, attacked, misunderstood by friends, so-called “friends,” acquaintances, some family members, my own mom, the latter of whom I thought I forgave but just can’t.

My dad died in 2008 but I hadn’t seen him in 20 years when he died. He lives on in my nightmares, though and I’m so mad that I’m still being held prisoner after all these years because of his abuse.

No amount of therapy, medication, whatever can quell my rage and I fear one day I will wind up in prison.

I’ve never even been in jail and I know I couldn’t do it.

The punching bag in the spare room was hung by my daughter’s father a few years ago for me to deal with my rage but I’ve never touched it.

Every fiber in my body wants to but I’m afraid all my rage will tear it from the ceiling and everything will come crashing down on me.

Then what?

Oct. 2017