I'm scared

The fantasies don’t stop. If anything, they’ve grown sharper. More detailed. Like my mind’s running a highlight reel of revenge while I sit in silence pretending everything’s fine.

I scare myself.

I used to worry about dying—now I worry about what I might become. There’s this anger that bubbles up outta nowhere, and it don’t ask for permission. It just shows up. Loud. Violent.

Sometimes I imagine walking right up to the ones who destroyed parts of me and whispering, “Now it’s your turn.” And that voice in my head? It sounds calm. Too calm. That’s what messes me up.

I’m not a violent man. Never have been. But damn if I don’t feel haunted by what I could do. And that’s the truth. I feel like I’m standing on a tightrope with fury on one side and shame on the other. No balance. No safety net. Just me, trying not to fall.

DBT says to ride the wave. Let the emotion crest, then pass. But what if I am the wave now? What if I’ve been in fight mode so long, I don’t know how to just be anymore?

I keep trying to anchor myself—cold water, music, grounding, hell even prayer. But the images come back. The sound of someone begging for mercy. Their eyes finally reflecting the pain they made me swallow.

I don’t act on it. I won’t act on it. But I’d be lying if I said the thoughts didn’t bring a sense of twisted comfort.

So here I am, writing it out. Naming it. Trying not to feed it, just watch it. Hold space for it without letting it own me.

But yeah... I scare myself.

And that’s real.