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The Version of Me That Scares Me...

 


There’s a version of me that comes out when I get mad.

And I hate her.

Not because she’s weak…
but because she’s not.

She’s sharp.
Calculated.
Cold in a way that doesn’t shake, doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t second guess.

When she shows up, there’s no softness left.

Just clarity.

The kind of clarity that doesn’t ask questions.
The kind that ends things.

Fast.

I can tear people apart with words.

Not yelling.
Not losing control.

Worse.

Calm.
Direct.
Precise.

The kind of words that don’t just hurt…
they stay.

And the scary part?

When I’m in that place… I don’t feel bad.

Not in the moment.

It’s like something shuts off.

And whoever you were to me before that moment?

Gone.

Just like that.

People think anger looks like chaos.

Mine doesn’t.

Mine looks like control.

And that’s what makes it dangerous.

I’ve told every therapist I’ve ever had the same thing:

“When I get mad… I turn into my mother.”

And I hate that.

Because my mother was the one who should have protected me.

The one who should have chosen me.

The one who should have stopped it.

And she didn’t.

She allowed the man she chose to hurt me for sixteen years.

Sixteen.

So when I say I don’t want to be her…

I mean that down to my bones.

But trauma does something twisted.

It doesn’t just hurt you.

It teaches you.

It shows you how to survive.

And sometimes survival looks like becoming the very thing you needed protection from.

Not long before she died, she said something to me I’ll never forget.

She said to me:

“You know what your problem is, DeAnna?
You can tell someone ‘fuck you’ with a smile and make them beg for more.”

And without even thinking, I said:

“I learned from the best.”

And she immediately replied with:

“And there it is… the fuck you with the smile.”

That moment stuck with me.

Because she wasn’t wrong.

And neither was I.

I did learn it from her.

But I learned it because I had to.

Because when you grow up in a place where you’re not safe…
you learn how to make sure no one ever gets that close again.

You learn how to shut doors before someone can slam them on you.

You learn how to end things before they can hurt you.

So yeah…

That version of me?

She protects me.

She makes sure I’m never the little girl in that situation again.

She makes sure nobody gets to take from me what was already taken.

But she also scares me.

Because she doesn’t know when to stop.

She doesn’t care who gets cut off.

She doesn’t care what gets burned down in the process.

She just knows one thing:

“Never let them hurt you again.”

And the truth is…

That version of me isn’t my mother.

She’s my defense.

But if I don’t learn how to control her…

She’ll destroy things I actually care about.

So now I’m learning something new.

Something harder than anger.

Restraint.

Awareness.

Choosing when to speak… and when to breathe instead.

Not because I’ve gone soft.

But because I’m strong enough not to react the way I was taught to.

I will never be the woman who let those things happen to me.

But I also refuse to become the woman who leaves destruction everywhere she goes.

I can be powerful…

without being cruel.

I can be strong…

without being cold.

I can protect myself…

without becoming someone I hate.

That version of me will probably always exist.

But she doesn’t get to run the show anymore.




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