Skip to main content

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.




Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Exposing the Deadly Reality at La Palma Correctional Facility: How Many More Have to Die?

For years, La Palma Correctional Facility in Eloy, Arizona, has been a hotspot for controversy, yet little has been done to address the rampant corruption, officer misconduct, and systemic failures that have turned it into a living hell for those incarcerated within its walls. Most recently, another inmate has died—one of many whose deaths could have been prevented if those in charge had taken real action instead of covering up their negligence. On January 2, 2025, I fought to have my husband moved out of La Palma due to the sheer volume of drugs flooding the yard, which were being brought in by correctional officers. I reported specific names to the Special Security Unit (SSU), thinking that doing the right thing would bring change. Instead, my concerns fell on deaf ears. Now, here we are, with more inmates losing their lives—many of these deaths are suspected overdoses, yet little to no investigation ever seems to result in actual change. A History of Negligence and Deaths This lates...
2 comments
Read more

Until You’ve Walked Through Those Gates, Sit Down and Be Quiet

-By DeAnna You see memes like this floating around all the time — the ones that crack jokes about how “good” inmates supposedly have it. You know the ones: they talk about sex three times a day, reading books, working out, and then “complaining” about prison life. People laugh, hit share, and feel smug because they think they know something about what it’s like inside. I used to be one of them. I used to think prison was “right.” I believed it was what people deserved if they broke the law. I repeated the clichés: “Don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time.” “Three hots and a cot.” “They’ve got it easy in there.” And then… I worked there. Let me tell you something: until you’ve walked through those locking gates — hearing that buzzer, watching that steel door slam behind you, feeling the air shift from free to suffocating — you don’t know a damn thing about prison. Until you’ve seen the reality — the mace, the gas grenades, the cell extractions that leave blood on the floor, the...
Post a Comment
Read more

Two Years for Corruption. Seven Years for Addiction.

  There’s something I can’t shake today. And honestly… it makes me sick. I just read about a correctional officer at the same prison my husband is sitting in right now —Lewis Prison Complex—who was caught smuggling heroin, fentanyl, and cell phones into the facility. Not using. Not struggling. Not trying to survive addiction. Smuggling. Trafficking. Profiting. Investigators didn’t just catch him once either. This wasn’t some “bad decision” moment. This was a full investigation—months long—with surveillance, evidence, and tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of drugs tied to it. Let me say that again… A man with a badge, authority, and access was bringing poison into a prison —into a place already filled with men fighting addiction, trauma, and survival every single day. Now here’s the part that I cannot wrap my head around… My husband is serving seven years for doing drugs. Seven years. For addiction. For a battle that started when he was a child—before he even had ...
Post a Comment
Read more