Phoenix Diaries: The Chapter Where I Swallowed My Rage So I Didn’t Sound Like a Bitch
A love story ended. The emotional labour didn’t.
Phoenix Diaries
Personal stories of transformation, heartbreak, and rebuilding from ground zero.
There's a version of this story where I reply to his email with:
"Make a fucking decision, arsehole."
Instead, I spent two hours writing a message so neutral it could've been drafted by a customer service bot with a PR degree. I re-read it four times. Deleted every emotional trace. Reworded anything that might sound too sharp. And I hit send with a knot in my stomach that felt like betrayal. Not from him this time. But from me.
Because what I wanted to say?
Was not nice.
What I wanted to say was:
"Stop stringing me along. Tell me what you want. Then give me a fucking plan."
But I didn't.
Because I'm a woman.
Because I'm the one who got cheated on and still worries about being too much.
Because I've been taught to wrap my anger in grace and call it growth.
Because even now, after everything, I'm still carrying his comfort like it's my responsibility.
I'm so fucking angry.
And exhausted.
Not just mentally. Not just emotionally.
It's the quiet collapse under the weight of everything you didn't say out loud. It's grief dressed as fatigue.
The kind of tired that comes from holding a scream in your throat for months.
From softening your tone while your insides burn.
There are days I don't even know what I'm mad at anymore.
The betrayal? The bureaucracy of ending a marriage?
The fact that I still fucking care?
The way I still have to calibrate my emotions so I don't come across as hysterical, irrational, bitter, or dramatic.
God forbid I sound like a bitch.
Even when I have every fucking reason to.
Women are taught to make pain palatable.
To write breakup messages like they are job applications.
Remove the rage and replace it with bullet points.
To make our grief easier to look at. Easier to love. Easier to dismiss.
Even now, I'm furious, and I'm editing myself. I’m still trying to make my anger easier to read. More polite. Less… female.
And yet…
I still care.
Eighteen years doesn't unspool overnight.
Two lives twisted together don't unravel in a clean line.
They knot. They snag. They cling.
I'm still in love with the dream of who we were.
I'm still grieving the version of me who believed in that dream.
And that makes the anger even more complicated.
Because I know I deserve better.
And I know I still want peace.
And I know, deep down, that using my voice is part of the rebuild.
Even when it trembles and spits. Even when it's not pretty.
So, what can a woman do with her anger?
She can write it down.
She can scream it into a journal.
She can cry in the bath, where her tears do half the filling.
She can burn the old stories and still hold the history.
She can be mad. And still be healing.
She can rage. And still be soft.
She can sound like a bitch. And still be kind.
She can be all of it. And still be worthy.
Still rising.
Still here.
Still drinking cold tea at 4 pm because I forgot I made it.
xo,
Tanya
Beautiful. Thanks for sharing. Have you ever gone to a rage room (is that what it's called?)-? I haven't but it sounds like a place where you have full permission to let it all out! What a relief.