Anger

When They Call It “Anger Issues” But It’s Really Just Years of Being Disrespected.

Let’s get one thing straight: anger is not the enemy. Anger is a signal. A flare. A final, desperate attempt by your body and soul to say enough is enough.

I’ve been called names. “Stupid housewife.” “Overreacting.” “Too emotional.” I’ve been dismissed and disrespected—not by strangers, but by the very people I’ve poured myself into. The people I’ve stood by, cared for, supported, unconditionally. Day in, day out. For years.

And for what?

To be told, I have “anger management issues” because I finally spoke up?

No. That’s not what this is.

This isn’t about losing control. This is about what happens when your voice is ignored for too long. When you’re constantly put down, mocked, belittled—and you’re expected to stay silent, smile, and serve.

This is what happens when the only time people start paying attention to you is when you finally raise your voice—and then, instead of listening, they twist the narrative. Suddenly you are the problem. You are the danger. You need fixing.

But here’s something they never see: I’ve been working on myself for years. I’ve tried to stay calm, tried to respond instead of react, and tried to carry myself with patience even when I felt like breaking down inside. I’ve read, I’ve reflected, I’ve grown. I’ve done the work, and I the inner is still ongoing.

But it doesn’t matter. Because in their minds, the version of me they’ve decided on—the “angry” one, the “difficult” one—is the only version they’re willing to see. They hold onto that image like a script they refuse to rewrite, no matter how much I change.

Let’s call it what it is: emotional neglect. Disrespect, normalized. Gaslighting, dressed up as “concern.”

I am tired. Not because I’m angry—but because I’ve had to carry the emotional labour of this family while being told I don’t matter. Because the second I set a boundary or say “this isn’t okay,” I’m made out to be the villain.

Well, I’m not the villain. I’m the one who’s been holding this whole thing together.

So here’s a message to anyone who’s ever judged someone like me: if you’re more uncomfortable with a woman raising her voice than with the years of silence that came before it, maybe you’re the one who needs to look in the mirror.

Anger isn’t the problem. The problem is the disrespect that caused it. And if you really cared, you’d stop diagnosing and start listening.

I may be exhausted, but I’m not broken. I’m still standing, still speaking, still choosing to believe that my voice matters. And I will keep showing up—for myself this time. Not to prove anything to those who never tried to understand, but because I finally know I deserve better.