Sylvanna Devlin

I used to be the sweetest thing around, my path of compassion endless. I pursued more understanding, more perspectives, more recognition of the difficulties one faced.

Because of this some nudged me to the path I didn’t want.

I am no leader.

I am support. And I did it well, casting a net below those I loved.

“Boudicca to the rescue!”

A saying in my family. About me.

I could be ferocious but didn’t need it. What was usually required was brute force, help packing or planning, comforting perspectives, a ready listener, and knew how to hug!

Or in the case of my ex an unwilling surrogate for rage he had for his mother.

Frankly I think they may be too similar to get along. But say what you like of her (and I had opinions) she was very adventurous while Toad was a bit of a coward.

But he was my cowered and I protected this “delicate being”

The divorce wasn’t straightforward but it wasn’t horribly messy. It just dragged on as all his reactive abuse had blown up in his face.

I was tired and exhausted of barbs, baiting, bouncing crossing and worse. Of having my wounds dug into. 6 months with 90 minute appointments my therapist and I worked on ways to avoid anger, to avoid “the dragon”

And one night it got dangerous for me.

No not when he pushed a cat tower onto me and it was thigh striking back kick that fucking thing or be bathed in glass.

Though that was special.

(So was the bruise)

No it became dangerous when the coil at my feet burnt my temper into a furious froth as I wanted to be left alone to cool off.

That was indeed one of the tactics. Just bail when his nasty needling struck.

But he wouldn’t leave me alone. I am bipolar. I fucking needed to cool off! But he was so clearly the aggressor that when the police arrived (called by my neighbor), they removed him for the night.

I was expecting a trip to the psychiatric ER with how much I had screamed to be left alone. But with the police there I burst into tears. It was finally safe to do so.

Thus, my tears first and toad being ousted second. One thing was Resoundingly clear.

I was not dangerous.

Because earlier that evening, during the peak of the fight to end all fights the dragon in me inflamed my brain- that’s how it felt.

And I succumbed to evil.

For three seconds

Just three.

I really did want to kill him.

The next three I backed off and stared as his gormlos expression. I was a warrior queen in that moment and he didn’t fuck off and give me some space?

But the next three were considering how stupid baiting that level of rage was. And maybe he was just that stupid.

Anyone could lose control if pushed past their breaking point and their evaporating patience runs on fumes – it’s just fucking worse when a bipolar person sufferers from rage and is a berserker.

He was looking at the most ferocious I ever got, trembling, smiling a little, and like the danger I posed was no more than a whiny, petty mother.

He loved fear, he said he was addicted to it. More than just kinky sub stuff he was into unusual play. Odd form of thrill seeking I suppose. But his genuine need for a jolt of flight in the “instinct scenario” was now a problem.

And every night for six months he had got a petty thrill driving me to rage. But he had always stopped when I walked away.

Real rage is scary, hellfire rockets through you hollowing out your insides and ripping open every emotional scab and scar. All the pain and suffering ever endured turned to the hottest of flames and it rockets out that hollowed core, filling every gap with a fire on par of the sun.

That’s rage.

It’s worrying for others but I found it worse to my own psyche. I couldn’t be the person I was striving for with this endless working of every button he could find or create to wound me, make me angry, and get his rocks off.

As I stared at him after the last 9 seconds I very gently took his upper arms and tried to walk him away. He occasionally stumbled so it was not an unfamiliar touch

He had to get to safety. There was a dragon in the room, never mind I had been that dragon, now I had let who I was die inside, and was in the calm of demise.

My mild synesthesia associating the moment with o white shroud of death.

But the fight didn’t end there.

( least I didn’t want to kill him, anymore)

I felt evil had slithered inside. The root danger in all of our psyches.

But it’s plainly obvious that even in a literally murderous rage. I held back. I regained control. Meds and gods had given me what I needed.

It’s just as well. I know what’s hiding back there if I ever got into a fight. Yes, yeah, yeah, yeah, the gorilla no breaks strength was on. The perception speed only bested by the speed of my fist.

You try to strike me and it’s a block and fist but not lethal. Painful. You’re headed to the ICU. But will probably will live. Unless I’m so angry that punch packs power and speed into a single hit KO

That’s the berserk part. Dig deep into my wounds and oh boy, The explosion is a state to avoid.

Those 6 months gave me severe PTSD. He had been so abusive, so cruel at all other times and burnt up my tethers on a nightly basis so I hit rage.

I didn’t realize fibromyalgia was beginning to trickle in. Possibly genetic but in need of being triggered; it’s basically an autoimmune disorder that treats adrenaline and Cortisol as invaders (according to the latest theory I saw)

But for a long time any time I tried to consider that night, physical pain echoed in. Hi stress levels can trigger a flare up. So can the relief of a sudden drop in them.

If I got angry my nerves would begin to tingle. Rage biochemically trigger a nasty flare up followed by the desire to die.