The War Inside the Mirror

Some of the sharpest anger does not come from others at all. It turns inward. It arrives as shame, regret, and disappointment in choices you made or words you never spoke. It becomes the quiet rage that no one else can hear but you.
You wake up after a night of drinking more than you intended. The pounding in your head is not just from the alcohol but from the voice that says, "Why did you do this again." You roll over, promising yourself that tomorrow will be different, but even as you say it you feel the anger brewing in your chest. The glass is empty on the nightstand, silent proof of the war you are fighting with yourself. You stare at the ceiling and whisper, "I should know better." The fire is not directed outward but inward, scorching your own spirit.
Another night, you replay a conversation where you stayed silent when you should have spoken. A friend crossed a line, a colleague took credit, a lover disrespected you. Your chest tightened, your jaw locked, but your voice never came. Hours later, you are pacing the kitchen with a drink in your hand, muttering the words you wish you had said. "You will not treat me this way. You will not take what I earned. You will not dismiss me." The alcohol gives the illusion of power for a few moments, but when the glass is empty the anger twists back at you. "Why did you not say it when it mattered."
There are also the choices you cannot undo. The relationship you stayed in too long, even when you knew it was draining you. The chance you walked away from because you convinced yourself you were not ready. The dream you kept locked in your chest because you were afraid of being laughed at. In these moments, anger does not arrive in flames. It seeps in quietly. You tell yourself that you wasted time. You tell yourself that you let yourself down. You pour another drink not to erase the past, but to soften the sharp edges of memory. For a few hours, the burn of the liquor drowns the burn of regret. By morning, the regret is louder.