When My Hurt Spills Onto the People I Love

There are parts of myself I am not proud to admit. The nights when I reached for substances just to quiet my mind, chasing a few hours of numbness because feeling anything at all felt unbearable. The moments when I snapped at people who were only trying to help. The times I pushed away the very individuals who stayed by my side when everyone else walked away.

I used to believe I was the only one who did this, the only one who let my pain spill out in ways that hurt others. But I am slowly realising that many people carry a version of the same guilt - hurting people they care about because they don’t know what to do with their own hurt.

My reactions weren’t intentional. They were desperate.

When emotions got too loud, when memories resurfaced without permission, when the anxiety in my chest felt like a thousand needles, I didn’t know how to cope. So I reached for whatever would silence it - a drink, a vape, anything that made the world blur just enough for me to breathe. For a moment, it worked. And then it didn’t.

Because the pain always returned, sharper than before.

And I took it out on the safest people around me.

A friend would ask a gentle question, and I would snap. Someone would express concern, and I would shut down or lash out. They weren’t the problem. They weren’t the cause. They were simply the closest targets to a storm I refused to acknowledge inside myself.

The guilt after those moments is the kind that sits heavy on the chest. I would replay my own words, my tone, the look on their faces. I would ask myself why I couldn’t control it, why I let my emotions reach the point where I had to escape them through substances or through anger. And every time, the shame grew.

But here is the truth I am learning, slowly and painfully:

I was not hurting them because they were doing something wrong.

I was hurting them because I didn’t know how to take care of myself.

This does not excuse my behaviour. Accountability matters. But understanding the root is the first step to changing the pattern.

Now, when I feel myself reaching for a coping mechanism that will only leave me emptier, I try to pause. When I feel anger rising in my throat, I try to name what is beneath it - fear, exhaustion, loneliness, overwhelm. When I feel myself pushing people away, I try to ask why I am so afraid of letting them stay.

Healing does not begin with perfection. It begins with honesty.

And honesty hurts. It forces me to admit that I have crossed lines I didn’t intend to cross, and that the people who care about me have absorbed blows meant for the past, not for them. But this honesty also gives me room to choose differently.

If you’re reading this and you recognise yourself in any of it - the substances, the outbursts, the guilt, the spiral - know this: you are not a bad person. You are someone carrying pain without the tools to manage it. You are someone who needs understanding, not punishment. You are someone who can learn to break the pattern, one small moment at a time.

We hurt others most when we are hurting the most.

And the moment we choose to acknowledge that is the moment things begin to change.