Let’s talk about the drive home.
You know the one. It’s 5:00 PM, traffic is a nightmare, and you are trapped in a metal box with your own thoughts. And lately, my thoughts have been loud. Like, concert-speaker loud. I’m not listening to a podcast about mindfulness or a breezy pop hit about shaking it off.
No. I am asking the windshield very specific questions. Questions like: What did you think I’d say to that?
Seriously. When people push you, and push you, and poke at you until your patience snaps like a dry twig, and then they look at you with those wide, innocent “who me?” eyes… what exactly is the expected reaction? A curtsy? A thank you note?
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the concept of the “Mad Woman.” You know the trope. She’s the one who’s “too emotional.” The one who “can’t let it go.” The one who is painted as the villain because she finally decided to stop being the doormat.
But here is the question of the day, folks: Does a scorpion sting when fighting back?
Obviously. It strikes to kill. And honestly? You know I will.
There is a very special kind of math that happens in arguments with manipulative people. It goes like this:
1. They do something awful.
2. You react to the awful thing.
3. They focus entirely on your reaction and ignore the original awful thing.
It is maddening. It is the definition of insanity. But let’s zoom in on step three, because that’s where the magic trick happens. They pull the “Why are you yelling?” card. They speak in that low, calm, condescending voice—the voice of a substitute teacher dealing with a toddler—while you are hyperventilating because they just set your emotional house on fire.
To the outside world, or even to your own confused brain in that moment, the optics shift. They look rational. You look unhinged. They are “just trying to have a conversation,” and you are “hysterical.”
It’s a trap. It is a calculated performance of calmness designed to make you scream louder just to be heard. They know that if they whisper while you shout, they win the narrative. They know the buttons to push because they installed the buttons.
Every time you call me crazy, I get more crazy. It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy! It’s like shaking a soda bottle for ten minutes and then acting shocked—shocked!—when it explodes all over the kitchen. And then they point at the sticky mess on the floor and say, “See? Look how messy she is. I can’t live with this mess.” You shook the bottle, Brad!
You say I seem angry? Well, guess what? I get more angry. Because there is nothing quite like a mad woman. There is a specific kind of clarity that comes with rage. It burns off the fog. It stops you from making excuses for people who don’t deserve them.
And let’s not forget the “You’re too sensitive” clause. That’s the fine print in the contract of crazy. If you get upset, it’s not because they were cruel; it’s because you can’t take a joke. You’re reading too much into it. You’re projecting. Suddenly, your reality is being edited in real-time.
And that’s the real tragedy, isn’t it? What a shame she went mad. That’s what they whisper at brunch or by the water cooler. “Oh, Tina? Yeah, she went a little off the rails.”
No one likes a mad woman. We are supposed to be cool. We are supposed to be chill. We are supposed to be the “Cool Girl” who smiles and nods while the house burns down. We are supposed to be the endless well of forgiveness, swallowing our pride until we choke on it. But here’s the truth they leave out: You made her like that.
People love to tell you to “take the high road.” My friends, bless their hearts, they try. They say, “move on,” but you know, I won’t. Not today.
The high road is boring. The high road has no oxygen. The high road is where you go to repress your feelings until you develop a twitch in your left eye. I am currently parked on the low road, and the view is spectacular because I can see exactly who you are from down here.
I’m done trying to make my anger palatable for everyone else. I’m done trying to package my valid reaction into a nice little box with a bow on it so no one feels uncomfortable. If my truth makes you uncomfortable, maybe you should ask yourself why you’re so comfortable with the lies.
I think about the imagery of a bear a lot. Bears just want to eat berries and sleep. They are vibes. But you’ll poke that bear ’til her claws come out, and then you’ll run around town showing everyone the scratches, screaming, “Look! Look how dangerous she is!”
And then? You find something to wrap your noose around. You take that reaction—that moment of self-defense—and you build a whole narrative around it.
Now, I feel like I breathe flames each time I talk. I’m walking around with my cannons all firin’ at your yacht. And sure, maybe that looks destructive from the outside. Maybe it looks like I’m the one causing the drama. But have you seen the yacht? It’s built on gaslighting and audacity. It needs to be sunk.
Let’s go back to that drive home. Sometimes I wonder, Do you see my face in the neighbor’s lawn?
When you look out at your perfectly manicured life, does the ghost of what you did haunt the edges of it? Does she smile? Or does she mouth, “Fuck you forever”?
It’s definitely the second one. With a smile. It’s a multitasking look. It’s a look that says, I know what you did last summer, and the summer before that, and I have receipts.
The hardest pill to swallow in all of this isn’t even the person who hurt you. It’s the enablers. The master of spin always has a support team. It’s heartbreaking to realize that women like hunting witches, too. Sometimes, they are doing your dirtiest work for you.
It’s easier to join the mob than to ask why the woman is screaming, right? It’s obvious that wanting me dead has really brought you two together. It’s a bonding activity! Like knitting, but with character assassination. “Oh, did you hear about her? She’s so bitter.”
Yeah, Brenda, I am bitter. I’m bitter like a triple-shot espresso. And just like that espresso, I am awake.
So here I am. I’m takin’ my time.
I’m watching. Watchin’ you climb over people like me. Because that’s what happens. The people who poke the bears and spin the stories, they tend to fail upwards. They have a couple side flings, they cut corners, they charm the right people. They sell a version of reality that is filtered and cropped and edited to perfection.
And good wives always know. Just like good friends know. Just like deep down, you know.
The silence of the people around you is the loudest thing I’ve ever heard. They see the spin. They see the “side flings” (metaphorical or literal, take your pick). She should be mad. Whoever is next, whoever is currently believing the spin—she should be scathing like me.
But she probably won’t be. Not yet. Because no one likes a mad woman. It’s safer to be quiet. It’s safer to pretend the emperor is wearing clothes, even when he’s standing there naked and morally bankrupt.
But me? I’m done being quiet. I’m done auditioning for the role of “Gracious Ex” or “Forgiving Friend.”
If defending myself makes me “mad,” then hand me the hat. If refusing to be gaslit makes me “crazy,” then lock me up. Because the truth is, the scorpion doesn’t apologize for the sting. It’s just nature.
So, the next time you hear someone say, “What a shame she went mad,” just remember to ask the follow-up question:
Who made her like that?
Stay scathing,
Tina