Wouldn’t It Be Grand To Always Know Why? (And An Intro To Anger)

Naazh
Nov 19
3 min read

Let me start this post with a disclaimer: this one might feel a little aggressive. The angry part of me—the part that gets miffed, protective, sharp, and fully ready to speak my truth—has clearly been triggered. And today, I’m giving that part the mic.

Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce Anger.

Not the destructive, explosive kind, but the boundary-setting, bullshit-calling, truth-telling kind.

The part of me that refuses to sit quietly while old wounds get poked and prodded.

Yes, this post might feel a little more pointed than my usual tone.

Yes, it might be more assertive than I typically allow myself to be.

And honestly? I think it’s appropriate.

So here it is.

Unfiltered.

Unvarnished.

True.

Enjoy!

Wouldn’t it be grand if we could automatically know the function of all behaviors?

Ours. Everyone else’s.

Wouldn’t that make life so much easier?

When I look at my own behaviors—some of the choices I’ve made, the situations I’ve found myself in—I can understand the function. I know the clinical reasons. I can trace the history, the trauma, the patterns that led me there. And yet… even knowing all of that, there is still a part of me that feels stupid about it. That part gets loud. And it gets louder when other people question the logic or ask, “Why would you do that?” as if the answer were supposed to be neat, tidy, and rational.

But the truth is simple:

These are the experiences I’ve been through.

This is how they shaped my functioning.

And some of what looked like “bad decisions” didn’t feel like decisions at all.

Trying to explain that to someone who has never lived without true choice—someone who has never experienced coercion, survival-mode compliance, fawning, dissociation, or that quiet slide into doing what’s expected because you can’t imagine another option—is nearly impossible.

If you’ve never been there, honestly, consider yourself fucking lucky.

I can’t change my past.

I can’t change the way it rearranged my nervous system, or the lens through which I now see the world. And that lens? It’s accurate. Sometimes too accurate for other people’s comfort.

I have learned—over time, through pain, through therapy, through unlearning—to stop mincing words. To say things exactly as I think them. The problem is that I often take the scenic route to the point. It’s not rambling; it’s processing. But if you’re listening to my processing through your lens, hoping to extract your version of rationality, you’re going to see a wildly different picture of my past, my present, and my potential future.

And honestly? I’m tired.

Tired of being reminded that my past decisions “don’t make sense.”

(And to note, I am often the one badgering myself with these ridiculous ruminations. Damn you, inner critic!)

Tired of hearing that the way I operated “just isn’t logical.”

You know what? You’re right. It doesn’t make sense.

Not to you. And not even to me, sometimes.

So I can’t explain it in a way that will satisfy anyone looking for a clean narrative or a rational unfolding of events. Life isn’t linear. Trauma isn’t tidy. People aren’t predictable.

What I can say is this:

I am doing my life the way I am doing it because it is the culmination of everything I’ve lived through—every mistake, every lesson, every wound, every awakening. All of it has rolled me into this complicated, intuitive, resilient, sharp-eyed, wonderful person I am today.

Either you see it, or you don’t.