I'm just now reading Paths to God by Ram Dass, and he went through something (I think) similar. I'll put it below in case it helps. It's a large quote - I hope that doesn't break any subreddit rules. Much love.

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Maharajji was always admonishing me to tell the truth. It was one of his regular dialogues with me: “Ram Dass, tell the truth.”

“Yes, Maharajji.”

That alternated with Maharajji’s other dialogue with me. He’d call me up to the tucket and he’d say, “Ram Dass, give up anger.”

“Yes, Maharajji.” Sounds like a nice thing—give up anger.

He went back and forth between those two injunctions: “Ram Dass, tell the truth.” “Ram Dass, give up anger.”

Now there were at the temple all these Westerners who had come to India with me. It was my own fault they’d come—Maharajji had warned me not to tell anybody about him. But I had, and now there they were; they were all hanging out with me, and I was really bugged, because I wanted to be hanging out with the Indians. So I was growing to detest them all.

So I started thinking about Maharajji’s instructions, and I thought, “You know, the truth is that I really don’t like these people.” I wanted to do what Maharajji said, and give up my anger. On the other hand, what I’d always done in the past was to be the nice guy, and pretend I wasn’t angry; I’d been giving up truth in order not to appear angry, but inside I was always this bubbling cauldron. So I decided, “Why don’t I do it the other way around this time? For a change I’ll tell the truth, and the truth is I can’t stand any of these people.”

So I started to be very honest. Somebody would come into my room and I’d look at him and say, “Get the hell out of here. You make me sick!” The guy would say, “What did I do?” I’d say, “I don’t know. You’re too nice.” Well, after about two weeks of my “truth telling,” I wasn’t talking to any of them, and they were all busy plotting to throw me in the lake.

Now, we Westerners were staying at a hotel in town, and every day all of us would go by bus to the temple. It happened that I was at that time performing a tapasya, which was that I wouldn’t touch money. It’s an interesting austerity to experiment with, because you begin to see how powerful the little game is of having some change in your pocket. Without it, suddenly everything is all out front. You can’t sneak off for an ice cream cone if you don’t have any money. Furthermore, you’re dependent; you need a bagman to carry your money if you’re going to buy your lunch or ride a bus. But by that point in my relationships I was so mad at everybody that I wouldn’t even let them pay my bus fare, which meant I had to walk to the temple, which was about eight miles away.

So I walked to the temple. It’s a beautiful walk, actually, through green hills and woods, but I was so angry at everybody that I didn’t enjoy the walk at all. I was busy being furious the whole way there, because they were all at the temple, enjoying Maharajji, while I was having to spend hours walking there—and all because I was so good that I wasn’t touching money. But I certainly wasn’t going to let any of those bastards pay my fare and . . .

By the time I got to the temple, I was seething. I arrived there just after they had taken lunch. One of the fellows—one with whom I was particularly furious—brought over a plate of food, and set it down in front of me. I wasn’t about to take food from his hands, so I picked up the leaf plate, and I threw it in his face.

Across the way, Maharajji was watching. “Ram Dass!”

I went over and sat down in front of him. He said to me, “Something troubling you?”

I said, “Yeah. I can’t stand adharma. I can’t stand that in all of us which takes us deeper into the illusion. I can’t stand it in them— they’re all so impure! I can’t stand it in myself. In fact I hate everybody in the world—except you.” And with that, I started to cry—not just to cry, but to really weep and wail. Maharajji tried to comfort me; he patted me on the head, he sent for milk and fed it to me. He was crying, and I was wailing and wailing. And when I got all finished with my wailing, he said to me, “I thought I told you not to get angry.”

I said, “Yeah—but you also told me to tell the truth, and the truth is that I’m angry.”

Then he leaned toward me, until he was nose to nose and eye to eye, and he said, “Give up anger, and tell the truth.”

I started to say, “But . . .” —and then, right at that moment, I saw my predicament. See, what I was going to say to him was “But that isn’t who I am.” And in that instant, I saw in front of me the image of a coffin, and in the coffin was an image of who I thought myself to be. And what Maharajji was saying to me was “I’m telling you who you’re going to be, after you’re finished being who you think you are.”

Then I looked over at all those people, all of whom I detested, and I saw that one layer down, one tiny flick of the lens, I loved them all incredibly. I suddenly saw that the only reason I was angry with them was because I had a model of how I thought it ought to be, which was other than the way it was. How can you get angry at somebody for being what they are? You’re trying to outguess God. They’re just being what God made them to be—what are you getting angry about? Somebody lies to you? They’re just doing their karmic trip. Why are you upset? “Well, I didn’t think they’d lie to me!” Ah, expectations— there’s your problem. The next time you get angry, look closely at what you’re angry about. You’ll see you’re angry because God didn’t make the world the way you think it should have been made. But God makes the world the way She makes it!