It’s worse when you pretend you’re not a monster
Today I heard you make another joke at my expense. You took a part of my identity and threw it around like trash because that’s what it is to you. Disposable. Something belonging to you to do with what you will. Where did you get this sense of entitlement? This sense of ownership over everyone? How is it that you say these things and laugh, truly, deeply laugh?
Whatever the reason may be, I didn’t stick around long enough to find out. No, I told myself, I wouldn’t subject myself to this inhumane torture, so I turned my back and covered my ears. Because if I don’t hear it, it didn’t happen, right? Wrong, obviously, but I don’t know what to do anymore. My heart was wildly out of control, throwing itself against the bones keeping it safe and I knew that the moment I opened my mouth, words would just fall out. You wouldn’t take me seriously as my emotions ran free. You would write it off as another woman being too sensitive. Me not knowing how to take a joke.
But I don’t think you understand how many jokes I’ve taken in my short, twenty-four years on this planet. Because I know how to take a joke. I used to be the one to initiate these sorts of conversations. I’d laugh just as loudly and silence the voices screaming for me to stop. Only when I cut into myself, searching for blood to expel but instead, finding nothing, did I realize I’d lost myself. I gave into you and traded myself as the price for your tolerance, at least until you found someone else to laugh at.
So I understand. I understand far too well than I wish I did. I am ashamed at how long I’ve sat there, mute, while people like you have thrown rocks at my face. I am disappointed in myself for writing these words long after the things you said. I am upset that I could never bring myself to say these things to you in person, because then you’d cast me out for good and I think a part of myself still wants to be accepted. Still wants to be liked by you.
I’ve been covering my ears for a while now, in a move to become less angry and more happy. But it’s not working. Instead, I feel it bubbling, rising inside of me, and I’m not sure how many more times I can stand under your constant assault. And I’m not sure what will happen when I take these words and throw them back at you. Throw up my shirt and force your eyes to see the scars you’ve carved into my body. Have you recognize the damage you’ve done, have you see yourself for the monster you are.
But will you even recognize yourself? Will you take accountability for what you’ve done?
Or pass it off as something of my own doing?
Tell me that it was actually me all along who has been hurting myself.
Wash your hands clean of these sins and walk away.
Just like you always have.
