There’s so much that could be said.
I have written, deleted, rewritten and trashed so many attempts. Every time I think I’m done I question the purpose behind what I’ve composed, and hate it even more.
I’ve felt defined by things and people who should not have any control over me. I have spent years feeling like there were boots on my throat, a silent threat in case I try to find my voice.
I used to wonder what I had ever done to deserve this treatment, why I had been chased out, threatened and abandoned. I’ve lost so much of who I used to be, so why in the world was the retaliation so aggressive on top of that?
For years, I tried to put myself in each and every one of these shoes; the ones who threatened me, the ones who abandoned me, the ones who tried to steal. And I tried so, so hard to understand why they were wielding such cruelty. I’d made sure not to do anything to set anyone off. I was already too self-conscious, self-analyzing every interaction for what I could do better, if there was a way to stop the harassment. So what could the reason be?
I gave grace to those undeserving. I gave empathy to those who kicked me when I was down. I gave patience to those who were trying to manipulate me. But I cannot forget the first time I saw one of them actually—and literally—turn tail and run away from me.
Me, the tiny woman who gets shoved around and stepped on regularly because she doesn’t deserve respect. The stupid little cosplayer who doesn’t do anything other than look pretty for pictures. The woman everyone chalks up to being just a hysterical widow because it’s an easy way to silence her.
That’s who they ran from.
So I thought about that. I thought about that a lot. Perhaps the internal narrative was worse than I originally understood. I stopped receiving replies, becoming more and more isolated and alone. Maybe people really did believe I was a monster, as the guy who turned red in the face would remind them all if someone dared to speak my name. Why should my name garner such a passionate, albeit hateful, response? Just my name?
Now, I like to think, every day when I wake up, that I am holding a fusion bomb on my tongue, and they don’t know when or if it will ever drop. There’s a new excitement in embracing this view of thinking, of taking back control over the story of my life. I’m tired of other people putting words in my mouth, or of the departed’s.
More often than not, accusations that are tossed around easily tend to be a flimsy projection by the person throwing them. It was not me who was trying to take control. It was not me tanking team morale. It was not me self-inserting characters.
But it’s so easy to shift the blame and redirect the attention, the scrutiny and suspicion in the wake of tragedy, isn’t it?
It’s such a simple thing to reshape a broken woman into your scapegoat, so how could you resist?
All of this to say, no; I’m not gonna just spill everything. I want to continue holding on to the rope for the guillotine, because they deserve to eat the anxiety that comes with anticipation for every meal. I did not spend the last ten years protecting my work in silence from greedy and grubby hands just to give away pieces of myself to satisfy some childish online disputes.
Of course I know the untold story; who do you think was helping to write it? It was not mine to tell, but along the journey I took to protect it, a tale of my own has unfolded. It’s all intertwined, I just need more time.
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