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Nobody's trying to hurt you
Monday, 24 November 2003 09:28 am"I Can't Stand These Weird Things. I'm Going to Sit in My Treehouse and Watch the Lightning."*
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I have to keep reminding myself of that. (It's not actually true, there is somebody who is most definitely trying to hurt me, but we aren't going to go there. That's not neurosis, it's fact, and fact I can't change.)
So, if nobody's trying to hurt me, why am I living my life with my arms wrapped around myself in protection?
"Monica Rose is too sensitive." Did they really say that? About me? About my grandmother? It might not be true, but God, it feels true. What's too sensitive? Things would hurt and I would cry, couldn't stop crying. My feelings would be hurt, or that overly sentimental part of me would be touched and I'd start in again. Don't make me listen to Puff, the Magic Dragon. Not without a big box of Kleenex, anyway.
I remember playing cards with my family, particularly with my mother and Aunt Shirley and cousin Jeffrey, and hating to lose. Not because losing meant anything to me, particularly, or winning, but because they'd be so mean to me when I lost, as if I had no right to think I could win. It wasn't a satisfaction in winning, but a satisfaction in beating me.
Why?
I was the youngest, I was—I'd cry when they did it, and they'd make fun of me for that. Why? They thought the losing was what upset me, but it wasn't. It was the way they just seemed to see it as an opportunity to hurt me, to make me feel bad.
I believe this was the case. My mother always said she didn't believe in letting me win just because I was a child, and I can understand that. But there's a big difference between not letting me win and being deliberately cruel to me for losing. She used to do this same thing to her twin brother. I guess it never occurred to her that her little daughter was at something of a disadvantage with her.
Anyway. They taught me not to let them know what mattered to me, because if I did, they'd hurt me for it if I failed to achieve it. I mean, if something as trivial as losing a game of hearts was sport, imagine what they'd say if they knew about the true objects of my heart.
It was a lesson well-learned. If I couldn't tell them, the family I believed loved me, how could I tell anyone else? I'm still living in fear of being humiliated for wanting things I can't have. Why do you think I try (between bouts of manic extroversion) to be circumspect about the dead guy in my head? Do you think I don't know that people would make fun of me—most certainly do make fun of me, not just for thinking I hear the voice of someone dead in my head but—far worse—for thinking He'd talk to me, alive or dead?
Excuse me, I need to rip off a deeper layer of skin, this doesn't hurt quite enough. There, that's better.
I know I'm not pretty enough.
I'm not pretty enough, I know that, and it hurts so bad, and it keeps me quiet because it's better to have people think you're crazy than to have them think you're ugly. And crazy is really not what you'd call a desirable trait.
I don't know what brought all this up. It just floated to the surface a few minutes ago, like an improperly ventilated body floating in a river.
I don't know how to be less sensitive. I'm not sure I want to be. I want to hurt less, definitely, and cry less (it's embarrassing more than anything, and so often gets misread). I want to be—
OK, here it is. I want to be just as sensitive as I am, but not to be hurt so often, and be less afraid of the consequences of my less-than-rational behavior. In other words, I'd like the world to be a kinder, more understanding place.
Yeah, let me jot that down. Dear Santa: Please fix the world. And if you could clean up the ozone layer, and get that to me by Christmas morning, I'd really appreciate it.
*Uncle Fester
-:- -:- -:- -:-
I have to keep reminding myself of that. (It's not actually true, there is somebody who is most definitely trying to hurt me, but we aren't going to go there. That's not neurosis, it's fact, and fact I can't change.)
So, if nobody's trying to hurt me, why am I living my life with my arms wrapped around myself in protection?
"Monica Rose is too sensitive." Did they really say that? About me? About my grandmother? It might not be true, but God, it feels true. What's too sensitive? Things would hurt and I would cry, couldn't stop crying. My feelings would be hurt, or that overly sentimental part of me would be touched and I'd start in again. Don't make me listen to Puff, the Magic Dragon. Not without a big box of Kleenex, anyway.
I remember playing cards with my family, particularly with my mother and Aunt Shirley and cousin Jeffrey, and hating to lose. Not because losing meant anything to me, particularly, or winning, but because they'd be so mean to me when I lost, as if I had no right to think I could win. It wasn't a satisfaction in winning, but a satisfaction in beating me.
Why?
I was the youngest, I was—I'd cry when they did it, and they'd make fun of me for that. Why? They thought the losing was what upset me, but it wasn't. It was the way they just seemed to see it as an opportunity to hurt me, to make me feel bad.
I believe this was the case. My mother always said she didn't believe in letting me win just because I was a child, and I can understand that. But there's a big difference between not letting me win and being deliberately cruel to me for losing. She used to do this same thing to her twin brother. I guess it never occurred to her that her little daughter was at something of a disadvantage with her.
Anyway. They taught me not to let them know what mattered to me, because if I did, they'd hurt me for it if I failed to achieve it. I mean, if something as trivial as losing a game of hearts was sport, imagine what they'd say if they knew about the true objects of my heart.
It was a lesson well-learned. If I couldn't tell them, the family I believed loved me, how could I tell anyone else? I'm still living in fear of being humiliated for wanting things I can't have. Why do you think I try (between bouts of manic extroversion) to be circumspect about the dead guy in my head? Do you think I don't know that people would make fun of me—most certainly do make fun of me, not just for thinking I hear the voice of someone dead in my head but—far worse—for thinking He'd talk to me, alive or dead?
Excuse me, I need to rip off a deeper layer of skin, this doesn't hurt quite enough. There, that's better.
I know I'm not pretty enough.
I'm not pretty enough, I know that, and it hurts so bad, and it keeps me quiet because it's better to have people think you're crazy than to have them think you're ugly. And crazy is really not what you'd call a desirable trait.
I don't know what brought all this up. It just floated to the surface a few minutes ago, like an improperly ventilated body floating in a river.
I don't know how to be less sensitive. I'm not sure I want to be. I want to hurt less, definitely, and cry less (it's embarrassing more than anything, and so often gets misread). I want to be—
OK, here it is. I want to be just as sensitive as I am, but not to be hurt so often, and be less afraid of the consequences of my less-than-rational behavior. In other words, I'd like the world to be a kinder, more understanding place.
Yeah, let me jot that down. Dear Santa: Please fix the world. And if you could clean up the ozone layer, and get that to me by Christmas morning, I'd really appreciate it.
*Uncle Fester