Since I’ve accepted myself as abnormal (or perhaps I am the normal one and they are all strange!) I have become a lot more sensitive to criticism. Overly sensitive perhaps?
I have always had an abundance of background paranoia caused by years of actually being the one they talked about, and this is spreading. It’s infecting my guilt, making me question what I did to deserve such treatment.
In my world, there is no such thing as the bitchiness of others. If I am in receipt of a sour remark, this is because I have already earnt it. Bought and paid for, as you might say.
I volunteered my services recently, and perhaps the fault lies in the way they were reluctantly volunteered. Or by my precious fuck ups. Either way, I was told this person would pay someone else. As an aside, I said they could pay me, knowing that I would never charge this person. Especially not for what they wanted done, as it’s a small job and one I can teach them in minutes. I would have hoped they realised this.
A response appeared with an emphasis on the negation of any charge, worded in a manner which, in the toneless world of the Internet, felt pointed and jagged.
Now I sit lost and chastising myself for even thinking anyone would want me to help. Thoughts are battering themselves against my skull and I’m doubting myself, the things I worked for and my family.
There are no such things as bitchy comments in my world.
All fault lies here.
This first line in This Be The Verse, a famous poem by Philip Larkin.
An ex boyfriend of mine exposed me to this work after a discussion about having children. Those were the heady days when I didn’t have any intention of having children. They were the days when I thought I couldn’t have children and I’d accepted this as fact.
That wasn’t the case and now I have three. Three lovely horrors I get to fuck up in new and interesting ways. Three cute monsters who are already showing symptoms of my issues.
I grew up thinking that it was my parents’ divorce which had made me the stupid, pathetic shell I was during my childhood. I was the kid always willing to lie down and play the victim. I was that snotty kid crying in the corner. That one they all hated. The easy target.
I’m bitter about the waste. I wasted what should have been the best years of my life by burdening myself with everything. I missed out on so much because I was sensitive and ashamed of myself.
I thought it was a combined effort, until I heard myself repeating things I’d heard growing up. Things that I realised had cut me. These words my mum spoke were dangerous knives, and I caught myself saying them to my daughter.
I don’t like people saying horrible things about Mum. She did the best she could for us. It was hard for her so when I think about the things that hurt me, I think about what I did to deserve them.
There are moments when I was horrible to everyone. Mum won’t let me forget them. The shame wants me to forget, but I can’t. It’s not her fault, though, it’s all mine.
And me saying those things to L?
That’s my fault too.
They fuck you up, your mum and dad.