october 1, 2022.

 

My kids are of the age now that they are becoming both cognizant & able to verbalize the behaviors of their peers and others around them. Spending quite a bit of time with their classmates over the past 3 years, I, too, have watched and taken notice of the vast spectrum of personalities in these children.

 

There’s one little boy I think of sometimes that I met last year on the zoo field trip; He had me in hysterics that day – he was such a delight. The kid had zero inhibitions, would talk to anything and everything, and liked to hide from the teacher he was supposed to be holding hands with then jump out and scare her. He was…. different, but he made me smile.

 

I’ve taught (am teaching) both of my kids to be kind to everyone and they really are – my son, in particular, likes to take care of the underdogs (he might have a slight hero complex, will think on this), and he sometimes will play with that little boy from the zoo and when he does, he always gets into the car after school with a funny story about them playing. It was last Tuesday when the kids get in the car and instead of telling me some funny story about this little boy, the first thing out of my son’s mouth was that this kid was crazy (he’d had a meltdown in front of the entire class). As he’s telling me the story, I’m in my head recalling what I’d witnessed at the zoo that day & I’m in total agreement with my son thinking, “bro, he is most def crazy”.

 

And then it hit me, marked by visceral disgust. A defining moment in awareness for Self; how can things change if I participate in dehumanizing other human beings? This little boy’s uncontrolled emotional outburst was just that and it did not make him crazy.

 

“He’s not crazy, baby, his brain is just different than other people. Let’s remember that they are special or else they wouldn’t be here; they might act differently than you and me, but they aren’t crazy. We should learn about what they’ve gone through, not make them feel alone.”

 

 

 

I used to post this gif of a woman throwing cats any time one of them would call me crazy, tell me I was damaged goods, that I was going to die old and alone. I knew that telling my story, sharing the journey of the aftermath and beyond with the world was risky. To me, however, the benefit of helping others, exposing abuse and broken systems to help us become a better society/country, and to be a light for others in some very dark times far outweighed the possibility of potential consequences for doing these things, like dehumanization from my own peers.

 

The weapon of choice against Cake is always her trauma. Call her crazy, that will get her. Tell her she's delusional and paranoid. Ostracize her. Single out and neutralize the threat.

 

i always want to ask the ones that do this to me what exactly kind of threat am I to them?

but i know the answer and whether it's chosen ignorance or unconscious internal shame, the assholes will never admit that their treatment of me and others

is

simply

because

of

fear.

 

using someone's pain and suffering to discredit and dehumanize them says quite a lot about those doing it.

& it has

nothing

NO THING

to do with you, the receiver of this shitty treatment, my dear,

that has caused their villainization of you.

 

if you need to use words like crazy when speaking of another human being,

to justify how you treat them,

i suggest a mirror and therapy

 

the human condition comes with insecurity, there will always be an aura of hesitancy in vulnerability for humans.

 

insecurity is shown in different ways; an insecure man might spin 48 plates and then wonder why no woman will love him - he uses women to feel better about his insecurities whereas an insecure woman might target who she perceives as competition and passive aggressively bully her publicly - this gives her a false sense of power to fill those insecurities.

 

in a perfect world, we all have awareness about our insecurities and actively work on overcoming them in positive ways but, we live on Earth, in America (most of my readers), an existence of imperfection BECAUSE of the constant search for it.

that was deep. might want to re-read that a couple of times *winky face*

 

so why are not all of us, if insecurity being innate is in fact true, assholes? why do some of us not use our insecurities to tear others down?

CHOICE

 

of entitlement.

they think they are entitled to treat others like shit because they have an unconscious hatred of Self.

 

 

and then they call you crazy. lulz.

 

insecurity (plus) the CHOICE of thinking you are entitled = your modern-day abuser, asshole, kween bee, whatever you want to call all of the people that try to break you.

 

 

 

power - insecure and entitled

resorting to

malicious means to climb to the top of the social structure(s) they are a part of

 

which is cool by me, just leave me out of your ascent to hell (you're living life upside down, fyi). i want no part of Maslow's overturned hierarchy.

 

i live on the outside of the pyramid for a reason and i suspect,

this is where the jealousy, the fear, the inability to treat me as a human being stems from.

 

 

i imagine them in bed at night thinking:

use her trauma against her

(my insecure passive aggressive tactic will) hopefully make her feel permanently broken and undeserving of any kind of support or human relationship.

 

and you know what, it sometimes works.

my armor isn't always on.

sometimes i take it off to rest.

and i feel

because i am human

and although i understand the why's of humans doing this to me,

i still cannot understand the how's.

 

 

i am a woman who lives with a disorder caused by severe abuse over the years that

not only continues, but has multiplied

 

this isn't the life i dreamed of as a little girl - to be used, abused, violated, shamed, humiliated, isolated, finding herself without a friend.

 

to say i am crazy, unwell, or any other slur you'd like to call me is just not true.

 

i was not born shattered like the stars in the night sky; i was born alive with the ability to choose, just like you.

 

my choices have been to turn my traumas into proof, tangible proof, that despite being human and all of the difficulties, at random, that come with it, strength, vitality, and resilience can persevere despite the odds.

 

i am proof, that even in those moments others make me feel immense shame for things i logically know i have no reason to feel shame about, that you don't have to stay in those moments of shame, you don't have to believe the lies they tell you about you.

 

i am proof, that attempts to silence me will not work; it only makes me want to speak louder. I refuse to suffer in silence. I've had to do that too many times before and not once can i think of that it benefited me in any way.

 

i am proof that admitting to and speaking about a mental illness caused to me from years of abuse does not make me broken or crazy, it makes me honest and real - alive in the ways those who bully me only wish they could be.

 

words carry weight, especially in this current era where trauma is prevalent, both generational and ongoing environmental/societal. the walking wounded are all around you with scars you cannot see, but scars, nonetheless. those soldiers who have seen the unthinkable, have had to do the unthinkable, the child who acts a little off because his mom did drugs while pregnant with him, the man sitting by himself at the bar because his wife treats him like a second-class citizen, the single mom who is crying alone on her bed wondering if she really is this worthless because all she knows is being used and abused.

 

i chose to not stigmatize the very real ramifications of trauma; i choose to continue speaking about my story, my journey, my good days and my bad because i refuse to be a part of the growing group of insecure, entitled humans that make it hard for others to speak up and get help.

 

 

i choose to fully embrace the human experience and all that comes with it, the emotions, the fear, the love, the joy, the beauty

to share with the world all of these things i experience

 

and you know what,

i think i'm doing a pretty damn good job at not being what they label me as

considering what i've been through....

 

but,

 

those stories are for another day

 

on October 1st of every year my mother would start the day off by telling me that today was the day she went to the hospital to have me. Every single year she'd tell me this, followed by, "I was having contractions but had to wait for your father to iron his jeans and shirt before we could go", which made me giggle every time because how apropos for my very narcissistic father.

 

it was a sentiment of hers i grew fond of; despite my eye rolls and "moooooooom" when she'd tell it, i secretly enjoyed and expected that story every year.

 

but now... but now she is gone, no story, only the memory

 

and i think to myself, today, the first time without hearing this melodramatic tale of the beginning stages of my birth from her, that i was special to somebody.

 

and that somebody didn't think I was crazy, or damaged, or unlovable.

and that somebody would be devastated to know that her daughter, whom she brought into this world, is treated so callously, as an object, as a means to an end. Because the way I am treated is essentially a slap in the face to the person that loved me unconditionally and gave me life - it's telling her that her creation was trash.

 

 

 

 

and after all of this, i think what hurts most, is that there is a man out there that knows these things are untrue - these dehumanizing things said about me, yet, he not only doesn't say anything, but he also remains friends with the very people that make me question my significance as a human - that make me want to just give up.

 

there is a man out there, that for years told me i was the strongest woman he knew, that he'd never loved anyone like me, said i was the best mother he'd seen, who sat with me through some of the darkest times of my life and i, sitting with him through the same, and said i was the only light he'd ever known, and now

 

now,

he just watches as a passive bystander as his insecure and entitled friends swallow him whole, causing him to forget everything he once stood for.

 

those realizations really do a girl in.

 

but

 

she's still not what they call her.

 

and

she'll continue being everything they wished they were, despite the unwarranted hurt they cause her.

 

 

most importantly, she will keep telling her story; silencers be damned.

 

because Truth, capital T, is the strongest weapon.

 

and the girl you call crazy and broken,

she holds that Truth in the palm of her hands.

 

10:08 p.m. I turn and see the Cheshire cat smiling back at me

 

When the day becomes the night and the sky becomes the sea,

When the clock strikes heavy and there’s no time for tea.

And in our darkest hour, before my final rhyme,

She will come back home to Wonderland and turn back the hands of time.

 

or,

maybe that's my mom in the cat's grin & words...

 

OR,

maybe it's me