I’ve lost my voice. Or maybe I’m finding it again. It used to come so easily and then came one slap on the wrist, followed by another, and I knew what to be. Silent. When you were little we only had to look at you a certain way and you would cry, my mom says. Now I double check every time I send a text. Is this okay? Does this make sense? Am I allowed?
I’m sensitive, I hear myself say over the phone the other day. She was trying to bully me. She thought I was up to something. Up to what? I said. She thought my silence was something other than self-protection. I have ADHD, I forget, I said, throwing excuses out like candy from a parade float.
I’m incredibly uncomfortable, I finally say, body pinned down for count. 3,2… I reveal the truth of the matter. That I don’t like the way you’re speaking to me. That my whole body is shaking. And that this is so, so unnecessary. Then, a shift. She softens. She apologizes. We end the phone call as if we’re old friends.
You’re a saint, he said when I told him what happened. I would have screamed at her. It would have been a blood bath.
Honesty is tool and it’s a good one. It cuts through like a knife because most are afraid to say, I’m scared, I’m upset, this hurts. They’re also afraid to say I’m sorry, I love you, you delight me. We’d rather shroud ourselves in anger or stay hidden in fear than say what’s true.
It’s human to feel. Human to hurt. Human to be affected by other people. Your words affect me. The way you look at me affects me. Your anger affects me. Your preception of me affects me. It affects you, too.
When I touched you, I saw an eclipse, she said. She held her arms out in front of her like she was holding a beach ball, rotating it in the air. I saw an exchange of light and dark and the dark was heavy and the light was barely shining through, she said. Her face looked pained. She went on. What's so heavy? What’s all this darkness? Because the light, the light is you.
