How confusing is it to hear you on the phone to your friends. How confusing it is that you’re so tender and caring and loving with them. How confusing – that’s not the person I know. I can’t recall a time where you were thoughtful to me. But clearly you’re capable of it – so is it a choice to treat me this way? Or is it involuntary? Does it matter what the intent is, or does it matter what it does to me? I feel that always gets lost – she acts this way because she’s wired that way. But what about what that does to me? Does it matter less? Does it matter at all?
Guilt consumes me that I can’t find middle ground with you. Lord knows I’ve tried. Lord also knows I could have tried harder, but I don’t want to, and I feel guilt about that too. Every attempt at reconciliation is thrown back in my face, every olive branch burned in front of my eyes. It’s disheartening. Sometimes, on your good days, I can feel you reaching out. It seems like you’ve forgotten all the times you weren’t kind. You’ve perhaps forgotten all the times that you were actively spiteful, even. But how can I? And how can I hold the hand of the person who put it in a bear trap yesterday?
I feel burdened with the responsibility. It is on me and only me to say what is and isn’t okay – everyone else is an idle observer. If I put up with it, that’s the expectation – if I stand up for myself, I’m impatient. I’ve actually been told that many times before. I need to be more patient. Patience is a funny word – when does it become complicity? When does it become victimisation? Patience. I’ve allowed my patience to transform me into a version of myself I don’t recognise. Someone resentful, jaded, hurt. I dream of a prince on a high horse to take me far away. It’s not my responsibility to make things right when this is the prize I get for trying.
And yet, I still feel a small glimmer of hope. Not that I can change you, as it’s obvious that I can’t. But maybe one day, the magical prophesised “patience” I’ve been so deeply lacking will hit me like a shot in the dark. It will come out of nowhere, fitting in neatly like the missing piece of a puzzle. Maybe I can tolerate the mistreatment, the blaming, the gaslighting, the disrespect. I don’t even know why I try. My friends, when I talk about you, tilt their heads gently, and have very little to say. I can tell they’re walking on eggshells around you. But I see it in their eyes – they can tell I’m hurt, and they can tell it’s you that did that. Their expressions tell me that it’s wrong, that they would never let themselves be treated like that. I can tell they don’t understand why I put up with it, either. I wish they did understand, so then they could tell me why.
Is it a futile effort? Does it matter if it’s futile, is their nobility in trying? Why do I have to be the bigger person? I imagine it must be so nice to be the smaller person – the person that doesn’t have to think about the consequences of their actions. It must be reassuring knowing someone else will always clear up your messes for you. It must be peaceful not thinking about the impact you have on others, and the duty you have to them to treat them like a human. I will never know.
I find it upsetting that it’s you that gets all the pity. When I speak to family, it’s always “it must be so confusing and tiring to be her, I’d hate to have her brain”. Hell, I’ve caught myself talking like that on occasion. And why do I feel the need to justify your behaviour, which I myself disagree with? It’s bizarre and internally inconsistent. It’s like a niggling voice in my head – maybe it’s yours or maybe it’s someone else – telling me that you’re the victim. But where’s my pity? Where’s my sympathy? Where is the person giving me my flowers for doing such a good job all these years. Wow, “it must be so confusing and tiring to live with her, I’d hate to be in your position”.
The worst- and I mean the worst – is when I see you doing it to others. When I see you act this way to Oakley, your warts and all are on full display, the venom in your voice more palpable than ever, and the cut of your words sharper than I’ve ever felt. Seeing you treat someone so purehearted in that way makes me resent you. It makes me want to hit you. I think it’s a miracle that he hasn’t hit you yet. Honestly, I’ve been defending him for years against the onlookers, who say his retaliation is too much. But I see the situation for what it is. I see him holding his tongue. I see in his eyes the exact same thought process that I go through daily, as to how to navigate it without being the doormat or the bad guy. Yet no matter what he does, he will always be in the wrong. There is no honour in being the bigger person, and there is no personal integrity in stooping to that level. So what is he to do?
To answer this is to answer the unanswerable. I am sure some significant philosopher had a lot to say on this, but I remain unaware. I think this will be the moral battle that I go through for the rest of my life. But I do think that if I am still weighing up the ethics on this, it means I haven’t lost the war. I remain the things that make me a beautiful person. I have empathy, I have a conscience, and I have a desire to do the right thing even when it’s difficult. Even when it isn’t clear what the right thing is.
It’s nice to have someone who understands. Someone who empathises. It’s nice to be looked on, and to be able to tell you’re not being judged. I can tell, even on my worst days, that he knows I am doing my best and that I have my reasons for whatever I do. It’s nice to feel solidarity, even though it hurts to see you suffer.
So now what? I’ve reached out, tried to reconcile. And for what? I know what I am going to get back, yet I still try. It’s like a one-way phone call, where there is someone talking over me on the other end. No, not even talking over me, the person on the other end has me on mute, as if my words aren’t even worth the time it takes to listen to them. As if the message contained within is lesser than. As if the feelings I am trying to convey are no more significant to her than a spam call or a junk email. When this is how I am seen, there is absolutely nothing I can say that will legitimise me as a sentient being, let alone make you care about what I do. It’s strange, to feel like vermin in your own home.
There are tears on my keyboard. How poetic.