Oh God, she’s talking about herself…

[bluecastle]

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how for the most part, as I was growing up, one of the main things I was made to learn was the injunction to go sit in the corner, be quiet, and not get in anyone’s way. How in ways completely unsexual, I’ve been taught my whole life how to be submissive. And for good or ill, I’m good at it. Partly it’s in my nature to be happier in the background. But also I had a very controlling “her way or the highway” mother which messed me up ways big and small, but taught me not question authority.

And partly inside that family world, and partly outside that’s all been wrapped up in my being taught that I don’t matter. That my feelings don’t matter. When people ask me what I think or what I want, I’m always vaguely surprised, because it’s not supposed to matter what I think.

All of which is messed up I know. And all of which I struggle with every day. Some days are better than others.

And so when I go to talk about myself, there are always voices in my head laughing and saying “no one cares what YOU think.”

But I care what I think. Or I care about trying to figure out what I think. So I keep writing.

 

All of which is rather convolutedly wrapped up in something that happened to me last Friday which has me wondering why my very existence seems to give people an excuse for bad behavior.

I’d just spent a nice hour or so with a couple classes of disadvantaged high school kids who were at the University doing, among other things, some creative writing. I was just there to help out with the little preview of the Emily Dickinson piece we’re doing. But those kids welcomed me into their classroom and sorta loved me up immediately in the way of puppies. I used to teach for a short time, so it was nice to be back in the classroom even just tangentially. And the preview went well which was a bonus.

So, preview over, I’m walking back up the hill to catch the bus to take me back to my office. As I pass between a dorm and a classroom building I hear some boy behind me in the dorm building yelling out his window, “Guys, you gotta come see this lady out here. She’s fucking huge!”

Ah youth.

And there’s no denying I am not small. I’m somewhere between “pleasantly plump” and “can’t fit through doorways.” I’m too big for most amusement park rides – which is generally ok since I don’t like them anyway. I’m too big to buy pants in regular stores (for the most part).

But I don’t see myself as some kind of a freak show. (most days anyway!)

So why do others?

But if they get to broadcast their opinions out windows to the world at large, than the least I can do is write down my opinion about their opinion, right?

And actually, when they said it, I just wanted to look around to find out what fat person they were talking about. ‘Cause I didn’t want to think they meant me. But I knew they did.

And see, people have been saying shit about me my whole life. I’m always too much or too little or too loud or too quiet. (Make up your mind peoples!) So it’s not like I’m not used to this stuff.

But where the HELL do people get off being such WANKERS?

Why does my size matter to them? I’ve been picked on my whole life for being somehow wrong. But I can’t be THAT wrong.

I’m just me. Quiet. Shy. Bookish. Empathetic. Dramatic. Sad. Silly. Me.

Why is that not enough for people?

Which of course, if you’ve managed to read this far doesn’t count you, dear reader. If you’ve cared enough to read this, this thing that’s as close to a tirade as I can do today, then it’s not you I’m yelling at.

I just wonder why people are so stupid sometimes. And these yelling bastards were just kids. But that doesn’t excuse them. Why can’t people grow the fuck up, mind their own business, and let other people alone??? Why must we denigrate the other? Why are we so scared of the thing we think is different from us?

Why the hell didn’t I make coffee before I started this?!

You know, the big questions!

Anyway… that’s a little slice of my brain today.

Comments

[amand-r.livejournal.com]

I don't know why people care about this shit. Like, I don't know why I care about myself, either. Ina addition, why would you (meaning "they") even point it out? People come in different packages. I'm sorry that shithead made you a sad emo panda.

GOOD GOD, WOMAN. MAKE YOURSELF SOME COFFEE.

[valancy-joy.livejournal.com]

WISTFUL EMO PANDA GOES OFF TO MAKE COFFEE...

It's the only sensible response. Although I wonder about making and drinking breakfast blend coffee when it's almost lunchtime...

[amand-r.livejournal.com]

Bah, the "Breakfast" is just a suggestion, like how bars not opening until 2 pm is just a suggestion about when you should start drinking. It's optional.