I’m scared. My words are being forgotten, my patience is utterly exhausted, my will is being disregarded and my pain and I are betrothed to one another.
I’ll go through the steps for you. She says something. Something insignificant, something minor, something of no importance to her or anyone else. But to me it hurts, it stings like a bee and burrows its way under my nails. It multiplies, they crawl and suddenly these words that meant nothing to her and something to me are eating away at my resolve and begin to prep the bomb. It’s not my fault I claim…
We all have insecurities, some of us more than others and she has located one without even realising it. Making me feel worthless and alone and embarrassed all in a moment that she does not even realise occurred. I consider ignoring it. I’ll let it pass. This fleeting anger is immature and irrational and should be thrown into the bin like a piece of used glad wrap…
But I am different. With the anger comes pain, with the pain comes anger. With the two coinciding in the same space within my rationality I begin to spiral out of control. I pull away. Noticing this reaction, she initially attempts to console me, arms outstretched. The madness with its grin and its hold urges me to pull away once more and not respond positively in any manner. Her mood descends and her walls raise. Gone is the warm smile and soft eyes. I am entitled a moment of reflection between the waves of agony and use it to attempt resolve. I go to her, I do my best to communicate my feelings. So she can understand why I’m upset and that I need help at this critical junction…
But as if on cue she retorts. Vulgar sentences accompanied by crueller words. She does not understand how I feel. She does not want to understand that my illness and her are ganging up on me and I, a mere child in the vessel of a grown man, cannot handle this bombardment. The pain is kicking into its final stages of growth. I’m finding it harder to articulate my thoughts and so I plead…
This is the worst step. The step that cuts me the deepest. I reveal my innermost feelings in a genuine outflow of emotion… and what do I receive from her? Nothing. She looks at me with such an emptiness that I find it hard to fathom how much she supposedly loves me. In this moment she has no compassion to offer. She argues her point no matter how valid or unfair it may be. Why? Because it is her point to argue and because to her, she is the most important person in this room. But when she is also the most important person in my eyes as well who is left to consider me? I begin to lose motor skills, I want to hit something, hard. I want to lash out because my words are failing me and there seems no communication avenue adequate enough to get her to understand.
I don’t want her to see this. This is my disability, not anyone else’s. So I leave. She sleeps (a pleasure I am unable to enjoy), she distracts herself with friends (an asset I don’t possess), or she relaxes (something I desperately desire but alas won’t get). She moves on and I suffer, alone physically and emotionally. When it’s over I hide away the real me, and smile because that’s what makes her happy. I play with her hair because that’s what makes her happy. I buy her food because that’s what makes her happy. I make her happy to hide from the fact that no one tries, cares, or think’s about what makes me happy. My happiness must not really matter. And after these arguments I wonder how long my happiness has not mattered.
I suck it up though and push on. Either I’m strong enough to deal with this or I pretend to be. I have to be. Because no one will ever try make me as happy as I try to make them and I have to accept that.
Quiet Stories 