I’m reeling as I’m writing this. I’m not even sure where to begin. It’s becoming too difficult to remain silent. My Bullshit Threshold has significantly lowered as I continue to unlearn my people-pleasing tendencies. As I write this, it’s at an all-time low. And in a world where bullshit is at an all-time high, I’m having a Grand Ol’ Time over here.
(No, I’m very not.)
I always get stuck in “Should I, Shouldn’t I” Purgatory before sharing my life experiences. When too many bad things happen in a short amount of time, I find myself holding myself back. I don’t want to be That Person, you know? The one who lives through one crisis only to be met with another. I don’t want to again be met with the dismissive “oh, it’s always something with you.” Let’s unpack that a little.
Is it that there’s always something with me, or is it that I no longer allow bullshit to storm through my life unchecked? You’re right — it is always something. And that’s not my fault. People’s own hang-ups shouldn’t have anything to do with me, and yet, they’re often dumped in my lap to handle. I’d love for that energy to be redirected away from the effect and toward the cause. Why is it always something? What’s causing these somethings to happen? It couldn’t have anything to do with, say… ableism and misogyny, perhaps? Or are we not ready for that conversation?
It’s not my fault for being on the receiving end of this shit. I invite anyone whose first instinct is to blame a woman instead of believe her to acknowledge your internalized misogyny. Yes, I said it. No, I’m not kidding. It’s time to take the key out of the ignition and sit in this for a minute or three. Why are women’s experiences automatically devalued or chalked up to drama or gossip or hen clucking? Why are outspoken women automatically “attention-seeking whores with victim complexes?” (Not my words; just words that’ve been used to describe me.) Why are we held liable for what happens to us? Would a man be met with this same energy? I dunno. This is the shit that makes my brain overheat.
When I speak out, I inevitably get called variations of hypochondriac, victim, liar, narcissist, attention-seeker, et cetera, ad nauseam. But when I stay silent, it becomes literally damaging to my mental and physical health. I don’t process trauma when I’m “supposed to.” I know there isn’t hard or fast rules to processing trauma, but people seem to have strong opinions about the appropriate time frame in which to do so—
“That was so long ago. Why are you still bothered by it?”
“What’s the point of holding on? Why can’t you let it go?”
“No one cares about that anymore. Move on.”
A lifetime of invalidation and dismissal gave me one hell of an identity crisis that I’m still sifting through. What are my true thresholds? What’re my limits? My boundaries? My processing capabilities are delayed, and cyclical once activated. I can’t nail down a specific window in which to grieve or process my pain. I’ve gotten good at compartmentalizing my mind in order to maintain my peace… but at what cost?
The physical ramifications of withholding a lifetime of trauma are immense, and frankly, not fucking worth it. I have to say, though, that the dismissals and invalidations that are thrown my way are greatly outnumbered by the amount of love and support that I receive from folks who’ve been through similar things. The way I process my trauma is by sharing my perspective with others. Once it’s out in the universe, it becomes more tangible instead of a fleeting, whirling, spiky, convoluted thought spiral. I’m able to better grasp it and rewind and pause and dissect and explain and try to get closure.
This piece has no real writing structure and I honestly couldn’t care less. It’s helping me process the batshit shitty shit that keeps happening in my life. I am allowed to share my experiences as I see fit. If you stumble upon my content and don’t like it, that’s why God Herself invented scrollin’, baby.
Get on with it.
