Deb's Newsletter Signup

>

Sunday, September 2, 2018

Ye'r Talkin' to the Wrong ME.

Photo by Bill Lecos

This picture of the dog, Blue, is a reminder—don’t take anyone else’s dysfunctionality. Blue’s essentially saying “You talkin’ to me? Cuz’ if you are…back off! Ye’r talkin’ to the wrong me.”


There are times this life feels like a thumb is planted on the repeater-button, dragging a nail into a synapse until reality matches history over and over.
          It happened yet againanother shit-bag found a way to make their allegiance to dysfunctionality more important than my life experience.
          If it’s not documented in a clinical trial it oughta be—predators find victims by hidden and occasionally displayed scars carried after human-made harm. I know this is true from experience. 
          I relate this awareness to a therapist.         
          “I’ve got a big neon sign on my chest… “Fuck with her, she’s already broken.”
          The young-old-man therapist sighs.
          “I can’t say that’s not true in some fashion. Predators do seek out people who have been victimized before.”
          I glare at the man for his expected response.
          “So basically what you’re saying is that because the original fuckwad broke me into pieces, the rest of them get an opportunity to do the same. That’s not—to kill a phrase from overuse—fair.”
          “No, it isn’t fair. But it doesn’t have to always be this way…that’s why we’re working together.”
          “We both know the neon sign the first fuckwad created isn’t ever going totally away.”
          “You’re right, that likely won’t happen. The best we can do is help you notice similar situations setting up and to respond quickly if it were to happen again.”
          “As if that’s possible. Last week the newest shit-bag got to maul my hand and talk with disgusting inferences. I sat there frozen. Did absolutely nothing.”
          “Not nothing. You made sure he didn’t get near you again, and you’re taking action now. You’re following up, letting someone in charge know what he did…In essence, making sure it doesn’t happen to anyone else.”
          “We don’t know that’ll be the outcome of complaining.”
          “I suppose that’s true. But it is a step in the right direction.”
          “A step in the right direction would’ve been kicking him in the balls.”
          “Yes, but you weren’t in a position to do that. You understandably froze.”
          “Doesn’t make it any easier to accept…yet again I let it happen.”

          A few days after the session with the therapist, what I said is still on my mind.
          I let it happen.
         Those words are scratched into an abuse-sidebar synapse. We often do that, those of us thrown into de-composition by shit-bags. We own responsibility for a trespassing cretin's allegiance to dysfunctionality.
Going forward, my only recourse is to carry on with my allegiance to healing—despite fuckers trying to make it impossible. 
In Blue terms…“Back off! Ye’r talkin’ to the wrong me.”


No comments: