Perhaps my tears and emotions got the best of me and my reaction was a bit of an overreaction but, as my blog title is labeled "Confessions..." I suppose only the truth will suffice.
It was a simple matter at first, a joke even, and I as reached for the keys he'd taken from my purse I was laughing--exasperated but laughing. My playful smack hit its target and the smile didn't leave my face until his hand tightened around my wrist. I could see his expression change and I knew that what I had meant in exasperated jest had just become something else. The hand tightened until my wrist was red and stinging and I saw his hand go up in a blur of tan. The hand never came down but hung, threateningly, above my face.
"You'd hit me?" I question
"You just hit me, so yeah." An answer I'd heard before.
He was appalled later that I truly believed he'd hit me, and most of me doesn't believe he would but in truth, the pain of my realization was far worse than any slap ever could have been--to know that you are cared about so little, that a slap to your face or a twist of your wrist was nothing, you simply do not matter.
I do not know how to put in less than 100% for those I love, I do not know how to say no even when I am tired, stressed, and unhappy. And most times I enjoy it--to see the joy that my service creates. But when the ugly truth surfaces, I just can't handle it, I descend into dark pits of my own making where my only company is self-loathing. And the truth is that I mean very little. My presence or absence is inconsequential and the good opinions I seek out are irrelevant. I cannot help but think how many others are equally indifferent to my friendship and even mere existence.
The irony of the whole moment is that somehow he still managed to convince me that the whole mess was entirely my fault, convinced me that he'd actually apologized and meant it, convinced me that my feelings of hurt and confusion were entirely unwarranted--ridiculous and illogical even. I hate so much, too, that what makes me hurt and agonize over inside is but a passing irritation. My whole day was ruined--my eyes continued to leak and my fake smile died on my lips whenever I forced it to perform. And yet he could laugh, joke around with our waiter, sing to the radio even--it didn't matter...I didn't matter. What even IS friendship??
I came home later to read a lovely post about blessing those who hurt you and I asked myself, how? How do you bless someone who only knows how to wound you and take you for granted? I am unsure if I would ever be able to truly bless someone without secretly doing it to guilt-trip them, or win their love, or some other selfish reason. To truly bless someone like that it would require a great sacrifice: the sacrifice of myself; to give over my "right" to be loved, to give of myself without expecting to be treated in the same manner, to sacrifice my need to be important or special and to simply bless them for blessings sake--knowing that they may only give me heartache in return. That would be a true blessing.
It was a simple matter at first, a joke even, and I as reached for the keys he'd taken from my purse I was laughing--exasperated but laughing. My playful smack hit its target and the smile didn't leave my face until his hand tightened around my wrist. I could see his expression change and I knew that what I had meant in exasperated jest had just become something else. The hand tightened until my wrist was red and stinging and I saw his hand go up in a blur of tan. The hand never came down but hung, threateningly, above my face.
"You'd hit me?" I question
"You just hit me, so yeah." An answer I'd heard before.
He was appalled later that I truly believed he'd hit me, and most of me doesn't believe he would but in truth, the pain of my realization was far worse than any slap ever could have been--to know that you are cared about so little, that a slap to your face or a twist of your wrist was nothing, you simply do not matter.
I do not know how to put in less than 100% for those I love, I do not know how to say no even when I am tired, stressed, and unhappy. And most times I enjoy it--to see the joy that my service creates. But when the ugly truth surfaces, I just can't handle it, I descend into dark pits of my own making where my only company is self-loathing. And the truth is that I mean very little. My presence or absence is inconsequential and the good opinions I seek out are irrelevant. I cannot help but think how many others are equally indifferent to my friendship and even mere existence.
The irony of the whole moment is that somehow he still managed to convince me that the whole mess was entirely my fault, convinced me that he'd actually apologized and meant it, convinced me that my feelings of hurt and confusion were entirely unwarranted--ridiculous and illogical even. I hate so much, too, that what makes me hurt and agonize over inside is but a passing irritation. My whole day was ruined--my eyes continued to leak and my fake smile died on my lips whenever I forced it to perform. And yet he could laugh, joke around with our waiter, sing to the radio even--it didn't matter...I didn't matter. What even IS friendship??
I came home later to read a lovely post about blessing those who hurt you and I asked myself, how? How do you bless someone who only knows how to wound you and take you for granted? I am unsure if I would ever be able to truly bless someone without secretly doing it to guilt-trip them, or win their love, or some other selfish reason. To truly bless someone like that it would require a great sacrifice: the sacrifice of myself; to give over my "right" to be loved, to give of myself without expecting to be treated in the same manner, to sacrifice my need to be important or special and to simply bless them for blessings sake--knowing that they may only give me heartache in return. That would be a true blessing.
No comments:
Post a Comment