Donald Trump has been accused of being a bully. He is a bully. Other bullies: Nana (my paternal grandmother), the kids with whom I went to junior high, teachers throughout school, professors throughout undergrad and grad school, every single one of ex-boyfriends (all four of them), my ex-husband, the kids I’ve taught, the parents of those kids, colleagues; and many bosses.
Gee, when you put Donald Trump into that category, he doesn’t seem so special or distinguished does he?
A bully has the power, or the perceived power (just as significant), and makes other people feel bad and do what he wants them to do by being nasty a whole bunch of ways.
I’ve have had my hair pulled out and been spit on, punched, hit, kicked, shoved, and humiliated. I was scalded with hot water in the girls’ shower room. I have had disposable razors thrown at me. My life has been threatened through words and deeds.
I don’t have any scars—except on my wrist where I cut myself just to see if I could do it and to make the pain go elsewhere. As stated in an earlier post, a serrated, dull kitchen knife is not the way to go.
When T. threatened to “fucking kill me” and “smash my fucking teeth in,” I told him to do it.
I was six inches from his face and I said, “Do it.” I wanted to be punched. Hard.
I have never had my “fucking teeth smashed in,” but if I did I am emphatically positive that it would hurt less than all the names I’ve ever been called me combined.
If T. had broken my teeth, I could go to the doctor and dentist and have them fixed. I would take something for the pain. (I like Demerol personally.) I would know beyond a doubt that I did not deserve to be hit. The bruises and scars would heal.
Assume quotes for the following: fucking cunt; dyke; bitch; lazy; stupid; clueless; skank; whore; dirty; gross; dumb; fucking bitch; fucking retard; not good enough; not special; failure; selfish; worthless except for your tits and ass; worse sex ever; only good for blow jobs; liar; childish; you don’t listen; what’s wrong with you; stupid; break all your fingernails; say good-bye to your mother, smash your head into the copier, you don’t think; racist; incompetent; plagiarist; sexually harassed; I’ll fuck you for a dime; and the list goes on.
I take Prozac, Wellbutrin, Klonopin, and Xanax for that pain. But they can’t target the physical nerve receptors like Demerol can post-surgery.
Football players. Boxers. Athletes. Anybody. If you hit your head enough times, you are going to do permanent damage. If you continue to break your left arm, eventually, it’s not gonna work. Once you’ve broken a bone, it’s never quite the same. But, we all know these facts and accept them. Ignoring them is a whole different post.
But “stupid, fucking cunt failure who is a failure.” You hear it again and again. Whatever gets broke inside can’t be so easily fixed or diagnosed. And, just like you favor a limb after it’s been broken, you begin to think you are all those things you’ve been accused of.
That’s when the demons move into your head and take up residence. (Metaphorically—no I don’t hear voices. After you’ve take a spin around the shrink-block, you learn to make the fact that you don’t hear voices very clear.) Just like my mom’s shoulder still spasms from when she injured it years ago, the demons start repeating what they hear. The names your called become part of your inner-monologue.
The bullies are long gone--but the words remain, the hurt remains, the humiliation remains, the hatred toward oneself remains. You can only live like that for a finite amount of time before you start thinking about the Nuclear Option.
When Boss Lady yelled at me on Wednesday. And, she did yell. I did not deserve to be talked to that way. I didn’t. You don’t talk to people that way.
Or, at least you shouldn’t.
(Yes, it was you that I flipped off on the highway for cutting me off. Sorry.)
I want to—no, I have to get back into the world. I have to start working again, or I may never be able to go back. But, I don’t need this nine-dollar an hour job. In a fiscal way, I absolutely need it. But, in reality I am GOD BLESSED with family who will not let me go with food, shelter, and health care.
I have seen the darkness of the black whole that resides at the bottom of that well. I’ve been on its Event Horizon (bad movie). Taking 150 pills—well, you can’t go lower than that.
This is Act II. In a three-act play, the second act is the climax.
Next time, Boss Lady talks to me that way, call Saint Michael to shut-up the demons in my head, and I say, “Boss Lady, I respect you, but you don’t talk to me like that. I don’t talk to you like that. I may have made a mistake, but your communication is not always totally clear. I am doing my best. But, don’t yell at me.”
She either fires me or not. She either goes ballistic on me or backs off. The former will result in my walking out the door. The latter will result in my advocating for myself—not a common occurrence for me.
Being a salesgirl is not my life long ambition and THANKS BE TO GOD I am in a position where I gave disability finances and FAMILY to see me through until I find my vocation. I am not going to spend the Second Act of my life hating my job every day. I just won’t; and I can’t. Then I would take the Nuclear Option.
There are other “salesgirl” jobs where I won’t be yelled at or have to take a milligram of Xanax to get through the day, before sobbing in my car.
There won’t be a next time that a “man” threatens or disrespects me in my personal life. Well, there may be a next time—but he will not meet the Act I KTK. He will meet Act II KTK (Version 2.0: The Sequel).
And, this time, it’s personal.
Smoke ‘em if ya’ got ‘em. God Bless
In the name of The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit; Mother Mary, Saint Brigid; Saint Jude; Saint Therese Lisieux; Archangel Michael, and my Guardian Angel.
PPS: The world is so fucked up right now, maybe we need a bully as a president. I dunno. My heart is still with Rubio.
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