Things I Should Have Said

... But didn't. Until now.

“Stand up straight, no slouching!”

But I’m taller than the kids in my class. I had breasts before they had any idea that boys didn’t have cooties. No one is supposed to look at me. It’s....dangerous to be noticed.

“You should wear this. It will make your stomach flat.”

But it’s so tight. It hurts my waist, and the heavy elastic pinches my thighs. I feel like I’m being squeezed. Why don’t any other 5th graders have to wear things like this?

“Are you eating again? Small portions are better.”

I haven’t eaten all day. I was miles away from home on a roan pony, dodging sagebrush, and no one noticed.

“Don’t eat with your fingers. Use your fork this way.”

My hands don’t know how to hold the knife and fork as you do. I’m clumsy. I’m only 8.

“Suck in your gut.”

“Let me take a picture of you in those shorts so you can see how bad they look on you.”

I got these shorts from my friend, and the soft green denim and white contrast stitching made me feel kind of cool. And it’s summer, and I’m at home. Why is it so wrong to wear these at home?

“You talk too much.”

... I want to be heard.

“You cry too much. Wear your heart on your sleeve.”

You made fun of me for an hour.

“Too sensitive. Just get over it.”
“I was only joking.”

It didn’t sound like a joke. But I guess I don’t know what is funny and what isn’t. I’ll laugh with you at my expense next time. Jokes are ok if I’m the only one they hurt.

“Stop trying to impress people with your big words.”

But was that the right word for the thing I wanted to say? I don’t know enough other words to make up for it.

“Will you just be still!”

You pull my hair so hard when you braid it that my eyes water. The comb stings when you smack me with it.

“Your voice is so sharp. It hurts my head to hear you.”

I’m so sorry. I’ll learn to talk more softly. Or not at all.

“You don’t need to go to that doctor again. You’re better, right? It’s expensive and takes a lot of time to do.”

Of course, I’m better. No, we shouldn’t go back. I’m all better. Talking about stuff doesn’t help, does it?

“Knock it off. It didn’t hurt that much.”

The bruise will heal. I can cover it up.

“I can’t imagine anyone would want you.”

No one has so far. Why should I expect anything different?

“We will never speak of this again. I’m sure you are just overthinking it.”

I can see that your friendship with that person is super important to you. I’ll be quiet. I’m sure they didn’t mean to touch me like that.

“Your sister/brother is doing so well. I’m so proud of them.”

Are you proud of me?

I wait on stage, stepping up to a mic in the empty silence of the stadium. A place my family was too busy to come to. Nothing much to see here. Just me. Why would they come? IF she came, what story would she tell the stranger this time about the wayward daughter and all her indiscretions? Real or grossly exaggerated.

Too loud. Too soft. Too much. Not enough. Broken. Unwelcome. Exhausting.

Never just belonging. Never just space to breathe. To move. To learn how to exist in the skin God gave me. The brain He saddled me with and the world He made me live in.

So, I learned to be funny. I learned to be sharp. I learned to hide my big words in short sentences and small rebellions like the piles of books I read in silence and the poetry I wrote for the English teacher who saw a person and not that kid from that family. The family that asked for the book with the swear words blacked out. Blacked out like we don’t know what GD means or were too blind to read the subversive thoughts of life beyond the altar call. A siren call that insinuated that the pathway to preacher-hood wasn’t the only route available. Or the preacher’s wife, if we were born without the privilege of testicles or a voice that mattered outside of the nursery.

I learned too late why I was always alone in the crowd. Why did no tribe look like me. I was a shifting personality. A chameleon of survival that drifted through social strata, blending and melding just enough to be accepted but never quite accepted. Never quite... important enough to remember. Certainly, never important enough to matter beyond the service I offered as my dues for integration.

I learned early that the coffee made just right, cream and two sugars, was enough to get a smile and a thank you. And I lived for those thank you’s. For the acknowledgment that I had done something that brought any kind of praise.

“You make my coffee just right!”

“This is delicious!”

“I don’t know what you did to this chicken, but it’s amazing.”

“You can cook for me anytime.”

“I don’t usually eat apple pie, but your pie? I’ll eat that!”

Be quiet. Feed their appetites. Work harder at being less obvious. Set the table. Plate the food. Make it pretty. Don’t waste their time with conversations about how you feel. Pour the lemonade. The tea. The wine.

Clear the table. Do the dishes. Don’t engage in the conversation too much. Watch them settle into the quiet bliss of a good meal. The rosy flush of being treated well. Of being served.

Sift through the threads of isolation I feel in the suds of a sink full of dishes, no one offers to help me wash. Pull out the points of competence and affirmation. The pleasure on their faces as they eat the food you took 2 days to make. Food they eat in 45 minutes or less... Maybe send them home with leftovers. Maybe they’ll think of me and say nice things even when they don’t have to.

The reality that your competence is your ticket to being less isolated settles like a warm sludge in your belly and solidifies into a new mask. A new identity.

I’m not special. I’m not anything. But I can do things that people like. I can do things well that people need. I can work harder. I can make everyone’s life easier. That will be my purpose.

“You look beautiful tonight.” Lips pressed softly against the shell of my ear. Lips belonging to the tall, gray-haired man I didn’t know. Not really. He was just a guy at church. Words I didn’t hear often from the dark-haired man who held our babies. Even though his words were the only ones I craved.

“I dreamed of you last night. I shouldn’t have. But I can’t help it.”

Is the panic on my face obvious? I’m locked in the car. This is my friend. Was my friend.

“Can you tell my wife how to dress like you?”

No. She looks like herself. You wouldn’t want me. Not really.

“I know how to make sure you sleep good tonight...”

What does this mean? I thought I could trust you.

The chaos of dodging the ones I didn’t want... Be the one who gets things done. Do my best not to be one of those things that gets done. Be part of it. Be a part of something. NO. Not like that.

Rejection. Alone. Again. Next time, I’ll do better. Be less available. Less friendly. Less. I’ll just be less.

The handsy pastor. The one who called too much. The one who gave expensive gifts. The one who demanded my time in meetings attended by him, me, and the oppressive panic of boundaries being pushed. The one who denied his intimate touch was inappropriate.

“I just felt fatherly toward you.”

You’re only 10 years older than me. Nearly the same age as my husband. I don’t believe you. Except... Do other fathers caress their daughters’ faces? Maybe I just don’t know how to accept love and affection.

The social media post from the father figure who could’ve been but wasn’t...

“I’d eat frosting off your body.”

I am horrified. How could you be so vile?

The hug was held too long. The hand was draped too low. Bodies pressed too close. The daggers shooting from the eyes of his wife.

I didn’t ask for this. Please make him stop. Make it all stop.

I retreated into myself. Backing into a frame I didn’t feel comfortable in, but at least I knew those rules.

I withheld and found new words. Not offensive. Not demanding. Ask for less. Need less. Blame a problem no one wanted to solve. Me.

“I’m just not very touchy-feely.”

“I have a large bubble.”

“Of course I’ll do that. I’m so glad I can help. I don’t need any help, myself. I’ve got this!”

“If I could just get through the service without being hugged.”

“I don’t cry really, ever.”

“I don’t like being around people very much. Just too people-y most places.”

“I’m an even-keeled person. I don’t get angry.”

“I’ll do it, but I don’t like being up front. So many eyeballs!”

“I’ve had some trauma in my life. I don’t always know how to respond to things. I’m sorry.”

The barriers become barricades, and the barricades become walls, and the walls turn to stone, and the windows grow bars, and the light can’t quite filter through. But at least I don’t have new words to tell me how little I’m worth. Just the old ones that ballroom dance through my mind. A flamenco of shame. A waltz of capitulation.

The only constant is the change of scenery. Not the tune.

“You don’t make a lot of friends, do you?”

I thought we were friends. I guess I was wrong. I’m sorry I imposed myself on you. I’m so embarrassed.

“We can’t do this. We are grieving our loss.”

Mine too. But I guess I’m not important enough to grieve with you.

“I’m glad your husband is here. He’s the only one who can tell you to shut up.”

Why is it so important that I be quiet?

Talked over, talked about, talked at... Spoken to? How often?

“Women need to know their place.”

“Being a wife. Having babies. Raising children. It’s God’s design and the highest calling.”

My marriage is aging into comfortable companionship instead of passion. My babies are grown. My son is gone, lost to a world I can’t follow. Silence radiating through my empty home like a death knell to purpose and value. What am I worth now?

“The best thing a wife can do is make her husband look good. No matter what.”

But what if the truth isn’t pretty? What if we need help? What if I feel like I was forgotten years ago, instead of more interesting and less demanding ideas? My voice is tired of being the only one planning date night and looking for ways to connect.

“Just be grateful. Gratitude will change everything.”

So does telling the truth.

Tell my story.

The acceptable one, especially with the parts that shock and titillate the emotional voyeurism masquerading as sympathy. Words flash out like a mushroom cloud of damage, keeping people focused on the destruction from then. Blind them from seeing me now.

Defensive, I splay myself strategically broken to garner just enough sympathy for who I was then, but not open enough to see the patchwork soul I carry now. They see me as I was. Weak, vulnerable... They see me now. Articulate. Competent. Diligent. Useful. The contrast is palpable.

No one pities me. I’ve overcome so much.

Obviously.

“You’re so dramatic.”
Yeah, I’m not. I could say so much more.