Today, I was told that something I had done was “really scummy”. The truly unfortunate parts of this statement were the actions it was describing and the fact that they were falsely linked to me. Put another way, I did not do what the person claimed that I had done (the action that was then, by that same person, declared to be “really scummy”).
As I absorbed the words, I felt a sort of shock and denial. No, this person couldn’t be thinking straight – this must be coming from a state of panic of some sort. It makes no sense otherwise.
And yet, here I am, hours and hours later, still with an underlying desire to cry desperately. I did not do it. I did not do it. And I even took extra efforts ahead of time for the situation to go across as the exact opposite – I asked for help from all over to make sure what I would do would be fair and reasonable in every way possible. I did not behave in a “scummy” fashion, and I did not do what I was declared to have done.
That person’s words affect me nonetheless. To my dearest insides am I filled with a sense of desperation, sadness, shock, smallness. I was helping freely, voluntarily in a situation that desperately could use some help from me in particular, and the one being helped spat on me.
I do not know if I will remove the help from the table. Perhaps. I merely know that those words hurt and were inaccurate, making them hurt even more, making their effect last.
I already cried on the phone to my mom, which was a somewhat unexpected occurrence. While that cry was helpful, I still have an uneasy tightness within me, welling up, and dripping on my pillow in the form of salty water droplets.
***Oddly enough, this was in my bedtime reading tonight. How coincidental, right? 😛