21 May 2014

dear bully,

I've had it.

I woke up mad. First, I tried to free-write it out -- I mean the forceful, chicken-scratch writing on pages of loose-leaf paper riddled with exclamation points, triple underlines and innumerable *f-bombs.* The etchings and impressions of my heavy hand even marked the blank pages beneath the sheets I defiled. It didn't work. So I filed them away, and I tried to breathe it out. I sat for a moment in contemplative silence in an effort to meditate, to focus and to find my breath. Screw this, my mind screamed. 

I couldn't sit still so I decided to run instead; I intended to work it out. I cut through cool air -- praying, pounding pavement -- and I ran through a series of smart, forceful and biting responses in my mind. I considered all the things I could have said but didn't have the words for at the time. I pumped my arms and legs and pounded my fists in the air to the angry anthem ringing in my ears. Winded, thirsty and invigorated, I returned home. But rather than to quell the fire in my belly, my run only served to fan the flames. 

So I've decided to blog it out. 

A friend once told me that he loves to read the posts I write when I am upset. "It's your best writing," he asserts. Well, yay for both reader and writer today, because I feel frustrated, angry and annoyed. I'm pissed. 

Hers is that voice that remains in your head long after she's gone. You feel deflated, and you ache for tomorrow when she finally leaves the room -- of course she only leaves after she has presented as her own, the very thoughts that quietly proceeded from your mouth yesterday.

She is the pushy the little bitch on the playground with pigtails and bright eyes who never learned to share. She is a modern-day Veruca Salt. I want, I want, I want, she screams. It's mine. Give it to me -- NOW. And with little regard for anyone but herself, she takes her share and yours too. She asks for, expects for and demands for more. 

She sees wide open spaces, and she fills them. She is boisterous, arrogant and loud. Her voice -- the squeaky, relentless resonance of her voice -- consumes both peace and quiet. She assumes that no, you couldn't wish to be alone as your retreat and you choose to walk away. So she rushes to be by your side once more -- not to be your friend, but to keep an eye on your next move so she can do it too. She flaunts the fruit of another's labor in your face and only feels tall when standing on your toes. 

She is the girl who reads this far into my rant about MY frustrations but somehow manages to make it about herself. How dare you, she seethes. Are you talking about ME? she wonders more than once. Yes. Undoubtedly, yes. 

For a while, my reaction was to shrink and to question myself and my worth. And then, I began to check out, to throw up walls and to shield myself and my heart. And then I learned to walk away, to bow out and to turn the other the cheek. But today -- NOT TODAY. Today I choose to speak up and to push back. On behalf of the small, the meek, the introvert, the soft-spoken, the young, the insecure and the quiet, I am asking you -- no I am telling you -- to BACK THE FUCK OFF. 

I see through the smoke and the mirrors. And all the empty words. And all the broken promises. And all the bullshit. You -- you know who you are  -- you need to know that I see the truth, and today I'm calling you out.

You are small. You are a liar, a cheat, and a counterfeit. You have pushed too long and too far.  You are ugly, unkind, and I pity you. You have no power over me or anyone else except for what we have given to you. No more. No questions. I'm taking it back. 

I am not as loud as you are, and I do not and will not consume as you do. But if you think for a moment that this makes me weak, you are sorely, sadly mistaken. My strength is quiet, constant and strong. It comes from a well far deeper than you have ever had the courage to tap, and it will come when you least expect it. It is fueled by love, not fear. Cooperation, not competition. It is not about me and it is definitely not about you. This is about US

Hear me clearly today when I say I am done. 

It's on. 

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