Years may go on…

..but words still hurt and the pain lingers.

closeup photography of loser scrabble letter

Photo by Shamia Casiano on Pexels.com

I believe in the power of words. Whether it’s for good or bad, words linger. The power you can have over someone else’s emotions and personal strength is more impactful then you probably realize. That being said, tomorrow is my birthday and today I feel a bit crestfallen.

15 years, 20 years or 25 years, does the timeline really matter if you still feel the same way that you did when that person said or did that hurtful thing to you? Does time invalidate the pain or the ability to make things right with someone who you may have said incredibly distressing things to? No. Never.

You have time to make things right; time to heal those who you have wounded.

I feel like a fool sometimes for reaching out to those people and try to give them a chance to make amends, clear the air and have a positive interaction with me — but some of those people would rather make it seem like I am the one at fault; like I deserved it.

Reliving these terrible instances is a horrible way to live. Oh, and not only live, but sleep, dream or even have nightmares about it. Why are some worthy of respect from these individuals, even friends of mine, and yet I’m not? I don’t know if it’s because I’m wired differently, because I’m neurodiverse or because my skin isn’t as thick as it could be. I wear my heart on my sleeve. I spent so many years crying and being ‘beat up’ emotionally by those around me, including a family member who should have set a good example. The term “emotional punching bag” comes to mind.

DoodleBeth illustrates it perfectly. It was truly kismet to see this images yesterday.

If someone gives you the chance to make things right, please don’t insinuate that the victim is the one to blame when given the chance to make things right:

“I am sorry you harboured this feeling for so long. i’m not sure if I can give you the response that you wanted – but I do hope you can mend that hole.”

 

In conclusion:

Please make amends with those you may have hurt.
Your words are more powerful than you realize.
Be kind.

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My Story: Part 1

I was born near the end of the 80s. A time of plenty.

My entrance in to the world was a rocky one. I was born with a couple of birth defects and had surgery shortly after I was born. I had another surgery months (or weeks?) later.

I grew up in an upper class neighbourhood (in Vancouver, BC Canada) in a big pink house that wasn’t much older than me with my family being the very first owners. The houses surrounding us were mostly heritage homes, few of which are still standing today.

I attended a religion-based private/community school from Nursery 3 up until the 6th grade. It was horrible and I spent nearly every day crying. I’d start my day with a sense of dread, spend the middle of the day battling with my own self esteem as those around me diminished it any chance they got. I’d come home and have one of my parents ask me how school was or what I did. It was the last thing I wanted to answer and I would get scolded for being evasive.

I then transferred to a private school and the very same problems followed me there. 6th grade and part of the 7th grade. I wanted to vanish, forever. The kids were just as cruel but they didn’t spend 9 years of their lives growing up with me- not that it made any kind of difference.

I transferred schools again, this time it was a multi-modal program with another very high price tag for me to attend (yes, the last two schools definitely cost notable chunks of change). I had made a couple of friends, but I still felt like I wasn’t supposed to be there. I wasn’t sure where I would ever fit in. This time, it was a couple of teachers that I clashed with. Mr. H – he got mad at me through my ’emo’ years for wearing a spiked bracelet. He told me it was banned and that I was NEVER to wear it again. I kept asking why? What was wrong with it? I didn’t get a solid answer. I was very upset. I went to the office and the receptionists were talking about me right behind my back. I called my Mom and within NO TIME at all she came to the school and confronted the teacher. She asked him, point-blank, if he thought it was some kind of “S&M thing” and he wouldn’t say anything! She then confronted the receptionists and they admitted they were talking about me.

I love my Mom so much, she’s always been my #1 and ALWAYS been there for me. She’s my best friend.

The second teacher, Mr. F was the art teacher. He told me once that all my art looked the same and constantly excluded me from events that were meant for everyone. It was a struggle to KNOW that i was purposely left out.

This is Part 1 of my story. If you’re interested in knowing more, please let me know.

Love,

Margaux

Socially Inept.

There are plenty of us who are able to express ourselves and plenty who can not. I always hope when I share my stories that I am able to speak from deep within. It’s incredibly humbling when I receive messages of support.

To know that there are people out there who find what I say relatable and comforting is wonderful.

With everything that has been going on in the Autistic community, primarily those who have chosen to speak for us/at us without being Autistic, I feel that much more compelled to share the experiences that have shaped me.

I feel fragile and lonely at times. I wear my heart on my sleeve and I am still growing, changing and evolving. I realize that the sentiment “be kind” can be so much more. Hold the door open, say hi to someone! Maybe even practice random acts of kindness? The simplest acknowledgement can really brighten a human’s day.

Love,

Margaux