Whenever the Czar would discipline me with his time-tested method of endless hours of berating and yelling, I was never allowed to speak up. Of course, the occasional yes ("Do you agree with me?") and no ("Do you think what you did was right?") were in the script, but outside of that, I was to keep my mouth shut. I learned very early on that truth and justice had no place, but instead compliance and silent suffering were the easiest way to escape the verbal and sometimes physical lashings. I resolved that nothing was worth looking at that enraged, red-veined eyeball as he whipped me with a hanger, comb, shoehorn, whatever was nearby.
As I grew older, I got the bright idea that I should at least say something if the Czar misunderstood something. Any time I attempted at justifying or even proving my innocence, the result was merely more culpability. Whether it was for talking back or suggesting that they wrong (how dare I?), any words from me were met with more punishment and anger.
I learned that the most my "voice" would ever be was an internal wail of injustice, an all-night crying session, a cold ice-pack on the welts on my thighs. But even nurture can't quiet quell nature entirely. Outside the realm of home, I began to find my strength. Excelling in academics earned me a bit of authority, at least with classmates and teachers, and I began to find joy in others hearing me.
When I moved out for college, I decided to reinvent myself. I didn't want to be the girl that people knew was smart but never invited to parties. I didn't want to be the sucker who always took the blame because someone else told me to. I learned to be friendly. I learned to talk to strangers. I learned to talk to large groups of people. Recently, the boy asked me why I never considered business as a major. I explained that, as a shy person all my life, I never thought a career of working with other people and mingling suited me.
Anyone who met me after high school, knows me as a fairly outgoing, often funny and goofy person. I'm not a natural leader, but I'm not afraid to lead. I wouldn't say I'm combative, but I'm not afraid to call people out or make complaints when it's called for.
But at the root of my being, the insecurity and fear of returning to that once-lonely girl whose pillow was her only audience lead me on a spiral of anxiety. Like an offensive lineman, breaking through a row of bodies, I see everything as an obstacle. Everyone looks like the Czar to me. They're trying to shut me up. They don't believe me. They think I'm mindless. They'll never listen. They'll never care unless I force them. I bite, punch, kick, shove my way to the podium, when there may be no obstacles at all. The longer it takes to reach an assurance that I've been heard, understood, feels like precious seconds of holding my breath underwater. As another second ticks by, my heart quickens, my breath shallows, my mind races, and panic grows. I flail, I reach, but I can't seem to break the surface, find any relief.
While explaining this feeling to someone recently, I mentioned that I had felt weak for so long that I had to teach myself, make myself, be strong. They replied that, while I can be strong, and being strong is good, I didn't have to be so tough. That the forceful and abrasive nature with which I demand from people only recreates the loneliness. Navigating clumsily from one extreme to the other, I guess I haven't quite picked up the skill of asserting my strength with grace. I only know this because I see the one I love most has scratches and bruises from my pointless attempts to be heard.
