June is shouting again. She is losing it.
“I’m sick of the disrespect! I’m sick of you making us go back there!”
We have to go back there, June…
“We work our asses off for these fucks and what the shit do they care about us?!”
A lot of them care quite a lot about us, June. They are very understanding. We aren’t even having an issue at work. Nobody has a problem with us. It’s over. We explained things as best we could and people don’t see us as a problem. We are very helpful. They do appreciate us. They do care.
“No, they don’t give a shit. They can’t even remember the shit you tell them. They know about PTSD, right? They should not loud and aggressive voices are a trigger issue. I mean we can handle customers because they are just passing through, but we need to feel safe at work. We can’t feel safe if they choose to be snarky, rude, and make blatant disrespectful comments to our face. To be a good manager doesn’t require you to be a dick when you discipline. Trying to embarrass or shame us is IN-FUCKING-TOLERABLE! They know you have a memory problem and that’s not your fault. Yet when you can’t remember where something is, they say that’s no excuse. WHAT THE FUCK?”
I can’t expect people to think this way when we don’t show them any sign of being bothered. That’s part of the curse and the benefit of dissociation, derealization, and depersonalization. I can detach myself from feeling, momentarily. Show no sign of suffering. Or one of you guys will take over if I begin to lose strength and falter. I mean we are so fluid in our switches no one can even see it. Only a few out of this very large bunch really stick out – i.e. noticeable changes in tastes/opinions/demeanor/tone of voice. We just have to try harder to explain ourselves.
“NO! I’m SICK of TRYING! I’m sick of it. These people can never understand. We need to quit. I want out. I’m tired of us suffering when something out of our control happens. We do our fucking best yet people don’t even fucking believe that! I mean, PLUS suffering in constant pain on top of it! How can any body be pressured to to more than what they are obviously already trying very hard to do! GOD DAMN IT! I fucking hate this place. And fuck them for not standing up for us to corporate and fuck them for not caring that we are triggered because it’s not important enough for them to remember. Fuck this job. Fuck corporate and their money minded empty fucking hearts. Fuck them for crossing the line way to far!”
June, we are not backing down. I know you don’t like the place’s policies, but truly they are more of an annoyance than an issue.
“No this is about respect. RESPECT FOR OURSELVES. We don’t need to be treated like this…”
They are just following procedures. We must find a way to get accustomed to it. You were out of line, regardless of the way they treated us afterward. They are humans with feelings too and are allowed to express their feelings. We handled it. We are okay now but we need to find better ways for you to get your points across. This is not working.
“I said it before, Jess, and I will say it again…I will NOT fucking apologize for defending my friend, myself and other people I care about. People YOU should give a fuck about too.”
Never said I didn’t. However, I don’t bother with meaningless squabble. I was thankful to be rid of a problem, not trying to make another one. This is how the world works. In between a transition from too harsh to not sure what’s too far, we just throw everything into unacceptable if it makes anyone upset for any reason. The way the world works is, the one who complains first wins. I would have been happy to discuss with her the issues she had that were unreal, and frankly put the truth in it’s place, but then again, people who are manipulative know the truth already. All this doesn’t matter now, because you already had done what you did. What hurt you so much that you had to try to break this girl? What made her worth your time? She was a tiny flounder amongst sharks we need to worry about.
“You know what, fuck it. I’m tired of this bullshit. She was just a piece of shit like every other person who ever told lies about good people like us and she tried to make us out to be the very thing we hate and FUCK THIS SHIT! EVERYONE in this fucking world is bullshit and why do I have to hurt every day for them? Why do I have to keep fucking hurting to keep them happy? Stay around because people will miss you or people “need you” they all say? But so basically their happiness is more important than amount of suffering I am in. FUCK IT! FUCK THEM! LET ME DIE. I WANT TO FUCKING DIE. I CAN’T ANY MORE! LET ME DIE LET ME DIE LET ME DIEEEE!! LET. ME. FUCKING. DIIIIIE!!!!”
We are inside, on the mental plane of existence where we have built our internal world that helps us communicate. Outside of a three story large Victorian style white house, a long field of tall grass is where we stand. I see her here several feet in front of me, with stringy brown hair looking at me over the brim of large round wire frame glasses. Red faced from screaming. Arms folded across her chest. I see her looking around….I try to see what she’s looking at. It’s not inside, it’s outside of us, here. I hadn’t realize that she was controlling the body while I was meditating here speaking with her. She’s seeking something….Something for……..oh no. Here we go again. I have to call on some others to help me restrain the force of that emptiness June carries, that makes her want to find a way to die and end the suffering. The others I call on now are standing next to me – Jey, EvaMarie, Morrighan, Zsi Zsi – I can’t quite explain why they are the ones I called, maybe because they are the other “adults” like myself, going against the 14 year old full of angst.
Then, suddenly I notice a shadow of movement behind June…What was that. I try to focus harder. June is screaming even louder than she was already and stomping her feet, but it still did not deter me from focusing my gaze beyond her……….To see what she was standing in front of…What she was hiding…….Actually, WHOM she was hiding.
And trying to drown out….
I see a little 8 year old girl with slightly frizzy wavey brown hair in a pair of purple pants and a white t-shirt with flowers embroidered on it. She is standing there, head thrown back in anguish, as she screams the exact same words June is screaming trying to drown her out: “LET ME DIE LET ME DIE LET ME DIE THEY HURT ME LET ME DIE!”
I suddenly realize this issue isn’t soley a ‘June’ issue….She was trying to distract to protect the one really upset. The one who keeps the secrets of the physical and emotional pains of every trauma suffered.
There before us stands Connie….