For as long as I can remember, I’ve taken everything said to me extremely personally. Some people brush off harsh words as if they were never spoken. I can’t do that. I carry them — all of them.
I know people like to say:
“Sometimes when we’re angry, we say things we don’t mean.”
But I can’t buy that. Words don’t just fall out of the sky. They don’t land on our tongues by accident. They come from somewhere — from a thought, a feeling, a judgment that was already there. You might regret the way you said it. You might wish you’d been kinder. But don’t tell me you didn’t mean it, because I can’t believe that.
And so I hold on.
Every harsh word.
Every insult.
Every careless character assassination.
I don’t let them go. I sit with them. I replay them. I tuck them away until there’s no more room left inside me. And when the weight of all those words becomes too heavy, I spiral.
The truth is, sometimes the things that are said are true. I know my flaws — I dissect my life enough to be painfully aware of them. If you point them out, I’ll probably agree. I’ll even hold my hands up. But it’s not always about what you said.
It’s about how you said it.
I can handle honesty. What I can’t handle are words spoken with spite. Words spoken with the intention to wound. Those are the ones that burrow deep into me. Those are the ones I carry around, turning them over in my mind all day and all night, until they consume me.
And when they become too heavy, when there’s no space left to hide them, they come rushing to the surface. I’m not angry at you for saying them. I’m angry at myself for giving you a reason to say them in the first place.
So the cycle begins again.
The anger.
The hurt.
The insecurities.
And I don’t take them out on you.
I take them out on myself.
Because that’s what I’ve always done — turned the blade inward, believing I deserved it.
Leave a Reply