Perspective


Once upon a time at work a bbq was put on for staff and I guess maybe customers. I got there and grabbed a sausage sandwich and stood, munching, watching the hills in the distance – mindful of the fact I was busy but wanted seconds. A colleague turned up and said within earshot of me “There’s – my name – over there. You expect him to jump over the railing with a rope around his neck.”

At first I was angry but, as I all too regularly do, I suppressed the rage. Then I was sad, ironically sad that another human’s reaction to my apparent unhappiness was to, willingly or not as I’m not sure whether he realised I overheard, seek to amplify said unhappiness. I was made more unhappy by the fact that the other colleague he said it to responded by fucking laughing. Then I grabbed seconds and went downstairs – and in addition to working continued thinking about the incident.

I ended up pitying him. Because I realised for him to think such a thing and also say it within earshot of who it was about he must have been pretty unhappy himself. It seems the only reasonable course of action, when internalising reaction to abuse. There was noone at work I could tell because you should never trust anyone you work with. I trusted my bosses equally as my lowliest colleagues not to either believe what I heard or do anything about it that would satisfy me. And even if you trust family or friends – which you should also be wary of – telling them about such incidents doesn’t necessarily have a practical effect.

So that’s the nature of perspective: you have to rationalise in your own mind that the person abusing you is doing it from a place of their own wretchedness. Because to reason otherwise you could only conclude that their behaviour toward you is indicative of your worth – in their eyes or those they know who may have said ill of you. And as, as I get older, incidents such as these BY FUCKING BASTARDS WHO DON’T DESERVE THE OXYGEN WHICH PROPELLS THEIR HURTFUL HORSESHIT multiply and I have to hope they don’t weigh down my mind. At least by not apparently reacting I don’t have to worry about the reactions, indeed consequences, to my reactions. Night after night it comes down to the fingers-crossed moment – where when you decide to go to sleep, you indeed do and don’t instead stay up all night thinking about the hurt you have to suffer at the hands of others whether you like it or not.

Not that I know I can trust this blog, but I have got to hope by getting it through my fingers that it will get the fuck out of my brain.

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