Little Voices in My Head

I’ve been thinking about doormats lately. Not the kind that cheerfully welcome people into your home laying there on your threshold, but the kind that get trod on. Muddy boots scraped on. Snow shoes dropped on. Flip-flops plopped on. The kind you use and abuse and never give a second thought to.

The human ones. Like me.

So I was thinking, at what point or age in one’s life does one get to say, “Enough!”? My friend N has a fabulous way of putting it. She has said to me: “My family treated me like furniture. And then got upset when I said that wasn’t ok with me. Because no one expects their table to say ‘No, you cannot put stuff on me and treat me like a table. I wanna be a lamp!’” I think that’s a very apt way to state how I feel about being a doormat. No one expects their doormat to complain about being used for the purpose it was designed for.

At what age is it acceptable to tell those who are trudging on you that it’s not ‘ok’? Is it when you develop a personality around 3? Or when you hit puberty? Or adulthood? 30? 50? When do you get to say “Fuck this shit; I’m taking my ball and I’m going home. “?

So after thinking about it for quite awhile, I decided that today is my day. Here goes:

So it’s not ok. It’s not ok that you got everything you wanted, and you STILL get to claim to be ‘so anxious’ about a breakup that you claim to need medication. Awe… poor you. You couldn’t keep your dick in your pants, and now you have to suffer those consequences. You don’t get to attempt to make me feel bad, or to demand money, or to tell your family that I’m heinous or crazy when YOU failed to keep a simple tenant of a relationship. You couldn’t control your horny *and coming from ME, that’s a serious loss of control* so now you get to horn out all alone. It’s NOT ok to try to cast me as the black-hat.

It’s not OK that you said “We need you to leave so that someone else can be here” (verbatim), and then you expect me to be hunky-dory and happy and secure when you say “You’ll always have a home here Carissa!” That’s. Not. Ok. You’re a hypocrite and although I accept your half-assed apology of “oh, we’re sorry you feel that way”, I do NOT think it erases the deed. An apology should not be an assignment of blame on the injured party for being injured. It should be an I-fucked-up-and-hurt-you-and-I’m-sorry. It’s not ok to accept my help, demand my expertise, and give me guilt about NOT being there; when you cannot handle my presence when you want someone else there. Not Ok.

It’s definitely not ok for you to beat me. It’s not ok that you hit me, and kicked me, and broke my skull and decimated my soul and everything that I am. It’s not ok. And you don’t get to say to friends we had that I deserved it. Or to try to fuck one of them by saying “Carissa never has to know”.  That’s not ok. And quite frankly, it’s not ok, and it’s really pathetic of you.

It’s not ok to claim to be a Christian and then tell me I’m going to hell for not worshiping the exact same way you do. Or for making choices (that whole ‘free-will’ thing really bites your ass doesn’t it?) that you wouldn’t or couldn’t make. Love isn’t limited. It’s not ok that you try to limit mine.

It’s NOT ok that you say mean, horrible, nasty things about my family. Especially the one member of it that is so innocent, so pure, that you couldn’t handle even being in the same room with her. It’s not ok that you call her ‘retard’ or say how greatful you are that you don’t have to deal with that ‘mental reject’ anymore. That’s. Not. OK.

Welcome to the new world. Carissa is not rolling out the doormat ever again. Go ahead and try it. I will sow your fields with salt. I will make sure you spend your days alone. I will ensure that the planet knows just how wrong you are. And I will not apologize for it. Because I’ve had enough. And the doormat refuses your boots. Go wipe the dog shit on someone else. I’m done.

Carissa with the Fork.