I don’t understand why you can’t understand me.
No, I’m not complicated or complex or full of deep mysteries. I’m normal. Just me. Or so I thought, until looks and glares and comments shoved by my shoulders, bumping and bustling like I’m stuck in a crowded hallway in the way of passers by. Sorry I’m here. Isn’t this where I belong?
To be misunderstood, one of the luxuries of life, really. I’m not growing my own food or journeying down hills to fetch water. I have a screen with endless information right at my fingertips and a roof over my head. So, to be misunderstood, well, could it really be that bad?
I take a moment to wonder when comments are slung. They hit me softly at first then grow into a slap. How could you think I’m that way? Was it something I said or an opinion I gave? Maybe it’s just the way I look or the God I believe in. It could be the family I’m from or the clothes that I wear. The friends that I choose or the career path I’m in. Perhaps it’s because I don’t have tattoos or maybe it’s because I seem rather rigid.
I simmer in thought over the judgements I know are made. It stings and the wound grows wider as I break down each syllable in my brain. If you could only step inside my mind or see into my heart, maybe you’d know that what you think I’m thinking really isn’t the case after all.
You say I’m an extrovert and I smile and nod, when deep down inside it’s clear that I’m really just not. You say I must love doing this or that, but I’m almost offended at the assumption. How can I sit someone down and prove who I am? What type of speech do I write or monologue should I deliver to make them all see that they’ve got me all wrong. It feels like my insides are slowly dissolving and I don’t stand a chance.
A highly sensitive person. A right brain. Imaginative. Those are all bits of me, so I cringe and I claw from the inside out when someone insists I fit into a different shaped hole. Loving to write or having creative ideas is just icing on the cake, they say. Here, prove you’re smart by reading this chart, or show us you can grow by handling these numbers. Be assertive by managing this meeting or calling the shots. Well, what if I have none of those things and feel tormented to try to squeeze and shuffle and crumble myself up until I fit just right. Fit into the space you carved for me, that isn’t really for me at all. My talents and passions feel like a necessary limb. To the world they’re just fluff, and now I’m just unsure. I’m left here not quite fitting into their space of success, yet now too altered to be who I am.
To feel misunderstood makes me look deep into others’ eyes. To wonder what pressure or comment or lashing has made them feel invisible until they conform to the being they’re told they should be. I have compassion now for those who are screaming inside. I’m not who you say I am and I’d rather die than even try. It’s painful to be chipped away with words that say it’s time to learn and grow, but to learn and grow to become something I’m not is just replacing myself with who you want me to be.
Do I surrender myself and succumb to your label, or do I fight to write on the back of my book in a darker ink until you’re willing to crack it open to find what’s inside?
