The Reckoning
The Loneliness of Unwitnessed Pain
Have you wondered what it would be like to have someone reckon with the hurt they’ve caused you? It’s not something I’ve experienced very often. In fact, I can only think of one time and by the time the reckoning arrived, it was appreciated but, it was also quite benign. When you’re a dignified person who refuses to make a scene, not because making one isn’t warranted, but because you simply have too intact of an ego for that sort of display, your pain falls on deaf ears.
If I’m not writing a piece or turning my pain into content, I’m screaming it into the void. Seldom does the person who hurt me sit with my disappointment. This is a reality that I’ve had to normalize even if I know I deserve better; or that I deserve presence.
But growth has diminished my capacity for groveling. I know that expressing myself isn’t inherently begging to be acknowledged but, when someone blatantly hurts you, to have to bring it to their attention can feel a little demeaning.
Due to the affliction of heterosexuality, my experiences are always with men who can’t face me once I’ve been disappointed by them and I refuse to beg to be noticed.
Why beg someone to hear you who refuses to listen? Why explain something to someone who lacks the capacity for understanding? When you realize that what hurts you doesn’t guarantee you any sort of tangible justice, you sort of disappear by default.
Self-erasure becomes the by-product of no one ever hearing your cries.
When someone has hurt me, particularly romantic interests, I rarely consider that they might understand what they have done if I just simply explain it to them. Those were the kinds of hopeful thoughts I had ten years ago. I know far too much now. Men, in my experience, when confronted with the fact that they’ve merely disappointed me will deflect, deny, rewrite history, or more than likely just ignore me.
Ghosting is far easier than looking into my disappointed eyes, I suppose.
I wonder sometimes what it would be like for a man to notice my pain and not exploit it. What would it feel like if he noticed me pull away but, instead of ignoring me actually said something?
How might it feel to hear , “I know when you get quiet it’s because I’ve hurt you. Please tell me, I don’t want you to feel uncared for.”
I don’t know how I would respond to an earnest, “I know I’ve hurt you but, I don’t want to lose you over this.” I might be too stunned to speak.
My nervous system has learned never to expect such a courtesy or attentiveness. I’ve never had a lover not crumble under the weight of honesty or accountability. When I’m disappointed, I leave. When I’m hurt, I swallow it. When I’m deprioritized, I retract. When I’m betrayed, I disappear. One thing about me, I’ve become good at leaving.
What would I do if I had a partner who could disappoint me and still stay? How would it feel for him to sit with me in my grief and not turn his back on me when I cry? How warm might his touch feel, wiping the tears from my cheek, apologizing from his heart, and simply sitting with me in that space?
I think the universe is asking me to release the need for this kind of reckoning. I’ve held space for a long time, waiting for atonement to arrive. I know that there’s a fine line between giving up completely and releasing myself from a holding pattern. And in truth, I don’t know what this writing is evidence of.
Perhaps, I am giving up on ever feeling truly seen and maybe that’s not a bad thing. Maybe the reckoning is never coming and I have to be okay with being deserving but never really receiving. Some might call it self-erasure but, at this point, I just call it what it is.
Life.