A couple of weeks ago I learned a lot about the way that I am perceived by others.
I was at a work social on a Tuesday afternoon. I had been talking about how I planned on heading off soon and then I was asked what day I tend to go into the office and I said for the next few weeks not at all but usually Thursdays.
That obviously led to a bigger conversation which then ended up being a conversation about weight lifting and how that was my preferred method of exercising. That somehow ended up with someone saying that they’ve said in the past that the person that they would least like to get in a fight with is me because they know they would lose. They continued to speak about how I had a quiet power about me and that they would typically do anything that I wanted because they didn’t want to be on the wrong side of me.
They then got concerned about how I was taking that and added that they didn’t think I was a bad person, they just found it interesting how all things considered I am quite low on the food chain in terms of the company but I still had a power about me that had nothing to do with status.
Because I gave nothing away on my face, they then checked that I was okay with what they said and I said yes. Because it didn’t bother me. They weren’t wrong. I’ve never really thought much about it because I mostly just keep to myself, but I guess that just adds to the whole thing. I’ve also long since stopped caring what people think about me - you may remember a couple of weeks ago I admitted that I wouldn’t necessarily call myself a ‘nice’ person.
So being told that I gave off the kind of energy that makes people think that I might not be the one that you want to mess with isn’t that surprising to me. Heck, once upon a time one of the people that I am now closest to thought the exact same thing and look at us now.
I didn’t set out to become a person who gave off that vibe (ya know, the vibe that I am high up in some sort of mafia situation and remains very cool about the whole thing). In fact, if anything once upon a time I was desperate to be liked.
I wanted to be the cheerleader with all the friends and all the popularity. I wanted to be Cool Girl (before I read Gillian Flynn’s assessment of it - that one speech has come up a lot over the last few weeks, don’t even know why it’s so on the brain recently) because being the Cool Girl meant that people thought you were worth knowing and that you were a ‘nice person’.
I was distinctly aware that if I was anything but that person then I would be labelled problematic through no fault of my own. It never actually worked. I was well behaved, I did well at school. I just happened to be part of a very problematic classroom of people and one day in Year 6 (I think, it might have been Year 5) the majority of my class made it their mission to ruin a supply teacher’s life.
They made her cry. She got the headmistress (a woman I literally towered over at age 11) and made a point of saying that there were 6 people in the class that had behaved like normal people. The headmistress (I have just remembered that I could name her if I wanted to, but I won’t) was surprised that I was one of the good ones.
I was bullied throughout a lot of the last two years of primary school and any time I made a scene (ya know because I’d been hit with a ruler multiple times and it was starting to piss me off) I was the one that got in trouble because the little white kids who attacking me looked like butter wouldn’t melt.
Oh, on a tangent I also got punched in the right boob a lot because no one believed that I had boobs in my final year of primary school (itty bitty titty committee member over here) and apparently the way to ‘prove you had boobs’ was if it hurt when you got punched in the chest. Apparently, because I just got annoyed at being punched and didn’t say ‘ow’ it meant that I couldn’t possibly have boobs. Do you have any idea about how much I Googled whether it was normal for one boob to be smaller than the other because I was convinced that those silly little girls had done permanent damage to the growth of my boobs?
The shit show of my arrival into double digits wasn’t the thing that turned me into this seemingly quiet but deadly person. I imagine that happened around the same time that I distanced myself from any kind of physical touch.
I’ve gotten really into ASMR videos over the course of this year (it’s a method of procrastination for me I’ve realised) and it unlocked this part of me that remembered that I used to love people drawing on my back and a rare few people were allowed to play with my hair. You’re lucky if I hug you these days and I am terrible at getting massages because I do not quite know how to get my muscles to relax under someone else’s touch.
I don’t remember quite how old I was when it changed but I was young enough. Young enough to play off what happened and push it to a dark corner of my mind only to have it come back to me with a vengeance when I was 26 and someone else started touching me in the same place. I suddenly remembered nails that were too long and a dark room that was illuminated by Grand Theft Auto paused on a TV on a wall. He was definitely 18, I definitely was not. I was too young for that to happen to me, but also old enough that it wasn’t the first time I was treated as older than I was.
That was probably it. I retreated and retreated and fell into a well of anxiety and worry that I never really got out of fully (it’s manageable now). I decided that I should be the smart one because I had nothing else really going for me, except being pretty. But I was also told that pretty fades. I fell apart in a lot of ways and then put myself back together differently.
The more cracks that I filled the less shits I gave. The less I felt like I had to smile all the time. The less I felt the need to perform. The more comfortable I became in my own skin and all the ways that it expands and dips and scars. The less I felt like I needed to apologise every time I dared to speak. I became more intentional with my words. I fed the passions and interests that spoke to me and stopped trying to make other things happen that I just didn’t care about. I made it abundantly clear that the chances of you getting me out of the house on a Saturday night once Strictly had started are pretty fucking slim, so if you manage it I must really care about you.
There is a gooey (maybe not gooey) centre down there in the foundations I’ve built but the vetting system to see that part of me is vigorous. And I’m really not all that bothered about all the people that don’t make it through. Nor am I bothered if that translates into this weird air of mystery and power sitting around my atmosphere.
If I give off the vibe that I am not to be messed with, it’s because I’m not.
Jumpin’ Jumpin’
What I’m reading - So I read Electric Idol because it finally arrived in my life and that now makes the third consecutive Sunday that I have devoured a Katee Robert book. I don’t have one lined up for this coming Sunday because I have run out of Dark Olympus books, but no worry, I have other options. I am also still making my way through the Bridgerton series. The Duke and I and The Viscount Who Loved Me are done, An Offer From a Gentleman is next. (as always these are affiliate links)
What I’m watching - I watched so many films on Saturday because I was home alone. Purple Hearts, Along for the Ride, The Craft: Legacy, Cinderella (2021) (again). I also started watching Chambers on Netflix. Oh, I also saw Christina Aguilera last Friday which was wild, mostly because I’ve been low-key obsessed with her for a solid 15 years at least and it's just very surreal to be watching her and hearing her sing some of those vocals in the flesh.
What I’m listening to - Break My Soul (The Queens Remix) really did what it needed to do. I also listened to the Purple Hearts soundtrack a bit because those songs do slap. Oh also, Comfort - Nicholas Galtizine is a great song.
Title Inspiration - I know I didn’t mention it above explicitly, but please know that Beyonce is still on heavy rotation in my life. Cozy is the inspiration for this one.
🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡