I was always the shit show.
Hi! It’s me again, Margaret; the girl that ALWAYS got too drunk at parties, or restaurants, or anywhere really.
The girl that prided herself on being able to handle her liquor, self professed life of the party once the tequila kicked in.
Miss. I just need a drink or five to feel less like a misplaced puzzle piece.
I was somewhere beneath my grief, if anyone was wondering; just hanging out in the wrong box.
Okay God, you got me!
You can put me where I belong any time now.
I’ll just have another drink and wait.
I’ve been looked at with pity and judgement. “Aw, look at that shit show.”
“I am SOOoooo glad I am not her.”
“What a fucking waste.”
Because, you know, all of us too drunky girls are whores and sluts that had it coming to us.
And, somewhere along the very blurred lines, society permeated our fragile membranes, and we absorbed the shame and guilt their judging eyes, and groping hands, and unwanted insertions pressed into us.
It started out as a small maybe I am, and blossomed into a full blown binding contract between their trauma and mine.
I started to agree.
I had it coming to me.
It was my fault.
It is my fault that I am the way that I am.
I should be ashamed, because I do these shameful things, and I am a shame filled girl, and I deserved to be invaded, and I will never be able to say the name of the thing that happened to me aloud, especially not in the mirror.
I can only speak of IT in metaphor, because the hurt is too loud, it’s teeth are too big, my belly is too full of booze and I refuse to throw it up. I set myself on fire and tried to put it out with whiskey.
There is no purging this.
The thought memory of his hands prying my legs apart becomes physical memory still all these years later, and I wish it never was and I wish IT would cease to be, and I know my closed throat has regrets of not screaming for help, and as terribly haunted as I am about it all, even the drinking, this strategically placed anger and fear toward the patriarchy isn’t just some toxin I get to sweat out amongst the village women who have been equally if not more robbed than I was.
It is a knife to my throat and IT swears to God it will kill me one day when no one is looking.
So, I will have another drink.
I have to be the shit show, it is required of me. I signed the contract. It is my truth now. The people expect me to fulfill my contract. My trauma expects me to fulfill my contract. What would I be without it?
Susan M. Conway
#100DayPrompt #TGP100DayChallenge #TheGingerPost