Sticks and Stones

Whoever said that "sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me" was an idiot.  I am thirty-six years old and have memories stemming back to probably the age of 5, and the most painful memories are that of hurtful words.

For the record, girls can be bullies and are bullies.  However, the bullying tactics of girls are intimidation and verbal humiliation.  Girls are less likely to strike out in physical violence, and more likely to cut deep with words or other non-physical tactics.  Example, in elementary school we used to make fun of a girl and tell her hair smelled like peanut butter.  She was the only African American in our class.  We knew when we made fun of her that it set her apart from the rest of us even more. I imagine our simple words felt very alienating to her.  Sadly, though in that instance I was not on the receiving end of those words, I can still picture in my mind the classroom, her hair, the look of my friends, etc.  Perhaps because I've always known that my words hurt her.  For that I am truely regretful and sorry.

In high school my mom bought me spandex work-out shorts for the gym (yes I asked for them).  I was generally fit and had been for most of my youth.  My body type is different than that of  my mother or sisters and I distinctively remember trying them on and my mother saying to me, "you still have Beckstead thighs."  Which, to me, meant that I had big thighs.  Though I had been slender most my youth, I was always self-conscious about my weight, in part because of comments like this.  Truth is, my mom probably meant it in some other way.  However, her words hurt so deeply that I can still visualize myself in front of mirror, in the old playroom, gazing critically at myself in the mirror.  To my recollection, the shorts were red and navy blue.

When I was nineteen my family got together in Utah for Thanksgiving.  It was approximately a month after my dad had died.  We were staying at my grandmother's trailer park and had access to the clubhouse.  At that time I was going to community college to obtain my ATA (Associates of Technical Arts) degree in paralegal studies.  I was nineteen years old.  My older sister was married and had either completed or was near completion of her degree as a special education teacher.  She was someone whom I looked up to a lot.  She had a gigantic heart and gave a lot of herself to the disabled.  I admired her.  I remember playing pool in the clubhouse with her and beginning a conversation about what I wanted to do when I grew up.  At that time, my ultimate goal was to be corporate attorney.  To this day I can still feel the tightening in my chest and the sting of tears in my eyes; I remember the reprimand that I got from her.  She was appaulled that I would want to do something so selfish.  A corporate attorney only "transfer's money from one account to the other."  It was a career to get rich and not to help people or society.  When I had thought about what I wanted to do, the thought about money had little to do with it.  I was considering that path because I found that particular legal class to have been challenging and interesting.  I had liked the way my mind worked in the class.  Truth be told, I didn't pursue that course any further.  In part, because of the guilt I felt after my sister's judgment.  Was I really that selfish?  Don't get me wrong, with the way my life's course has been plotted, even without my sister's comment, I never would have become a corporate attorney.  However, at the time, and as I chartered a different course, it was partially her comment that led me to other areas of law.

In my marriage, my husband has been plagued with serious addiction problems.  Living with an addict is like living with a stranger.  When in the throws of addiction he could say some of the most offensive things to me.  I won't repeat them, in part because I don't think he remembers them and I truely believe it would break his heart to know some of things he said.  But regardless of how far we've come, how much healing we've conjured, the scars of those words are still deep.  I could still cry on a dime when I think about them and to this day they still affect some of the choices I make and how I evaluate myself as a mother and wife.  I know he loves me and didn't mean about 95% of the things he once said, but unlike physical bruises that heal over time, emotional bruises, never seem to heal, they just fade.

My point in sharing this is not to ellicit the sympathy card, because I don't want it.  Dealing with my mom, my sister, my husband, and many others, has caused me to be an incredibly strong woman.  I've developed some thick skin (though still incredibly soft).  My point is only to caution my reader.  In the words of my mother, "think before you speak."  My experience is that regardless of what nursery chants we sing, "I'm rubber, your glue, whatever you say bounces off me and sticks to you," words strike hard, deep, and leave lasting scars.