Oh, stop being dramatic.

It’s not dramatic when I react to your actions and words.

Words I hear used to hear on a consistent fucking basis. “Oh, stop being dramatic.” “Oh, that’s just Viridimere being overly dramatic.” “Don’t talk to her, she’s being dramatic.” Well, excuse me for being offended that you called me a liar. You called me a cheat or whatever else you called me. It’s not dramatic when I react to your actions and words.

Even though I was young, it shouldn’t have taken away the validity of my feelings. Feelings happen from the earliest stages of life. Feelings are the most basic shit a human has. It’s a damn default program built in and wired through our entire existence. Yeah, don’t come at me about those who don’t feel. I know that exists. If someone doesn’t feel, it’s normal and okay. Not feeling is normal and okay too. What’s not okay is dismissing feelings because you feel threatened.

You can’t tell them that looking at a specific color is painful, just like you can’t tell them that flipping over a slide with their big toe caught in the roller and breaking it isn’t painful.

You also can’t tell someone they’re being dramatic! You know why mother fucker?? Because you do not know how they feel. Periodt. Someone sobbing and crying could actually be understating their pain. You have no idea if it’s drama or reality. It’s not your fucking place.

As a parent, it’s your job to instill that trust that a child knows how they are existing. You can’t tell them that looking at a specific color is painful, just like you can’t tell them that flipping over a slide with their big toe caught in the roller and breaking it isn’t painful.

I was in the 6- or 7-year age range. By that age, I was already fully traumatized by Mamaw Malice and both my parents. Their consistent neglect and teachings made me feel like quiet guest room furniture. Even if I hadn’t wanted to go, I went to a fellow classmates’ birthday party at Discovery Zone. Not sure if you know the place but lemme tell you, it was poppin’.

Yeah, IYKYK. That place was so much fun, so full of climbing kids, parents losing track of their children, germs that would cause biological warfare, I’m sure the fired workers were forced to go in there and clean and would never be seen again. This place was where all the birthday parties happened. Well, except mine, see we were middle class white suburban bitches, and they took me to the fine and fancy Chuck E. Cheese to be traumatized by a rat who has no idea what pants are.

I might have had fond memories of this place at one point but I don’t anymore. All I have is a single memory bunch. It’s screenshots basically. Some sounds. Some words. So many feelings.

This slide was my favorite. I do know that. I loved it because it was the best sensory experience I ever felt. Oh look, the ’tism is showing. Well, as you can imagine, these places made you remove your shoes when you crawl around in the tubes of unholiness. As a kid who hated closed toe shoes, and socks, my parents would let me wear my jelly shoes, don’t argue they’re not closed toe okay!, and then would bring my toe socks. Those were all I’d wear. You can see where this is going? Roller pin slide. Free flying toes.

Not the best idea.

My left big toe lodged itself a few pins away from the end of the slide, my body was in full child velocity heading towards the mat that went beyond the end of the slide. Big toe didn’t get the memo, and the body didn’t get the memo from the toe, full front flip. I can hear that crack in my ears still. It was the loudest most painless pop I’ve ever felt. That pop only lasted until my toe dislodged itself. The pain hit me like a hot iron.

You have to understand that we were programmed not to cry in public. Crying is weak, weak is not what this family is about. I was embarrassed to cry, it was shameful, it was stupid, it was naughty, and I would pay for crying in public. I’d bring dishonor on my family. But gods did I cry. I FUCKING SOBBED. I couldn’t not. I held it in as best I could. I tried so goddamn hard not to, but the tears streamed down my face without my permission. Now my toe is on fire, I’m crying in public, and I am so embarrassed because I just fucked up.

Crying is weak, weak is not what this family is about. I was embarrassed to cry, it was shameful, it was stupid, it was naughty, and I would pay for crying in public.

Okay, pause for now. This one is really getting to me.

Alright, where were we? Ah, yes. Sobbing in public. What an embarrassment I was. And believe me, I was told exactly that. “Stop being over dramatic. It’s not that bad. You’re fine. You’re acting like a baby. Stop crying. Don’t be dramatic. We aren’t going home. Stop it.” What comforting words from those who are there to comfort and believe me. But the problem was, I couldn’t stop crying. I couldn’t fucking stop. The tears kept coming. The hup hup hup of trying to hold it back. The red face from not acting right. From not acting like a…. shit, I didn’t think of a maiden name yet….

I wasn’t acting like a De Rais. I needed to act right. When I couldn’t, Dreadfather, red in the face as per usual, scolded me in the most publicly polite way possible to get my ass in the car and to expect nothing once we got home. That was it. I was going to be in so much trouble, trouble for getting hurt and being hurt about it.

That was it. I was going to be in so much trouble, trouble for getting hurt and being hurt about it.

When we got home and I was still crying and I was still not capable of walking, my great savior Emily helped me to my room despite Dreadfather’s complaints and scolds. I had to crawl up the stairs. Once we were out of sight it was easier for Emily to help me. Once we got my sock off it was also easier to see something was really wrong with my toe, but neither of us were going to say anything.

I slept that night, or attempted, with the pain. It was all I had. Pain and Emily. The next morning I still had my foot hidden away in a sock which was not my norm but apparently I was not noticed. I still hopped, as subtly as a kid can, and crawled up and down the stairs. My foot throbbed and ached, I sobbed and hid. It wasn’t until that night when I took that sock off out of curiosity, or because Emily insisted, that we both realized this was beyond hiding. It was either I go to school the next morning without being able to walk or we say something about how swollen and discolored my foot was.

My foot throbbed and ached, I sobbed and hid.

As much as we didn’t want to, we said something. My father insisted I could walk on it just fine and it was just bruised because obviously all I did was bang it up a little and I was being a cry baby and over dramatic about the entire ordeal. Mother dearest didn’t have a word to say, or at least not in front of us. I’m assuming someone finally showed them my foot or someone noticed and it was agreed we would go to the emergency room. Looking back, I think it was because this wasn’t going to be something they could hide from my school. Looking back, I think it was because certain services made to protect children from parents like mine would have been notified of children needing to be checked on.

I was terrified to go to the emergency room. Up to that point I had nothing but pure terror for doctors, nurses, and the like. Emily sat in the wheelchair so that I would sit in the wheelchair with her. Emily went with me to the x-ray room so I would get an x-ray done. All I can remember of the ER trip is her being there. The rest has all been recounted by her to me over the years.

All I can remember of the ER trip is her being there.

Turned out that when my large left toe had lodged itself between two of the rolling pins, it fractured. Not bad enough to need surgery, just assistance to walk and ensure it would heal properly. They strapped me up with a Flintstone shoe and other bandages and allowed me to leave with the people who had me walking on this for almost 48 hours.

Note that during this time, while being in this boot, Mamaw Malice came to visit us. She naturally stayed with Emily in her bed because Emily was the favorite. Emily had the bottom bunk, which was a full-sized mattress. She stayed with us. I had to climb up and down from the top bunk bed. I did this in my boot with my broken toe. Emily confirmed all of this. She vividly remembers because she would get out of bed. She helped me when I had to go pee during the night.

Something large enough to need medical attention went unnoticed. This wasn’t the first time in my life it happened. It wouldn’t be the last either. Medical neglect has caused me to question if I should go to the doctor. Being told I’m dramatic about my medical needs also contributed to these doubts. This happens even when I’m clearly in desperate need of one. For years, I actually needed to ask for permission. This was necessary even though I am an adult and married. Only then could I allow myself to see a doctor. I even asked to voluntarily enter a psychiatric ward. This was despite being on the verge of suicide with a plan.

Fun shit.