The Email

Content warning: I talk about slow violence.

The Email.

This email that made me scream, for over an hour.

Me who is terrified of disturbing the neighbours, because I dread the sound of screams.

Or worse yet, them doing nothing.

Screaming is only if you are in danger.

But I was in danger of losing my mind.

So I screamed.

This email, on top of other emails.

All filled with misunderstanding. 

Those who know so little, and yet are invading our lives so much.  

This email, which triggers so much in me.

No one answering my buzzer in the group home.

Being told I buzzed too much in the group home.

Having to make sure you really need to go to the toilet, because the nurses didn’t like having to help you too often, then buzzing and having to wait.

Being told not to buzz, when I was lying in pain in the hospital.

So often the tone in these voices.

Like a needle to the heart.

So scared of needing to wee at night, because it would wake up Dad and the next day he would make me feel so guilty.

Don’t buzz, Don’t buzz, Don’t buzz, Don’t buzz, Don’t buzz, Don’t buzz.

A life time of misunderstanding.

This email told me the buzzer is only for emergencies. That the support workers know more than me and that some of us are not cooperating.

That some of us are not cooperating.

I knew it was wrong, very wrong, more than wrong, but that made me scream even more.

The sheer infantilising of it. 

Again, Again, Again, Again, Again, Again, Again, Again,Again,Again,Again, Again, Again,Again,Again,Again, Again, Again,Again,Again,Again, Again, Again,Again,Again,Again, Again, Again,Again,Again of it.

The Smack of it.

Smacking your head.

The slow violence of it is not made any better by the knowledge that they know not what they do.

I screamed.

You may think, poor nurses, poor support workers. Us buzzing so much.

When what they should be looking at is how they can support us more.

The next day I wrote an email in reply, saying how it made me feel.

Their reply:

‘Yes, whoops, Sorry about that.’

whoops.

whoops.

whoops.

whoops.

Smack.

Smack.

Smack.

All my words rendered useless by an attitude.

Eventually they did acknowledge my complaint, to some extent. They said it was badly written emails.

They kept saying, we’re just human, we make mistakes and we’ll continue to make mistakes and for me to please tell them when they do.

I said, ‘I can not do that.’

They kept saying, we’re just human, we make mistakes and we’ll continue to make mistakes and for me to please tell them when they do.

I keep saying, ‘I can not do that.’

An ism is an ism and it should never be asked of the victim to explain it.

And I had been telling them through email, but not getting anywhere.

A little while later, they said they were sorry. 

And they cried.

But they cried.

It always makes my blood run cold when they cry. 

Because I feel like the bad person.

Because if I were to cry, it would mean less.

The whole world tells you not to cry and then they cry.

And

Because, I can’t cry.

That’s what Trauma can do.

I can only scream.

And not even that.