"It's Not What You Say, It's How You Say It"

“Have you ever noticed the whole time we have been dating, I’ve never once called you a b*tch?” Ryan responds during one of our screaming matches. I immediately felt defensive, as if I was too weak to hear those words, as if I haven’t heard those words on a regular basis my entire life. I fired right back “I wouldn’t care if you did! I am a b*tch! Say it! I don’t care, say it!.” He paused and said, “But I don’t want to.” “You don’t want to?” I thought to myself, “How? How could you NOT want to after all the things I said to you?”. Then it hit me. I was speechless.

I first met Ryan in high school. We went to different schools but swam for the same club team in the off-season. We hung out as friends, but we didn’t date exclusively until after college. I truly loved being in his company. For the first time in my life, I felt completely safe around someone else. I could be myself, and it was easy. When we both graduated college I felt like I was grown up enough to be with him. When the excitement and novelty of our relationship began to wear off, what quickly took its place was fighting, constant fighting. Communication was extremely difficult because in order to keep the peace, for at least a little longer, Ryan would keep everything to himself hoping to keep me from lashing out. However, what he didn’t know was that I had a curse.

My curse was being able to detect emotional shifts in those around me. Even the slightest shift would put me on high alert. This curse was cast onto me by my mother. It was a way to help me prepare for what my mother might do next, whether that was insults being shouted at me or slaps to the face that I needed to block or move out of the way. I knew something was wrong, I could feel it throughout my entire body. Ryan tried to deny it, hoping that I would just believe him and let it go, but because of my curse, I couldn’t. I had to know. I had to prove that I was right. With every denial, I kept getting more and more angry with louder screams, more tears, and worse insults. He was so stoic all the time, I didn’t think I could hurt him. I have heard so much worse, and I thought I was fine. But I did hurt him over and over and over again, just as my mother had done to me. I was crushed. My worst fears were coming true. Was I really destined to be just like my mother? I knew in that moment if I didn’t come up with a better way to control my emotions, I would lose Ryan forever. I have spent so much of my life in silence that all the noise I made felt liberating. However, what I needed now wasn’t volume, it was control.

Control was something I had to surrender to my mother in exchange for my life. “It’s not what you say, it’s how you say it.” Is what my mother was always telling me in order to keep me in line. All the things that I said, or did that were unacceptable to her, she claimed were disrespectful. Me wanting to spend time with friends, speaking up about how she was hurting me, asking her to stop treating me like a child when I got older, exposing her lies, these things were all considered disrespectful. But sometimes I didn’t even want to speak up, I just wanted it to stop. All the noise, the lies, the insults, the empty promises, the fake smiles, the punches and smacks to the arms and legs. I couldn’t control her, but maybe I could attempt to take control of my environment. I thought that maybe if I was prepared for what came next, it wouldn’t sting as bad.

When we were arguing, if it was trending in a direction that didn’t suit her narrative, she could immediately shift gears within seconds. I thought that if I was prepared, it wouldn’t sting, but the truth is, it all hurts the same whether you are ready or not. After hours of screaming and tears, when she was ready to be done, it was over. Like being put under a spell, and when the effects faded away I was instantly snapped back into reality, with no recollection of what just happened. “It’s not what you say, it’s how you say it” That lesson she taught me that once kept me trapped would ultimately be the same lesson that would later set me free.

Sometimes when I listen to the rain and close my eyes, I think about that young girl I used to be who felt so helpless. With my eyes closed I breathe her in, smelling the rain as I sat alone on the railing of our front porch hugging my legs close. The thunder startled me every time it boomed, but I sat outside anyway because the sound of the rain hitting the ground soothed me. As I stared into the raindrops my vision blurred. Now in middle school I just moved to a new house and a new school with my mother’s now third husband. My mother was moving from husband to husband, and as a result we both moved from place to place. This was my second school and second house in one year. Her last husband only lasted about two years, and we moved almost the whole length of the east coast to find the only other family members that would help us. I have a stepsister now and she is the total opposite of me. Desperate to fit in, I became exactly like her. I needed new friends if I was going to survive middle school and the easiest way to do that was to get my stepsister’s friends to like me.

Changing who I was to become someone else was the easy part. I have done that for as long as I can remember. The hard part was thinking about all the parts of me I had to leave behind. Wearing clothes that I hated, because that’s what everyone else wore. Pretending I don’t like “nerdy” things like Pokémon and Harry Potter. Listening to country music because that’s what my new stepdad and stepsister listen to. Having to face my friends from my old school before moving for good and having the words “It’s like you totally changed overnight” echo so loud in my mind that I can barely think straight. Every adjective I could think of to describe myself either led back to what I pretended to be to make new friends or what my mother made me to be. Even though I tried so hard to be what my mother wanted me to be I never felt like I was ever going to be good enough. No matter how hard I strived for perfection, I always fell short. Everything was always my fault. I will never be good enough. When things got overwhelming, I turned to writing. I could finally speak my truth, as long as it was silent on a piece of paper. The longer I stared into the rain, the harder I cried. It was like the rain was hiding my tears, giving me permission to cry as long as I wanted. After what felt like hours, I rested my throbbing head on my knees and looked out into the street. All that water, all those tears from the sky, being washed away. I picked up my notebook, took a deep breath, went inside the house in silence, and went to sleep.

As I got older, I kept trying to think of another way to control my situation. Maybe there is something I can do; I just haven’t tried it yet. Maybe the reason she couldn’t hear me is because I wasn’t loud enough. She showed me that the louder you scream, the more people hear you. What if I tried that on her? Would she finally realize how hurt and broken I have become? That should work, right? I had to find out.

Once I finally had the courage to stand up to my mother, I was determined to make everyone else hear me too. “It’s not what you say, it’s how you say it.” She reminded me when I asked her where she was the night before since I didn’t remember her coming home. She told me her and my step-dad lost track of time at dinner, but I figured they were probably out gambling all night again. They usually drag me along and dump me at a coffeeshop inside the casino to do my homework, but this time I got to stay home. I respond, “Mom just stop lying!”. She looks at me and says something like of course I’m not lying, you don’t even know what you’re talking about. Trying to prove that I know the truth I scream louder telling her that I don’t really care where she was, I just want the truth. She grits her teeth and quickly whips her hand to smack me hard on the arm. I closed my eyes and flinch, but I didn’t move out of the way fast enough and it hurts. Sometimes I can get out of the way, but that just makes her madder and she keeps trying until she finally hits me so I guess it’s better this way. “Wow, after all these years of raising you Mackenzie, this is the thanks I get? You are such an ungrateful b*tch! Any other kid would be so happy to have a mother like me!” My jaw drops, this doesn’t even make sense. “ALL I DID WAS ASK YOU WHERE YOU WERE! YOU’RE THE ONE THAT’S LYING!” I scream at the top of my lungs. She pauses slightly, composes herself and says “Wow, I don’t know why you’re yelling at me. You’re psychotic, you need help.” And the conversation was over.

Once I started to fight back, I felt the urge to avenge all those younger versions of me that were forced into silence. It was as if every emotion I felt were at the highest setting, and there was no off switch. I was still able to keep some friendships alive, despite having such a short fuse, until I met Ryan. He showed me that the first person who screams loses, and I was tired of losing. I wanted to win.

I began to take big feelings as an opportunity to look in rather than lash out. What is my body really trying to communicate with this feeling? What do I really need to say? And sometimes, is this even worth it? It was hard for me to speak my truth in a way that I was able to be heard, without being dismissed. If I spoke too softly, I got run over. If I wasn’t clear about how I felt or what I needed, I was taken advantage of. If I spoke too loudly, I got tuned out. “It’s not what you say, it’s how you say it” I reminded myself. She was right.

I think about my mother when I have a weak moment with my son, and I yell at him. As soon as the words leave my mouth, an instant rush of shame knocks me down like giant waves in the middle of a storm. His eyes well up, as if this time my words felt different. Instead of running away in fear, he embraces me. He still wants me to comfort him, even though I was the one that made him so afraid. When I hold him, I sob. I want him to know that what I feel has nothing to do with him. I want him to know how sorry I am for not being able to always be in control of my emotions. I want him to know that this is something that I have to work hard at every single day. As I hold my son for as long as he will let me, I think of that girl sitting on the railing watching the rain, hoping that he will never feel what she did. When he pulls away from me he notices the tears streaming down my face. He rubs my arm and says “Sorry mommy hard time, sad baby day. I wipe eyes, ok?” Then he brings over a tissue and wipes my tears away. I smile. He is safe with me. I close my eyes and take deep breaths to try and stop crying. When I stand up Ryan embraces me and says “It’s not what you say, it’s how you say it. It’s not about being perfect, it’s about how you repair.” When I open my eyes, my son smiles at my husband and I holding each other, turns around, and runs off to play. My son will never know what that girl sitting on the railing did. Ever.