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@user27634318062917: #1stamendment #karen

user27634318062917
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Friday 09 January 2026 05:17:03 GMT
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Even that sounds selfish. Like my guilt deserves an audience. I’m sitting in the garage because my mother yelled at me, and I’ve somehow made it into a question about whether I deserve to be a person. She asked me something. I answered. My voice came out wrong. I heard it, too. That’s what I keep trying to explain in my head. I heard how I sounded, and I wish I could have stopped the conversation right there and said, wait, let me say that again. I’m tired. I’m already upset about something else. You asked me a normal question and I answered like you’d done something to me. But she got upset, and I started defending myself. Then I sounded angry because I was angry, and suddenly we were having the argument I’d been insisting I hadn’t meant to start. I closed the garage door behind me. Sat down. I could still hear her moving around inside. I kept whispering what I should have said. Quietly, kindly. It came out perfectly once there was nobody there to hear it. I don’t want to be rude. I don’t want people to have to recover from talking to me. Sometimes I watch someone’s face while I’m explaining myself and realize I’m making them tired. Then I talk faster, trying to get to the part where they’ll understand, and I make it worse. In the garage, I started remembering everything. An apology I never gave because too much time had passed. Someone I slept with when I knew they wanted more than I could offer. Someone I wanted so badly that I let them believe I was comfortable with less. The times I’ve cut myself, then felt ashamed of needing help with something I’d done to my own body. I can spend hours deciding whose pain counts and somehow mine always needs more explaining. Then I get angry at myself for that, too. For feeling sorry for myself when I’m supposed to be thinking about what I did. My mother is upset inside the house, and I’m out here crying about how hard it is to be me. I want punishment because I want there to be an end to it. I want to know what being sorry requires, do it, and finally be allowed to get up. Instead, every memory brings another one. I remember something from years ago and feel embarrassed with my whole body. I close my eyes. I say, “Stop,” out loud. Nothing in the garage changes. I’m still sitting there. The conversation with my mother is still unfinished. I think I’ve been waiting to become good enough that I never hurt anyone by accident. Good enough to want the right things. To know what I mean before I speak. To have a body I treat kindly and a past I can talk about without editing. And I’m beginning to understand how much life I’ve spent waiting for that person to take over. Other people have things they wish they could undo. They remember somebody’s face changing. They’ve been careless with someone who loved them. They’ve said yes and regretted it, said no and felt cruel. They carry those things into kitchens and bedrooms and conversations I know nothing about. I wouldn’t ask them to spend the rest of their lives on this floor. That thought makes me cry harder for a minute. Because I want to apologize to my mother. I want to tell her I heard my tone and I’m sorry. I also want to tell her that being yelled at hurt, and I’m scared that saying both will make the apology sound false. I’m sitting here trying to become innocent enough to go back inside. But I could go back sorry. I could still be upset. We could have something left to talk about. I don’t know how to let that be enough yet. I put my hand on the door anyway.
Even that sounds selfish. Like my guilt deserves an audience. I’m sitting in the garage because my mother yelled at me, and I’ve somehow made it into a question about whether I deserve to be a person. She asked me something. I answered. My voice came out wrong. I heard it, too. That’s what I keep trying to explain in my head. I heard how I sounded, and I wish I could have stopped the conversation right there and said, wait, let me say that again. I’m tired. I’m already upset about something else. You asked me a normal question and I answered like you’d done something to me. But she got upset, and I started defending myself. Then I sounded angry because I was angry, and suddenly we were having the argument I’d been insisting I hadn’t meant to start. I closed the garage door behind me. Sat down. I could still hear her moving around inside. I kept whispering what I should have said. Quietly, kindly. It came out perfectly once there was nobody there to hear it. I don’t want to be rude. I don’t want people to have to recover from talking to me. Sometimes I watch someone’s face while I’m explaining myself and realize I’m making them tired. Then I talk faster, trying to get to the part where they’ll understand, and I make it worse. In the garage, I started remembering everything. An apology I never gave because too much time had passed. Someone I slept with when I knew they wanted more than I could offer. Someone I wanted so badly that I let them believe I was comfortable with less. The times I’ve cut myself, then felt ashamed of needing help with something I’d done to my own body. I can spend hours deciding whose pain counts and somehow mine always needs more explaining. Then I get angry at myself for that, too. For feeling sorry for myself when I’m supposed to be thinking about what I did. My mother is upset inside the house, and I’m out here crying about how hard it is to be me. I want punishment because I want there to be an end to it. I want to know what being sorry requires, do it, and finally be allowed to get up. Instead, every memory brings another one. I remember something from years ago and feel embarrassed with my whole body. I close my eyes. I say, “Stop,” out loud. Nothing in the garage changes. I’m still sitting there. The conversation with my mother is still unfinished. I think I’ve been waiting to become good enough that I never hurt anyone by accident. Good enough to want the right things. To know what I mean before I speak. To have a body I treat kindly and a past I can talk about without editing. And I’m beginning to understand how much life I’ve spent waiting for that person to take over. Other people have things they wish they could undo. They remember somebody’s face changing. They’ve been careless with someone who loved them. They’ve said yes and regretted it, said no and felt cruel. They carry those things into kitchens and bedrooms and conversations I know nothing about. I wouldn’t ask them to spend the rest of their lives on this floor. That thought makes me cry harder for a minute. Because I want to apologize to my mother. I want to tell her I heard my tone and I’m sorry. I also want to tell her that being yelled at hurt, and I’m scared that saying both will make the apology sound false. I’m sitting here trying to become innocent enough to go back inside. But I could go back sorry. I could still be upset. We could have something left to talk about. I don’t know how to let that be enough yet. I put my hand on the door anyway.
#fyp #fyppppppppppppppppppppppp
#fyp #fyppppppppppppppppppppppp

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