Cobwebs

It was a simple question, but little did I know that the answer would change my life.

“Where did all these spiders come from?”

Had I known that I was about to be the punch line of a joke that would wound me so deeply, I would have covered my ears. Had I of known, I would have left the room. Instead I waited to hear what you had to say, because I eagerly wanted your approval. 

“From the cobwebs in Ryan’s head.”

This seems like such a marginal thing, but to an eight year old these words tore me apart. SO much so that now, as a grown man, I am still seeking to defend against them. These are the kinds of memories that I receive in moments of frustration. These are moments where I bridle my emotions, grab the reigns of my anger before it can become a reaction, before I can say “Who the fuck do you think you are, asshole? I’m smarter than you, and I will not allow you to make me feel this way. You are small and inconsequential to me, you mean nothing, you are nothing.” 

Yet if you were so small, I would not have to defend against your words. When I sat in this moment, just the other night, I was given this memory that I put away, never to be thought of again. And before I unleashed the lash of words that I desired to on the person that invoked it, I repressed it within me and thought “what is it that bothers me so much?” And the feeling of cobwebs filling my brain once again took hold of me.

Another memory too:

I remember talking to a man who I thought highly of and cared deeply for. I do not remember what I was saying, I only remember that I was happy to be sharing it with this man

His response:

“Ryan, every time you open your mouth the only thing you’re telling me and the people around you is just how dumb you are.”

You were all cowards, afraid of your own failure and inadequacy, and I was just a child who had to stand beneath you as your knees knocked together in fear. I was just a child, who had to stand beneath your quivering piss as you belittled that which was already small. I was a child of promise and aptitude, and you were so small that I threatened you.

I do not know what must be done to move beyond your wounds, but it will be done. I resolve to never make others feel the way that you have made me feel. Yet, the sting of your wound is such that while trying to remedy it I belittle others.

In the most literal form:

Damn it… all of it. 

Not you though; you and I are the same now, but it will not continue. This will die with you, and it will die in me.