“I do not wish to continue this.”
It’s been a few minutes of the psych trying to teach me a mathematical theory. The psych’s loud voice melds into that of the screaming child outside, the neverending flood of quickly delivered information hammers a brain that can’t process it.
His repeated, forceful admonitions to “look at it!” shock through me with an iron-hard blow of QuietHandsIDon’tWantToItHurtsDoAsYou’reTold. It feels like a twisted, broken complex of sharp edged corridors is being shoved into my naked brain and tangled with my optic nerves.
I don’t identify any of this at the moment, it’s all a hazy, frantic blur of pain and overload. Therefore, “I do not wish to continue this”, in my best Morrigan from Dragon Age tone. It’s a clear boundary set in front of the overwhelming input and pain, and I fully expect the psych to respect it, because he does at least seem to respect me as a human being.
He doesn’t. “If you just LOOKED at it-“.
His voice has become extremely forceful.
He is forcefully crossing a clear boundary, trying to force me to look at him, with his loud voice and his hated, thoughtless belief that if I just tried to understand this torrent of overwhelming pain, I could. Again, I don’t identify any of this then.
Not consciously. But subconsciously, I do. Subconsciously, it floods abuse-worn channels with the kind of anger I need to defend myself, while slamming down the cold certainty that he is a threat and dropping my voice into a grinding monotone.
“I. Do. Not. Wish. To.”
That defensive reaction of anger hits its stride, and my voice rises into a snarl of:
He begins to smile slightly, cuts it off. My mother will later observe that it was likely a nervous smile. At the time, I take it as an amused smile.
I don’t care about it, though. I’m not quite sure why. I do care about making this end. He drops the level of force in his voice as he replies. More of the same. Not half-hearted, but perhaps three-quarters-hearted.
I drop my voice also. A strained whisper that says that the previous display was just a spark, that I have a very, very, short fuse, and that I am about to get very angry indeed.
Stressing the “wise” ever so slightly: “You would be wise to end this”. He’s not even half-hearted now. A quarter at best.
I let him get through one more sentence of the same bullshit before I give a clear, emotionless “fuck you.” After the session, he said he hoped he hadn’t offended me. At first glance, it seems like an apology. But what it really says is “I hope my angering you didn’t have a result I would dislike”. Which isn’t the same thing at all.
Tomorrow, on my next visit, I will be asking him about that, and telling him exactly why I was justified. His hopes are fulfilled, however. He didn’t offend me.
I wouldn’t have been offended if he’d made a threat relating to beating the shit out of me if I didn’t do what he wanted. I’m offended by nothing that makes me angry.
Because I get angry as a means of survival. Survival as someone who has a few places in their memory that don’t hurt. When I don’t get angry, I get hit. I get forced. I get a new place that hurts. I get sat down on some fucking thing that I can’t even name with my camoflage trousers and my frilly fucking panties around my knees when I don’t want them there. Letting it happen.
I don’t suppose you’d know about things like that, doctor, since you assume that offense is the worst thing that scar-striped, trans, developmentally disabled teenagers might find in a declaration that you will not respect boundaries or consent.