"I Don't Care"
In A New Chapter...again I described the process of leaving my previous employer. During the last day of work, my ex-boss was getting very frustrated with me and coming down pretty hard on me. I didn't defend myself much, but part of me does think I was egging her on in a way. Why would I do this? There was a point where she got completely fed up, and in response to me trying to explain myself she finally told me, "I don't care." That's when I knew it was over, irreconcilably.
It immediately reminded me of this story from my childhood. Yes, another traumatic childhood story. But writing about it here does help and give me relief.
During elementary and middle school I didn't really have any physical problems and was normally healthy. However, there was one strange thing that seemed to happen every year to my skin. Specifically, the skin on the palm of my hands. It would get VERY dry, and crack and peel. This usually happened every year around Fall, when the seasons were changing and the air was getting dryer. It would start out as small tiny spots of white skin. Of course leaving it alone would have been the best way to stop it, but being an anxious child, I would get embarrassed by the white spots and thought by picking them off they would be less noticeable. It only made the problem worse. My hands ended up looking like they had been severely burnt, with uneven broken skin covering them. It was one of the most embarrassing things of my childhood and I did everything I could to hide it from everybody. Once one of my classmates saw it and said, "You have Freddy Krueger hands!" I couldn't deny the apt comparison: they did look like his monstrous face and they were my nightmare come to life.
Enter my mother. My anxious, overbearing, selfish mother. Instead of sympathy or trying to find out the cause of the problem, she just got upset at me for picking at my hands. "STOP DOING THAT!" was her first attempt to address the issue. When I couldn't stop, she devised a new plan. There is an enamel for nail-biters which tastes AWFUL. You are supposed to put it on your fingernails like nail polish to deter biting on it. (I looked it up and it's called Mavala Stop). My mother forced me to cover my palms in this stuff. I don't think it helped much, and she got frustrated. Her forceful method of problem-solving didn't work, so what was her answer? More force!
One day she got upset that despite the bitter enamel, I was still picking at my hands. I don't remember what started this, but I assume she was just frustrated that her solution wasn't working. In a fit of rage, she took the bottle of enamel, grabbed my mouth and forced the bottle directly into my mouth. She held my mouth forcefully until I swallowed it, and then stormed off. Of course it was disgusting, not made for consumption in that quantity, and I immediately threw it back up. She was in the other room, and I yelled at her, "You made me throw up." Her response? "I don't care."
The feelings of sickness, confusion, anger, sadness, helplessness, and probably more all swirled around inside my young mind. How could I be feeling SO much at once, and my own mother not be feeling anything at all? I needed not only help, but understanding. Nobody was there to hear me out, nobody asked why my hands were like that. I could have explained to them, "It starts with these small bumps, they kinda hurt, then then turn white and break". Nobody ever tried to sympathize with me, they only got angry at me for it happening. Nobody cared about how I felt. Nobody cared.
Honestly I don't think the gravity of those words hit me at that time. I was still reeling from being forced to drink poison and physically sick. I was also kind of used to having my mother force her will upon me. But those words did hurt. And they still hurt, even when coming from a different person. I promised myself to never say those three words in that order, and never make someone else feel as uncared-for as I felt then. Those words are the coldest and cruelest in the English language. Even "I hate you" shows some sort of emotional response towards a person, and hate and love are closely related. "I don't care" is just.. nothing. No feelings, no nothing.
That is when I knew my previous employer wouldn't work out, when she uttered those words. I cannot be in a place with no compassion, no understanding, and no love. I promise to never say those words to another human being. Everybody is worthy of love, and every person is capable of being loved and understood. I do care.