I hoard my hurts like a dragon hoards jewels. They don't do me a lick of good, and they are uncomfortable to sleep on, but woe to the man who tries to take them from me. And I have an extremely long memory when it comes to grievances. One of my favorite movie quotes is from the Simpson's movie:
Lisa Simpson: But I'm so angry.
Marge Simpson: You're a woman. You can hold on to it forever.
Oh, how true. I can remember the minute details of wrongs from thirty-five years ago. I couldn't have been more than five when the woman cutting my hair told my mother how I'd talked about hating my new dad, leading to a lovely lecture about ingratitude when I got home. (I hope you fell on your scissors)
I remember the third-grade teacher at a new school who laughed at me in front of the entire classroom - she'd just told us the old spelling rule: "'i' before 'e' except after 'c.'" I piped up with "or sounding like 'a' as in 'neighbor' or 'weigh.'" She told everyone I was wrong, because "way" didn't have an 'i' or an 'e' in it. Since I'd only heard the second half of the rule, and had no idea how to spell "weigh," I couldn't call her on it. (To this day, I dream about going back in time and asking the fat cow how much she WEIGHS.)
There was the time in high school when a former friend taped a note on my back that said "I stuff my bra." (Hey, Chris! I'm a natural 36DD and there's a band that thinks my rack is so awesome, they put a picture of me on their drum set - suck it!)
You get the idea.
I have them cataloged in my heart: wrongs by strangers, wrongs by family, and the very worst - wrongs by friends. Every now and then I take them out. Look them over. Polish them off. They are precious to me.
I can point to the chip on my shoulder for each perceived slight, like a badge of honor. Don't they make me pitiful?
And they make for convenient excuses:
Sure, maybe you think you had a tough life, but did your boyfriend ever take you ring shopping, only to give you that diamond as an April Fool's joke?
It's not my fault that I lack tact and am oblivious to the hurt I cause other people - did I ever tell you about the time a friend refused to give me a ride to get a D&C after my miscarriage?
The trust issues, constant need for praise and approval? The incessant desire for reassurance? Hey, I am just a product of my environment, oh and my father abandoned us when my mother was pregnant. (Abandonment and Daddy issues - always a favorite.)
But it doesn't bother me in the slightest if you blow me off when I need you, if you cheat on me, or treat me like dirt, it's no better than I deserve - poor, tragic me. I'll just add another notch on the bed post, do something sick and degrading, and then blame you for it.
So, when you point out the bad things that I do, I can just gather up my hurts around me like coat of armor and say "oh yeah, well at least I never..."
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