Bollocks

It is a reflexive response. I say sorry when I haven’t done anything to be sorry about. I say okay when I am far from okay. Here I am, the anti-Senator Clinton, ready and willing to capitulate to other people’s macho bullshit. Mea Culpa. I consider how long I can bear the accreted weight of stored up apologies and assurances in my heart before it breaks. Yes, the bruises come easily and the pain is so keen it is nearly unbearable, but never mind me. I’m okay. Sorry to be a bother.

And what of repressed disappointment?

From now on, I have a new word.

Oh, didn’t you mean to wound me by willfully misunderstanding my words and actions? Isn’t that what you were doing by employing sarcasm and making me feel ashamed of my writing, so that you may mask a hurt ego? Bollocks.

Is it so important for you to have the upper hand that you have to torture me by showing indifference? And will you deny me the opportunity to make things right by telling me not to worry about it? Am I forgiven? And just what is it exactly that am I asking forgiveness for? Bollocks.

It was a gift. It was a piece of me. I was writing about you as if you were a god—my god. Bollocks to you that you don’t understand. Bollocks to you that you don’t love me.