June 08, 2007
some girls are bigger than others

The good news is that I won a payday draw. The bad news is that I was pressured and guilted and squeezed to donate my winnings back to the charity, and I did. I probably would have anyway, but this way feels like ashes in my mouth.

As to the other situation, I've been avoiding my prep room since Tuesday: hoping that my apology would be accepted, hoping that all the stuff she had borrowed from me and then dumped on my desk would suddenly hold a note mentioning reconciliation. None of these things happened; instead I got a call from another co-worker who wanted to talk to me about "personal things." Mason agreed to wait until I got out of this meeting, as I foresaw that it would conclude in tears. Here is what I was told, directly and indirectly:

I'm really worried about you.

There are three rules:

  1. Do not care when you are excluded.
  2. It you must care, you are not allowed to express it.
  3. Do not make the included feel guilty about your exclusion by drawing attention to it.
If you are in violation of any of these rules, you owe a complete apology to all who were made uncomfortable by your emotions.

My life has been improved by people telling me the same things I'm telling you; yours will clearly continue to disintegrate otherwise.

You have been welcomed with open arms since you arrived.

You are too sensitive and too paranoid.

I am telling you this because I care about you.

I am not interested in your take on events.

I can tell you with my mouth that you're very likable, but my eyes tell a different story.

This is all your fault.

You are not allowed to read into what is overtly said or done to you, but we are allowed to discuss at length and in flensing detail a comment you made over your shoulder as you left the room.

This is for your own good.

I just don't want to see you ruin your life, the way that you did before, the way that always seem to do.

You're clearly still upset, too upset to understand that what I am telling you really happened and what you thought, did not.

I cried silently throughout this intervention-style grilling, but managed to remain upright and keep eye-contact by reminding myself that it could be worse: it could be my department head or (God forbid) my principal ripping me to shreds. I kept the storm of tears and obscenities inside until I got down to Mason, where I cried for 15 more minutes. He agreed with me that some girls like to play exclusion games, and they were motivated by guilt and rage and cruelty. He also confirmed my opinion that the other girls in the department were condoning this behaviour with their refusal to support me. Yes, some girls are bigger than others. Bigger harpies and bigger enablers.

Calmed down, went to pick up Blake, and was informed by my mother that the loan they had given us would now be payable in 12 years rather than 25 or 40, thus inflating our month bills right back to where they were before we extended our mortgage. (P.S. We extended our mortgage because I was afraid of not meeting the monthly payments on a shorter term.) Now that we've used the money against the house, we are powerless at the re-negotiation, unless I want to re-finance with the bank a scant month after I negotiated the loan, pay my parents off and never speak to them again. I am Never. Accepting. Money. From my parents. Ever. Again.

I came home from that addendum onto my day, chased Blake around the backyard, remonstrated strenuously with him regarding his new habit of peeing on the tree, and stood out in the loud thunderstorm until the icy rain shocked me back to decent spirits.

Life, though not good, continues and will be sweet again one day soon. In the meantime, I have the knowledge that for a brief moment in time, I won $110 before the Autism Society reclaimed it.

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Don't make me send out the Blake. He doesn't listen to *anyone.*