‘Yes, well Laura, you see, you’re always upset by something, aren’t you?’ she spat.
It was after I explained to her that actually, what she’d said to me two days before, when we’d argued and I’d seemingly let it go, it had upset me. I used the word “disgusted”, actually. That what she’d said to me in anger had disgusted me.
I meant it. I’d made a decision she didn’t like, a decision about me, and my life, a decision that really had very little to do with her at all, one that made me unbelievably happy. I thought she’d be thrilled for me too. But her response was unexpectedly vicious.
She listed the shortcomings in my character, my relationships, even the lowest of the low, my family, as if that were her proof that I was wrong. She went right for the jugular, spewing irrelevant poison that I accepted as truth, because inexplicably I thought I deserved it. I reasoned that if her reaction were so strong, I must’ve really fucked up. She said these hurtful, horrible things with such confidence, face-to-face and later more, over email, that it made me doubt myself until I was convinced she was right.
But… she wasn’t.