I had my heart broken recently. And in a ridiculous irony, given the state of my radical feminist brain as of late, it was not a man who broke it. It was a couple of women who I considered to be great allies and safe confidantes. I had thought we were ‘three’. I had thought I belonged.
I am a woman, and grew up as a girl, so I can’t speak to what it’s like to be a man and/or grow up as a boy. I don’t know if boys in school practice the same rituals of best friends and cliques and ‘frenemies’ that girls do. But I’m fairly certain most people out there know the feeling of being excluded from the group. Of not belonging. Maybe even thinking you do belong, thinking you are safe and a part of it all, then discovering you are actually the butt of the joke. I’ve felt that a couple of times growing up, and I felt it again a couple of months ago.
There are asshats in the world. We all know it. The mean girls and bullies of our middle and high school days don’t suddenly morph into kind and gentle adults. They’re still around, and still asshats – they’re the internet trolls and the gossiping coworkers now. And they can still say and do things that remind us how it felt to be ridiculed and left out on the playground. Every so often we are reminded that the asshats can also be people we’re close to. People we confide in, trust, who are actually snickering when we look away, and gossiping with each other in our absence. Say what you will about the maturity of the women involved. Go ahead and tell me they have the emotional development of 6th graders, that their karma will be swift and severe, that they will reap what they’ve sown. I know it. None of those facts soften the humiliation I felt. I spent two weeks churning over my pain – I cried, I went on ‘anger runs’ trying to run off the fury and resentment, and I slandered the women in every social circle I encountered – the hypocrisy of which only fueled my pain.
I journaled until my fingers were numb, searching for every lesson I could squeeze out of the experience. I learned things about myself, learned things about group dynamics, learned things about boundaries and personal shields. I churned and I churned and I churned.
Then one day I was done. I could tell I’d said everything I could say about it, felt every bit of the heartache and rage I was going to feel, and wrung out every message the Universe was trying to send me. It was time to lift that weight off of my heart. I asked the Universe for help in forgiving them, I asked the Universe for help in forgiving me for trusting them. Within seconds of asking, I could feel the burden of hurt and anger rising off of my chest like it was being sucked out of me. The process of forgiveness is ongoing, but I haven’t felt that wrath and anguish since.
The other night I was reading Elizabeth Gilbert’s book ‘Big Magic’, and I came across the phrase, “the arrogance of belonging”. She referenced it because she wants us to recognize our right to be here, our right to live a creative life. But as I read those words, “the arrogance of belonging”, despair threatened to take a seat on my heart again. That’s what it was, that’s where the pain and heartache had resonated – I had been arrogant enough to assume I belonged. I had bounced along, happily sharing my life with these women, happily feeling a part of the group. Then I discovered that not only am I not a part of that particular group, but I’m being mocked from inside it. I don’t belong. I’ve probably never belonged.
But now here I am, sharing again. Risking your taunts and your sneers. I must be a glutton for punishment right?
Wrong.
There are a choice few people in your life who are truly supportive, and they’ll be supportive whether you do what is expected of you or not. They’ll be supportive if you do what society tells you to do and follow all of the rules until the day you die. And they’ll be supportive if you do what your heart tells you to do and defy all of the ideals the world lays out for you.
Same for the asshats. Right? You could do every single thing they suggest, follow every single idea they have, and they’ll find a reason to judge you. They’ll find a reason to criticize you and tell other people how small and stupid you are. Yeah, it sucks when it’s the people close to you who are the judgmental assholes, it sucks when people you trusted turn out not to have your back. But let’s be realistic for a moment – of COURSE it was them. Right? Of course.
So I’m going to do what I feel good about. Share what I want to share, hide what I want to hide, ignore the asshats. Let my story unfold, and drop any notion that I’ll please everyone. Or anyone. We’ll all likely piss off a few people along the way, and if so, fine. Shout it to the rooftops or keep it to yourself, it’s up to you. Don’t let them change you.
If, by chance, you’re reading this and wondering, ‘Was it me?’ Probably not. But it can’t hurt to take a look at how you speak of the people in your circle when they aren’t around. Is there someone in your life who thinks you have their back when you don’t? Someone you don’t defend in their absence? Someone who would be hurt and angry to find out what you say about them to others? What would happen if everything you’ve ever said about them showed up online?
It’s worth a peek.
I’m going to find my way back to the arrogance of belonging. Not to say I’m going to discard all of the lessons I learned about boundaries and personal shields, mind you. But I’m going to find my arrogance again – and this time, I’ll own that arrogance with my eyes wide open. I’ll imagine what the trolls are going to say about it, and put one foot in front of the other anyway. I’ll choose to share things with you that the asshats will think I shouldn’t. I’ll be happy and excited about my life and my choices, I’ll be happy about the fact that sharing these things might help one person out there feel less alone.
Because I don’t belong in the asshats’ circle, and that’s a good thing. I’ve been around the block enough to know that being in the mean girls’ club doesn’t get you anywhere. I was given a path and a calling which keeps me from fitting in with asshats.
And I’m cool with that.