Knifed Witch

There I was, atleast I think it was me, I was standing somewhere I don’t recall ever being to before.

This woman, she looked awfully familiar as though I knew her outside of the character she presented as on the television, was there.

She made me do things for her, as though I was her personal slave and I think other people were used up and thrown away by her. Having their loving versions of them stripped away with every bleeding stroke placed upon by this woman.

So here I was, listening to her every command. She told me to clean the walls of this place, building? I have no idea, it could have just been a free wall for all I knew.

I remember using this long standing pole that extended long ways above my head with a knife attached to it underneath a light bluish-turqiouseish cleaning cloth.

Scrubbing, moving along the wall, up and down like the person she tried to make me into.

Eventually this girl came along, stopped by to see what we were doing. What I was doing. She had a nose ring and I remember telling her that she was pretty, but it was as though I wasn’t there.

Invisible like I had felt for years. Non- existent to those who didn’t expect anything from me.

I looked at the woman and I don’t remember what she said to me, but it appeared as thiugh she was angry at me for stopping what I was doing and then all of a sudden, this baby appeared.

Whether the baby was there the entire time or not, I had no idea. So I picked the baby up and started talking with them. I remember feeling frightened by their movements as though it was about to bite me every time it loomed and fell forward into my chest.

That’s all I remember and they say that dreams usually mean something.

Maybe it’s that I’ve felt invisible because I stopped caring about people and I let people walk on me and I only repeated what they did to me to people.

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When the bullied became the bullier.

I came across a post on Tumblr by a blog that encouraged it’s followers to write a story starting off with or to contain the sentence ” Of course I was hurt the entire time. I just didn’t say anything. “

So I decided to share mine with my followers and people in general on here.

When the bullied became the bullier.

Of course I was hurt the whole time. I just didn’t say anything.

I had a hard time speaking up and using my voice. It was almost as though I hadn’t found a voice of my own that wasn’t shaky and half silent, half vocal.

They would taunt and tease me almost every single day.

You’re not feminine enough. Are you a boy or a girl? You write like a man. You’re in the wrong washroom, this is the girl’s.

Prior to being bullied regarding my gender identity, I had repeated grade 3 and that’s when it started. Before being called names and being made fun of, my biggest worry regarded getting home late after an after school activity and missing my favourite show on the television. I knew what bullying was, but I had never really been a victum of it before, or not to my awareness.

Can I do the same work as everyone else? I asked my grade 6 teacher. No you can’t.

No you can’t. 

Shot down by one of the school’s teachers. Just because I had a hard time with the work that the majority of other students my own age had been given.

Up until a few weeks ago, I hadn’t realized that being told that I couldn’t do something that other people could do, actually became the root of a few major incidents in my life. The root cause of many issues.

For years, I let people step over me, trample on me as though I almost wasn’t there. Treated as though my very presence was minor instead of influential.

Finally out of nowhere, my voice was found and it was being heard, but not listened to. Muffled by the gossip that flooded the halls, drowned out underneath the sea of fake friends and victumizers.

It was then that I became the bullier.

I stopped allowing people to treat me like a broken piece of glass. Word escaped my mouth that I wouldn’t dared to have spilt out prior. I stopped feeling bad for what I had thrown at others. Eventually, the feeling of power flooded through my veins and not just through my head.

Mind games. Torment. Emotional torture.

Eventually that’s what I put everyone through who crossed my paths, who showed any interest in me. I barely trusted anyone, so testing people became second nature to me after a while because it was easier to let people have my wrath, than for me to trust them right off the bat and have it gone to waste.

Balance finding.

Although I’ve been hurt, and hurt others, I’m trying harder to find a balance between trusting and not being too vulnerable. So far, it’s becoming less difficult.