You write like a virtuoso, Mahdi, with little that words of praise can do for your writing. It took me back to time when my brother was bullied, but no matter how hard I tried I couldn't protect him. And I still remember that day like daylight. And it still gnaws at me.
It seems like the bully almost becomes secondary. The real wound is the memory of not being the person you wanted to be in that moment. Most people have a version of this story buried somewhere. I know I do. The details change, but the shame remains strangely durable.
I appreciate how insightful this comment is, Bing, and I second it. There is a nagging insistence to some memories, as if they want to be paid heed and reconstructed—which is, perhaps, seen and heard. Our deepest memories are our deepest selves.
The way this whole piece flows - into that profound question at the end...we can all relate to it.. to that helplessness and to the scars that never disappear...
One of the central questions of my life, one I seem most adamant at answering when a social situation, in one way or another, fails, is how these scars affect the way we appear to the world. An integral part of love, I suppose, is to appreciate the entirety of a being, scars and all.
Such a tortured write! I feel like that when i cannot protect my sons. Sometimes you arent there, sometimes the bully has already passed a remark that has found its mark and you are too late to do anything.
It's abundantly rewarding to see one's words resonate with another soul. Thank you for reading, Namratha. I hope the marks only add to your and your sons' strength.
It reminds me, Antonio, of the notion that silence must be heard, and how it is our bane not to be able to sit with our suffering and confront the pain.
You write like a virtuoso, Mahdi, with little that words of praise can do for your writing. It took me back to time when my brother was bullied, but no matter how hard I tried I couldn't protect him. And I still remember that day like daylight. And it still gnaws at me.
Dear Naz,
I’m glad this piece resonated with you so deeply, and saddened to read that revelation. I hope your brother has overcome what he’s been through.
Much love,
Mahdi
It seems like the bully almost becomes secondary. The real wound is the memory of not being the person you wanted to be in that moment. Most people have a version of this story buried somewhere. I know I do. The details change, but the shame remains strangely durable.
I appreciate how insightful this comment is, Bing, and I second it. There is a nagging insistence to some memories, as if they want to be paid heed and reconstructed—which is, perhaps, seen and heard. Our deepest memories are our deepest selves.
The way this whole piece flows - into that profound question at the end...we can all relate to it.. to that helplessness and to the scars that never disappear...
One of the central questions of my life, one I seem most adamant at answering when a social situation, in one way or another, fails, is how these scars affect the way we appear to the world. An integral part of love, I suppose, is to appreciate the entirety of a being, scars and all.
Such a tortured write! I feel like that when i cannot protect my sons. Sometimes you arent there, sometimes the bully has already passed a remark that has found its mark and you are too late to do anything.
It's abundantly rewarding to see one's words resonate with another soul. Thank you for reading, Namratha. I hope the marks only add to your and your sons' strength.
Love pours from that place that senses you.
💙
This warms my heart, Eileen. Thank you💙
Sometimes the bully remains far less than the moment we stopped recognizing ourselves. It is that moment that keeps asking to be heard.
It reminds me, Antonio, of the notion that silence must be heard, and how it is our bane not to be able to sit with our suffering and confront the pain.
This hits me deep!
I’m honored, and humbled. Thank you for reading.
Audio Bulleys, a real thing. Great piece!
I’ve been thinking about this all day, Jaap. It’ll reveal itself to me. Thank you.
You brought us in Mahdi. To see ourselves.
Thank you, Síodhna. This gives me courage.