Anonymous
SHE couldn’t recall her age, SHE was either nine or ten back then when it went down. Her freshly manicured nails would dig into the palm of her hands as SHE spoke. It was obvious that SHE was pretending, pretending to be unbothered by hiding her hands behind her back, hiding how it affected her.
Third grade seminar was when SHE first heard of the words “my safe bubble” it was a phrase her teachers used to explain a hard and complex concept, and related to issues that can scar people for the remainder of their lives. Though I must add, when I first heard of it I couldn’t help but wonder why use the word “bubble” to teach little kids about the concept of personal space? Then it all made sense: Our bubble - that imaginary thin line between ourselves and others, which, unlike some people, you may have heard of. It has another name: it’s called boundaries.
To a certain extent, I believe that we teach the people who don’t understand how “not” to understand. In other words, we teach people how to treat us. It is easy to get upset with those who constantly rub so close against our bubble to the point that we feel like it’s going to pop. Yet when we remain silent and most importantly don’t speak up, we are partially the ones to blame for this problem.
Unfortunately, people who don’t understand don’t learn unless you point out that certain behaviours or actions are unacceptable, and if you don’t say anything, they find courage in that; It motivates them and they start normalising the situation in their heads so they can pop more bubbles without having to think about the lives they ruin. It becomes a routine which later turns into a pattern of a continuous loop.
I guess I am a hypocrite because I did not take my own advice but I know if I had, SHE wouldn’t have to sit with her own nail imprints in her tiny palms.
You can recover and learn to move on but you can never forget.
Do Not Enter My Bubble
