Wuss, Allegedly

I’ve been called a wuss my whole life. I’d love to know how much more I’m supposed to casually survive before we reconsider.

Everyone around me (husband not included) has called me that. OUT LOUD. Enough times that I catch myself saying, “Sorry, I’m a wuss.” I say it when I’m physically hurt, when I cry, when I have any big feeling... Eventually I started believing it. But I’ve never felt that it fit.

Things get to me because I care deeply. I’m everyone’s vault, trusted with struggles that aren’t mine to share but are still hard to carry. Being sensitive hasn’t stopped me from speaking my mind or standing up for myself and others. I keep trying when something is hard, even if I cry or cuss through most of it. I’m human, and if you ask me, a pretty damn good one.

In the last 5ish years I have gotten married and maintained a very happy and healthy marriage. I’ve navigated a completely unexpected change in my working life. I’ve watched my mom battle and beat cancer. I’ve buried a grandfather and a dog. I’ve lost 100 pounds and counting. And I didn’t arrive at those years untouched. There was a whole life’s worth of little things already piled up, and I was still figuring out what to do with those when the next thing happened.

Raising other people's kids, stressful. Life, stressful (duh, whose isn’t). Alongside that, I’m putting time, effort, and a whole lot of myself into Auntie Unfiltered while continuing to work on myself inside and out. I still manage to find joy in hobbies and little things. I stay mostly positive through life.

I reach out, hoping to feel known. Maybe this time will be different... But something I’m proud of becomes a conversation about their part in it. Something I desperately need help with gets brushed aside for surface level talk. It’s hard to keep trying. I long for that connection. I just wish reaching for it didn’t feel like such a chore. Every text is approached with lots of thought and tact. I'm tired.

I don’t know if the people around me will ever reconsider that word. But I’m starting to wonder why I keep handing it back to them.

Maybe the next time I’m hurt, I can just say that I’m hurt. Calling myself a wuss makes my hurt easier for everyone else to dismiss. But I’m the one left sitting with it.