The accusation was blatant
and directed,
and immediately,
I was eight years old again.
A teacher was yelling at me
and I was 90-95% sure
I didn’t do anything wrong,
but his accusation was so
intense
that the guilt
seeped into me
from every side anyway,
and I started to wonder
whether I may have actually done
what he claimed I did.
I went wide-eyed,
as if on stage
with no lines memorized and
no words coming out of my mouth,
and I started questioning everything –
my recollection
my worthiness
my character.
Then I got angry
at being accused of something
I didn’t actually do wrong.
Then I questioned everything
again,
wondering what I could have missed.
What if I really did screw up somehow?
Or what if,
after all this,
I really didn’t do anything wrong,
and ultimately
that still didn’t matter?
What if I would be
assumed wrong
or defiant
or passive
or whatever the conclusion was,
even though none of it was even true?
The panic
anxiety
anger
and
confusion
were all bad.
But feeling
devalued
was far worse.
I felt small,
buglike,
hunched next to the ground
with my neck craned,
looking up into the sun,
waiting for impending authority
to smash me
into non-existence.