I’m Rubber, You’re Glue

“I’m rubber, you’re glue. Your words bounce off me and stick to you.”

Many of us have heard this riposte at one point in our lives, though it may be only a distant memory. Still, it is recently that I have discovered the true value of yet another children’s meter.

I just spent a month’s stay in a rehabilitation facility after a nasty breakup. This caused some discontent in my family, but nothing more than I had anticipated. After all, it had nothing to do with them, and everything to do with me. They’ll just have to deal.

Yesterday, my sister Emily’s play was showing at her high school. I had planned to see the performance, but I had quite a few things to do, and had decided to stay home and take care of them. As I walked down the stairs to tell my mother of my decision, I heard an argument in the kitchen.

My sister Amy (Emily’s twin) was debating with my stepfather. Though I was eavesdropping and only heard parts of the conversation, I knew it was about me.

I heard her say, “You’re letting your problems with Alex affect your support for Emily! That’s not fair!”
To which my stepfather replied, “Don’t stick your nose in other people’s business.”

My sister walked out, rather agitated.

Wondering what was going on, but not fazed much, I walked into my mom’s room to tell her I wouldn’t be attending the play. She stared at me for a moment, and then looked away, biting her lip. I asked what was going on, and that I knew it had something to do with me. After a bit of pestering, she told me that my stepfather refused to watch the play if I was going too.

I was taken aback. As far as I knew, I hadn’t done anything to cause this. After all, I’d spent a month being bitched at by counselors about how I don’t take responsibility for my actions, for my “part in things.” Try as I might, I couldn’t figure out what I’d done.

I avoided him for the rest of the day.

This morning, I woke up early (8:30 is early, okay?) in order to take care of the things I was supposed to take care of instead of going to the play (I spent the time laying in bed, texting random guys and convincing myself that I wasn’t doing anything because my stepdad sucks). As I walked downstairs to do some laundry, I heard yet another conversation taking place about me that I once again was not a part of. My mother and stepfather were arguing over last night’s events. Of course, I got upset and walked back upstairs (No laundry done, might I add). I called my sponsor and asked her what the hell to do.

She urged me to look at my place in it, which I knew was what I should have been doing. My part was small, and actually had little to do with him, but I recognized it as my role. Still, admitting this role did very little to curb him. This conflict was his problem, and we both knew it.

In talking to my sponsor, I realized that, though my role was small, I have a role to continue playing in this situation. The whole family felt like they were walking on eggshells around him. She reminded me that I’m a cutter. I’ve put myself in a lot of pain. A few eggshells aren’t going to faze me.

So I bit the bullet. I quit trying to please him. He’s still acting like a complete jackass, but it has nothing to do with me. My mother and sisters won’t engage him in the arguments that he’s looking for. If he wants a conflict, he can come to me.

I’ll be good and ready, with the words “I’m sorry you feel that way” and little else.

I’m not the problem, and I won’t act like I am. I won’t act like his victim either. I just have to remind myself that whatever he, a forty-year-old man, has to say about me, a sixteen-year-old girl, speaks volumes about his character, not mine.

In the meantime, I’ll take my sponsor’s advice and call him names like “honey” and “sweetie” instead of “jackass” and “jerk.” Hard as it is, he’s rubber, I’m glue. My words bounce off him and stick to me.

…Sweetie…Honey…fuck….