Is it a normal response to wish ill will on the people who have wronged you? I used to think that immoral satisfaction in seeing people struggle was normal. After making jests at my expense or choosing to not heed my warning, it was indeed the irony that made such situations humorous. And in my eyes, they only had themselves to blame.
Call it a karmic consequence, or call it what it is. Self-righteousness and pride wrapped up in anger and hurt. A grey area of vindication, almost in a Joker-like “you get what you fucking deserve” way, but perhaps not in such a mentally ill and vicious fashion. Don’t we all want justice for the ways we’ve been wronged? Because it means the bloodshed was real after all. And no one can deny that.
One of my friends knows she’s petty in that way. She loves it when she gets that edge on a team in a frisbee game, inwardly gaining some sense of superiority once her team scores. And it’s particularly prominent when she plays against members of her own family. But I don’t really get it—why something so trivial would even matter, nor why people find satisfaction in… well, pettiness.
But what I do understand is that people often resort to revenge after seeking recompense for their hurt. Desperation in the form of violence in the absence of accountability or acknowledgement that they screwed up. But if my sighs of resignation are any hint of how I feel right now, I’m simply too tired to care. So allow me to sum up all my frustrations into one neat complaint; I don’t like repeating myself, and I’m sick of people not listening to me.
I know. This is a universal experience for women. And I suppose, one we ought to be used to by now, right? For our voice to be left unheard and for our frustration to build until it becomes too much—when we snap and disengage or, God forbid, express our anger. Yet in the shared understanding we have, it never gets easier. Not when every conversation feels like I’m going to war. Just to be heard.
I’m not a petty person. But sometimes I wish I were. Because it would mean I gained some kind of contentment from a bad situation. Maybe the closest I’ll get to gratification is the short-lived, aha, moment. Knowing that you were right about an outcome—that you were smart enough to figure it out—the feeling never lasts. It is always overshadowed by the fact that no one listened to you in the first place.
Even when I’m right, I don’t get the last laugh. Every scenario feels like a cheap imitation of motherhood. Through the constant warnings and repetitions of seemingly meaningless instructions, what else could I compare this long-suffering to? I’m just handed more problems to solve—crises that wouldn’t otherwise exist. If. Someone. Had. Listened. To. Me. In. The. First. Place.
It’s so unrewarding to be wrong, but if you ask me, it’s just as unrewarding when you’re right. The same circumstances come to me with a fresh coat of paint, but it doesn’t fool me when it’s the same make and model as the last. Being trapped in this cycle of I-told-you-so’s just makes me want to cry. I never find any satisfaction in having to take another leap into a mess I didn’t create. And I wish someone would take this cup away from me.
Perhaps this is just the price of being an adult. The pains of your words falling on deaf ears, the constant invalidation, and the never-ending disappointments. It’s exhausting to know you have to rely solely on yourself to get things done. I’m tired of having to repeat myself a million times before someone listens and acts. But knowing how things have played out, I’ve probably already been fed up for some time before anyone takes notice.
There is never any last laugh—only the quiet realisation that you’re fighting a battle you’ve already lost. The whimper of never really being heard.
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