Unbelievers
Like Cassandra of Troy, I was doomed to never be believed.
My fate was sealed at the very moment of my conception,
when the sperm carrying an X chromosome
wriggled its way into my mother’s egg,
and my lack of a penis was written in stone.
“Trust must be earned” he says,
his manhood a megaphone to amplify his voice.
The highlight reel from the Unbelievers’ Hall of Fame,
projected in full color,
plays on the screen in front of me.
Every time I haven’t been believed.
Every raised eyebrow, every polite smile.
Every “are you sure?” and “that doesn’t sound right.”
Every time I’ve walked away with my head low
wondering if I was the problem.
Every person who’s made up their mind
about the nature of my intentions.
My father when I told him he could trust me.
My mother when I apologized, saying
“if you were really sorry, you wouldn’t have done it.”
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Every doctor I spoke to about the pain I was in, for years.
Every time I told them I didn’t want the pain meds.
My boss when I warned her I was on the verge of burning out.
Those closest to me when I said I needed help.
“Oh, Cassandra’s fine — she’s strong and resilient, and always so happy and bubbly.”
When I told him what had happened to me.
When I said I didn’t want to be part of that threesome,
before we started drinking.
When I said “I really should stop drinking,”
before he poured another shot.
(Not her real name) Cassandra Gale writes about the personal and the political — without permission or apology.
Find more here:
https://unwitnessedblog.substack.com/
Reclaiming the narrative of a life and body I was taught to forget were mine — because what goes unwitnessed is often what carries the most heat.
