Nothing Terrifies Me More Than Standing Up for Myself
My fear of confrontation is in my DNA
My finger hovered over the Send button.
I did another run-through of the email I’d written in response to my landlord, who had become increasingly aggressive and hostile in the last month, making me feel not just uncomfortable but unsafe in the home I rented.
The email was good. No, it was great.
In fact, compared to what I had been sending him, it was badass.
This time I wasn’t filling up space with a bunch of pleasantries and apologetic language (the usual “I’m sure this wasn’t your intention” “Sorry if I misunderstood” “Would you could you please…”) — typical of my communication style with any man I didn’t want to piss off.
This time I was calling my landlord out, being specific about his unacceptable behavior, calling his bluff on his many threats, and letting him know that I would not put up with it for a second longer.
I was standing up for myself. For my rights.
Take that, motherfucker! I whispered to the email and pushed Send.
Then right on cue, my heart raced, my palms sweat, and that familiar feeling of a looming anxiety attack took over.
