III. Opinions Are Just That

She made me feel like a slut.

No, it wasn’t something I overheard; rather, the opposite—to my face. And, no, believe it or not, it wasn’t someone my age. 

It was the assistant principal at my high school. I had first period as a front office assistant my senior year of high school and had just got done taking a stack of notes when she snagged me by the attendance window.

“Honey, where’s the rest of your shirt?” she asked loudly—and in front of four other staff members.

I was confused: I had a long sleeve sweater over a dress (NO cleavage or any suggestion nor any hints of anatomical curves up top), along with brown boots that even kept my knees from blushing. I thought she was kidding. I was stunned. I was confused.

Instantly filling me, as well, was the hate of how affection can be manipulated from its meaning. Like when she put her arms around me and gently touched my sweater, a gift “addressed” to me by one of my puppies for that Christmas, telling me, “Button this up.”

I felt horrible, humiliated, and hurt.

Because she treated me like a number who was arrogant against the black print of the student body handbook or naïve of what modesty is, with this view that one day I’ll know what a wholesome outfit looks like.

And it hurt even more because she didn’t know *me*:

If she only knew that two years earlier I’d given up he—who I thought was the love of my life—because I’d wouldn’t have sex with him and he left me for someone else who would; if she only knew the emotional spiral into depression I took and the physical twist down in the scale’s eyes; oh, if she’d only taken the time to get to know me and learn that at age 18, I still asked my mom if my outfit was appropriate for school; that I never leave the house in something I wouldn’t be ashamed to wear in front of my father; if she, my assistant principal, only knew the girl she was judging was someone at the mercy of the expectations others’ actions had created and now forced her to fight against. 

I cried that afternoon; hurt by her lack of decorum, angered that she thought she could say that and then be unaccountable the rest of the day when my mom marched up there to put her in her place, and instead, my tears were only “shushed” in the front of office for image sake, and instead, was given her e-mail (yeah—that didn’t fly), and even more furious that she thought I was just like everyone else.

Then I wondered what happened to the girl she said that to who didn’t have someone to fight for her—a furious parent defending their child or a self-esteem to know that it wasn’t true. Because even if that girl was wearing short shorts or a low top, she doesn’t deserve to be treated that way; to have someone talk to her so rudely and condescendingly and commit her to a judgment that that girl might not know how to fight off or realize there’s a battle for it. 

Thank goodness I rejected her opinion. Can you imagine where I’d be—what time, talent, and happiness I have and would be wasting—if I let her view lay me out? Especially when she didn’t even remember me on Friday as she greeted me with a happy, “Good morning!” It would have been like letting a hemorrhage flow only to have someone tell you it was only a scratch—and to look and discover it really only was.

Opinions aren’t facts, but we accept them as if they are. We register them with the same weight, accepting the same authenticity, accuracy, and authority. We may discredit those last three items, knowing the source of an opinion to be unworthy or truth’s merit or to know that the content is obviously false, itself, or something in between. Except I don’t know about you, but once I hear something like it, it’s like trying to erase Sharpie over and over; you go over it over and over, but it’s still there, and sometimes you think you can see it disappearing, but if you were looking at it for anyone else, you know it wouldn’t be true. The branding of black ink is still there.

It’s the fact of knowing someone actively thinks that about you; that when you come up, that’s what they reference, that’s what they feel about you. It’s easy to tell others to forget about it, because we know it’s not true. But, it’s personal when its ourselves; instantly, it’s like we’ve fallen into a pit and the only way to climb out is to refute those three A’s—authenticity, accuracy, and authority—and until we do that, we’re stuck. We go over and over it in our minds.

We could test those things

forever.

I’ve long searched for the remedy to caring about what others think. How wonderful it would be to literally not care what anyone thinks; to value others’ opinions so lightly, it’s as though it never existed. Time is the only remedy I’ve found to curing the sting of others’ negative opinions. The elapsing of hours and days dulls the edge and allows us to remove it from the skin of our self-worth; with relaxed surroundings, the blade will finally come out. Instead of constricting and holding onto that dig, the knowledge of our true self-worth swells up; we’re reminded who we are as *we* live with ourselves and see the lies fall against what we know. Our rejection of their opinion releases the dagger. It cannot stay. It is evicted.

That’s why there is a difference between “opinions” and “facts.”