Get Up
“Get Up.”
I don’t remember hitting the floor. Just the sharp cut between feeling dizzy and suddenly being on the ground. My body felt far away, like I was watching myself from outside my own skin. My head was buzzing, my vision blurred at the edges. The first thing I heard wasn’t concern.
It was my mother’s voice. Sharp. Irritated.
“Get up.”
I blinked, trying to focus, but the world was spinning, and my limbs were heavy, like they weren’t mine. I was still trying to process what had happened when she sighed, like this was some kind of inconvenience.
“Stop being dramatic,” she complained, arms crossed. “You do this on purpose.”
On purpose. Like I had chosen for my body to shut down, for my head to slam against the cold floor, for my fingers to tingle with numbness.
I tried to push myself up, but my arms were shaky. My father clicked his tongue. “You need to stop making a scene. People will think something’s wrong with you.”
Something was wrong with me. That wasn’t the point, was it? The point was that I had made it visible. That I had forced them to see it. For that, I was an embarrassment.
I finally got to my feet, my knees weak. My mother looked at me like I was a problem that wouldn’t go away. “Go sit down,” she ordered, but it wasn’t kindness. It was dismissal.
I sat, staring at the floor, my hands clenched. I had felt bad before I fainted, lightheaded, shaky, but I had ignored it. This always happened. I had been taught that passing out wasn’t a sign that something was wrong with me. It was a flaw in my character...a weakness.
Weakness wasn’t allowed.
I should have known better. Should have held on longer. Should have fought harder against my own body. I should have stopped myself from fainting, as if that were something people could just decide.
I never cried when they scolded me. That would’ve only made it worse. Instead, I swallowed the lump in my throat and nodded like I understood. Like I agreed.
Later, when I was alone, I would think about how people in movies or books always woke up to someone kneeling beside them, shaking them gently, whispering...
Are you okay?
In reality, however, I woke up to anger. To sighs of frustration. To eyes that didn’t ask
How do you feel?
Instead,
Why are you like this?
That was the moment I learned that fainting wasn’t just something that happened to me.
It was something I should be ashamed of.
Copyright © Amanda Nolan | Year Posted 2025
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