It Was Never About the Nail
Guest Post By: Anonymous
Gaslighting isn’t a single incident. It’s a pattern of tiny, often barely perceptible instances of erasure, minimizing, confusion, deflection. Nails, beams, boards, tiles, wire—piece by piece, a house is built. The door is closed, and you’re inside, and you hear the construction around you, but somehow, no one sees.
You try to tell him. You point to the ceiling, the walls, the furniture. “Why are you so upset?” he asks. “That’s just a chair.” You try to show him, how the pieces fit together, how they make a house. “So it’s about the beams?” he says. No, it’s not about the beams. You try again. “Oh, so is this really about the tiles? What’s wrong with the tiles? Explain.” Another nail goes in; your ears are sensitive now, from the months of construction around you, and you wince in pain at the noise. You ask him to stop hammering in nails. “I don’t understand,” he says. “It’s just a nail. It’s not even that loud. I think this is just your anxiety.” You wonder if the house is real.
The house grows. He invites people in, hands them tubes of caulk and paintbrushes. You try to explain, you don’t want this, they’re hurting you, but they’re confused. Why are you upset about a paintbrush? You try to describe the walls, but you open your mouth and incoherent noises come out. You can see the house, feel it, but when you try to describe it, there’s a hole in your brain. Static. I’m crazy, you think. Maybe they’re right.
He’s a Good Man. He’s trying. He listens. He looks where you point, tries to follow. Words tumble out of your mouth, but he can’t see. He doesn’t know how. Sometimes you think you see a glimmer of recognition, and you think, we’re getting there. And then another nail goes in–it’s what he knows, after all–and you slip.
The Good Man is a teacher. He gives a talk. People like to hear a Good Man speak. He’s a Good Man, and he’s learned that nails hurt, and he wants to own that, to help others. So he describes a nail, talks about what he’s learned about nails. At the end of his speech, he passes out hammers and nails. You ask him why; you’re hurt, you’re angry, you’re afraid. “They wouldn’t understand about the house,” he says. “It’s too hard to explain.” “You didn’t have to give them hammers,” you say. “You don’t need to be so sensitive about nails,” he says. He doesn’t understand. You want to scream. “Why are you so angry?” he asks.
It’s the women who save you. The women who have lived in houses like this. They know the shape of the walls, the corridors, the rooms, the beds, the closets, the basement. They talk with you, help you draw a blueprint. Help you see the outlines. Walk the hallways with you. Locate the doors (did you know there were doors?). Turn on the lights. You see together. “It’s real,” they say. “Yes it’s real. We see it.” They take your hands, place them on the walls so you can feel them. The house is real. You knew the house was real.
It was never about the nail.