By: Makayla Ruebush
Where did this name/idea come from? Well, it’s simple. During my life, I noticed a pattern. Someone would do something to me, knowing that it would be a problem and I would be told to pick up a burden I didn’t create and carry it for them.
I’m sure you know how it goes…
Something absolutely gut-wrenching and god-awful happens and…
“We don’t talk about that stuff.”
“Keep that in the family.”
“Don’t air your dirty laundry.”
“You need to keep this quiet or it will hurt your kids.”
And there have been times in my life that I have carried that …. thing/stone for years, decades even. And for what?
So that person who threw that stone at me wouldn’t have to face what they did?
So they wouldn’t have to …. feel embarrassed about their choices?
So people wouldn’t think… bad about them because of it?
So… no one would know?
Riddle me this… why does anyone care about making it easier on the person throwing the rock?
Or give a rat’s ass about people knowing what they did?
They threw the fucking rock. And yet, we worry about how it might look if we point the finger at them?
Maybe if someone had spoken up, I could have saved my family a lot of pain.
At least I would have been somewhat prepared. I could have looked for the pattern everyone else knew was there.
We expect better from our children, we can hold adults to the same standard.
If we pointed the finger at the source, spoke a little louder, and refused to sacrifice our sanity for silence, maybe people would think a little longer about the consequences of their behavior.
I’ve been quiet about things that I should have shouted about. I’ve not said anything at all when something definitely should have been said. I’ve sat with the pain of unborn stories aching for acknowledgment while my belly was home to the truth and stitched my own mouth shut with willpower and tears.
I have yet to see any benefit to any of it.
I call it swallowing stones. That thing that happened, the stone that someone threw, we are taught to place it in our mouths and swallow.
But it just sits there in your bottom of your stomach.
And you carry it around until eventually, hopefully, best-case scenario, it dissolves.
Do you know how long it takes a stomach to dissolve a stone?
That’s the best you can hope for really. That over time, you have enough power to dissolve the stone that was never even your burden to carry.
You know what happens more often than that? That stone sits in your stomach, growing heavier and slimier. Until it tries to make its way out on its own, shredding your insides as it forces itself back out.
They never go away without years of work.
Why do that to yourself?
Why volunteer to put yourself through that agony, all for the benefit of the one who created the problem?
Someone threw something at me that was too big to swallow. This time — I’m gifting myself permission to throw it back.
Hope you can catch.
We own what has happened to us. We own our stories. And telling them is the only way that we can shift the burden back on to the person who created it.
Throw. It. Back.
LET THEM explain what they did and why.
LET THEM face their friends, family, and strangers who feel a right to know about it.
THEY can swallow that stone, or they can choke on it – either way, you are free from that burden.
Talking about your experience doesn’t make you weak, it doesn’t make you bitter, and it isn’t the “rage of a scorned woman.”
Talking about your experience is about being in your power and saying, “I’m not carrying your stone. You made it – you can swallow it your damn self.”
And there is nothing more powerful than a person who can stand with their shoulders back and their chin high and say, “This is not my stone.”
Refusing to bow before a threat removes its power.
Refusing to cower before the bully clearly shows the world who you both are.
I will not be beaten or broken by silence.
You should not allow it either.
We own our stories.
Telling them is power.
Don’t swallow the stones, throw them back.