HANDLED

Twenty-dollar bill. Crumple it. Step on it. Spit on it. Still twenty.

Funny... I understood that about money before I understood it about me.

I took rejection like depreciation. One person left, I lowered the estimation.

One boss passed me over. One friend disappeared. One woman knew the exact words that made doubt sound sincere.

Too much. Not enough. Too cold. Too intense.

Handed everybody markers then wore whatever they wrote. Started hearing their opinions in my own damn voice. That’s when you know you gave away too much control.

So I worked harder. Won more. Got useful. Got known. Walked into rooms already wondering how I’d be scored.

Ten people say I killed it. One says, “You could’ve done better.” Guess which one I carried through the door.

That’s when it hit me. I wasn’t building confidence. I was renting it from whoever clapped the loudest.

I kept asking people who mishandled me to tell me what I was worth.

That’s like asking the thief to appraise what he stole.

Handled wrong... not worth less. Took me too damn long to learn the difference.

Folded up. Dragged around. Still the number never changed.

Handled wrong... not worth less. You leaving couldn’t lower me. You loving couldn’t raise me.

You can hold something wrong without changing what it is.

Handled wrong... not worth less.

I learned value like life was one big scoreboard. Salary. Title. Who called. Who didn’t. Who opened the door. Who introduced me like my name carried weight. Who left me on read. Who needed me. Who made me wait.

I confused being useful with being important. Being wanted with being known.

Some people love what you provide. Take that away and watch how quickly they go.

And being chosen ain’t proof. Somebody can choose you for all the wrong reasons.

Because you’re easy to control. Because you’re scared they’ll leave. Because broken people sometimes need somebody else insecure just so they can breathe.

Then they leave... and you audit yourself. What’d I lack? What’d I miss? What did somebody else have that made me easier to dismiss?

That’s where I got lost. Turned somebody else’s preference into evidence against me.

Somebody treating you cheap ain’t market evidence. Sometimes the wrong hands just hold you long enough to make you forget what you are.

Maybe I never needed a better appraisal. Maybe I needed to stop handing everybody else the calculator.

Handled wrong... not worth less. Your leaving couldn’t lower me. Your loving couldn’t raise me. Handled wrong... not worth less.

And I ain’t gonna make this some clean little lesson.

Some hands left dents. Some words still show up when I look at my reflection. Some folds don’t flatten. Some stains stay. Some damage changes how you let the next person touch you.

That’s real.

But damaged ain’t devalued. Changed ain’t less. And somebody leaving fingerprints on you doesn’t mean they own what’s underneath them.

Maybe healing isn’t getting back to who I was. Maybe it’s finally knowing what happened to me and what I am aren’t the same thing.

I can carry marks without calling them my name. I can admit somebody hurt me without giving them permanent ownership of what remained.

The twenty doesn’t become nineteen because somebody didn’t know what they had.

Neither do I.

Handled wrong... not worth less. Got some folds I don’t need to straighten yet. Got some words I still hear sometimes. Doesn’t mean I gotta believe ’em anymore.

Handled wrong... not worth less. You leaving couldn’t lower me. You loving couldn’t raise me. Maybe that’s the part I’m finally starting to get.

Handled wrong... not worth less.