Injustice
Weâve been mis-sold a sofa. Two sofas. Thatâs really the only word for it after everything thatâs happened. Turns out you canât get them wet. Not even damp, as it permanently ruins the pile and effectively stains the sofa. Sterling Furniture UK, Tillicoultry, recipients of well over ÂŁ15,000 of our hard-earned cash over the years have really let us down. They didnât tell us when we bought them and we didnât find out until it was too late. 2 claims with insurance later, for the cat spraying on it when we freaked her out by bringing home an orphaned cat to see if they could get on (Sally sprayed her disgust all over the sofa, donât need to be an animal communicator to get that was a ânoâ) and the next when a nesting swift got in the living room and shat all over the sofa before we could smother her in a tea towel and gently release her. Both highly unusual situations. That sofa has probably only been sat on for 15 minutes total in its lifetime, since we bought it just before COVID and havenât had guests since. The other sofa, that we do sit on, is marked with swirly, curly whirls where Iâve sat back with damp hair, a half-moon water mark and various other inexplicable marks from water. That damage is not insured, that they wonât fix. Iâve never before had expensive furniture and Iâve never had insurance for our sofas, this time we did, but really, the problem lies in the fact they were mis-sold. They are, in fact, ornaments to be admired from afar. I never want to be the type of person that hovers over guests incase they spill anything (I have Gary for that) but these sofas make me nervous. Sterling have refused to address any of our concerns after 3 letters a visit from an expert and several phone calls. They say the fabric passes all âtestsâ. They point blank refuse to address the fact that they didnât tell us it was allergic to water and they even gave us a complimentary stain removal kit which would have ruined the sofa if used, indicating they didnât know either. And here my ego kicks in, furious with them, furious with their stonewalling, furious that they are treating us like country hicks who donât realise that expensive furniture is supposed to be ogled at from behind a glass screen or better still, in a glossy magazine. I know there is no point pursuing this, because other than getting our money back, Iâm not sure they can make this right, and as it stands, they wonât even admit they didnât tell us about the fabric. But not even an apology? An acknowledgement? Anything? I realise that would imply liability and thereafter we could probably sue them, so they wonât budge, but thatâs what rankles. The implication that we have âforgottenâ about being told, that we chose these sofas in the full knowledge that dribbling on them if you fell asleep would ruin it, that of course we were told about it, that weâve received plenty of care information (all lies, I tell you, itâs all lies) and on top of all of that, itâs perfectly obvious to anyone who has ever had expensive furniture, so you idiots obviously canât be trusted around high end furniture.
Maybe we are muppets. They are HUGE sofas with a velvet finish, exotic, elaborate, vibrantly coloured accents and cushions that wouldnât look out of place in an art deco parlour. When I admitted to Gary that I quite liked them (in a whisper, thatâs how outlandish they looked like in the hall of footballersâ wives furniture), he whispered back that he quite liked them too, so we wandered back to get a better look. As we approached, a woman was looking at them, flanked by two men who were obviously with her. One of the said to the other âwhat fanny would ever want a sofa like that?â These fannies we said, still under our breaths as they stalked off, disgusted at the ridiculous sofas. We had to get a glazier to remove a panel from the balcony to winch the sofas in through that way as they were too big to manipulate through the house. Maybe we were muppets.
What this has brought up for me, in case you missed it, is anger. I know thereâs no point. I know itâs my ego desperately trying to MAKE ME RIGHT. Wheedling and complaining. I want to let it go but it irks me. I know the only person suffering as a result of my vitriol is me. Injustice, says Louise, and immediately fury washes over me. INJUSTICE! Thatâs exactly it. Years of injustice! Write about what injustice means to you and throw it away she said. But I canât throw it away until I wear myself out with it, so you can suffer it with me.
It starts at a very young age for me. Was it being an empathic child or was it self protection that even at that age I knew my mum was staging me? Setting me up in an ambush in an attempt to control me. Afraid of my reaction to something or other she would wait until we were in public to land it on me, confident that my good manners (smacked into us) would prevent me answering back. It didnât, because I knew even then that I was being manipulated. At least thatâs what I thought was happening. My counsellor had other ideas. She called it public shaming. I was furious with her at the time, the counsellor, so blinkered I was to my motherâs behaviour that I reacted defensively when she called it abuse. Hey ho. But I knew it was unfair, which is why I refused to behave any differently in-front of anyone else. Stubborn in my own belief that you shouldnât behave differently just because of the audience. I have very black and white views. Apparently thatâs because Mum, (undiagnosed) borderline personality disorder, was all over the place, randomly inconsistent, so I made my own, rigid, unforgiving rules to keep myself safe. Was I a step ahead of my mother, or a step behind? Countless situations like this fold over each other like pages in a book, falling out and fluttering to the floor, blurring: situations where Mum would manipulate a scenario to place me squarely in a position of fault, to be seen as mean, jealous, vindictive: feelings I was more than capable of accessing even if I didnât ever express them, but feelings that simply did not apply in that moment. My mother insisted this was how I was feeing, this is why I was âbehavingâ in a certain way, attributing all sorts of emotions to me that just didnât feel true and this completely baffled me. If I tried to reason, explain or justify, I was âmisunderstoodâ. âPooooor Kate, you are so misunderstooooodâ. This sneered at me, further belittling me, leaving me confused, angry and now completely powerless. This was her triumphant answer to any âanswering backâ with a quick slap across the mouth. Years and years and years and years of little (and large) digs, pokes, manipulations, shaming, projecting meaning on my behaviour that wasnât there, misquoting my words, misrepresenting my actions, re-defining me into something I wasnât. A nasty, spiteful, vindictive and naughty child. And I looked back, in bewildered innocence, silently filing away another injustice.
So if I was going to rant, it would be about that. Of how psychopaths manipulate and abuse people. How they make you doubt first your sanity and ultimately your worthiness. How they wear away at any shred of confidence you have or any compassion you may feel for yourself as they systematically undermine everything you think you are. How they turn things around to blame you, manipulate things just to disarm you, remove all stability from your life so you never know whatâs coming next. Keep you on high alert, hyper-vigilant, until you mistrust everything. Thatâs really what Iâm angry about. Bad enough to have a psychopath as a partner, or a boss, but if itâs a parent, youâre so young that you may never question it. It took me to age 50, and a catastrophic mental breakdown to realise. And because it went on for so long it takes years to unravel. But, for me, this anger at injustice manifests as a crusade for the underdog. A desire to protect anyone from bullying, manipulation, cruelty or neglect. It manifests as an excruciating awareness and compassion for animals that even the thought of animal cruelty or neglect can bring me to tears. I used to campaign passionately for things I believed in, rage against the machine, highlight any injustice, however small, however embarrassing, however much easier it would be to hide or ignore, I would fearlessly and relentlessly push it into the open and force people to look at it and address it. I felt obligated to act in defence of anything I was made aware of, even against my wishes, because if I had the capability to help, then not helping made me a bad person. Itâs a prison thatâs taken years to escape from.
As I wander my soulâs journey I have found peace with my mother â she was, after all, just doing what she could with what she had, same as the rest of us. Learning that âblameâ was not appropriate was a long, slow lesson, but Iâve got there. Most of the time. I know she played this part in my life to help me evolve, and itâs not been fun for her. Sheâs unlikely in this lifetime to ever be aware enough to know what sheâs done, or rather how it impacted us, but I know there is a soul contact there, and she played that part for me, to make me grow.
I can forgive my mother.
Sterling, on the other hand, I canât forgive. Or can I? Really all thatâs happened here is some smarmy salesman (John) failed to point out that the fabric is unsuitable for anyone who intends to actually sit on it. Maybe he didnât know. Maybe he forgot. Maybe heâs already had his arse felt and is smarting about it. Lucy in customer services really has no choice. Sheâs been dumped this problem by the managing director (J Ballantyne). Sales manager (Andy) wouldnât help at all, condescending to the point of rudeness, so I wrote to the managing director. They really have no way to make this better other than give us our money back, and Lucyâs been told to make it go away without doing that. Lucy has been unfailingly professional and polite, if a bit distant, but sheâs basically skirting around the elephant in the room. Poor Lucy. All the responsibility and none of the power. She canât make me feel better because the salesman fucked up and they donât want to admit it. On an individual level I can forgive them. It would be easier with an apology, but if Iâm honest, the old Kate would have taken that apology, classified it as proof of wrong-doing (as my mother would) and rammed it down their throats in a lawsuit so I can sort of see why they wouldnât apologise.
Maybe I can forgive. They are, after all, just doing what they can with what theyâve got.