Angry Compassion

"Pain accompanies compassion" I said, and the sentence bounced around in my skull while a hot flash of anger surged through my body literally making my cheeks burn red. I needed to decelerate, but the concepts keep echoing so I also need to explore them.

I'm making a doll for L.A. It's an attempt at connecting with her and showing her some kindness. It's a compassionate act. It's not empathy, because I don't think I can handle feeling her pain. So how is compassion different from empathy? Empathy is feeling the suffering of others, and compassion is the active relative of empathy - it seeks to alleviate the suffering of others in a loving way. Ouch.

Compassion rises out of some very real and primal feelings. I have lacked compassion for myself, and in fact have startled myself on occasion with my callous disregard for my pain. For example, when watching a woman on tv fight off a would-be rapist, I felt disdain for her, thinking "why fuss so much? It's not like he's gonna kill you, it's just sex." Once (or many times) when feeling sad or frustrated because I am too tired to go out, I become outraged with myself for not having the strength to get beyond my petty issues like being forced to eat dog shit after swallowing cum as a toddler. Seriously. That's a distinct lack of compassion. And now suddenly I am faced with the possibility of having compassion upon myself and in fact cognitively recognize the importance of having compassion upon myself and I am outraged....I think because in order to feel the compassion and work to alleviate my own suffering I have to acknowledge the suffering and perhaps even feel it a little. Ouch.

But kicking myself in the ass and telling myself to get the fuck over it is simply ineffective.

Punishing myself for feeling is also ineffective.

Immersing myself in the pain in a muddled empathetic/pity laden decomposition of stability is also ineffective.

Compassion serves to alleviate suffering, and so there is an acknowledgement of suffering and thus I feel pain. The pain is so intense and so deep I ground myself with rage. I suppose this cycle will someday be ineffective, but for now it is the reality I have. My cheeks were burning in anger because I cannot yet feel the pain.

Revenge vs. Compassion

I watched a movie in which 4 teen boys were brutally sodomized. Two grew up thugs, 2 were relatively successful. They had a chance to exact revenge upon their perpetrators, and through an elaborate set up accomplished just that! At one point their plan hinged upon a priest who had befriended them in their youth lying under oath in a court of law. I adamantly expressed that I wanted him to. I felt strongly that he should. I was sure I would. Lying under oath is something that I didn't think I would ever do, but in the context of this movie I was sure, absolutely positive that I would. I figured God would WANT it for there to be true justice. And then I got angry, because I can never exact revenge upon my perpetrators. I felt rage because I am powerless. I have felt rage all my life, it seems. What do I get, when I cannot get revenge?

I thought of Mandela's quote, the thing about how he knew he had to leave the hatred and bitterness behind or he would remain in prison. Those boys in the movie, they succeeded in getting revenge but the thugs ended up dead shortly after and the other two led empty lives. The revenge did nothing to assuage the searing pain that is betrayal. I thought of my own betrayal, the little child with the searing emotional pain that was so intolerable she never walked through it to the other side. Would revenge mean anything to her?  For a moment I saw her - wrapped up in her pain - and I felt compassion. That is what I get in place of revenge, the opportunity to feel compassion. I don't hate the man who brutalized me, I feel more of a general hatred and if I try to push myself to find an object for that hate I become the object I hate. I have hated myself forever. I have been exacting revenge upon myself forever. I have never, ever forgiven that little child for not being able to stop the pain, for feeling that overwhelming betrayal, and for giving in to the terror. But today I felt compassion for her, because it became clear to me that a little child's capacity to cope with and make sense of astonishing betrayal is quite minimal. And this little child that was me did an amazing thing - she survived by dissociating. Furthermore, because of dissociation, I have crafted a life that gives me this opportunity - the opportunity to feel compassion.

Betrayal becomes a dark shadow in a person's life - and revenge does nothing to kill the shadow because a shadow is inseparable from the flesh. If you have a body, you will at times have a shadow. No amount of sex, booze, or self-hatred will dispense of the body's shadow. I suppose I could have lived in darkness all my life and never have to see the shadow, but how is that different from being a shadow? Today I looked at my shadow and realized that it is something with me and will always be with me as long as I am flesh and blood on this planet. I am okay with that. Sometimes I won't have to see the shadow, sometimes it will seem like it's all I am. But I know revenge won't get rid of it.

That leaves me with compassion. I have some for the little child. I remain indifferent to the perpetrator, and ambivalent to the other main figure in my life. But I can entertain the idea of compassion for both. I won't push myself too hard on that front. I will, however, practice compassion for self. Self is temporary, as it is, and so with limited time on this planet I might as well give my self credit for the incredible feat of survival. And there really is no reason to be afraid of my shadow - it is an echo of pain and terror too great to bear as a little girl but maybe not for a grown woman (in bits and pieces, when well rested, with tea and warm bed available, and a chihuahua to pet...)

If I don't let go of the bitterness and hatred, I will remain imprisoned by my shadow. I'd rather walk with my shadow, and tell the girls inside that it's okay to step into the sun every now and then.