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.

My Logic Is Sound- When the Victim Blames Herself

One of the most difficult aspects of my psychological make-up is that I can intellectually know something, and believe it, but cannot relate it to myself. For example, I know that sexual abuse is not the fault of the victim. I know that the victim will often blame themselves for abuse, but that it’s not their fault and healing comes through letting go of that blame. My mind can completely grasp this concept. I could, with great feeling and passion, share this information with others. But you know what comes next, don’t you….I have overwhelming and oppressive shame. I think everything is my fault. I know it’s not my fault, but it feels, without exception, all the time, like I am not only at fault, I AM faulty.

Imagine watching tv and the channels keep changing. If your spouse is a channel surfer, you know what I mean. This is my mind. The channels keep changing and this makes identifying what happened to me very difficult. I can slow the channel changing down a bit sometimes, and I can write or speak about what happened, but the act of writing or speaking is detached from what is happening in my mind. My mind won’t hold that channel, so I have great difficulty identifying the solid, realistic events of my past. I often wonder if what I have said happened, really happened. I wonder if the brief view of my past is real, or if it is a fabrication to justify the intense and horrible reality of my emotional state. In truth, I wish it was a fabrication…

Before I went to the hospital that had a special program for treating dissociative disorders, I wrote my therapist a letter. In the letter I wrote down what happened, for the first time, and said something like “I know this is true.” I was afraid the hospital staff would try to fuck with my memories and I would come out with some crazy story of horrific abuse that wasn’t true but that I believed nonetheless. I wanted proof for myself that what I knew, I knew. So I know. But it doesn’t seem all that bad. It seems like I should just be able to accept that it happened and move on. But it profoundly affects me. The worst way that I am affected, I think, is that I feel incredible shame for what happened and have spent my entire life re-enacting in some way the role I played then, compounding the shame and solidifying the belief that I asked for it, I liked it, I participated willingly in it, and that makes me a monster. Additionally, I think I created the sexual component of the behaviors. What was done to me was meant to be loving, nurturing, and normal and I am the monster that made it something sexual. I cannot escape this belief. And since I was a child, the shame is exponential as a sexual CHILD is most certainly a monster.

Even writing it down and re-reading it, I can’t find the faulty logic. Children are not responsible for the abuse perpetuated upon them, but my experiences weren’t abusive, I MADE them sexual so I’m the one to blame. Certainly, in the manner of a true dissociative mind, I can step back and ask the logical one inside to make a comment on this. And he says “the behaviors were sexual in nature, and since you were a child you were not to blame. The perpetrator was abusive. The perpetrator was meeting her sexual/emotional needs through you.” Immediately my mind spins, my stomach develops that bottomless pit of sickness, my flesh crawls, and I want to scream and hit myself. It’s easier to blame myself. It’s relaxing and calming to imagine punishing myself. It’s normal and comfortable and safe to blame myself. The awful, threatening, deeply disturbing pit in my stomach disappears as I reject the logic of “she was at fault” and embrace the belief that “I am faulty.”

I also know that there is more to this story. It’s not just about the confusing her-me relationship. It’s about someone else, because I can smell him. I can see, before the channel changes, brief scenes. It set the stage for everything else. I just cannot, for the life of me, determine whether or not it is a fabrication to justify my feelings (and my behavior) or if it happened. I once said to my therapist, “I know for a fact that this happened, and also I know for a fact it did not.” If only I could unlock that part of my mind, and see what happened, and know that it wasn’t my fault…then I could transfer that to the her-me shit. Change the channel.

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