I am at a tenuous place in my recovery. I am being faced with the most difficult realities of my past and my present, and it is incredibly difficult. It would be so much easier to retreat to the comfort of my behaviors, watch the emotions melt away with each pound lost. I refuse to do that, so I am using my voice instead of my body to communicate my pain.
I am far enough along in my process to begin dealing with the real nastiness of my illness. I have trimmed the leaves of destructive behaviors, hedged the branches of relational difficulties, and I now find myself hacking at the real roots of the disease that has threatened my life for far too long. What I am discovering is this: these roots run deep, and they will choke the life out of me if I don't deal with them soon. I am not immune to relapse. On the contrary, I have fallen down over and over and may do so again. What is different this time is that I truly want to live free of my disease. That freedom comes at a price, and the price is facing those menacing roots.
A long time ago, I was hurt. Several times, actually, but one incident in particular has defined my struggle, been the albatross around my neck. Another human being, one I loved and treasured and trusted, betrayed me in the most annihilating way. He took something from me, many years ago, and I will never get it back. He stole my sense of safety, my respect for my body, my idea of humanity. He destroyed what was never his to touch.
I have wreaked havoc on my body in the years since in an attempt to erase, numb, obliterate what was done. Each day I deal with the emotional and physical scars I was left with. Simple things, inconsequential to most, are exceedingly difficult. Being told I am pretty is like being told I asked for what happened to me. Being touched unexpectedly is like being given a one-way ticket back to my worst nightmare. I have learned to navigate the post-traumatic stress, but I have not healed.
I am angry sometimes that one night - just a few hours - condemned me to a lifetime of struggle. It maddens me to know that while I must deal with the repercussions of this event every day, my perpetrator likely has no such burden to carry. For him, it was an expression of power, of rage, that ended when I walked out his door. For me, it was a life sentence for a crime I never committed.
I don't speak of my experience flippantly. I am not sharing to gain attention for myself, to get pity, to get some kind of "survivor glory." This shit hurts, I am terribly ashamed, and I most certainly don't take any of it lightly. My purpose in sharing my story is to highlight a key point: All people, women and children included, have the right to be safe. We have the right to be protected. We have the right to live free of fear, free of persecution, free of oppression, free of violence. We have a right to live a life focused on dreams, hopes, and goals, not on terror and shame.
I have a right to be angry. I have a right to demand change - change to our society, to the way our sons are raised to treat women and to the way our daughters are raised to treat themselves, to the way we react to violence. WE have a right to end our own suffering. WE have a right to be safe. WE have a right to rise. Pain shared is not doubled, but halved. If you have your own story, please be open. I am here for support, for love, for unending compassion. Rise with me. Shake loose your wings and fly above the hurt.
Thursday, January 3, 2013
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
Rehab Is Not A Four-Letter Word
I have heard that there are people out there who know OF me more than they know ME. I have heard that they know I've been to "rehab." They most likely don't know that means I went to inpatient eating disorder treatment; I assume that by "rehab" they think drugs or alcohol. Maybe they regard me with suspicion. Perhaps they believe I can't be trusted, because "once an addict, always an addict."
I want to address this on a couple fronts. First, no matter the kind of problem - eating disorder, chemical dependency, trauma, whatever - the definition of rehabilitation is this: to restore or bring to a condition of health or useful and constructive activity. Who among us can't use a little restoration? Who among us hasn't, at one point or another, experienced a decrease in our health, usefulness, or constructive activity? That's called life. Sometimes things go wrong, we get hurt, and it takes awhile to dust ourselves off. Isn't it incredibly brave that we can acknowledge our struggles and take the necessary steps to heal? Why the stigma?
Which leads me to my second point. Why the shame? Not only the shame those of us who have walked the road of recovery have felt, but the shame some onlookers place upon us? So I went to rehab. What's that say about me? That I couldn't hack it on my own? That I'm too weak to man up and deal with my life? That there's something wrong with me, that I'm broken? Nope, that's a fallacy. I am NOT broken. I am NOT weak. And while yes, I couldn't do it on my own, who can? No man is an island, after all. I needed help, and I sought it out. I was hurting, and I found some peace.
Maybe the media plays a role in the misunderstanding, as it so often does. (I grew up in New Jersey, and not one of my friends or family members bears any resemblence to Snookie.) There's Amy Winehouse's (now-ironic) hit song, "Rehab." People laughed when that song hit the airwaves. "Look at the silly drunk, what a joke." A few people took notice and said, "Hey, wait, maybe she's really sick," but they were the minority. There's a show on MTV or VH1 (you know, where they used to talk about music) called "Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew," in which several formerly-famous people with addictions find their diseases exploited and ridiculed. They act in an outrageous fashion and the viewer at home can say, "What an idiot. Drug addicts are losers," and feel better about his own life. This is not only grossly untrue, its effects are devastating. I wonder sometimes how many lives have been lost because sick people were too ashamed to reach out for help, too afraid of being labeled.
Here's what I know for sure. The people I have met in rehab and in 12-step meetings are some of the most intelligent, kind, motivated, strong, honest, wonderful folks I have ever encountered. We had some cards stacked against us, perhaps: genetics, trauma, etc. We fell hard, got scraped up pretty badly. Fell again and again, in a lot of cases. But we were hopeful enough, brave enough, to get the help we needed. BRAVE. Because that's what rehab requires: bravery, trust, hope, accountability, and a willingness to change the things that lead us away from God's path. We admit that we have lost control, admit that this Thing (for me, anorexia and bulimia, for others, drugs, alcohol, sex, gambling, and on an on) has taken over and we don't know how to stop it. We acknowledge all the things we have done wrong, all the people we have hurt, while we were astray. We say aloud, to each other, that we want something better, know that with God's help and the support of one another, we can and will get better. We will be rehabilitated.
I challenge you, if you have not been in rehab, to take stock of your opinions of those of us who have. What do you believe about us? Are those beliefs fair, compassionate?
And to my companions on the journey of recovery, I challenge you to this: Tell someone new about your experience. Share your experience, strength, and hope. Do your part to change the misconception. Help show the world that rehab is not a four-letter word.
I want to address this on a couple fronts. First, no matter the kind of problem - eating disorder, chemical dependency, trauma, whatever - the definition of rehabilitation is this: to restore or bring to a condition of health or useful and constructive activity. Who among us can't use a little restoration? Who among us hasn't, at one point or another, experienced a decrease in our health, usefulness, or constructive activity? That's called life. Sometimes things go wrong, we get hurt, and it takes awhile to dust ourselves off. Isn't it incredibly brave that we can acknowledge our struggles and take the necessary steps to heal? Why the stigma?
Which leads me to my second point. Why the shame? Not only the shame those of us who have walked the road of recovery have felt, but the shame some onlookers place upon us? So I went to rehab. What's that say about me? That I couldn't hack it on my own? That I'm too weak to man up and deal with my life? That there's something wrong with me, that I'm broken? Nope, that's a fallacy. I am NOT broken. I am NOT weak. And while yes, I couldn't do it on my own, who can? No man is an island, after all. I needed help, and I sought it out. I was hurting, and I found some peace.
Maybe the media plays a role in the misunderstanding, as it so often does. (I grew up in New Jersey, and not one of my friends or family members bears any resemblence to Snookie.) There's Amy Winehouse's (now-ironic) hit song, "Rehab." People laughed when that song hit the airwaves. "Look at the silly drunk, what a joke." A few people took notice and said, "Hey, wait, maybe she's really sick," but they were the minority. There's a show on MTV or VH1 (you know, where they used to talk about music) called "Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew," in which several formerly-famous people with addictions find their diseases exploited and ridiculed. They act in an outrageous fashion and the viewer at home can say, "What an idiot. Drug addicts are losers," and feel better about his own life. This is not only grossly untrue, its effects are devastating. I wonder sometimes how many lives have been lost because sick people were too ashamed to reach out for help, too afraid of being labeled.
Here's what I know for sure. The people I have met in rehab and in 12-step meetings are some of the most intelligent, kind, motivated, strong, honest, wonderful folks I have ever encountered. We had some cards stacked against us, perhaps: genetics, trauma, etc. We fell hard, got scraped up pretty badly. Fell again and again, in a lot of cases. But we were hopeful enough, brave enough, to get the help we needed. BRAVE. Because that's what rehab requires: bravery, trust, hope, accountability, and a willingness to change the things that lead us away from God's path. We admit that we have lost control, admit that this Thing (for me, anorexia and bulimia, for others, drugs, alcohol, sex, gambling, and on an on) has taken over and we don't know how to stop it. We acknowledge all the things we have done wrong, all the people we have hurt, while we were astray. We say aloud, to each other, that we want something better, know that with God's help and the support of one another, we can and will get better. We will be rehabilitated.
I challenge you, if you have not been in rehab, to take stock of your opinions of those of us who have. What do you believe about us? Are those beliefs fair, compassionate?
And to my companions on the journey of recovery, I challenge you to this: Tell someone new about your experience. Share your experience, strength, and hope. Do your part to change the misconception. Help show the world that rehab is not a four-letter word.
Friday, November 23, 2012
Little Lights
It is hard, maybe even
impossible,
to see the stars on a stormy night.
They always glitter in their
ebony bed,
never vanishing, though our
eyes lose sight of them.
The mournful clouds roll in,
weeping, closing up the
atmosphere with their
shadows.
A long way up, the stars
shine on.
A cold wind bites, aggressive,
assaulting the air.
Up above, the heavens
are still.
The storm will rage,
will cry out, will destroy.
When it passes, as
all storms do,
we will glimpse the stars again.
impossible,
to see the stars on a stormy night.
They always glitter in their
ebony bed,
never vanishing, though our
eyes lose sight of them.
The mournful clouds roll in,
weeping, closing up the
atmosphere with their
shadows.
A long way up, the stars
shine on.
A cold wind bites, aggressive,
assaulting the air.
Up above, the heavens
are still.
The storm will rage,
will cry out, will destroy.
When it passes, as
all storms do,
we will glimpse the stars again.
Saturday, November 17, 2012
Anger: A Love Story
I had a conversation with a dear friend recently about anger. Rather, the denial of it. Anger is one of those emotions that has a funny way of finding its way out no matter how hard we try to push it down. (I am reminded of this every time I bake bread, as my loaf pan has a sizeable dent in it from being thrown across the kitchen several years ago. But I wasn't mad at the time, really.)
Anger is a feeling just like any other - it is natural, it serves a purpose, it is an inevitability. What we do with it is an entirely different matter. Some folks rage, because the potency is just so great and there's no discernible way to temper it in the moment. Some people deny their anger altogether, because it's simply inappropriate to display such a nasty sentiment. Some people have a healthy relationship to their anger and express it in a reasonable and effective matter, though it appears to me these people are in the minority.
Someone once taught me how you can tell if your anger is justified given your present situation, or if it is actually a response to something much deeper, much farther back in the past. It has a lot to do with intensity. Say someone rear-ends you in the parking lot. In Scenario A, you are shaken up and annoyed, but calmly get out of your car, approach the person with the goal of exchanging insurance information, get back in your car, and go about your business. In Scenario B, you hurl yourself out of the car, wrench open the other guy's door, pull him out by the collar, and proceed to tell him exactly what a &^%$&(@'ng idiot he is. In Scenario C, you begin to cry, get out of your car and apologize profusely to the offending driver, insisting that you are actually at fault, that this stuff happens all the time because you're just so stupid. Only one of these scenarios exemplifies an appropriate response to an anger-inducing event. I imagine you can guess which one. Scenarios B and C are examples of explosive anger and anger that brings up shame, neither of which are actually responses to the car accident, but to things from the past that cause great discomfort.
One of my most recent reminders of this anger conundrum occurred a few days ago when I watched the new episode of Glee. (Don't judge... I like to pretend I'm still 16, only instead of the actual 16-year old me, I'm a pop-song-singing, hip-hop-dancing ball of awesome.) This particular episode of the show not only made light of eating disorders, it actually glorified and exalted them. I lost it. I took to social media to blast my opinions, and was greeted with a response that reaffirmed my disgust. I was furious. I was also hurt. How could the writers, producers, and actors be so insensitive? So dangerous? So cruel? So flippant? So irresponsible? Don't they know how devastating these diseases are? Don't they CARE?
I wasn't angry about Glee. It's a television show. I was angry at my own disease, at the years, the experiences, the money, the friendships, the health, it cost me. I was angry about how many people continue to take that first step - skip that first meal, take that first pill, purge that first time - never knowing the years of devastation that will follow. I was angry at my own first step, all those years ago. I was angry at the fact that I still... STILL... stand in front of the mirror, brows furrowed, shame welling up, hating what I see. I was angry, yes. But not at what I thought.
I am thankful for that anger, though. For while it came up unexpectedly, while it surfaced in response to a (admittedly very poorly-executed and socially irresponsible) television show, it reminded me how very far I've come, and how much I stand to lose if I stop walking the right path.
I encourage you to take a look at your own anger. Be aware of it as it comes - is it justified in the current situation, or is it something deeper trying to communicate itself to you? Is there something else there that needs to be examined? Love your anger, appreciate it. I am finding it has a lot more to offer than I ever knew.
Anger is a feeling just like any other - it is natural, it serves a purpose, it is an inevitability. What we do with it is an entirely different matter. Some folks rage, because the potency is just so great and there's no discernible way to temper it in the moment. Some people deny their anger altogether, because it's simply inappropriate to display such a nasty sentiment. Some people have a healthy relationship to their anger and express it in a reasonable and effective matter, though it appears to me these people are in the minority.
Someone once taught me how you can tell if your anger is justified given your present situation, or if it is actually a response to something much deeper, much farther back in the past. It has a lot to do with intensity. Say someone rear-ends you in the parking lot. In Scenario A, you are shaken up and annoyed, but calmly get out of your car, approach the person with the goal of exchanging insurance information, get back in your car, and go about your business. In Scenario B, you hurl yourself out of the car, wrench open the other guy's door, pull him out by the collar, and proceed to tell him exactly what a &^%$&(@'ng idiot he is. In Scenario C, you begin to cry, get out of your car and apologize profusely to the offending driver, insisting that you are actually at fault, that this stuff happens all the time because you're just so stupid. Only one of these scenarios exemplifies an appropriate response to an anger-inducing event. I imagine you can guess which one. Scenarios B and C are examples of explosive anger and anger that brings up shame, neither of which are actually responses to the car accident, but to things from the past that cause great discomfort.
One of my most recent reminders of this anger conundrum occurred a few days ago when I watched the new episode of Glee. (Don't judge... I like to pretend I'm still 16, only instead of the actual 16-year old me, I'm a pop-song-singing, hip-hop-dancing ball of awesome.) This particular episode of the show not only made light of eating disorders, it actually glorified and exalted them. I lost it. I took to social media to blast my opinions, and was greeted with a response that reaffirmed my disgust. I was furious. I was also hurt. How could the writers, producers, and actors be so insensitive? So dangerous? So cruel? So flippant? So irresponsible? Don't they know how devastating these diseases are? Don't they CARE?
I wasn't angry about Glee. It's a television show. I was angry at my own disease, at the years, the experiences, the money, the friendships, the health, it cost me. I was angry about how many people continue to take that first step - skip that first meal, take that first pill, purge that first time - never knowing the years of devastation that will follow. I was angry at my own first step, all those years ago. I was angry at the fact that I still... STILL... stand in front of the mirror, brows furrowed, shame welling up, hating what I see. I was angry, yes. But not at what I thought.
I am thankful for that anger, though. For while it came up unexpectedly, while it surfaced in response to a (admittedly very poorly-executed and socially irresponsible) television show, it reminded me how very far I've come, and how much I stand to lose if I stop walking the right path.
I encourage you to take a look at your own anger. Be aware of it as it comes - is it justified in the current situation, or is it something deeper trying to communicate itself to you? Is there something else there that needs to be examined? Love your anger, appreciate it. I am finding it has a lot more to offer than I ever knew.
Monday, October 22, 2012
Dare (Not) to Compare
"She's so much thinner than I am." "She's so much prettier than I am." "Her clothes are so much nicer than mine." "Her house is so much cleaner than mine is." "Her kids are so much better-behaved than mine are."
That's an inner dialogue that plagues me on a daily basis. Admition: I compare myself to others. A lot. And 98% of the time, I come out in the one-down position. I have found absolutely no benefit in these constant comparisons; rather, they are an incessant reminder of my own shortcomings, my inadequacies, my failures. If only I could be like HER, I think, then I wouldn't be so bad.
Now, I've gotten far enough along in my journey to appreciate some of my lesser-ideal qualities. I am loud, and I am obnoxiously opinionated... but I enjoy that about myself. I procrastinate... and I get a rise from the thrill of getting things done barely in the nick of time. There are other things, though, that continue to cause me grief. My body is an obvious example.
There are a lot of people out there who have "better" bodies than I do. Sure, some of them are 17. Some of them have never borne children. Some of them are professional athletes or models or actresses, and get paid big money to look as they do. Some of them are mired in their own uncontrolled eating disorders, achieving those bodies I've long coveted through the very same behaviors that nearly cost me my life. I recognize all of those things. And still, I compare.
The same can be said for my home, and my children, and every other area of my life that I (unrealistically) view as an extension of myself. My often-messy house, my frequently-argumentative children (by the by, how can I be surprised by this? They are MY children, after all), all force me to acknowledge how imperfect my life is. It's a cruel experience, and it's a type of suffering wholly unnecessary and brought about entirely by my own choices.
You see, here's the thing. All of those "perfect people" to whom we compare ourselves? They're not perfect at all. They have their own insecurities, their own secret failings they pray no one will discover. No one among us is flawless, however that Glamour magazine cover may represent her. I have a couple friends whom, upon first meeting them, I despised on principle: they were so put together, I just couldn't stand it. Then I got to know them, had the privilege of seeing their faults, and I took back my judgements. I realized that it is their very humanity (definition: weakness) that makes them incredible.
If I can love my friends for their flaws, their struggles, their imperfections, then why can't I love myself for mine? The first step in getting there, I think, is to stop the comparing. Just stop it, for crying out loud. Any exercise that concludes with my certainty that I suck is not an exercise conducive to a happy life.
I invite you, friends, to JUST SAY NO to comparing. Celebrate the flaws in yourself just as surely as you love the flaws in your fellows. If we all looked like the girl on the Glamour cover, if our houses all looked like those on the Good Housekeeping covers, if our kids all acted like the ones on the Parenting covers, what a dull world this would be.
That's an inner dialogue that plagues me on a daily basis. Admition: I compare myself to others. A lot. And 98% of the time, I come out in the one-down position. I have found absolutely no benefit in these constant comparisons; rather, they are an incessant reminder of my own shortcomings, my inadequacies, my failures. If only I could be like HER, I think, then I wouldn't be so bad.
Now, I've gotten far enough along in my journey to appreciate some of my lesser-ideal qualities. I am loud, and I am obnoxiously opinionated... but I enjoy that about myself. I procrastinate... and I get a rise from the thrill of getting things done barely in the nick of time. There are other things, though, that continue to cause me grief. My body is an obvious example.
There are a lot of people out there who have "better" bodies than I do. Sure, some of them are 17. Some of them have never borne children. Some of them are professional athletes or models or actresses, and get paid big money to look as they do. Some of them are mired in their own uncontrolled eating disorders, achieving those bodies I've long coveted through the very same behaviors that nearly cost me my life. I recognize all of those things. And still, I compare.
The same can be said for my home, and my children, and every other area of my life that I (unrealistically) view as an extension of myself. My often-messy house, my frequently-argumentative children (by the by, how can I be surprised by this? They are MY children, after all), all force me to acknowledge how imperfect my life is. It's a cruel experience, and it's a type of suffering wholly unnecessary and brought about entirely by my own choices.
You see, here's the thing. All of those "perfect people" to whom we compare ourselves? They're not perfect at all. They have their own insecurities, their own secret failings they pray no one will discover. No one among us is flawless, however that Glamour magazine cover may represent her. I have a couple friends whom, upon first meeting them, I despised on principle: they were so put together, I just couldn't stand it. Then I got to know them, had the privilege of seeing their faults, and I took back my judgements. I realized that it is their very humanity (definition: weakness) that makes them incredible.
If I can love my friends for their flaws, their struggles, their imperfections, then why can't I love myself for mine? The first step in getting there, I think, is to stop the comparing. Just stop it, for crying out loud. Any exercise that concludes with my certainty that I suck is not an exercise conducive to a happy life.
I invite you, friends, to JUST SAY NO to comparing. Celebrate the flaws in yourself just as surely as you love the flaws in your fellows. If we all looked like the girl on the Glamour cover, if our houses all looked like those on the Good Housekeeping covers, if our kids all acted like the ones on the Parenting covers, what a dull world this would be.
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
Escape
The world is a bright, beautiful place when your head's not in a toilet bowl. That may not be the most delicate way to put it, but frankly, it's my reality. For years - fourteen of them - I was too caught up in escapist behaviors to recognize the simple but brilliant magic of life.
An eating disorder, similar to chemical dependency and even OCD, is an extreme example of avoidance. Life is messy sometimes, it hurts, it's imperfect, people can be mean, they will let you down, you will be disappointed and heartbroken and lonely. Retreating to the perceived safety of a compulsive disease gives the illusion of avoiding the trials of reality. To quote a mantra I used to repeat to myself daily, "Hunger is better than pain." The most obvious drawback to this attempted dodge is the physical one: eating disorders and addictions can, and if left untreated will, kill you. End of story, no postscript. A more subtle consequence is an emotional one. While you may succeed in blocking those unpleasant emotions, you also succeed mightily at blocking the good ones too.
When I was sick, I was never happy. I never felt joy, passion, human connection, or even true empathy for others. I couldn't pick and choose the feelings I wanted to block; it was all or nothing. My existence was just that: a constant cycle of chemical and biological reactions that (mercifully) allowed my heart to keep beating day after day.
I think there are many examples of this self-numbing behavior beyond the extremes of addiction, as well. I know friends who intentionally lose themselves for hours on websites, reality TV shows, and in books just to "get away" in their minds. For however brief a period of time, fantasy - or even good old fashioned mental blankess - seems better than real life. Who's to say that type of mellowed-out escapism is bad? I love a good book and a comfy couch as much as the next girl. It's when the escape begins to intrude on life that a problem exists. "Go away, kids, Mom is reading." "Not tonight, Honey, my show is on." "I can't go out, Jane, I'm trolling Pinterest." Translation: "I don't want to risk the potential frustration and disappointment of human interaction when I can zone out on my own."
There's something interesting I'm learning right now. The very messy nature of life that so terrified me before is exactly what makes it worth living now. What fun would a roller coaster be if it was just a straight track? The ups and downs, the twists and turns, the inverted stomach-emptying drops, are what keep us coming back for more. The disappointments in life have allowed me to be grateful when things do work out. The heartbreak I've felt allows me to cherish the love I have in my life. The frustrations - many and seemingly never-ending - give me a chance to better myself.
I don't want to escape life anymore. I want to live it. We only get this one shot - why spend it playing Solitaire?
An eating disorder, similar to chemical dependency and even OCD, is an extreme example of avoidance. Life is messy sometimes, it hurts, it's imperfect, people can be mean, they will let you down, you will be disappointed and heartbroken and lonely. Retreating to the perceived safety of a compulsive disease gives the illusion of avoiding the trials of reality. To quote a mantra I used to repeat to myself daily, "Hunger is better than pain." The most obvious drawback to this attempted dodge is the physical one: eating disorders and addictions can, and if left untreated will, kill you. End of story, no postscript. A more subtle consequence is an emotional one. While you may succeed in blocking those unpleasant emotions, you also succeed mightily at blocking the good ones too.
When I was sick, I was never happy. I never felt joy, passion, human connection, or even true empathy for others. I couldn't pick and choose the feelings I wanted to block; it was all or nothing. My existence was just that: a constant cycle of chemical and biological reactions that (mercifully) allowed my heart to keep beating day after day.
I think there are many examples of this self-numbing behavior beyond the extremes of addiction, as well. I know friends who intentionally lose themselves for hours on websites, reality TV shows, and in books just to "get away" in their minds. For however brief a period of time, fantasy - or even good old fashioned mental blankess - seems better than real life. Who's to say that type of mellowed-out escapism is bad? I love a good book and a comfy couch as much as the next girl. It's when the escape begins to intrude on life that a problem exists. "Go away, kids, Mom is reading." "Not tonight, Honey, my show is on." "I can't go out, Jane, I'm trolling Pinterest." Translation: "I don't want to risk the potential frustration and disappointment of human interaction when I can zone out on my own."
There's something interesting I'm learning right now. The very messy nature of life that so terrified me before is exactly what makes it worth living now. What fun would a roller coaster be if it was just a straight track? The ups and downs, the twists and turns, the inverted stomach-emptying drops, are what keep us coming back for more. The disappointments in life have allowed me to be grateful when things do work out. The heartbreak I've felt allows me to cherish the love I have in my life. The frustrations - many and seemingly never-ending - give me a chance to better myself.
I don't want to escape life anymore. I want to live it. We only get this one shot - why spend it playing Solitaire?
Thursday, September 13, 2012
Hurt People Hurt People
I'm doing a lot of work in therapy right now to place accountability where it belongs. Specifically, to stop blaming myself for the violence I have endured, and to place blame where it should be (on the perpetrators). I was told that in order to heal, I had to get angry. I disagree.
I have this notion that compassion is more powerful than anger. That maybe, just maybe, peace can be found by forgiving rather than condemning.
I spent years - more than half my life, in fact - punishing myself for things that happened to me as a child. I believed, as sure as I believed the sky was blue, that I was responsible for what happened to me. If I wasn't so inherently bad, so contaminated at a cellular level, I could have avoided all the pain. I recognize now how wrong I was. I was a child, innocent by definition. I had no control over the things that befell me. I was as pure as any other child. God does not make mistakes, and it was a bit presumptuous of me to assume that He made one with me. Starving myself, eating copious amounts and then throwing up, cutting and bruising myself... rather than paying retribution, I was merely revictimizing myself.
I did not decide to be violated. That choice was made for me. I had no say. The popular belief is that in order to heal, I must get angry at the people who made those choices for me. Instead, I am choosing to have empathy.
Make no mistake, I still decry the actions whole-heartedly. Perhaps the most powerful gift bestowed upon human beings is that of free agency. We have the power to choose our actions. The people who hurt me made their choices, knowing, I believe, that there were less violent alternatives. They must be held accountable.
However, I choose to look at myself: a desperately pained, wildly confused girl who did the only thing that made sense - I hurt myself. Perhaps my perpetrators did the same thing. Felt their pain, and lashed out. Look at that old example: "Dad hits Mom, Mom hits Johnny, Johnny kicks the dog." If a person has no awareness of constructive coping mechanisms, that person can only act in survival mode. Sometimes that survival takes the shape of hurting someone else in order to alleviate their own hurt.
Somehow this understanding brings me peace. I am able to think to myself, "I did no wrong. That person did wrong, and it was a choice he made based on his own damage, his own story. I am sad, and I am angry that I was the recipient of the rage, but I forgive."
There is a quote thrown around frequently that I think is quite profound. "Be kind; everyone you meet is fighting their own battle." Think of someone who has hurt you and consider this idea. It doesn't excuse their actions, but it may free you from your suffering, as it is freeing me from mine.
I have this notion that compassion is more powerful than anger. That maybe, just maybe, peace can be found by forgiving rather than condemning.
I spent years - more than half my life, in fact - punishing myself for things that happened to me as a child. I believed, as sure as I believed the sky was blue, that I was responsible for what happened to me. If I wasn't so inherently bad, so contaminated at a cellular level, I could have avoided all the pain. I recognize now how wrong I was. I was a child, innocent by definition. I had no control over the things that befell me. I was as pure as any other child. God does not make mistakes, and it was a bit presumptuous of me to assume that He made one with me. Starving myself, eating copious amounts and then throwing up, cutting and bruising myself... rather than paying retribution, I was merely revictimizing myself.
I did not decide to be violated. That choice was made for me. I had no say. The popular belief is that in order to heal, I must get angry at the people who made those choices for me. Instead, I am choosing to have empathy.
Make no mistake, I still decry the actions whole-heartedly. Perhaps the most powerful gift bestowed upon human beings is that of free agency. We have the power to choose our actions. The people who hurt me made their choices, knowing, I believe, that there were less violent alternatives. They must be held accountable.
However, I choose to look at myself: a desperately pained, wildly confused girl who did the only thing that made sense - I hurt myself. Perhaps my perpetrators did the same thing. Felt their pain, and lashed out. Look at that old example: "Dad hits Mom, Mom hits Johnny, Johnny kicks the dog." If a person has no awareness of constructive coping mechanisms, that person can only act in survival mode. Sometimes that survival takes the shape of hurting someone else in order to alleviate their own hurt.
Somehow this understanding brings me peace. I am able to think to myself, "I did no wrong. That person did wrong, and it was a choice he made based on his own damage, his own story. I am sad, and I am angry that I was the recipient of the rage, but I forgive."
There is a quote thrown around frequently that I think is quite profound. "Be kind; everyone you meet is fighting their own battle." Think of someone who has hurt you and consider this idea. It doesn't excuse their actions, but it may free you from your suffering, as it is freeing me from mine.
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