Home > rayne > I don’t get it.

I don’t get it.

December 4th, 2009

233bc8d79357f3075c7edf5ddb083f11I don’t really understand victim mentality.

I’m not sure I’ve ever really felt like a victim.

A while back, Taylor (Carrie’s Taylor) was on about something over on Fet regarding victim mentality and a woman he was with once.  Fet seriously needs a thread search within groups or something, cause fuck if I can find the thread.

He said something about the girl had been attacked and she was a mess because of it.  And how she was in therapy, but wasn’t getting any better.  He said he told her that she was letting her attacker control her.  That every time she freaked out, and every therapy session, was like the guy raping her over and over again.  And now, she was allowing it.  Paying for the experience, even.

And ya know… that’s how I’ve always seen it, I guess.

Drugs began as something I did to pass the time, never a way to drown my sorrows.  Everyone else around me was doing them.  It was boring being the only sober person in the room.  Not getting the jokes.

But I always forgot about the crash.  The difference in normalcy and drug euphoria.  And when it came, I was never prepared.  With my already extensive list of “quirks”, as my mother liked to call them, the crash was almost unbearable.  So, I’d [[chase the dragon]] again.

At some point, the crash, my quirks and my problems got all mixed up and I lost control.  But I still never really felt like a victim. 

Till one day, this woman said to me, “My god.  Child, what have they done to you?” and she took me to her house for some soup and a shower.

And she made me feel like even though I had chosen this path… even though I had willingly and uncoerced (Because I wasn’t brainwashed like so many are, in the beginning.  In the beginning, I saw a handsome boy, chased him down, asked him who he was.  He told me the truth.  And I went with him anyway.) joined this crowd, I was blameless.  This was something that was done to me, not something I did to myself.  They were responsible for my life.

It only lasted as long as I was in her kitchen.  She tried to convince me to stay, but I was already in enough trouble.  Then she made the mistake of asking which clique owned me, and I mumbled some excuse about a book club meeting and took off.

It’s not that I don’t see how people can go down that path.  I do.  I started to go down it myself when I found myself alone and homeless and taking care of children.  I just don’t understand why they would want to.  And why if they’re not, people take them down it anyway.

The truth of my situation is, I made bad decisions and I paid for them.  What I went through wasn’t something that was done to me.  It was something that I chose for myself.  I knew the risks.  I danced dangerously close to the edge for years before finally toppling over the side.  Dipped my toes in.  Slipped in till the water reached my waist.

I didn’t choose it because it was better than my home life.  By then, Dad had stopped drinking and was hardly home because of his job.  I rarely saw my mother and my sister because I was always working, going to school or partying.  We lived in an upper-middle class neighborhood with a pool, a hot tub, a four bedroom, two bath house and a two car garage.  Back then, I thought I was an island, so life was ideal.

I chose it because it sounded fun.  And then, when I couldn’t hack it anymore, I jumped ship.  I mean, sure, I didn’t ask to be raped or beaten.  But I knew the risks and judged them worth it to experience the rest of it.  Or maybe I just thought it wouldn’t happen to me.  And when I came out the other side none the worse for wear, I decided it had been worth it.  I learned a great deal from it.

I just don’t see the point in dwelling.  In telling and retelling the story.  In seeing a rapist in every man.  In looking around every corner for an abuser.

Life is hard.  Harder for some than for others.  But if you can’t let go of your past, you’ll never experience your future.  You’ll never really live again.

That’s kind of why I tried to commit suicide the last time, among other things.  I wasn’t living.  Life was wasted on me.  I couldn’t let go of the past.  Couldn’t get my head out of it.  Couldn’t move on.

And then this great man waltzed into my life and said, “Look at you, you silly bitch.  You’ve got your whole world eating out of your hands.  And you’re sitting there pouting.”

It’s okay to pity yourself for a little while.  It’s okay to let the fear in for a minute.  But then you have to get up and shake yourself off.  You have to climb back up on the back of life and wrap your legs around its belly and squeeze as tight as you can.

You have to laugh again.  And love.  And trust.  You have allow yourself to be happy again.  Forgive yourself.

And it hurts for a while.  But it gets better with time.  And then you start to see that there’s not a rapist in every man.  There’s no one waiting around the corner with a harsh word or a balled up fist.  The catcalls are meant to be flattering, not menacing.  And sometimes a friendly swat on the ass is really just a friendly swat on the ass.

And before that last gets jumped all over, I am not saying anyone has the right to treat women that way.  I know some women are offended by it.  But not every woman is.  I’ve never been offended by it.  I’m one of those that encourages it with those I’m allowed to.  We do exist.

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  1. December 5th, 2009 at 23:14 | #1

    I agree with this wholeheartedly. Of course, I’m sure some would say I have no room to speak because I’ve never been a victim. But fuck ’em.

  2. December 6th, 2009 at 12:19 | #2

    @Eliot Meh… You don’t have to experience something to know how you hope you’d respond to it.

    It’s not a popular opinion. Especially among therapists. They call it “suppression” and claim it’ll be worse when the emotions finally come out.

    And if I’m to be honest, I occasionally have moments of “Holy fuck. How did I survive that?” But I did survive. And that’s what’s important in my mind.

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