Giggle a Little

I loathe the word victim.  I empathize with those of us that have experienced the pain of abuse, the shame of living with a narcissistic sociopath and the insurmountable guilt of allowing our children to bear witness to the aforementioned.  But victimizing oneself gives power to the abuser.  It gives competency to the very one who demoralized us!  Gone are the days that I am willing to hand over my power to the very one who tried to take it away.  In healing comes the realization that our lives are worth living.  While our bodies may be broken, our spirits cannot be.  Within ourselves we must summon the power to stand again, to speak again and to find the fire inside of us that allowed us to live.

I remember sitting at a table two years ago with two detectives, the District Attorney, the Assistant District Attorney, two Victim's Rights Advocates, two Human Service Workers and the director of a local abuse shelter.  I felt the blood drain out of my head while I sat there, alone, listening to what my children had reported about their father during a four hour forensic interview.  "He did what to them?" "They saw him do that to me?" "They heard him say that?" "They heard the slaps, the falls, the tumbles down the stairs?" "I thought that the abuse was isolated to me!" "I thought I had done a good job of hiding it from them!" "I thought they were sleeping."  "I thought they had the TV loud enough!"

As the conversation continued at the table I could not look up.  My eyes could not focus on anything other than the wet Kleenex I was fidgeting with in my hands.  Were there even windows in that room? I have no idea.  I nestled myself in my big winter jacket because the green silk dress I had on was stained in tears- thank God it was February so the fur lined hood on my parka did an excellent job of hiding my discolored face. My stomach grew sick and I felt the acid eating away at my throat.  I was so ashamed.... so humiliated... so disgusted with myself, but never did I feel like a victim- victims don't get angry and 
                               

  I.  Was.  Angry.  

Then, the woman next to me put her hand on my coat and said "It's hard being the victim of abuse. I know."  At that moment my eyes shot up but my head remained down.  It was like a scene from Poltergeist.

"I..." I stated "...am not a victim. Do not EVER call me a victim." and again I looked down.


I can only imagine their faces- I didn't take time to look.  I don't even care.  But admittedly looking back on the situation they were probably a little bit unnerved at my reaction and to that I giggle a little. 

Those of us who are alive today are NOT victims.  We have survived the most terrifying of times and the deepest depths of despair.  But we are alive- we are survivors.  We, somehow, found within us the strength to live.

On the other side of abuse is unimaginable beauty.  Colors and feelings and emotions once removed from our prospect begin to emerge and inaugurate.  The hardest thing in healing though is realizing that other people cannot rebuild our landscape.  The realignment of our reality and the reconstruction of our being cannot be fabricated by another.  Seeing myself as a survivor and never a victim has helped me with that.

Two years out of abuse I can tell you that I am haunted less and less each day by memories, sounds, smells and feelings.  I look at a few little scars every now and again and think "Girl, you are a survivor." I look at my children now and make myself see the healing they have experienced.  I allow myself to be angry every once in while- but that anger leads me to remember the abundance of grace that my family and friends have bestowed upon us.

My life is different now.  I am in a loving relationship with a man who understands my fears and anxiety.  My friendships are strong and honest and provide opportunities for me to hold others up.  My goal in life is to help others see that they are worthy.  Worthy of love.  Worthy of life. Worthy of respect.

Choose to believe you are worthy.