I have never submitted by choice, nor will I ever.
This obstinance has been both an extremely valuable, powerful survival and adaptation trait and, by default and absolute necessity, the source of my strict, steadfast, and involuntary adherence to an uncompromising personal code of ethics, and the greatest single, unceasing, never-yielding contributor to so many of my failures.
For my entire early life, I was a victim. What I remember most about being a victim is the feeling of helplessness that comes when one realizes one is in a negative situation which they have no control over, especially when the negative situation is occurring because another person is doing it to them, taking advantage of weakness, meekness, and kindness in an effort to extract something the victim has or can do for them.
There was an actual, single moment that I can mark as the instant that I switched over from victim to something that victims become on their journey from victimhood to whatever they need to become to no longer feel victimized. For me, this moment came when I was 10 years old.
At the time, I knew him as Dad, but these days, he only begrudgingly receives the title of “father”, and that only as a convenience when describing my childhood. I still can’t remember what specific incident set him off this time, but Dad was angry with my brother and I for some perceived transgression. Again. In hindsight, it was always a perceived transgression that would set him off. This time, I think my younger brother was in trouble for something at school, again. So, Dad was mad again. He would always tell us “why” he was angry. Every punishment came with an explanation of how I or my brother or both of us had injured his existence in some way. This was the heart of his torment.
We learned long ago not to try to understand his anger or what we had done to be judged as inadequate, but it has existed since the beginning of time and there is no denying the perceptions of your father as he describes how you have destroyed his universe.
As the physical punishment commenced, I was first at bat. He began to strike me and somehow, there was no pain and I began to laugh at him. He got very angry and threw me against my bedroom wall and, strangely at the time, but understandable now, I watched this occur from a position next to my father and I clearly remember watching myself sort of “ooze” down the wall, onto my bed. It still feels surreal.
My brother escaped his punishment and my father left for idk how long, but when he came back in, he seemed almost gleeful. He began extolling the new deal. He now wanted us to hit him. In retrospect, it is clear this was a guilt trip experiment.
My little brother was up first and he was terrified. He did not want to participate in what must have felt a very dangerous game. With some cajoling, he weakly struck him in his gut, with no effect. It became my turn and as I traversed the few steps between he and I, a realization dawned on me and I no longer saw him as a powerful authority. I saw a wizened, old man and before he had a chance to square up or prepare in any way, I hit him with all my strength, in his gut, and he doubled over with a satisfying woosh of breath escaping his lungs. Our eyes locked for a moment that felt unbearably long and then his eyes dropped to the floor and I saw him for the cowardly piece of shit that he was and that was the end of our physical abuse. He did not, however, cease his assaults on our fragile, young minds. That continued until his death.
Since that day, because of my commitment to myself to not be a victim, I learned to view anything that was wrong, unpleasant, or whatever as a threat. Now, 45 years later, all I’ve ever been is a 24/7 aggressively vigilant protector of the inner child that is still suffering the traumas inflicted upon him by his own family and the “people” who were employed to protect him.
Defeating this state has been my greatest challenge and it feels like I have not even started.
-HomieCidal Brainiac
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