The Carrot and the Stick: On Love, Violence, and Why Women “Don’t Fight Back”
It’s hard to push through the block on this one.
Usually, a blank page calls out to me; welcoming me with open, unfolded arms.
I take giddy pleasure in the world of endless possibilities a blank page holds. Crisp, clean, unaffected, and politely unassuming — it sits there; a blank canvas, patiently waiting in its perfectly framed neatness for the chaos of human thought, touch, and experience to let loose and just have their way with it.
To make it into something beautiful. Something more.
I’ll confess, the initial moment of absolute freedom and liberation I feel in front of a blank page is comparable to a drug addict’s “first high” — that sweet rush of engulfing perfection he’s doomed to only ever experience the first time around, yet is so powerful that he faithfully devotes the remainder of his life to chasing it in vain. Luckily, the power of the blank page is stronger than any destructive chemical, and my “first” high is always just one sheet of paper away. Every. Single. Time.
Normally, a blank page sets me free. But not this time. This time, this blank page is menacing.
It’s menacing and threatening and intimidating; because I know I’m about to tap into something extremely uncomfortable (for the both of us), incredibly raw, and smothered in 50 shades of pain. Something, that for nearly ten years of my life has been “behind me,” which until recently, meant that it was oh-so-neatly folded, packaged, stored away, repressed — but not forgotten.
There’s a monster in my closet. It’s time I let it out.
This is not easy. It’s necessary.
Some of you might think of me as someone “strong” and “successful.”
I hear those words thrown in my direction quite often. They’re dropped into conversation so subtly, haphazardly — almost as though the people behind those words don’t understand the ensuing mental spiraling, questioning, deep criticizing of self, and general dissonance and discomfort those labels stir up inside of me. But, that’s a topic for another time.
Today, all I need you to know is I wasn’t always as “strong” as my well-crafted exterior might lead you to believe.
One thing success and strength have in common is the string of failures, breakdowns, downward spirals and destruction that not only come before them, but are actually their prerequisites.
What many of you might not know about me is — despite my seemingly strong, confident, “hard” exterior — I spent about three years of my late teens and early twenties in an emotionally, psychologically, and physically abusive relationship.
To twist the knife in the wound further, I was convinced that I actually loved him. Heart-wrenchingly, life-changingly so. And my “love,” — my vulnerability, my weakness — meant that all these things were suddenly being effectively used against me.
But, I’m the one who let him in.
He knocked; I opened the door, I welcomed him inside. He proceeded to pull out a machete and Texas Chainsaw Massacre the full interior of my being.
My “love” was what made me the ideal victim.
Worse yet, and more conflictingly so, it made me a willing victim.
It blinded me, it kept me complacent, and it distorted my vision.
It made me believe lies and blatantly ignore truths.
It sucked me right in, exposing me to years of mindfucks and psychological warfare, which ultimately served as a way of mentally breaking me down, stripping me — one by one, piece by piece — of the core identity and sense of self I had somehow naively built up in my 19 years of existence on this planet.
Metaphor-wise, it would serve you well to think of those videos I’m sure you’ve seen of the inhumane (and now mostly banned) process a cow goes through right before it gets slaughtered.
Allow me to refresh your memory:
First, the cow is starved and mistreated for an extended period of time.
Then, it’s herded and packed into a long, winding, cement tunnel thing, which serves to force it into a state of tunnel-vision focus (literally). It has no choice but to move forward to its untimely death, being pushed by all its other cow colleagues bound by the same unfortunate fate behind it.
It’s aggressively and carelessly pushed into a state of disorientation and confusion, causing severe stress to the point of near heart attack.
Fast-forward to the part where it’s hung upside-down by one of its legs and slowly and painfully bleeding out by the neck. At some point along the way, it becomes “magically” transformed from “living being” to nothing but a collection of parts. Much like a car, it’s disassembled, disfigured, thrown about and hollowed out until it no longer even bears a resemblance to what it used to be.
This is what it’s like to be in a relationship with someone who is mentally and verbally abusive, at least in my experience.
Here’s the general dynamic of how this specific relationship worked.
I’m simplifying, but believe me, this comes after years of taking on distance and trying to make sense of it all.
Part I: He grew up in a house where his dad regularly beat his mom. Abuse was their second language, and the primary language associated with concepts like home, safety, family, and love.
At some point, the dad left. You’d think this was good, but it came with its own form of damage. Growing up with a brother, and being raised by a single, immigrant mom on social assistance doesn’t really scream “security.” She tried (and often failed) to make ends meet. He grew up with no other male figure to model himself after.
And unfortunately, the model he was working with was inherently, deeply flawed. As a result, the only man he had ever witnessed interact with his mom painted a distorted, disconcerting image that projected a message something like this:
“This is how people who love each other behave. In every relationship, there are two people: a weak one, and a strong one. There is always a balance of power, and violence serves to reinforce that balance in case the weak one ever makes the mistake of forgetting or challenging it. The strong one always wins. Be the strong one. Then you have the power to leave when you want. And you will want to, because all relationships are obviously shit. Just look at this one.”
They say we learn best by observation.
Part II: He fell for me. I fell for him. It was the perfect poison.
He was so angry with the world, and now he had a punching bag to call his own that he could take it out on. And because the punching bag loved him, he knew he could do all he wanted. My emotions, my sore spots, my insecurities, my lack of self-confidence, self-assuredness, self-love, self-esteem — all these things fed him, and in turn, fueled his anger and violence towards me.
In effect, the more I opened up, the more ammunition I offered up.
Part III: One part Stockholm syndrome, two parts Pavlovian response, three parts negative and positive reinforcement. Don’t forget to pepper with unpredictability and randomness of intervals.
He knew, that if every so often, he just dangled the concept of love above me like a carrot, I would stick around and eagerly subject myself to the rest of the shit that came with it — like the good, obedient, well-trained dog I was.
To top it off, this process would fuck with my head to the point that when I finally got a taste of that carrot, I would wholeheartedly believe that I had finally “earned” it. As though love and its expression are a form of currency, where the assumption is that if you work hard enough, sooner or later, you will finally get your payday. You want love? You must earn it first — like the good, obedient, well-trained dog you are.
Conversely, if you’re being berated, belittled, yelled at, slapped, punched, kicked, pushed, strangled, choked, or somehow find yourself in the eye of a shitstorm of dangerous objects flying at, near, or around you — it logically follows that you earned that, too. So you need to simply take it — like the bad, disobedient, rebellious dog that you are.
“Love” in an abusive relationship is like working in a permanent, contract-binding job you hate, and only being paid based on commission.
You want your payday; you need it to survive, but you never know when it’ll come, or how big it’ll be. So, you do cartwheels and overtime. You learn magic tricks and how to be a goddamn unicorn. You constantly search for new, creative ways to degrade and depersonalize yourself in any and every attempt just to make your boss happy.
Your existence becomes devoted and defined by only serving the job, making sure that you are like the putty that simply adjusts and adapts to the forms that it is thrown into. You learn not to cause too much chaos or problems. You learn not to go against the grain, or to question things, like, “Why this form and not that form?” Questions, however innocent they may be, draw attention (like a dock in pay, for example, or even worse — an actual form of punishment or public humiliation. Usually, it’s a combination of all three.)
Actually, any form of expression or uniqueness is something your oppressor (oops, I mean, your “boss”) cannot calculate for or predict. It serves to call into question the authority and dynamic of power that they have spent so much time, money, effort, and high-level psychological tricks to build.
Obviously, they don’t like that. This brings me nicely to Part IV.
Part IV: Lose yourself (in the worst way possible) and “shut the fuck up.”
Don’t worry, if you forget the latter part, you’ll be reminded of it often. It’ll also be reinforced with other common accoutrements such as, “you dumb bitch,” or, “you fucking idiot.” You know, for added effect.)
Remember The Truman Show? Think of that world—the fake world within the real one, and yet somehow manages to be completely obscured and masterfully cordoned off so you can’t even tell the difference between the two. But, make no mistake — there are in fact, two different worlds. The Truman-world is completely fabricated, planned out, rehearsed, scripted, and — can you imagine — all of this is done for the purpose of misleading, mindfucking, and manipulating just one person. You know, for someone who says you’re shit and worthless all the time, it’s a bit funny when you realize just how much effort and orchestration this person puts into constructing such an elaborate false world, just for little old you, huh? A bit counter-intuitive and ironic to say the least, isn’t it?
On top of the threat to your safety and security, these types of questions and expressions also just waste time. Time you could be using to earn your payout, which after all, you’ve been mentally manipulated and conditioned into believing is everything your existence is truly about. That way, when your payday finally comes, you reach a state of (completely illogical and nonsensical) euphoria. To top it all off, you’re actually convinced that you truly earned it.
You deserve it.
Funny how words like “earn” and “deserve” take on opposite meanings when you just emphasize them differently.
Hold up, do you really deserve this?
Did you really earn this?
It doesn’t matter, does it? Remember, we don’t ask questions here.
In reality, of course, your payday is shit. Realistically, it’s probably enough to cover just one bill in a sea of other expenses, rent, groceries, and other things that generally cost money in order to survive and sustain your existence. But remember, the spotlight of your focus of survival has somehow magically been moved away from your basic needs and onto the irresponsible, unpredictable, unrealistic and misplaced needs of your “boss.” What’s even worse is that in your state of denial, discombobulation, and masterfully created world of false truths, you convince yourself that even though you can’t really sustain yourself on what you just “earned,” you did earn something! And this is progress! It’s proof of something constructive in a sea of shit! Perhaps things truly are getting better. Perhaps you are finally reaching the light at the end of the tunnel…
You’d better be fucking grateful and appreciative. (Or else…)
And now we near the end of our little cement-made tunnel of torture. These last two phases are optional, though they vastly affect the way the “end” looks like.
Think of it like this: you’re on a highway, your past relationships may have gotten you to where you are now, and you can see them in your rearview if you choose to look back. You don’t drive backwards though, because that just wouldn’t make sense. So, you’re on a highway, moving forward, and you’re not sure where you’re going. You have no agenda but you hope it’s somewhere nice. You have the knowledge, however, that one turn leads you to a garbage dump, the other to a cliff, yet another to Rome, and so on and so forth. Either way, you have to use the tools available to you, the ones you’ve gathered on the path represented by your rear-view mirror, and you hope you make the right choice.
Part V: Welcome to the hidden crossroads; miss the exit, and you’re doomed to stay on the roundabout for another round, all over again.
Option I: Fight back. Or don’t.
Recently, I found myself in a conversation with someone I regard to be an incredibly intelligent, solid, introspective and philosophical human being. The conversation hit a bit of a strained note for me when he revealed that he didn’t understand why women in (physically) abusive relationships don’t “just fight back.”
He made it sound so effortlessly easy, and just so obvious. The way the words rolled off his tongue, with such freedom and near carelessness, left me momentarily speechless and blindsided. Yet the complete and utter strength in his conviction made me realize a couple things about people. Regarding theory and practice, there are some cases where we just cannot “think” our way into understanding someone else’s experience or psychology.
While we can pathologize the things we don’t understand all we want, ultimately, we will still be ignorant (and possibly come off as completely insensitive) as fuck in the matter. At least, this will be the case until we either:
- experience it ourselves;
- deal closely and intimately with someone who has experienced it for him- or herself; and we must then witness and live through the resulting nasty side effects and collateral damage of possible unsolved traumas that may be triggered, provoked, or strained at any time; or
- until a person who has experienced it is able to explain it to us in a way that resonates with us as unique human beings, evoking empathy (and not just sympathy).
I suppose in this sense, this article is my attempt at option (iii). So, allow me to respond to the question, “Why don’t women just fight back?”
First of all, what makes anyone so fucking sure that women in abusive relationships don’t fight back?
The only people who will ever know what happened between two people in a relationship, are those two people. That’s it.
The unfounded assumption that women who are in physically abusive relationships don’t “fight back” further undermines the voices of women all over the world who are constantly suffocated in abusive relationships.
In believing and repeating this statement, you become part of the problem.
I can only speak for myself and the reaction I have to this form of “accusation,” — which is exactly how I interpret this sentiment. But, in my books, as a man, saying this is enough grounds to get you lumped into the category of men who perpetuate Part IV of this article.
In presumptuously and ignorantly simplifying something so complex and psychologically layered, you are taking away what little voice and remaining sense of control or power they may remotely still have, and you are forgetting and ignoring them — just as they are taught to forget and ignore themselves.
In believing and saying this, you are effectively shutting them the fuck up before they even get a word in edgewise.
Not to mention, in doing so, you are also choosing to enforce your own definition of “fighting back” onto them — without giving them the chance to so much as define it for themselves. In one swift motion, you’re succeeding at labelling them as failures as part of a definition you have just invented yourself, and single-handedly enforced onto others.
Listen, I’m about to let you in on some insider’s information.
This may come as a shock to you, but women in physically (and otherwise) abusive relationships most certainly do fight back. In fact, I would posit that all victims of abuse do so in their own way. It’s constant, it’s tireless, it’s mind-numbingly disorienting, it’s confusing AF, and I really have no idea whether it’s “right” or “wrong.”
Fighting back looks different to different people at different times and in different contexts. See how many moving parts there are in the equation, once you take a closer look?
Sometimes, you take the high road. Sometimes, you drop down to the level of your opponent. Sometimes, you play dirty. Sometimes, you are strong. Sometimes, you are weak. And sometimes, you simply give in to the provocation you’ve been subjected to at length by the ones you supposedly love.
Don’t forget, you have been living in a false, upside-down, specially constructed world for a prolonged period of time; one which you have been convinced you deserve, you earned, and in which you feel you fucking belong. Your mind plays tricks on you and convinces you that being in a fucked up relationship of this caliber is something you actually want.
Let me remind you, there’s a reason why extreme torture methods are illegal, and why there are strict protocols for questioning suspects in holding cells.
When you do fucked up shit to people for a prolonged period of time, eventually, they will break. Don’t be surprised when this happens.
Survival mode was never a good look on anyone, as far as I know.
But, that doesn’t mean no one in the history of humankind ever resorted to it. When the basic options of “fight or flight” become confused by the constricting ties and expectations of love, you start to see how complicated and intricate humanity, personality, conviction and value systems really are. When the world you’re living in is flipped upside-down, things only appear “less” right and “less” wrong than their counterparts, and often by statistically insignificant amounts. The lines of morality, boundaries, and “love” start to get very blurry.
Let me also remind you the version of yourself that you are reduced down to when you “fight back” is not in any way a reflection of your “true” nature, although your opponent would certainly want you to believe that.
Evolution and discovery of truth are upwards processes that build upon themselves and each other in healthy and favorable conditions; ones where basic needs, and the more complex needs above them, are met regularly and safely. When those are in danger, we regress. When those needs are met, we can go back to progressing as human beings on our individual and joint journeys in life.
The worst thing you can do is to wrongfully mistake one’s “survival mode” for one’s “true nature.”
Survival mode can be likened to what happens to your iPhone when you hit the “reset and delete all settings and content” button. The skeleton is still there, the phone still functions as it should, but all your personal shit —the good and bad, the moments, the memories, the conversations, the collection of little things that together make you “you”— is wiped clean. The difference here, is that people are not iPhones.
Let’s not forget that small little detail.
Of course, it serves your opponent to have you believe that you are really a shit person on the inside, and revel in your moment of weakness in stooping down to their level.
The reasons for this are twofold:
First, “opponents” like this are really living life in a very dark, demonic place. They are angry at themselves, the world, their experiences, the bad luck they have been exposed to along their journey in life. They put on an outward facade and do a very good job of covering it up, but they are hyper-aware of the demons lurking with in — demons, which they have allowed to take over their identities and selves. As such, they are convinced that everyone around them must also be living the same way.
So, to make themselves feel better and find solace and comfort in their demonic fucked-up-ness, they devote their lives to provoking others to their wit’s end in an effort to see if they will crack. When they ultimately crack, the provoker (your “opponent”) wins — but not because they actually have some sick pleasure out of it (though I’m quite convinced this is also a welcome side effect of the process).
They actually win because it gives them a moment of consolation and refuge from their horribly dark, twisted up and deformed life-view. “Look, you’re fucked up, but so are they! They also cracked, just like you did. So it’s okay. You don’t have to ‘fix’ yourself, heal from your past, or better yourself. Everyone else has their shit too! Deep down, everyone is also hiding demonic, disgusting shit, they just don’t admit to it like you do. So actually, you’re even better than those ignorant people! Just keep finding more proof of other people’s shit.” It’s much easier to find proof of a theory that already exists, than to deal with the tough potential reality that your theory is flawed, and that you may actually have to come up with a new one entirely. The mind is a beautifully intricate and twisted thing.
The second reason why it serves the opponent to get you to “crack” is that it shows them your weak spots, and keeps you complacent. Now they know where to press harder for next time, and trust me — when it comes to shit like this, they have the memory of an elephant. Chipping away at the core of who you are perfectly aligns with the whole Truman-world they’ve been setting up and brainwashing you with since Day One. You know, the whole script of “you’re stupid and worthless” they continuously hammer you over the head with as mentioned in Part IV.
I know, this is all confusing and elaborate and layered — and this is exactly the way these types of people win with you. So stay sharp, friends, and keep going. You’re almost at the end.
Remember, power is not taken — it is given.
It is much easier to hand over your power when you are tricked into believing you don’t have any.
Abusive people are master manipulators. Normally, you are starved and disoriented right into compliance, so you take the lesser road and regress, curl up into a ball, start crying profusely, and the like — because the whole situation just acts as a mirror to show you how fucking helpless and powerless you really are in the situation. Remember, the oppressor / your boss / provoker / abuser / your other half, or however you want to call him (or her) has worked tirelessly to create a dynamic where they always have more power than you.
But, this power is relative. If you have the audacity to finally muster up enough courage to exert some of your own power, this unfortunately only serves to escalate the situation.
Enter the “forces” of escalation and justification.
Remember the golden rule: Anything you say or do can and will be used against you in the falsely created Truman-system of abusive relationships.
If you choose to fight back (physically, verbally, mentally), not only will your opponent simply take it as challenge to step up his or her game, but he will also leverage it to twist it around on you, and remind you of the fact that now you deserve even more of what’s about to come because of your behavior. You slipped up, you lost control, you took the bait, you fucked up. You earned it. And now, you will pay for it.
And guess what, it’s all your fault! Your opponent absolves himself of any and all responsibility in how they mistreat you, because you’re a worthless piece of shit who asked for it yourself. “You only have yourself to blame!” (And again, this twisted logic is just so counter-intuitive, because isn’t the point here to completely take away your power and freedom of choice? Yet when it comes to this aspect, never attending to your needs, making you believe you aren’t worthy of that luxury? And yet, in this case they so willingly “serve” you with what you “want” and “asked for.”)
This reminds me of the time my ex and I were fighting in my car, and he smashed my windshield so hard that it cracked into what seemed like a million pieces. I remember the chaos, the noise, the overlay of his booming voice yelling at me juxtaposed against the split second of silence brought on by the moment of impact to that poor, unsuspecting, innocent windshield. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget the sound of the cracks in the glass made as they rippled outwards, crackling in slow motion against a background of complete, deafening silence.
The cracking of the glass was not unlike the moment when you step into a puddle that’s frozen on top but still has water underneath. Except the puddle doesn’t cost $400 to repair and put you in a position to do a lot of uncomfortable explaining. And the puddle won’t tell you that actually, you need to pay for the repair because — even though you didn’t crack the puddle, it’s your fault that someone else cracked it. Because, you know, you made them mad. And of course, it’s your fault that others can’t control their emotions around you. No matter which way you slice it, hope you enjoy your lifetime supply of It’s-Always-Your-Fault Cake.
So, I guess what I’m saying is this: “fighting back,” in the traditional and globally-(mis)understood sense, is a bit like trying to put out a fire with wind.
If the “fire” we’re talking about is a mere candle, then sure, it can work. Still, this doesn’t always prove to be the case, as some extremely stubborn candles you’ve likely come across on your birthday cake have proven to you, (especially the older you get, am I right?)
But real fires are largely ferocious and uncontrollable, and they have their own agenda. They don’t pay any mind to who or what is around them — they don’t discriminate in their global wrath of destruction. And when they’re at the point of explosion, unfortunately, blowing some wind only serves to spread them further. That’s when you need the help of external, specialized sources — which you’re probably (as one mindfucked individual) completely incapable of even conceiving of or believing you need, or even feel deserving of to ask for help. Finally, when fires like this get too out of control (even for those external resources) to help, you’re left with the last resort: evacuate. This nicely brings me to my next and final option.
Option II: Leave. Or don’t.
I remember when I started losing my friends, one by one. They spent hours listening to me crying, trying to comfort me through my pain. Answering my incoherent phone calls at ungodly hours. Picking me up from places I had been abandoned in the middle of a fight. Picking up my drunken remains from my horribly misplaced attempts to regain some sort of control in my life. In some cases, they even fought my battles. In other cases, they were silent observers. Still, in other cases, they were viewers of the “artwork” he imprinted on my face and body.
Finally, they came to the sad realization that I was perpetuating the sick cycle I was in, with no apparent exit strategy — happy in my unhappiness, happy in my never-ending cycle of drama. Ever seen that clip of a dog that’s on a leash, and the owner simply pretends to tie the leash to a pole, but the dog doesn’t move an inch because he believes he’s really bound to it? It’s like keeping yourself in a prison cell that isn’t locked. Welcome to Mindfuck City: Level Two reached. Collect your points and move to Level Three.
They showed me there’s a difference between being a “good” friend — the kind that lends an ear, helps you out, is always there to listen to you through your shit — and a “responsible” friend — the one who does and says uncomfortable things that you might not want to hear, but need to hear. Sometimes, dropping you as a friend until you get your shit together can be the most powerful gift of friendship. It wasn’t until I started losing my central support system of friends that I could really see what I was leaving myself with. What the tradeoff was. Needless to say, I didn’t like it too much.
In Ottawa, my mom worked at an organization called Immigrant Women Services Ottawa (IWSO). She dealt a lot with women who often didn’t speak English, had kids, and were trying to escape abusive relationships. They would help get them into shelters and hopefully somehow recover and build a new life in safety. Sometimes, though, these women didn’t want to be saved. Their “love” for their abusers distorted their world so much, that they couldn’t even extract themselves or their children from these Truman-nightmares. I remember when my mom told me something that really served to shock me about my relationship. I trusted her because I knew she saw this kind of thing all the time (plus, she reminded me of that herself in our conversation, just in case I had “forgotten”). She basically told me two things:
(1) If you don’t leave him, it will only get worse. You are part of a vicious cycle and you will not “fix” it by staying in. Also, it is not your goddamn responsibility to fix it. It’s your responsibility to save yourself.
(2) There are only two ways out of relationships like this: either someone leaves, or someone gets killed.
There’s a moment where you realize that you are the only person in control of your life.
You realize that flight attendants are spewing out real-life gold when they tell you, “If we run out of cabin pressure, and an oxygen mask comes down, you must put on your own mask first before you try to help anyone else with theirs.”
I put on my oxygen mask, and I left.
This does not undo the damage that was done, though.
But in the end, that damage makes me stronger.
And this brings me to my real fucking point.
Here’s the thing about “strength.”
In my twenties, following this relationship (along with a few others, which were equally fucked up, just on different dimensions of the cube of “fucked up things,”) I learned a little something about strength. I’ve come to the conclusion that strength and confidence are nothing but mental constructs. Specifically, “strength” is a defense mechanism; a natural response stemming from and shaped by all the shit we go through in life. It’s a shield we develop as a way to protect ourselves from all the bad shit that we somehow let our guard down for or weren’t prepared for in the past.
Strength is the execution and projection of the mantra, “Never again.”
Strength is also a stunningly beautiful product created from a collection of ugly, disgusting, and unfortunate people, things, and our interactions with them.
Strength is not natural.
It may be evolutionary, but it is not natural.
It is not inherent, nor is it something you are born with. It must be created, worked on, perfected, re-worked and built upon over time. It is a constant work in progress, and it is never complete. Most worryingly and counter-intuitively of all, it is incredibly fucking fragile.
Strength is simply an image, a projection.
It’s a bubble we create outside of ourselves as a sort of insulation to protect us from the elements. It is not a state or a reality, or a type of personality; though we do eventually come to see ourselves through it, and we tend to integrate it into our core definition of who and how we are.
Think about it: It is much easier to be hard than soft.
But, on the inside, all of us are still soft and vulnerable, and we always will be. There is simply no way around this fact — this is just life.
The more shit we go through, the more aware of this we become, and we learn to hang on to our foundation — cracks and all — because we know that while we can’t control the hurricanes, the forest fires, the storms, even the withering effects of time — we can control one thing: the way we allow them to affect us, and the way in which we recover from them once they have worked their way through our system, our environment, our world. And we can do this proactively or reactively, but the point is to do it regardless.
You rebuild after shock. You don’t just lay down and take it, and then continue to lay down after it’s gone and allow it to prevent you from moving on. There has to be a point at which you decide to stand up and “fight back.”
But here’s the secret: in many situations, “fighting back” isn’t what you think it is. It doesn’t look the way everyone seems to think it does. In fact, the typical, generally accepted generic definition of “fighting back” causes you to miss the exit on the relationship-roundabout-nightmare described above.
If anything, “fighting back” draws some form of futile momentum that might be at first glance mistaken for strength or power — but really, only serves to push the pedal down harder and keep you in the same redundant, negative cycle. You do not get off the roundabout by “fighting back.” You get off the roundabout by getting off the roundabout.
How do you do this?
You ask yourself one question, “Where is it that you want to go?” Are you going to the garbage dump, the cliff, Rome, or somewhere else? Now is the time to decide, and the decision is yours to make.
Never forget that you are the one who is driving the car.
You choose where to look, what experiences to draw on in the rear view, and which way you want to turn.
What’s the real way to fight back? You leave.
This, to me, is strength.
If strength is beauty, and art is beauty, I’ve lately come to the realization that many of life’s most beautiful things come out of sheer ugliness. I guess this is the meaning behind yin and yang, and the reason why things can’t always be perfect all the time. In fact, comfort and perfection signal stagnancy, and that’s exactly what prevents growth. We grow the most when we are challenged, when we come out of hard times, not when we maintain the status quo.
Remember this: There is a difference between who you are and what you have been through.
You are a whole person.
The things you have experienced at the hands of others don’t carve out pieces of who you are — they don’t take away from you, who you are, or what you stand for.
They are simply representations and projections, results of people with too much baggage shoving their excess onto you.
There comes a point in time where you realize that you don’t actually want to be carrying other people’s shit for them. Not only that, but you don’t actually recall ever being asked or giving your consent to do so. You look down at all the shit you’re holding and you don’t recognize it. That’s because it’s not yours. This is when you make your final realization. Sometimes, it’s okay to just let go, if only for the fact that it’s all just too heavy.
