After reading this: http://www.booksie.com/memoir/novel/mars_mcgann/sorry-ever-after/chapter/1
I was compelled to write this:
This was difficult to read and I'll admit I skimmed through most of it. The desolation and despair of being trapped with a psycho, even temporarily and from a safety buffer as writer/reader, is one
thing to endure in real life, but on a voluntary basis (by reading) it is nearly intolerable, especially when I cannot relate to the protagonist.
Not in the abused and victimized sense, mind you, because I am well versed in abusive relationships, starting with a brother, a mother, an uncle, and an offspring's parent. The theme and cyclical
pattern of abuse is the ONLY message I could relate to. However, while I can acknowledge the near relentless pursuit of self-preservation it takes to edure/escape these kinds of people, it's the
inability of the protagonist to be able to do so. Simply put; I can't take or accept it.
I'm left full of hatred towards my abusers after reading this. murderous hatred. And if I were to stroll down my past to write out my memoirs I would be tempted to get from it only one outcome
which would be to beg the question: why didnt I murder them when I had them in my grasp.
As it would appear I am on the other end of the spectrum as far as "victims" go. I have no sympathy for "mental problems" of this magnitude. No sympathy whatsoever. 'Having been abused' as the
basis for an abusers propensity to seek out abuse victims tends to nullify all justification for mental strife on the matter.
Seeing as how I'm an "abuse victim", yet not abusive, that logic comes crashing down on its knees, from my point of view. Basically, you either let it consume you or you defeat its power. I realize
the brain and physiology have more to do with this ability than a person's will, much like one person's probability to be alcoholic vs another's, and I am ever thankful I happen to be a version of
human being capable of defeating abuse's power rather than one susceptible to succumbing.
In a psychological sense, I believe I'd be wedged into the mental status category of 'self hate'; Hating the victims of abuse simply for being victims, as a manifestation of my hatred for being a
Except I DONT feel like a victim. Nor do I hate them (the victims). Thats the fallacy and pitfall of psychology.
I simply dont relate to the helplessness of "victims". I feel like a survivor.
There are two kinds of survival. The mortality kind: You're either breating or you aren't, and if you aren't then you are dead and thus, not a survivor.
And the Mental kind: You're alive in the psiological sense, but all shred of normalcy is gone. You either presever your mental health by removing or preventing the threat, or you sit back and allow
the threat to consume you for the sole purpose of surviving mortality.
I am not a sit-back kind of survivor.
I was presented with a "puzzle", so to speak, an inigma in human form that is an abuser, and I found my way out of that puzzle the moment I realized a solution was necessary to escape. And while I
walked right into the next, similar, puzzle that presented itself, next on my survival agenda was to realize that I was susceptible to that outcome because of familiarity. i.e. picking out
the same kind of people because I was familiar with their behavior, even though it wasnt the relationship I desired.
Once I recognized the puzzle, I found myself in the increasingly predictable position of having to exit it. Some exits were more complicated than others. But all abusers left me with the resolute
notion that I hated puzzles until eventually, when a "puzzle" presented itself, the recognition was easier and easier to come by and I learned to confront and prevent the cycle from repeating. Each
practice run was easier and easier. As anytime one learns from their mistakes, it should be.
I cant relate to people who dont recognize patterns.I cannot relate to the position of being trapped.
Reading this leaves me with the same anger and desperation of being trapped in inescapable hindsight Of seeing all the flags, all the warnings, all the missed opportunities, and yet sitting idly by
as something slipped through my fingers that I can never replace. Like ruined childhood. Like wasted youth. Like unrequited optimism.
The fact that you married each other makes me despise marriage. It makes me despise parents for not raising more aware children. It makes me despise religion for being full of shit and raking in
countless followers who will crumble under false hope. It makes me despise life.
Fuck this bitch. She should be disposed of. I dont care why she is the way she is. Whats left is poison in the well. God forbid there is ever offspring. God forbid there is ever a child who must
endure her as their sole existence.
It's one thing for you to have had this as the first experience of having a girlfriend. But it is absolutely intolerable to imagine a child enduring this woman, and for it to be their first and
only experience at existing.
~completely disturbed and angry.
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