Being called strong was always a compliment, until I realized my version of strength was holding me back.
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I am a victim. A victim is someone harmed, injured, or destroyed as a result of a crime. That fits for me, and to claim otherwise would both negate my experience and deny the damage of the sexual abuse I endured for years as a child (link).
Yes, I am a survivor, but ignoring my victimhood minimizes the damage, pain, and brokenness that came about as a result of my perpetrator’s crimes.
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Victim. Such a heavy word, one with negative connotations beyond its dictionary definition. While it is not my primary identity, it will always be a part of who I am. Most of the time, though, media quotes about victims focus on strength, praising them for “not allowing themselves to be called a victim.” (As if it were one of those degrading and demeaning words along the lines of “slut.” Who would want to be called that or self-identify that way?) That trend bothers me. Yes, I am a survivor, but ignoring my victimhood minimizes the damage, pain, and brokenness that came about as a result of my perpetrator’s crimes.
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It is easier for society to look at survival rather than the cause of the brokenness. Rape. Incest. Sexual molestation. Those crimes exist, and to sweep the impact under the rug and sanitize the impact by calling victims “survivors,” makes it easy to ignore their pervasiveness, insidiousness, and life-ruining (and, on a larger scale, society-ruining) impact.
It is OK to be a victim, and telling victims they are “strong” or “survivors” can be very unhelpful to the healing process.
Here are ways it was unhelpful for me:
- Calls for strength took away the permission I had given myself to be messy, broken, and helpless. Being the victim of a crime, or other trauma, can be overwhelmingly devastating. It was important for me to have space to grieve the loss of my childhood
- Calls for strength made me feel defective. It was awful to realize the extent of the abuse that had happened to me as a child. Hearing about how strong I was (or had the potential to be) caused me to feel ashamed and embarrassed about the level of grief I was experiencing.
A face of strength can shield others from the depth of depravity and horror of the crime or traumatic event.
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- Calls for strength tempted me to put my mask back on. I had already lived as an impostor for most of my life, masking my pain and maintaining a secret that I was keeping from even myself. I had the skill to wear a mask. I have always been high functioning. My cover story was “Everything is fine.” I did not want to have to live that way anymore. That was my perpetrator’s legacy. Calls for strength sounded like, “You should hide your feelings. Go numb. Don’t be a blubbering mess.”
- Calls for strength created a sense that I was imposing on other people. Sometimes I wondered if people were telling me I was strong or that I could be strong to comfort and reassure themselves. A face of strength can shield others from the depth of depravity and horror of the crime or traumatic event. I lived my whole life protecting my perpetrator. It feels natural to subjugate my needs for others. “Be strong” tells me, “This is inconvenient for you. Let me shield you from it.”
- Calls for strength felt controlling. In facing my trauma, I gained a lot of insight and awareness about my perpetrator’s manipulation tactics. He told me how to feel, how to react, what was OK and what wasn’t OK. While “You’re strong” is meant as encouragement, I experienced it as an attempt at control. “You should feel this way.” Receiving advice or feedback that went so contrary to my internal experience, felt—in a word—icky.
- For male victims, it perpetuates the stereotype that experiencing emotions other than anger is weak, unmanly, and undesirable. Men need space to experience pain and sadness as well, space to grieve the loss of whatever their negative experience has robbed them of.
Originally published at Huffington Post. Reprinted with permission.
Photo: Flickr/Isai Moreno