My victim story is powerful, vivid, well-rehearsed. It is mutating, evolving, expanding and expanding. It overshadows me. I am traced in it, overwhelmed. I am trapped in it, overpowered. I am trampled by it, overlooked. I am lost in its arrogance and redundancy. I retch self-doubt and loathing because of it. I keel over, dripping anxiety, entrenched in fear, and losing my wits.
Am I the victim or victimizer?
I want there to be gray, but, in fleeting moments of clarity, the story is silenced and truth is free to speak. "You recoil from and embrace pain. Hurt is your native language. It is as familiar as your flesh. It is as comfortable to you as home. In your experience, you are equal parts protagonist and antagonist. You are quell and rampage."
I listen, rigid from my desire to detach from and cling to truth. I sit. The conclusion comes to me as if it were an outsider and not a part of me all along. I accept. "Whether I betray myself or save myself, I'll face pain anyway." It is not the experience of pain I should focus on; it is the outcome. Hurt to hurt, or hurt to heal. Hurt to remain bound, or hurt to become free. Hurt to hold on to victimhood, or hurt to grasp victory.
