Use those Motherfuckers

Ok, in leaving a fucktard, do you ever sit around and look back? Not look back in a sentimental way, but look back in the way that leaves you saying, “Holy fuckweasel, I’ve come a long way.”

I look back. I remember. I was a raw, walking wound. I remember I threw myself on the floor like a child and begged my husband to love me. I didn’t even know how fucked up everything was, that’s how much pain was in my house and in my heart and in my head. I didn’t think straight, I was one walking trigger.

I was a wound. I was a slashed-open wound. And I was a victim. I wore my wound so he would see. I didn’t wear it with anyone else necessarily, but I thought if I paraded my wound bigger and louder to him he would finally have some compassion for me and we could get on with our loving marriage. I was always wanting to get to the good part…the love and friendship part…the part where you feel cared for and regarded as a person. I thought being inappropriately vulnerable would change that…that I could change him. So weird to think about it now. That was an awful way to live. It was a complete polarity: me full of want and need for his kindness, him full of cold disregard for all things human.

I was reading about the difference between being a victim and the victim role. I think victim identity can happen as a way to get needs for healing met, but it can be a stuck place to be. It’s still victimhood. Victim role, however, is what fucktards do. Victim role is a deliberate performance designed to elicit sympathy and caretaking from people fucktards can use for money, pity, or status. Victim role is a way to recruit willing enablers in order to carry out punishment of the true victim. There is no compassion in a victim role.

Wounds need energy in order to heal. Because fucktards are spiritual and emotional voids, they fabricate wounds so they can get energy from people. But they never heal. The energy is never enough, and the fucktard is never happy. Have you ever met a truly happy fucktard? They are all dark and brooding in some way. They are not fun to be around. Even when they smile, something is amiss. They are black holes.

Real victims, however, have more power than they realize. They have the ability to transform wounds and use those motherfuckers to do some kickass healing.

How, might you ask?

For me, the ass-kick I needed was to hit bottom with my pain. All the pain I had was reliving my traumatic childhood. This is called re-enactment, or you could call it a one-way ticket BACK to Fucktardia. The usual idea that goes with re-enactment is that people subconsciously seek out situations that are like their original abuser in an attempt to heal those wounds. I think that is partially true, but the reason they subconsciously seek out those that would hurt them is also that it feels normal to them. The drama, the pain, it has a strange seduction. When you’ve grown up with a narcissist as a parent, not only do you not know any better, but you are a magnet for future narcissists and abusers. It FEELS “right” at first. You don’t know what you don’t know. You don’t know that love is NOT a force of pain. It’s what you are used to. But then the pain unfolds and becomes unbearable.

For me, I didn’t even know how to name my own feelings or recognize that my situations were dysfunctional. It was an odd form of self-harm. And I hit bottom. I hit bottom with a crash and woke the fuck up.

Waking up was incredibly painful. There were the original wounds of childhood, those thinly veiled torments, those thorns of psyche surrounded by red hot pain. I could no longer ignore them. And waking up meant WAKING up. It meant having feelings. It meant picking myself up off the floor from being a sad little girl to being a strong, kick-ass cunt.

In feeling my feelings, there was power. Power to heal surges through you each time you deepen into your feelings. There are still lifetimes of grief to heal for me and claim this power. Anger holds power and clarity. Sadness holds a kind of movement that helps me squeeze out and lay to rest another layer of pain. In this way, in making my way to my feelings and connecting my triggers to the original pain, I heal.

I used to buck against healing this way, thinking that if I made it all about my dad and healing the dad wound, it would let the narcissists that came after off the hook. That is simply not true. They, too, caused me pain and grief and were abusive and that is the cold hard truth. Yet going back to my dad wounds gives me a hawk’s view of my life. Any narcissistic betrayal that comes after is me hitting the replay button on my dad story. To stop the replay, I have to change the tape. I can’t change the tape until I’ve named, acknowledged, and healed the original abuse. In that way, for me, my ex-fucktard becomes this really cool backwards time machine healer. It doesn’t change the fact that he is an abuser too. They’re all abusers, no one is excused. But I am not to blame any more for their abuse. That’s the big revelation that happens along the way. To think, as a little girl, I was there in the darkness of my worth. I was taught I was worthless because I was a girl, because I was messy, because I said the wrong thing, did the wrong thing, didn’t do what I was supposed to, never got it right. I was worthless because I existed. Sometimes I was worth something…when I drew  picture, when I sang a song, when I took care of something.  It was always a guessing game…what do I do today to earn some love?

Sometimes I think it is incredibly odd that I feel so grateful for this life journey. The more I heal, the lighter I feel. I feel like I am only just beginning to realize that I am a person of worth…not in a superficial way. Not in the way when someone asks how you are and you say, “fine” in a practiced and convincing way, when really you are not. No, to really feel in my bones that I have every right to be here. THAT is what I came here for.

It causes a power surge in me. Here it comes…..

Give me some shame words, fucktards. Blame me. I will use those words to sew up my wounds, to stitch myself stronger. Try to tap me down, fuckers. I will come back stronger and more loving and kinder and more compassionate than you’ve ever dreamed.

This is how you use those motherfuckers. They don’t define you. They never had the right to define you as anything less than a blessed child of God. But some of us have to learn through them. It would have been nice to learn love and healing the “easy” way but that was not my lot in life. Instead, I become an alchemist of faith and grace. I learn to make beauty of this struggle and that is something no fucktard can every claim.

Ride on, motherfuckers of Fucktardia. Thank you very much. I am Queen of my life.

Speaking of queens, here is a quote from Zora Neale Hurston:

“I will remember you all in my good thoughts, and I ask you kindly to do the same for me. Not only just me. You who play the zig-zag lightning of power over the world, with the grumbling thunder in your wake, think kindly of those who walk in the dust. And you who walk in humble places, think kindly too, of others. There has been no proof in the world so far that you would be less arrogant if you held the lever of power in your hands. Let us all be kissing friends. Consider that with tolerance and patience, we godly demons may breed a noble world in a few hundred generations or so. Maybe all of us who do not have the good fortune to meet or meet again, in this world, will meet at a barbeque.”—Dust Tracks on a Road (1942)

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