That skinny old man sounds like a stampede of spooked cattle as he runs across poorly padded carpet
To open a door about to fall off it’s hinges.
I hear it slam and think to myself,
I hate him.
—–
It’s not the slamming door or the way he goes about clueless in his ways that bothers me so. It’s that he reminds me of my sister in some ways because he refuses to say, “You can’t do this to me.”
I think too about how my “hatred” and disgust is misdirected. Shouldn’t I be angry at Junior for using him? I’ve got this all backwards, again. Why do I find it so easy to identify with the aggressor and blame or feel anger towards the target?
Junior, a 34 year old grown man, asked his father for a weekly allowance and got it. The first time he asked for his father’s credit card Senior said No. I about fell over. The second time he said yes. Junior has used it 3 times now and managed to get himself a weekly allowance too. I’m disgusted by his actions but even more so I hear my mother’s wicked voice blaming me for making bad things happen. I also catch myself thinking about Senior in terms mother used concerning my abuse. When thinking about the credit card and the allowance I said to myself: You “let him” do this to you. Don’t “let him” do this to you. I’ve project self loathing onto Senior, the same self loathing I had when I was told I let someone put their filthy hands on me. I let him.
When Senior came home as if everything was okay and ran up stairs then out again to go about his day it reminded me of the fake smile I put on, the one that said “I won’t rock the boat.” When I heard the door slam behind him it was the old me, the abused me I hated, not him.
Square in the eyes of this young man’s target I see the reflection of two little girls unsure of when to speak or stand still, uncertain, fearful, powerless. The reflection is wrong though. Those two little girls aren’t there, just a grown man who will not say no and who would rather comply than stick up for himself.
fma
Well no wonder the dynamics at home are so triggering for you that you’ve some misplaced anger going on. I find myself often doing the same thing, reacting emotionally as the little girl I used to be rather than the adult me who is no longer being abused.
It’s hard to get beyond the guilt of “I let him touch me with his filthy hands.” Intellectually we may realize it’s not our fault, but emotionally it’s a different story.
This sentence is just heartbreaking: “Square in the eyes of this young man’s target I see the reflection of two little girls unsure of when to speak or stand still, uncertain, fearful, powerless.”