Arguing With Strangers

Thanks to the oddities of social media, we occasionally find ourselves having discussions with complete strangers about issues that are fraught and complex and about which people have very strong and varied opinions.  Today was one such day.

A Facebook friend posted an article titled, "Breaking Bad Ended My Relationship And I Couldn't Be More Grateful."  You can find the article here.  In a nutshell, the author of the article described becoming embroiled in an emotionally abusive relationship, and how watching a particular episode of Breaking Bad with her abuser allowed her to see him for what he truly was, and to break free of the relationship.

A acquaintance of the friend who posted the article stated, inter alia, that the author was "dumb," "needy" and "desperate."  The acquaintance also decried therapy as being essentially a useless, expensive endeavor that was solely supportive of an individual's neediness, and surmised that therapists could also be power-seeking, manipulative abusers.  Without copying that acquaintance's words -- for they were self-righteous, condescending, and hurtful -- we would like to share with you our thoughts.  Over the course of the discussion, we wrote the following (rearranged here ever so slightly for better flow):

One of the hallmarks of an emotional abuser is rendering the target unable to trust her own feelings, perceptions and judgement. Intersperse that with signs of loving, caring, and apparent willingness to change, and it can be extremely difficult to disentangle the bad from the seeming good. Read about "gaslighting" (Wikipedia, source of all pop culture knowledge, happens to have a decent explanation of it.) 

It's not "needy" to want to give someone the benefit of the doubt, particularly when (as in the article) a well-trusted family member is good friends with the abuser, and when the abuser himself apologizes and seems to want to try to do better. And incidentally, this type of relationship happens not only among dating pairs, but also within families themselves. Would you have the same opinion about a woman who was trying to maintain a relationship with a parent who displayed similar abusive behavior? It's not always about being "needy" and "desperate"; a lot of times, it's about relating to another human being, about wanting to believe that there's a kernel of good in all people, and about love and patience and forgiveness and hope, despite one's (or another's) flaws. I say, 'brava' to the author of the piece for speaking out. She's acknowledged her flaws and her mistakes, and hopefully by reading about them, someone else may be able to escape the insidious trap of another emotional abuser.

I need to say, also: it breaks my heart a little bit to see the author say she was afraid of publishing the piece because it will make her look 'dumb'. In an ideal world, we all would have the inner strength and firm belief in our own judgement to see abusers for what they are. This world is, sadly, far from ideal, and experiences from our childhood and adulthood color our abilities and our senses of self. Why do we focus upon what is seen as a flaw of the abused person -- not to have 'seen' the abuse? Why is the abused person 'dumb'? Why aren't we glaring at the abuser for being cruel, for trampling upon and injuring another person's heart and soul? Those who find the strength to escape an abuser are deserving of praise, not criticism.

Am I understanding you correctly that her being able to list her mistakes very precisely is what you feel makes her 'dumb'? I would think that being able to use hindsight to identify where one went wrong would be an indicator of intelligence, not dumb-ness. I did not see anything in her piece that indicates that she felt she desperately needed a man and that such desperation led her to overlook some warning flags. Rather, I see her as being interested in *him* in particular for specific reasons, not just in having *any* man. 

Furthermore, I did not read the author's account of the relationship as indicating she knew at the time the man's behavior was "beyond questionable." Again, "gaslighting" oftentimes makes it difficult to believe one's own eyes. If I did see that the author wanted the relationship beyond her own self-respect, I would consider that to be a problem, indeed. However, that is not what I took away from the article. I understand that others' views may vary. 

Also, I'll add that I find the statement, "I find people's belief in the benefit of therapy touching, but naive" to be both closed-minded and supercilious.  There is significant scientific evidence indicating that therapy is helpful. (One abstract, for example, can be found here:  http://psycnet.apa.org/psycinfo/1994-18340-001).   Therapists could also be abusers, as you said. So can all other human beings. That doesn't mean, though, that one should decline to see a therapist any more than it means that one should abstain from all human contact lest another individual be an abuser.  Cost for therapy varies, as it does for many other services. And I agree, it's not a magical cure-all. Nevertheless, it can be life-changing for the better for many individuals.

The insidious nature of emotional abuse, and the difficulties of breaking free, are issues that strike close to my heart. While I have been blessed by many people in my life, others have not been so fortunate. Knowing that "there, but for the grace of God, go I," reminds me that I must be a safe harbor for those in need, and I cannot do so if I sit in judgement of them.

Thank you for plowing through these myriad words, my cherished readers.  Remember, always, that I strive to be your safe harbor -- as you are a safe harbor for me.

The Mummer's Dance

We are listening to this today.  We hope you enjoy it, too.

Strength

The strength of a man isn't seen in the power of his arms. It's seen in the love with which he embraces you.― Steve Maraboli

Flower and Bee

I am sure we have provided these words from On Pleasure in Kahlil Gibran's The Prophet before.  We hear them, and love them, and feel them in our hearts.

Oftentimes in denying yourself pleasure you do but store the desire in the recesses of your being.
Who knows but that which seems omitted today, waits for tomorrow?
Even your body knows its heritage and its rightful need and will not be deceived.
And your body is the harp of your soul,
And it is yours to bring forth sweet music from it or confused sounds.

And now you ask in your heart, "How shall we distinguish that which is good in pleasure from that which is not good?"
Go to your fields and your gardens, and you shall learn that it is the pleasure of the bee to gather honey of the flower,
But it is also the pleasure of the flower to yield its honey to the bee.
For to the bee a flower is a fountain of life,
And to the flower a bee is a messenger of love,
And to both, bee and flower, the giving and the receiving of pleasure is a need and an ecstasy.

Form

Don’t grieve. Anything you lose comes round in another form. 
― Rumi

In our rare resting moments, we contemplate the diminutive existential crisis that blossomed quietly after the passing of Ottoman-shaped Dog.  We think of those who tell tales of having received a sign from a lost loved one -- those who find consolation in the butterfly or the cloud formation or the somehow unmistakable indication of love and comfort from beyond the veil. We do not yet believe.  We may, in fact, disbelieve.  Yet still, somewhere in the kernel of our hearts, we have a molecule of hope.

Brick and Grass

Ancient and Decrepit Dog was using a portion of the decorative brick edging for a pillow as she lay in the grass and enjoyed the warm sun.  She then shifted, rolled around growling happily, and finally relaxed completely.  The series of four photographs presented below attempts to capture those blissful moments.

It is lovely to see the weather and the yard bring her joy.

Following The Rules

During a discussion of sarcasm last night, Herself had a flashback.  She had not thought about a particular moment in ages. Eons. Practically a lifetime ago.

She was about six years old -- first grade, she thinks -- on an ordinary school day in autumn.  It was recess, and she and a few others were playing on the upper playground of the grade school.  One one side of the blacktop, there was the little hill that was an ideal spot for sledding in cold weather; behind them sat the red brick building; and on the far side was a chain-link fence, with a small gap through which some of the children who lived on the adjacent street would slip when they were running late for the bell, in lieu of walking all the way around to the main gate.

She and the others bounced the red playground ball back and forth until the ball escaped someone's hands and headed towards that gap in the chain-link fence.  She chased it through the gap, and then suddenly froze in horror on the sidewalk just outside the fence.  The warning flashed, screeching, into her brain:  Don't run into the street.  She'd almost done so, and had pulled up short just in time.  The horror.  She should have stopped inside the fence itself. Shame on her. Careless, stupid, she chastised herself.

When they returned to the classroom after recess, the teacher called the class to attention because she wanted to point something out.  "What happened at recess?" The teacher inquired.  Her young brain promptly filled in the details:  The ball went into the street.  I almost went into the street. I was on the sidewalk, one step away from being in the street.  I made a mistake.  The teacher looked at her, and she knew she needed to respond. She answered in a tiny voice:  "The ball went into the street."  "And what did you do?" The teacher asked. Oh, no. She knows I forgot. She's telling me to admit what I did - I was right there by the street.  I was bad. I did the wrong thing. She is going to make fun of me.  She breathed as quietly as possible:  "I went to the street?"  She braced herself for mockery.

The teacher must not have heard her properly, for she replied in a kind and approving voice, "That's right. You didn't go into the street.  Good job."  Then the teacher turned back to the chalkboard, and lessons began again.

She sat, incredulous.  A kindness had been delivered to her, right there in front of the entire class.  The teacher was sincere.  She praised me for stopping just in time. She did not scorn me.  How can that be?  She was temporarily stunned; having prepared for the impact of verbal derision, she was unsure how to uncurl herself mentally even when the danger was past.  Slowly, slowly, she turned her young mind back to the classroom activity.  And the afternoon wore on, uneventfully.
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Four decades later, what she remembers most is bracing herself for sarcastic criticism, only to experience the strange absence of a verbal blow. Her surprise at the lack of ridicule forever burned the memory of that tiny event into her brain, such that she can easily recall the precise emotions all these years later.

She wonders now:  why did she expect what she did?

Perhaps, she thinks, some questions are best left unanswered.

I found this ball here.