Of Mice and Gwen

That thought keeps me going sometimes.  I can remember very clearly the first time that occured to me.  My third child has just been born.  I was alone, as my abusive husband had been tripped into leaving . . .a story all it’s own.  One afternoon, exhausted and depressed, I wept as I rocked Matthew. 

As you get to know me, you’ll learn that I have a fair bit to wept about.  But at this particular point I was angry with myself for being a failure.  I was furious with . . .what, the Universe . . . I don’t know . . .for giving me so many obstacles.  I sunk deeper and deeper in despondence as I contemplated the 25 years or so that had gone before and the unfairness of all that had happened to me.  Internally I raged against the parents who beat, humiliated and raped me.  I was on the verge of a suicidal episode when suddenly it occured to me: they weren’t there anymore.

It was a wondrous revelation.  I was letting myself fail . .letting myself be angry . .over stuff that happened years before.  I had shut them out of my life.  One of them was dead.  And yet my life was still ruled by what they had done.  How ridiculous was that?  I was giving them free rent in my head to continue to screw up my life.  And they didn’t even care.  I could be as angry as I liked, and it didn’t hurt them at all.  I could fail, and they didn’t even know. 

Obviously, then, the only answer was to find a way to succeed.   In seconds my attitude totally changed.  I decided that I would not be a passive victim any longer . . I would not use being abused as an excuse not to succeed.   I was going to find some way to make something of my life.

I’m not saying I’ve done a great job of it.  Sometimes I have to drag myself out of the abyss and shake myself off and start over.  But often, in the depths of despair, when I can’t find the strength to go on, I remember that if I give up, the bastards win.