I laugh every time I think of this…

I was at work one day, when a girl I worked with and I were talking. I don’t remember the conversation at all. I do remember, however, that I was a little worked up about something. She has a very dry personality, with an equally dry sense of humor, yet she is very funny! All at once, she motioned with both arms and hands, as if to suggest the motion of breathing, while uttering the magical mantra, “Goozz-frabba…”. My attention was instantly drawn away from whatever I was frantic about, to this girl. Straight faced, uttering “Goozz-Frabba”, I forgot whatever it was that was bothering me and instantly giggled.

You know, everything we see and hear has meaning. Everything has a definition or distinct purpose, even those things that seem to be utter nonsense. Everything, including that silly phrase, has meaning. That. Silly. Phrase… What happened when she said that to me, complete with the hand/arm motions, is that I instantly calmed down and found a giggle coming out.

Looking back, I am grateful for that girl and that small moment in time. What it meant to me was a silly way to break a spiral-out-of-control (ish) thought pattern, and put things back into perspective. After-all, what I was worked up about didn’t really matter that much. Perspective. It’s what causes a lot of unnecessary negativity, sometimes. Perspective is quite simply, how YOU see something. It’s your point-of-view. 2 people can be on opposite sides of the same lake. One can see beach, the other nothing but rocks, sea-weed, and trees. If neither one knows the other is there, viewing things quite differently, of course the only view that they believe exists, is the one they are seeing personally. If you get those same two people together to talk about that same lake, they might argue about who’s view was accurate. The reality, though, is that both are right. They just witnessed the proverbial lake in different ways.

You and I have been abused by someone. Why else would you be reading my blog, and why would I be writing it? You have your accurate view of the abuser in your past, where his/her family and friends have never seen that side of him. Their view is the nice guy. The selfless one, who they believe wouldn’t hurt anyone. Both views are accurate, depending on personal perception. Neither one is wrong.

I have found myself in a bit of a whirlwind regarding the death of an abuser. Part of what has bothered me, is that he died without the truth ever being known. There is no vindication for me. No epiphanies would come out into public knowledge. My view of the man is based on my own perspective. The same man is viewed very differently by his friends and family. The pain is a very real thing for them, regardless of my own selfish desire to have those painful truths realized by those who idolize him. The fact is, it will probably never happen. The fact is, it really doesn’t matter.

Two sets of perspectives. One is no more right than the other, based on personal experiences. Both are truth.

Goozz-Frabba…. Breathe, relax, let it be.


Death of an Abuser

I am one who has wished for someone to die…That they just stopped existing… I dreamed about what life would be like, if that person wasn’t on this planet any longer. I was horrible enough of a person, to actually waste my time on such a dark wish. The thing is, I thought I would be ecstatic. I’m not.

My mom called me last night, while I was enjoying some time with other family for Christmas, to tell me the Pro-Social sociopath was dead. I sounded cold-hearted when she told me. I feel bad for his family and friends, who love him. I feel bad for his son, and dog. He died on Christmas Eve. I sounded uncaring. Cold. Inhuman. The fact is, I was in shock. I still am. I don’t know how to feel…

I got my wish. How do I feel about that?

My human self is at odds with my angry bitter self. I was able to say to someone, “I don’t hate him…”, after we split up. But deep-down, I really did. I tried to bury that darkness, by renaming it. “He’s not right for me.” and “Someone loves him. It’s just not me.” There were other things I said, trying to rid myself of that hatred. The fact is, I may not have outwardly wished for his death. I might not have said it, or even accepted it, but each time I had to see him, I secretly wished he just didn’t exist. I didn’t want to see him anymore. Ever. Even though I thought life would be better without him on the planet, I find myself strangely, slightly mournful. I don’t even know if that’s the right word. Am I feeling guilty? Maybe.

I wasn’t the one who was cruel, in every way imaginable. I wasn’t the person who was mean. I wasn’t the abuser. I did the right thing, when I made him leave. I did the right thing, when I ended contact between us. I was entitled to be angry and to hate him. I earned that right. Right??

I’m going to try to put this into real-life perspective.

When he finally left, I was relieved. I was happy and ecstatic to have my home and life back. I was only slightly scathed by the ordeal. There was some damage, as you cannot go through abuse of any kind, without it changing you to some degree. He wasn’t my first abuser. He was an echo of the first monster, from four years ago. Been there, done that, burned the t-shirt.

When he left, he was dead to me already. Except for those times that life insisted that I would have to see him again. And again. And again. How did I handle having to see him as part of my job? At first, it was difficult. I didn’t want to be there. He remained cruel to me. Heartless. I left his shop with as business-like of an attitude as I could muster. Under my breath I said to him, “Fuck off, asshole”, as I walked out the door. The days went by, and I started being a little more at ease with the situation. Never trusting him, but always walking away with my head held high.

My job has changed. New company. New life. I haven’t had to worry about seeing him again, for over a month. I still thought about him from time to time, but as a distant memory of an old nightmare. That is where he has stayed…

Until now.

I once asked a figurative question, when I was freshly away from the monster who started all of this… four years ago… “What if he did die? Would my nightmare be over?” The monster of my past is alive and well, though not in my life. He’s affected me and created the canvas of a new me, which is still being painted.

The pro-social sociopath of my not-so-distant past, who solidified those changes and allowed them to take a more solid form, is gone. I don’t hate him. I don’t pity him. I’m glad he’s gone, but I’m more glad that he doesn’t have to live a lie any longer.

For his sake…

Rest in peace…