When Your Abuser Blames You

It may have been an attack by a stranger, or a planned “seduction”, but the words and actions he used, either overtly or covertly, blamed you for what he did.  He made you responsible for his desires, then he excused his disgusting behavior by accusing you.

“The way you were walking—you tease!  You wanted it.”

“I couldn’t resist you.  You kept licking your lips.”

“You always smell so good.  It’s like a garden I want to bury myself into.”

“I needed love and affection.”

“My wife is distant.”

“You belong to me.”

“I can’t help myself around you.”

“You seduced me with your constant come-ons.”

And we believe those words.

We believe them because it’s easier to blame ourselves than to accept how incredibly victimized we were.  It’s easier to shame ourselves and maintain the deception of control than to place the blame and shame where it belongs, and admit how totally helpless we were.

We believe the lies because they were told to us during an extremely traumatic event, when our brains were more susceptible to suggestion.

We believe them because some people around us reinforce those beliefs, in a multitude of ways.  If your attacker is known in the community, comments such as, “But he’s such a nice guy…” insinuate that there MUST HAVE been something you did to bring out such deviant behavior.  People question your recollection of events, because you seem confused at times…*NEWSFLASH* that’s a sign of trauma.  The family members of the attacker may encourage you or others to “stay quiet” so his life won’t be disrupted.  Your abuse is minimized, your part in the abuse is maximized, and your abuser angrily maligns your character.

 

We believe those hateful words because, in some cases, we had a relationship with our abuser.  And one day, a person who seemed kind and caring turned into a monster.  Or they slid into monster-hood.  Or they showed the monster who had been lurking underneath all along.  Either way, you have both pleasant and traumatic memories.  The reconciliation of those two aspects of one person is emotionally devastating.  What is truth?  Who is trustworthy?  Was this a “good” person who just snapped, or was this a “bad” person who manipulated you to achieve their own selfish desires?  How far back does the evil go?  And as more time passes, instead of answers, questions multiply.

But let’s talk about your abuser.  Most likely, if you are like the majority of survivors, your abuser hasn’t come crawling to you on bended knee, sobbing out his remorse.  And he probably won’t.  Ever.  He may receive some type of legal justice or social ostracism, but even then he will likely protest his innocence in some form for the rest of his life.  He will claim victimhood in one way or another.  He may admit to what he did, but he will blame you or his parents or someone who abused him or something.  He will be sorry—sorry he got caught.

I’ve realized two things about abusers which give me a slight amount of comfort.  A few truths that allow me to believe in the lies he told just a tiny bit less.

First, if an abuser were to actually admit that he was completely responsible for his actions, he would have to acknowledge what a despicable and depraved act he actually committed.  That’s not an easy task, and is nigh on impossible for someone with a fragile ego who equates what you do with who you are. 

Let’s consider this for a moment; what’s the M.O. of an abuser?  He is someone who has such little belief in himself, who thinks he MUST command OVER someone else, that he is willing to use physical, mental, spiritual, psychological force over someone vulnerable to achieve a feeling of superiority.  He has not achieved actual success or superiority so he must contrive it for himself.  This type of person is not only a coward, but his whole sense of self rests on his actions instead of his state of being.  He cannot say, “I did something evil, but I am not evil.  I can admit what I did wrong, repent, accept the consequences, and still be—deep within myself—a person of value.”

What a sad way of thinking and living.

One of the men who abused me once asked me, “Have you ever seen a man so insecure?” 

The answer is no.  I haven’t.

I pity him.

I also would like to give my husband an hour alone in a room with him, with immunity for anything that might happen.  My husband’s a rock star.

Anyway, I believe this is why an abuser doesn’t admit to his crimes.  But why does he have to blame his victim?  That’s the second thing I’ve realized.

If the abuser cannot accept his culpability, then his brain must manufacture reasons for his behavior.  And our misogynistic society makes it easy to blame the woman.  Abusers don’t often say they were mentally ill—once again, their egos can’t handle the idea that there is something wrong with them.  Instead they blame the woman for some imagined seduction.  They contrive scenarios which sound ridiculous to everyone else but themselves.

And then you—the survivor—hear them.  All you want is admission of guilt.  You want people to say, “What happened to you, and what you felt…that was—and IS—real.”  But the only other witness to your pain twists and subverts it into something sick.

Eventually, people will wonder when you will return to your “old self”.  They don’t understand that he killed her.

She was crucified for his ego.  And she is gone.  This shattered wreck is what is left, and broken messes can’t put themselves back together.  Broken messes are either swept up and thrown in the garbage, or they are collected, piece by piece, and they are carefully fused together until the original shape has been reformed.  Sometimes broken messes fall apart again; the binding agent used previously having been found to be inferior.  Sometimes tiny pieces get lost.  But those who see the beauty in the brokenness continue their efforts.

Tell.  It's still worth it.

That’s what this fragile clay jar wants to say to you, the survivor.  YOU ARE NOT WHAT YOU’VE DONE, AND YOU ARE MOST DEFINITELY NOT WHAT HAS BEEN DONE TO YOU.  You are a precious jewel.  Your pain, your tears, your inner tears which you fear to cry…they are beyond value.  You are loved.  I don’t know you and I don’t know your story, but I know your pain.  You can fight the sadness and the suffering, because you are of infinite worth.  And how do I know that?  Because you are a First Edition.  There has never been, and will never be, another you.  You hold a piece of the universe—a piece of eternity—which no one else holds.

The world needs your uniqueness.

Namaste.