Burning Rage

Responding to "Shame Is the First Betrayer" by Toni Amato.

Today I am filled with Rage. I've been filled with Rage for a few days now. I believe that I've finally admitted to myself that the guilt and shame that I've felt for most of my life is not mine to feel. It belongs to those who willed themselves blind, most especially my mother.

Over and Over again I heard my mother profess how trained she was to recognize symptoms of abuse in children, how well she was trained in uplifting self esteem and strengthening the confidence of the kids she dealt with on a professional basis.

But what about me? What about your daughter? Did you not see the multitude of symptoms? Did you not recognize the so very typical behavioral patterns? How fucking blind did you have to be? You even SAW it. I remember your statement. You SAW it!

Over and Over again, when I would cry myself to sleep, I was told to stop feeling sorry for myself. Over and Over, when I detailed the actions of the bullies who preyed on me, I was told to ignore-it-and-it-will-go-away. I want to punch people who say ignore-it-and-it-will-go-away, they are fucking delusional. Bullies don't go just go away. Over and Over again, I would complain about my brother's song of Anon-is-retarded, of how he would call me fat and stupid daily, and nothingNOTHINGnothing would happen. Over and Over and Over and Over.

(page 225) "The willing assault and violation of another person's most intimate self is an act devoid of love and devoid of compassion. To survive such a terrible thing is to know in our skin the effect of cultural shame and hatred, and for LGBTIQQA folks especially, that violence has yet to be fully named and fully confronted. Without naming, there is no healing, without healing the shame will continue to burn."

But the shame isn't mine. I owned it for most of my life, but it shouldn't have belonged to me. The shame shouldn't have been laid upon my shoulders. It was not my burden to carry, and I don't want to carry it anymore. It was never my responsibility to save my family from the horror of its secrets. I was just a kid.

And the shame crippled me. If my own mother would name me liar instead of dealing with abuse, was it any wonder that I fell prey to more abusers? That I had trouble escaping them? That I froze? That I was powerless?

The shame isn't mine.

But this anger sure is.