This quote recently appeared in my Facebook feed and it struck a chord with me. One of my most significant griefs is that I have spent the most part of the last twenty years fielding relationships with men who have been cruel. The cost to me and my children has been immense. Of course, it’s complicated, because I wouldn’t have these children if it wasn’t for these men and I’m profoundly grateful for my children in all their specificity. Motherhood has been an experience of flourishing for me but it’s been the flowering of my feminine power in very arid ground.
My complicity in the circumstances of my life was brought into rude focus recently when I was called on to support a friend needing to leave urgently because of the risk of harm from a violent partner. She excused his behaviour on the grounds of mental health, she begged the police to ask him if he loved her when they interviewed him, she prevaricated about whether she should stay and chat with him before leaving. I felt frustrated with her, and I noticed how judgement arose in me. Once the urgency had passed, I sat with the judgement and I found behind the judge, a bundle of pain from all the decisions I had made that resembled hers. It was extremely uncomfortable and I observed myself desperately trying to justify my behaviour, reason how different were my circumstances, convince myself that in her situation, I would have behaved sensibly. I had made a call to a domestic abuse helpline earlier in the day on my friend’s behalf. The operator reminded me that it can take victims of abuse several attempts to leave, and despite all our support, she might decide to stay. This is known because domestic abuse follows a pattern.
This recognition reminded me of a conversation I had had with a friend when I was trying to decide whether to pursue legal proceedings against my ex. I have a deep distrust of the family courts after a devastating decade-long experience exposed me and my daughter to harm from which I was seeking protection. Even thinking about returning to court triggers panic attacks but the consequences of not doing so has left me financially bereft, and after experiencing homelessness, I was reviewing my decision to walk away with no reparation. My friend held a very gentle space for me. He was of the opinion that whichever path I chose, it would be the right one. He didn’t stand in judgement of me or my ex. This space of calm no-judgement allowed me to step back from the drama and see it as just that, a dramatic act on the stage of life. In this particular theatre, my ex took the role of abuser and I played victim. I played my role well. I followed all the established rules.
I found this recognition empowering in the first instance - taking responsibility for one’s own part is such an important step towards healing. It was also heartening to know that I wasn’t alone in this experience but, today, as I grapple with the grief for the lost years, I feel downhearted about how depressingly predictable the protracted path out of abuse has been.
As I recognise my part within the dynamic of the relationship - without a victim, there’s no abuser - I can see how my outer circumstances mirror my inner world. Unlocking the sanctum of the heart and allowing the gifts of love and beauty to unfurl have been key components of my recovery. I couldn’t have made this discovery sooner than I have and my task now is one of gently recognising that I let Victim play the leading lady with her script authored by Culture and History and edited by Personality and Circumstance. I can choose a different lead role now for the stage of my life, one that flies the flags of love and beauty scripted by Authenticity, edited by Wisdom. One who’s heart is full of peace and who’s life is a dance - sometimes slow and sensuous, sometimes trance, sometimes joyful jig.
The metaphor of dance points us towards a place of deep healing. Song accompanies dance, guttoral sounds accompany birth giving, moaning accompanies love making , vocal sounds can give shape to our grieving too. I recently came across a Grief Yoga move that, when I tried it, reminded me of the keening I had witnessed women perform at a funeral I attended in Ethiopia. The sound in this contemporary practice is, ‘why?’ and the movement a rolling motion. The combination of sound and movement evoked in me sobbing like I’ve not cried in years. Twenty years spent navigating life’s ocean in the unseaworthy ship, Victim, has left me with a panoply of grief. I am allowing myself time to weep and keen for the lost years without needing to identify in my mind what is specifically lost, or weigh up the gains versus losses. All the tension and stress that the body has held in these years of flight or fight is being released, unleashed, sounded into the ether.
Once upon a time it wouldn’t have been ’why?’ but vocables sounded to tunes that echo down the ages in Scotland’s traditional pipe music. In this part of the world, we have lost the art of giving sound to our grief. Repressed in the first instance by the church where it was considered unseemly, and secondly by the growing cultural acceptance that one should grieve alone or be strong and resolute in the face of loss.
As I keen for the lost years, I free myself from the strictures of the past and begin to wonder how to tell a new story about domestic abuse. Does shifting the narrative create a new course by which women who are oppressed in relationships, can chart their vessel? Can they abandon the pirate ship Victim and climb aboard the Great Mothership Life and Freedom?
I think about my young friend and how deeply enmeshed in the story of’ he didn’t mean it, he loves me, the future will be better’ despite the overwhelming evidence to the contrary. I think about the comments of men in her community that run along the lines of, ‘stupid bitch, she deserves what’s coming.’ There’s very little that I can do or say that will change her mind or shift the misogynistic mindset she’s confronted with. I realise that the only place a new map can be drawn is in the chamber of my own heart where looking with the unswerving gaze of the soul at my own complicity in the story of Victim and so thoroughly forgiving myself, can I offer anything to shift our cultural experience of domestic abuse. The wily cartographer works in secret to re-map the energetic field. I am finding that the ancient practice of keening enables me to perceive that energy field, crying for my lost years, crying for the women lost to domestic abuse across the ages, crying for the sons of women who forget their mothers and treat their lovers like chattel. Crying until my heart is empty, a pristine vessel ready to be filled with love, joy and peace.
If you are processing a history of domestic abuse and you want your heart to beat to its own wild rhythm, book a free session with me and find out how you too can find peace after abuse.
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