Whenever I was abused or have worked with the abused, there’s always the narrative, “I did something to attract this. It confirms my worst fears about me. There’s something so sick about me that I brought this on myself.” And culture at large does nothing to counter this lie.

The reason it’s scary to tell someone “I’ve been abused” is because it literally feels like saying “I let myself be degraded” or “I did something wrong” somehow. I might as well paint a target on my back that says “weak and desperate for any attention, especially if it’s abuse.”

I also hate this whole notion of romanticized forgiveness for your abuser. It’s a Hollywood hologram. “You have to forgive or it’ll kill you.” No: abuse can kill you. Self-care and boundaries need to be championed first. Forgiveness doesn’t ever have to mean friendship.

I do believe that abusers are molded by systemic unseen forces of trauma and class damage. But I’m afraid we offer too many explanations for the abuser rather than compassion for the wounded. We want our villains to have nuance because we elevate sensationalism over the hurting.

And for the abused: People find you suspect if you’re out smiling, laughing, enjoying yourself, as if being abused makes you permanently somber. Don’t listen. Pain can coincide with joy. We need joy to break through the pain. Your journey is yours. Laugh, cry, nap, dream, defy.

— J.S.

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