TRIGGER WARNING: This post deals with an account of domestic violence and sexual abuse, and may be triggering to some people.
“Things turn out best for the people who make the best of the way things turn out.” ~Unknown
It wasn’t long ago that I lived my life as a professional victim.
It wasn’t intentional, but somewhere along the way I had internalized the fact that my victimhood gave me an excuse to remain stuck. As long as I was a victim, I had a reason to wallow in sadness and self-pity, a reason to not move forward, and sympathy that was poured upon me like praise—because no one wants to shame the victim, right? So I put on my victim’s Badge of Honor and remained firmly planted in the past.
The thing about being a victim is that it doesn’t end there. Resentment is not far behind, and I soon found myself immersed in resentment. After all, I never asked to be born into a household filled with domestic violence, nor did I ask be molested by someone I shared the same bloodline with, but it happened, and I resented it.
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