Tiny Villains
Something I’ve come to realize is that the villains in my mind appear larger than they actually are. Is that just me being me, or is that the nature of trauma? All I know is that when I take a closer look these days, I see tiny villains where giant evils once loomed.
Maybe this is what E. Jean Carroll was describing in her interview when she said of Trump “He’s nothing.”
Maybe I’ve been conflating the effect of the harm perpetrated by the perpetrator with the actual perpetrator.
Like, yes, the Rheumatologist from Hell was a terrible doctor, but is he statistically significant? Should I develop anxiety over being misunderstood by all doctors? Is that level of caution necessary to my survival now?
It’s hard to be too hard on myself—given how seriously, life-threateningly wrong that doctor was—but I do feel like I’m asking important questions.
Another example: Rodney’s* asshole-ish nature infiltrated such a large space in my brain when we were married, but when I stop and think about how I’ve been divorced from him three times as long as I was married to him, the math kind of blows my mind.
My life’s villains are tiny yet taking up an outsized amount of space in my brain. I’ve got a tumor, I need to reclaim that space.
I despise the triteness of telling someone else something’s living rent-free in their head because although it’s often true, it’s decidedly unhelpful. Even where the stakes are much lower than, like, having brain cancer.
I think what I’m struggling with now is the desire for my tiny villains to acknowledge what they did to me, but they were there. They know.
And if I see them rationalizing their behavior, it’s only because I imagine it. I could just as easily imagine them contrite and remorseful.
I think that’s what I’ll do.
* Not his real name, just the one I use for WYGB.