Don't Hurt the Man
He wanted my time when I had not offered it. When I said I was unavailable, he tried to take my time, anyway. I said no, and watched the hurt and confusion and disappointment drain through his face. I fought against placating, giving in, and apologizing. I held firm and did not surrender.
But a few hours later, I broke down crying in my room. My body so clearly wanted to revert to the old and easier pattern of compliance, of "don't hurt the man's feelings."
Choosing a new course sent my whole person into disarray and disregulation.
The first time this sort of thing happened was after I had a conversation with a pastor about Spiritual Abuse. His perspective was wrong. It was damaging. It was potentially going to perpetuate abuse, not create safe spaces for victims to receive care and compassion.
I fought back—not for myself, but for other victims. I pushed against his carefully laid plans for solving the “Spiritual Abuse problem.” I disagreed with almost everything he said.
And on the bus home, I cried. Was it grief? Maybe a little. But after a half-dozen experiences like this, I realized I was having a nervous breakdown anytime I stood up to a man—even men I considered friends.
Once in the past few months, I had an argument with a male coworker. It wasn’t hostile, but it got heated. It wasn’t personal, we both wanted the same thing, we just weren’t able to agree on how to get there.
We pulled in another coworker for help, resolved the issue, and it was over.
I sat in stunned silence for a few minutes afterwards. Waiting for the shame to settle in.
But it never came. I was firm during the argument, not backing down. After, I didn’t feel like I betrayed my body. When I next saw the male coworker, I didn’t feel like I needed to make up for not giving him his way. In fact, I felt like he respected me more for fighting back.
I wasn’t walking on eggshells and I wasn’t apologizing for having an opinion that differed from his.
What was the difference? Well, I can only understand it as this man didn’t identify as a Christian. He wasn’t patronizing and belittling and, from what I could tell at this organization, men didn’t get offended when a woman was in charge.
Origin
Starting when I was very young, I watched my father demean and shame my mother. I watched my grandfather berate and mistreat my grandmother. When I was older, my brother and his friends were truck-driving, boots-wearing, benevolent sexists. As long as they opened doors and paid for the food, they could get away with whatever behavior they chose.
I started therapy in my thirties and began to notice how unsafe and triggered I would often feel around men. I fired my current therapist and instead sought out a male therapist who worked with abused women. Every session was highly triggering. I’d often leave shaking, and once my hand was clenched so tightly it left behind bleeding half-circles in my palm—the indent where my nails had been.
The Origin: every significant male relationship I’d had up to that time was unsafe and even dangerous. My pragmatic body translated that to every man was unsafe.
Betrayed
I had a boss once whom I adored. Until him, I’d never met a man who remotely resembled someone I’d want to marry. I couldn’t even imagine the sort of man who could induce me to making a commitment to spend my life with him.
This boss provided the blueprints for what that man could look like. We got along great. Worked through conflict that brought us closer and made us stronger as a team. We worked well together and even learned how to read each other’s minds. When he’d go away for vacation, I’d miss him.
So when he betrayed me, it cut deeper than almost anything I’d experienced. Considering I grew up in a cult and survived a narcissistic boss, the fact I can still feel the twisting of the knife in my heart is a sign the betrayal went very deep indeed. After all the work I’d done to allow men to show me their character and not mistrust them simply because they were male, this betrayal set me back years of progress.
How would I ever trust a man again?
Authority
My narcissistic boss was threatened by me. I had a seminary degree (he was just starting his). I had years of youth ministry experience in several locations, as well as specialized training in this field. Plus, I was really good at it.
From nearly day one, I was outshining my boss just by existing. Just by doing my job. A few months in, he began to sabotage me. It started out subtly, then it turned to hostility and outright lies. He wanted me gone, but I refused to back down. But that didn’t prevent him from making every working moment miserable.
So that brings us to today. I’m becoming an expert on Spiritual Abuse. It’s complex with multiple layers and so many of us are just beginning to study it. But after my own experience, daily research, and listening to the stories of hundreds of survivors, I have a good handle on this subject.
Even just writing that makes my stomach cinch. Am I being proud? Is this gloating? The words will haunt me any time I speak with authority on this subject, especially if I’m speaking to a man who is used to having authority (such as a professor or pastor). As I recently pushed back in a conversation with a seminary professor, I felt a loop of shame twittering just above my head: you’re a bitch, you’re a bitch, you’re a bitch.
Just because I dared to disagree, spoke firmly, and didn’t apologize.
This is what abuse did to me. This is what misogyny did to me. This is what years of participation in church did to me. In the church, I received the message: “You’re not unimportant as a female. You’re just not as important as men.”
I still receive that message from most men who identify as Christian.
It's painful and slow and lonely to re-write the narrative, re-frame the conversation, re-wire the patterns.
My body does a hostile takeover every time I dare to use it to say what I want to say.
Power
It’s not about me. It is. But it isn’t. It’s about survivors, and the unique experience and perspective I bring to this conversation. For most of my life, I wished I’d had someone like me speaking up and telling people what it was like for survivors of abuse. From the moment I started the nonprofit for survivors of Spiritual Abuse, I knew a woman needed to run this organization. While the nonprofit sector is predominately run by women, most organization that are run by folks who identify as Christian are run by men. Because most Christian men are uncomfortable with women in charge (no matter how fiercely they deny it, the evidence speaks loudly enough).
I also know power means something different to me than it means to most men. While men are taught to use their power for good—to save people and protect people. I know power is meant to be given away.
I also don’t think I deserve my power. I’m like the reluctant hero at the center of every epic tale. I wish I hadn’t gone through the things that equip me to do this job. I wish I wasn’t a survivor of abuse. I wish I didn’t understand quite so intimately every time I hear a tale of horror from another survivor.
I wish my body didn’t rebel whenever I tell a man he’s wrong, for the sake of those survivors. Nothing makes me say, “Why me?” more than when I’m hyperventilating and sobbing after surviving another battle.
But nothing makes me say, “Why Not me?” when I realize how quickly my heart beats in solidarity after I’ve heard the tale of a fellow survivor. I’d rather sit with this walking story of human resilience than any celebrity ever. I know how hard survivors work, because I work just as hard. And the privilege of getting to carry these stories just barely overtakes the privilege of knowing these story-tellers are a mirror of my own work.
I don’t give myself enough credit for the strength it takes to embrace another day. I don’t give myself enough credit for the work I’ve done to stay in the fight. I don’t give myself enough credit for the compassion I’ve learned to have for my body and the fortitude it takes to give my body a break when it needs it.
I hope, if you’re reading this, you’ll take a moment of compassion and celebration for yourself. Yes you, you remarkable human. See me, seeing you.
Thank you for showing up this day.
Visit Tears of Eden, a nonprofit for survivors of Spiritual Abuse
Photo by Tim Foster on Unsplash