Telling your story & none believing you vs owning your story

How our subconscious tricks us into relieving victimhood experiences in so many areas of our lives till finally, you meet someone who rescues you

I find myself, again and again being the victim in all aspects of life all the time ... it is hard to explain what I mean by that.

In fact, I grew up believing I was clumsy, staying away from competitive sports and anything that required even just a bit of hand-eye coordination. I say “believing” because, when I learned to ride, I realized that my reflexes are actually pretty good, and my bike has become nearly an extension of myself. My clumsiness was just a story I made up.

This could be my story (Thompson, 2018), besides the fact that I never thought of myself clumsy, it was rather the one time I lost my front teeth, and the other time, I was ... showering after swimming by an older married man with married children who claimed to be teaching a kid how to wash himself to my father ... and all those other times when I was being picked as the last person in the football game by my classmates and my parents who had all the compassions of the world to help me develop my skills and talents but never cared that I didn't feel fit in the school's sport hour, that I wished we could take some activities together as sport, or that they could help me find some friends we could practice sport together after the school ... maybe my parents were both too introverted themselves and couldn't imagine being of any help to their kid who couldn't find friends or better said, who didn't know how to organize something with his friends ...

Somewhere along the years I gave up my attempts at finding the parents who cared about what I needed in my parents, and as I grew older and understood more and more about what has happened to me, I lost the forgetfulness of childhood and the protective layer of disassociation resulting from trauma began to go away for the first times, I gave up on everything sport related. I gave up on every activity that required "hand-eye coordination" and could turn dangerous. I even gave up pursuing receiving an automobile license. I did all the courses and in-car training around the time I turned 18 and I could pass the test probably only that I didn't have the permission for military service either one from the university to take part in the exam and as the moment pass, and my insight about my past became more conscious, the revictimization became stronger ...

The other point that my story differs from that of this young woman is that I didn't end up riding, at least, not yet, rather the first time I discovered my motivation for such activity was when I sat at a Cafe where I frequented at the time and a young woman who rode bikes was sitting some table away, and I was so struck by her that I end up writing a poem right there, I didn't ask her name, I didn't even try to go up to her, not even intended to, it just seemed important to write few lines for her and inspired by her. She is the reason I could find my way to myself, or better said, to know that I do like the idea of riding ...

I was in such grave silence, so many topics, so many occasions, so many places, so many things I couldn't talk about, I didn't wish to know about, I couldn't get close to, I would leave before I could get a chance to engage with other's conversations until I found Brené Brown's suggestions (2018) about the power that our stories have over us, and then came many other big and small contributing causes resulting in me opening up more about myself, at least in writing:

When we deny our stories, they define us.

When we own our stories, we get to write a brave new ending.

Back then what I believed all that is required is telling my stories, or better said, the highest thing I could imagine what "owning one's stories" meant was to tell them, and perhaps at best, tell them in a way and through a medium that nobody reads them, especially nobody who knows me in person, or we might someday meet in person. At the same time, for the sake of being able to be loved by a woman, I started facing the sexual trauma piece by piece, it can't be put in words how painful and dreadful it has been, but I don't like to talk about it here, however, the reason I'm mentioning it here, is so you can understand, how I end up losing the protective facade of sexual trauma and starting to feel the pain, powerlessness, hopelessness, helplessness, shame, hatred, anger, frustration, irritation and many other feelings, none of which I felt back then, yet resurfaced after so many years more and more frequently as I wished to be capable of having a healthy erotic life with a woman we loved one another, it goes without saying that the "healthy erotic life" was too naive an objective, then as it turned out the damage done by such experience cut deeper and broader than just erotic aspect of my life. Save about one single individual my entire life, deep inside, I have always hated even the thought of playing the role of the man, and that's just one example of how such experience has affected my psyche regarding myself, or the world, or both.

I did dislike my parents in the past, or better said, I had many reasons to hate them and many reasons to be thankful from them, but when it comes to trauma, not taking into account all its impact on my life and all the side-impact of those impacts expand through the years and so on ... I mean, just the sheer fact of it happening to me and my parent's claim to have always had loved and supported me and always will be, since I've lost the protection of trauma, I hate them with every cell of my body in this regard, every human being can make mistake and it might end up to fail to protect someone they love, but it has happened to me, and I find it impossible to forgive my parents, not because it has happened to me, but because I was their fucking child and all those years growing up, not once ... I mean, I was their fucking child, there should have been that much trust between us, so they be the first person to hear that something odd had happened to me, if they couldn't sense it, but no, all those years that the kid grow into an adult there was nothing from their side:

I was a young kid, but I wasn't so very young to not know how to wash myself properly, and even if I indeed I didn't, it is my father who should have known better and should have taken care of me, not the guy he had met recently and became friends ...

My mother ... my mother ... my mother ... my mother always played the sheepish when it came to emotional attachment stuff, I mean the times I really asked for it in words, and that was mostly after I turned 18. The first times she would even excessively accuse me of not feeling loved and supported by them. But the worst happened when once I nearly, "nearly" is not a correct term, I really told her in indirect terms that something of such nature had happened to me. It was in the middle of heated discussion about the decisions I have made about my life and I was arguing that they were never there for me and I couldn't trust them with telling what I wish for and that's why I always had to settle for things I didn't want to do and then end up giving up on them in the middle and she hung up the phone. She called me talking psychotic and hung up the phone, and when I recalled a few times afterward, she wouldn't even pick the phone. She hung up the phone on me while she was the one person always accusing me of not calling her frequently enough.

I hate them, when it comes to sexual trauma, I hate with every cell of my body.

It was so hard for me, "hard" even remotely describes how it felt, each time I dropped a hint about such experiences in my writings, I believe it to be the last time, that's all that it meant to follow Brené Brown's advise and so from that publication onward I will be living a normal life ... but living a normal life is no more possible, it is a dream never going to come true, to be honest, when I was younger, I guess I was just in the second or third school year, I read a tiny book from my father's library about a few of great inventors and scientists, and I knew I wanted to have such extraordinary life, but I never imagined one can live an unusual life even in regard to the most intimate matters of one's life.

I read, or to be more precise, listened to an audiobook of Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen (1998) quite recently in my life and the last chapter for the first time in my life, provided me a role model for how to deal with people in my life:

Mr. Bennet missed his second daughter exceedingly; his affection for her drew him oftener from home than anything else could do. He delighted in going to Pemberley, especially when he was least expected.

Mr. Bingley and Jane remained at Netherfield only a twelvemonth. So near a vicinity to her mother and Meryton relations was not desirable even to his easy temper, or her affectionate heart. The darling wish of his sisters was then gratified; he bought an estate in a neighbouring county to Derbyshire, and Jane and Elizabeth, in addition to every other source of happiness, were within thirty miles of each other.


With the Gardiners, they were always on the most intimate terms. Darcy, as well as Elizabeth, really loved them; and they were both ever sensible of the warmest gratitude towards the persons who, by bringing her into Derbyshire, had been the means of uniting them.

For the first time in my life, the advice I was receiving wasn't that you should want to be with your parents and do everything for them as if you really like them dearly, all the rest of your life, instead to have "the warmest gratitude towards the persons who" encouraged and caused you to be where you wanted, wished and needed to be. Such a relief. Such a relief.

I don't mean I expected my parents to protect me and never allow such thing to happen, even though they failed and it was easy to avoid such failure, but the one thing I expected, I mean, two years old when fall to the ground start crying till their parents pick them up and tell them it's going to be all right. I think adult do this about each other too, on occasions such a losing a loved one, or when a romantic relationship has ended out of the blue, to be honest, my parents never cared about my romantic feelings for the one person they could see me I was affectionate about, instead the kept silent and when I was beyond broken, they began to indirectly tease me for falling for a woman whom they talked about with terms as if she were a prostitute. Maybe my fault, I never introduced her to them, maybe all they saw in me was the propensity to fall for a prostitute, maybe they never intend to teach me anything about romantic relationships, maybe in this regard too, it should have been another fucking friend of theirs fulfilling their fucking duties ... That I don't mind, I even though that was the first time in my life and me so naive and clueless, by then I was 20-21, and so I didn't mind my parents disrespecting me in that regard, but there were so many years between that event and when I began to live away from them, all those years, all those years, all those years, nobody hold me in his or her arm, telling it's all right knowing my story. That I can never forgive ...

Trauma is indeed a blessing, before opening up the old wound, it was so easy for me to meet my parents, to be thankful from them, to be happy around them, at least, pretend to be happy, as that's what I did and do most of the time I seem happy. But around a month ago my mother came to visit me out of the blue, without any invitation and I couldn't stand a moment being around her and not being lost in hatred, such intense hatred and hopelessness, that I yearned to end my life immediately every single moment. I think that's a natural psychological response arising from excessive feelings of abandonment inside. The fact that such things had happened to me, and my mother had treated me like that instead of holding me in her embrace, and I was her fucking child, and such responses aren't fucking rocket science, at least, they shouldn't be to a woman who claims to have loved me all her life and done everything she could for me, beyond what is required from a parent, beyond what ordinary parents do. To stand there and pretend she is my mother and try to have a good time, knowing the damage inside me, the degree of suffering and all the misery in my life, I just couldn't bear to live with this contradictory state of being and behaviors.

The only reason that I'm not dead in having gone through few days of my mother's totally unwelcome visit: without any control, intention or decision on my side, I saw myself whispering in my head "S----, I love you" every single moment. I was so emotionally and mentally overwhelmed and as it was the first days of Ramadan, also the hunger kicked in and and I couldn't drink a couple of cups of coffee and try to come up with some conclusion, so I let it pass without questioning myself or forcing myself to stop repeating "I love you" with the name of a woman who allows someone else to kiss her in front of me ... okay, the guy has apparently an inborn animosity with me, and he found her all the time with her backs towards me, but still, I never wanted to love someone who doesn't love me, worse so, it was never the intention to have my expression of love for her being the reason I don't choose myself for death. That's too big a deal.

To love someone, if you could step back from the heat of the moment and view as an outside observer, is such a humbling event. Two individuals who were strangers a moment before, now put one another ahead of each other's selves.

And I have lived with suicide urges, plans and intentions long enough, the desire to be dead immediately is an old friend of mine, even regretting to be alive and not having killed myself at that particular moment has recently become a permanent guest to my mind. But there is a big difference between desiring to be dead than full-power aiming to take your own life by your own hand, survival urges are assumed to be in the biology of every living being, and in case you have no experience with suicide, let me tell you this: once you reach the state of mind and heart when you really intend carrying out deeds, you will no more be living the same life even if you don't. Because you have surpassed a level of internal desperateness that most people don't even get close to their entire life, maybe don't even meet someone who has been in their entire life. And since the first times, I began to publish my feelings in poems publicly available, I realized, those feelings seem to be much stronger than others who actually are in a romantic relationship feel for one another, and so I wrote a disclaimer [(2016)][Hossein] because:

... I usually see myself having no other way than saying “I love you” to someone, cause millions and millions … and millions times stronger and more intensive is how it happened to me. I understand that it may overwhelm others, so here is a disclaimer ...

S---- haven't done anything for me, at least, not in the way that some other women have done in my life, and we never end up together, she never expressed any blatant interest in me, and I can't imagine after what has happened, her inability to change her path after being wrong and my inability to protect us from interventions of outsiders, we might ever have any romantic future, and what has happened could said differently be described as she saw a monster in me. And as said, I always found my self to feel millions of times stoner and more intense, yet this time around, that such a love pure unintentional love expression was the rescue from the most intense period of suicide intention in my life ... had you asked me priorly, I would have even swore to the God that human beings are not capable of such level of love for one another unless maybe the God has made an exception. Even remembering it is humbling beyond expression ...

I was crying for two months almost once every day after realizing what she saw in me was a monster, and had I never heard the story of Beauty and the Beast, I would have certainly ended my life that the woman I wished we loved each other all our existence, sees in me nothing but a beast.

Many years ago, first time when I heard Brené Brown's perspective I imagined telling one's story is enough, to be more precise, I imagined it is enough to be able to say "it happened to me" and not wanting to ever talk about it again, yet this couldn't be any further from what is needed. A story told without anyone listening and believing in it is just another noise, not a story.

Despite all arguments to the contrary, I think, we are hard-wired to seek growth, development, and healing, just as physiologically, also, psychologically, mentally, emotionally and spiritually ... and so the subconscious of the individual suffering from trauma, when one doesn't own one's story, begins to direct you towards re-living your traumatic experience. And in my case, it grew so dire that even my life turned into reliving the victimizing experience. The woman my heart values beyond the human's heart's capacity treats me like a beast.

To her it means nothing, to me, the human being totally disappointed in life and long lost all pleasures in it, there is no motivation for it and yet if ever I wished to be able to overcome living the life of a victim in all aspects of my life, all the times, my heart valuing her is the boldest motivation. My heart wishes me that I be the man she built her family with and I see the pattern better than ever, as long as my subconscious aimed to prove me that I am indeed a victim, I won't be able to stop outside of revictimization cycle. I guess the very bare minimum state was to accept that indeed I've hit the ground so hard and someone we love and trust each other should have held me up, me crying and she holding me in her arms reassuring me that's going to be all right ...

Dear Lord, I'm humbled beyond words to be able to love another of my kind to the degree that seems beyond a miracle to my judgment... but I don't understand why the love expression to a woman who wouldn't want me as her husband, not to mention seeing in me her soulmate be my rescue in such state of desperateness ... Not to be unthankful, not to wish for someone else than her while she is better than perfect to my judgment, it is just I wished there was a way-out where both of us could be happy and deeply satisfied about ...


  • Thompson, L., 2018. How I Learned to Ride: Introduction - RIDEWELL - [WWW Document]. RIDEWELL. URL (accessed 6.15.18).

  • Brown, B., 2018. Own our history. Change the story. [WWW Document]. Brené Brown. URL (accessed 6.15.18).

  • Austen, J., 1998. Pride and prejudice.

  • Nobody, S., 2016. Disclaimer: Intimate Issues [WWW Document]. Lost Ideas Lab. URL (accessed 6.15.18).

Published: Sat, Jun 16, 2018 12:00 AM

from Penumbra

Series of Random Works