I recently read In the Realm of Hungry Ghosts: Close Encounters with Addiction. (It was endlessly interesting and masterfully written.) Near the end, almost as an afterthought, the author introduces a powerful theme: Beyond the ubiquitous trauma that exists in the addict mind, it’s the framing of that trauma that can make all the difference. Do they feel they’re to blame? Was it their fault?
It’s that scene in Good Will Hunting: Robin Williams, holding a folder detailing the physical abuse Matt Damon was subjected to by his foster father, says quietly, "Hey Will, I don’t know a lot, but you see this [in the folder], all this shit, it's not your fault." To which MD responds, looking down, unconvincingly and barely audible, “Yeah, I know that.”
RW says “It’s not your fault” nine more times, until seemingly, (Hollywood) miraculously, it sinks in and MD finally believes it. He lets go and is free of the burden of shame. To wrap up the obviously (Hollywood) overly simplistic transaction, RW, with MD bawling and hugging him tightly, says, “Fuck them, okay?”
If you feel the worst things that have happened in your life, whether past or present, are your fault—that you chose, or deserved, or let them happen—they will define you forever. How could you ever crawl out from under that weight? Real, justified anger and pain are directed inward. How could you not hate yourself? How could your mind ever be at peace? (This is also why victim blaming is so damaging and wrong.)
It's not only the trauma itself that determines your fate, but your relationship to the trauma. Despite where I'm at in my life, I don’t feel that shame. The additional level of misery doesn’t exist. My physical experiences are what they are, but I'm not owned by them. A dark shadow doesn’t hang over me; I'm not at fault.
I’ll soon be forty years old; if I’d given it any thought, this is not where I imagined I’d be. Hopelessly single, without a driver’s license, and living with my parents. Fail, fail, and fail. And, of course, there’s more, but those feel like the big three.
At a distance, objectively, what do these add up to? Utter failure. I don’t think that’s up for debate. But for me, though the depressing facts remain the same, I don’t feel the heavy weight of responsibility.
In a bizarre twist, ALS is my saving grace. It's my reliable scapegoat. ALS is always to blame. For all of it. Nothing could be more freeing. I don’t need to wallow in shame. No need to run from myself.
Of course, without ALS, these realities wouldn’t exist.
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