I have an insatiable need for justice. It's my biggest character flaw, and my most spiritual struggle. There are so many bible verses about "waiting on the Lord" and letting vengeance be God's but I struggle with needing to see tangible, "real" consequences here on earth for all the wrongs innocent people suffer.
This unquenchable force has gotten me in a lot of trouble before, as I take up personal campaigns and offense for others who might be feeling the sting of earthly unfairness. Often times, it doesn't end well, and yet I persist, because intertwined with this need is my own sense of value and self worth. I don't have a high opinion of myself, and so when I perceive someone else is being made to feel small, I rise up on a personal crusade to make it right, even if that person hasn't asked me to. Compound all this with general anxiety, and you have many showers where I stand in the water, running through various scenarios on how I can give evil doers their comeuppance. (I solve the worlds problems one shower at a time)
Now, I've told you all of that to tell you this - the event that started it all. This is a little heavy, so just be aware.
Long ago, as a little girl of six or seven, I had a friend. Her name was Cheri. I doubt that's how she spelled her name, but for some reason when I think of her, that's always how I want to spell it. Cheri is a girl I will never forget. She is ingrained on my heart, I have carried her with me for twenty five years. Cheri taught me "what boys like." Boys like when you touch them here. Boys like when you take a bath with them. Boys like when you kiss them here. I felt somehow that these games we were playing were wrong, but I didn't know why - sex was a topic completely off limits when I was growing up. I didn't know there were terms for this: masturbation, oral sex, etc.
I didn't really mind, these games felt good to play.
And then one day, I went to play at Cheri's house. "Let's dress up for my dad," she said. I remember being in her room, I remember getting putting on dress up clothes, and I remember her older brother opening the door as we were changing. I don't remember anything after that, except that the next time I saw her, I hated her.
My family will remember this part - the part where Cheri was playing on the sidewalk in front of our house. The part where I went completely ballistic. The part where I wanted to hurt her, to do something to her, but knowing what trouble I would be in if I hit her. So I fell to my knees and clawed at her feet with my hands. "I hate you!" I screamed, "I hate you!!" She ran away crying.
I've lived with the guilt of that moment since. Over the years it has morphed into shame of a different kind: Cheri was obviously being abused. Once I became a teenager, I understood that. And so was rooted the thought that if I had just told someone, anyone, maybe someone could have saved her. She's never aged in my head. I've gotten older, but she is still a little girl who ran away crying.
I cry every time I think of her. Tears on my keyboard as I type it all out. Two and half decades later.
When I was a teenager I told two people this story, on two separate occasions. The first told me she would, "pray about" my "sexual sin." The other person told me that in comparison to abuses other people have suffered, my experience was "nothing."
Experience plus complete lack of validation equals me; the math that makes up my entire psyche. For better or worse.
I've since told a therapist and, most recently, my mother in law. Both said the same thing: "what happened was not your fault."
Someday I'm going to truly believe those words. I wonder what a difference it will make. Maybe I'll be able to respond to injustice with compassion. Maybe I will learn to see that my experiences don't need validation; I can be a whole, valuable person.
In the meantime, I take up the sword for surrogate causes, because the girl who ran away crying is still running in my head.
