The Difference

"There are two ways of exerting one's strength; one is pushing down, the other is pulling up." Booker T. Washington

I had a friend who was labeled violent. He was. He constantly beat people up....smashed things....terrorized everyone. His father had beat and sexually abused him. His uncles did too. When he turned 14 he wanted the power they had....he didn't want to be the victim anyomore. He wanted to be in control....like them. 

He showed up at school one day and attacked a kid.... turned over desks and was labeled violent. Everyone was afraid of him....the kids...the teachers....even the authorities. For the next few years he was in and out of treatment centres.....in and out of psych hospitals....heavily medicated. He couldn't hold down a job or  live on his own. His rage....his temper became his calling card. 

We talked a lot him and I. He told me stuff....stuff from his heart. I found out he could draw like no one else I knew. I wrote a story about a dandelion.....I read it to him. He drew pages and pages of beautiful dandelions....in brilliant color. I saw gentleness in his art...and in him. I saw the human being....the real person. 

I told him me and God believed in him. One day he admitted he didn't want to hurt anyone....he never did. He had just wanted the abuse to stop. He didn't know how to make it stop.....and now he didn't know how to stop being violent.

I never told him what happened to me...I never told him I had been beaten, held and raped. I never told him how much I hated the people who hurt me...and how I lived and breathed that hatred. I didn't even tell him how I unleashed all that hatred on myself......I was just there for him....listening....letting him talk...letting him vent his frustrations...and share his heart.  I started to see more of the the good in him. Others saw it too.  He started trying hard to control his temper and when he couldn't...when he lost it...he started saying he was sorry. 

One day his father came to see him. I was there. It shocked me to see how ordinary he looked...like anyone's father.....not deranged...or perverted or weird....just an ordinary man. But I knew what he had done to my friend. I knew his twisted mind. 

I remember thinking that day....I don't ever want to be like that man...or like my parents....or like the rapist who held me. I never want to hurt anybody. I want to be kind. I want to care. I want to be gentle like how God has been with me. I want to help pull others up...not tear them down. I  just want to make a postive difference....like He did for me. 

Overcoming Hatred

"Hatred can be overcome only by love." Mahatma Ghandi

For years I walked around with so much hate and anger in me. I hated what my parents did to me. I hated the way they shamed me, beat me, made me feel less than human. And I hated the system that claimed they could help me. They were like my parents,- shaming, punishing, bullying.

I was arrested for drug possession. My social worker convinced the judge to let me do the time on a locked pysch ward instead of prison. Being on that ward,- that place of misery pushed me further into myself and broke me even more. Their methods of forcing me to conform were brutal. The chemical and physical restrains took away any shred of dignity I may have had. My brain became dull from the medications, the fight in me subdued, but the hatred grew. Hatred for them, for me, and for everyone who had hurt me.

One time they strapped me to a bed by my arms and legs for some minor infraction. They kept me there for two days like a chained animal, allowing me up only to go to the washroom. At mealtimes, they wouldn't untie my arms. A staff came in to feed me. Humiliated; I refused to eat. I hated them. I despised them. My anger grew. I wanted to hurt them, punish them in some way like they were doing to me.

Instead, I cut into my flesh, trying to rip myself apart, desperate to pull out the bad, the part of me everyone kept telling me was horrible and wrong. Scars formed on my body, but I didn't care, because they were already in my heart and soul and mind.

Hatred and anger became a way of life. It drove me. It fueled the fight in me. I turned on myself with a vengeance. My arms were full of bruises and marks from biting myself and cutting my skin open. The blood oozing out was my salvation, the thing that released the building tension inside me. My blood, a proof of life, that I was still alive.

Blood? That's what finally turned my life around. The blood. His blood. The blood He shed for me so I wouldn't have to hurt myself anymore. Like me, He too was beaten, shamed, ridiculed. He never opened his mouth. He never fought back. That amazed me. How could He not? They laughed at Him, mocked Him, and He said nothing, nothing except, "Father, forgive them...."

Hearing that, my anger began to subside. Thoughts of revenge slowly became thoughts of forgiveness. It's hard to forgive, to let go of the brutality of what some people did - but to not forgive is worse.

I want my life to reflect His love. He loved me when I couldn't love myself. He loved me when I was wild, out of control and bent on self-destruction. I don't fully get how He did that, but I am so grateful for the gentleness of His love that broke the chains that kept me stuck.