I have just finished reading Margaret Atwood’s Cat’s Eye. What a searing gift, truly a master work by a master (mistress?) craftswoman.
My skin crawled, and I twisted in my seat as Atwood opened back up for me the secret world of childhood torture that I thought I’d let go but which still sickened and burned.
I had to turn and look and acknowledge that I still carried old lies about myself, lies contrived from the cruelty of a beloved childhood friend, long long ago.
It had been easier for me to believe that there was something so wrong with me that I deserved this girl’s betrayal, rather than wonder at what pushed her to cruelty.
Since reading Atwood, something has gone click, like a square peg sliding into a square hole after years of trying to push it into a round one.
I realized that the pain I’ve felt and the incomprehension at that girl’s actions showed my health. The cruelty showed her brokenness. It seems obvious to say that now, but what got written on my 8-year-old mind lingered yet.
Sometimes we live in a world where it seems that those who don’t feel are winners, and those who suffer are lost. Thank goodness for writers like Margaret Atwood, who shines a heroic light into those scary, slithering places where we’d rather not look, and helps us put things back right-side-up.
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Dear Valerie,
ReplyDeleteThis happened to me, too, as a girl. And recently, as a graduate student, I took the brunt of vicious gossiping lies—reminding me that that kind of cruelty, that brand of bullying, does not recognize a certain age as a magical barrier not to be crossed. I felt as helpless as I did when I was a child; just as devastated by the violence of the betrayal. I wished that I could turn a knob to dim the cutting complexity and overwhelming well of emotions. I wanted a charm, a chant, a potion, to buffer the pain. Later, when breathing and perspective are possible—I'm glad I feel as deeply as I do. It is a great part of what makes me a good writer, a good partner, a good friend. It is the source of my empathy, my compassion, my voice that rises to champion, to confront, to comfort. Yes, that Atwood, brings it all back so clear, so fresh, so real. I, too, flinch in the reading. Then I swim in gratitude, because her telling of ugly truths reminds me that I am not alone, that I was not—am not—the only one who has ever felt that drowning mix of hurt and shame purposely inflicted by someone I loved. And that being seen and heard, that communion, heals me.
Your response and insights are a sweet balm, as well. Thank you, friend.
Yes, Denise, I agree, the depth of feeling is our strength, even as our roots tremble in their hold on the earth.
ReplyDeleteI am so glad to be a balm and grateful to you for letting me know, so eloquently.