Imagine there are three bins, two with an infinite number of $1 bills, and one empty bin with infinite space for $1 bills.
From the first bin, almost everyone you know takes one or two out and gives them to you, but for every 1 that doesn’t give you any, there are 3 that give you 2 $1 bills and you put it all in the empty bin.
From the other bin you take out a $1 bill and give one to everyone who gives you one. There are some that do not get some, but for every one that does not get one, there are 3 people whom you give 2 $1 bills.
How much money would you have and how much would you have given away?
Unfortunately, this analogy actually works for how we give and receive trauma. We all have an infinite capacity to hurt and be hurt. Every once in a while we get lucky and find someone we don’t hurt, and they don’t hurt us, but for every one of those, there are three people that have hurt you more than anyone else. And for every person you manage not to hurt, there are 3 that you hurt a little extra. We know that it doesn’t matter how much we hurt others, it never takes any of our hurt away, but we do it anyway.
Sometimes, it’s just because we don’t understand how we hurt people. The rest is because even though we know we’re being hurtful, we justify it with some sick delusion of personal justice.
You can be a hurtful person, but you’ll always just be another thoughtlessly hurtful cog in the human trauma machine.
If you can stop the cycle in yourself, you can teach others how to break the machine.
About chrooth
No this isn't some sort of midlife crisis thing. I'm just adapting. Like anyone else on here, or who does this, I believe I am writer. Unlike most others, I believe I am a writer because I have always written. Long story short, I was a really weird kid and sometimes it just felt like the only place I could turn for some solace and empathy was an empty page. I've always been a melodramatic writer and I've been really happy for a long time so I haven't felt the need to write but when I do... I have to. I basically live on the road, so my journal is hardly ever within reach, and when it is I convince myself that I'm too busy to make any time for it. So here I am, embracing the future, having acquired the journal that will follow me almost anywhere. I'm having one of those, "WHY DIDN'T I THINK OF THIS BEFORE!?" moments, and GOD after so long I can't tell you how good it feels to just let my mind spill through the tips of my fingers again. I suppose this would be an appropriate time to qualify both my ability and my intentions. I am not a good writer. I am told I have a strong tendency towards run-ons, I over punctuate, and I curse like a sailor. I can't spell for crap and especially while typing, I have a tendency to just leave words out. As I mentioned earlier this "blog" is meant as a replacement for my long treasured journal, which tends to imply a need for privacy. However, if you were to ever read my journal, you would eventually come across an entry musing over the purpose of a journal, wondering why they are written and kept in secret. I have no secrets. I had far too many secrets for far too long and I assure you, I have no more energy for them. Additionally, I can not properly conjure any feeling of being heard by manufacturing an imaginary personality that lives in a book and understands my words. So I write, and have always written, to you.
Thanks for reading it!
Chrooth 