She was always the victim. It did not matter how much effort I willingly expended to be with her or how many uplifting and supportive direct compliments I gave her which she simply refused to hear or how much I stabilized her entire pack. She was always the victim unless she got to be the silent bully and do whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted, without complete consideration of the ultimate consequences to the entire pack, the pack that she said she loved. She was broken. I knew why and I had pity and empathy and resounding faith in her fractured spirit that it would choose to heal itself instead of slinking deeper into false excuses of fear and victimization; deeper into withdrawal from objective reality so that she might rule her own universe without question, without balance. . . without her having to expend the vulnerable effort and posture of maintaining respect for someone she could not control.
I said “I need you to do this for me. Name one time, anytime at all in his whole life, that your father hasn’t considered himself the victim. Just one time, anytime, that he wasn’t always running around doing whatever the hell he wanted to despite the wishes of and responsibilities to his wife and children. Even as he was over-dominating you and breaking your spirit as a little girl, he was always the victim, always, right? I’m not talking about blame right now. I’m just talking above his behavior and his perception. If you can just answer that question, you’ll break through, you’ll see it. So, tell me please, tell me one time in your father’s entire lifetime that he wasn’t the victim in his own mind while he bullied everyone else around him.”
She started crying, but she refused to answer the question and in doing so, in turning away from her fear of reality, she reset the cycle to continue in its revolutions of delusion, madness, and suffering.