Listen to the article:
I like the 1980s movie "Labyrinth." You know, the one with all the freaky puppets? It spoke to me. And there's this line. The line that destroys the labyrinth, freeing our heroine who was trapped inside, an illusion crumbling before her. The line that summarizes my experiences in this world so succinctly it permanently rests on my left forearm.
"You have no power over me."
As I shower, I look down at this trivial phrase, wondering why I would do such a thing as to tattoo such meaningless words onto my body. I suppose it's meant to represent my resiliency, a way to remind myself of what I’ve been through and who I am now. A socially acceptable way to let the world know that I'm a victim of child abuse.
Victim.
It's not okay to be the victim, they say. If you're the victim of something, you're weak. You've let the bad thing win, and you watch, powerless, as it controls your life. You have a complex and you're too sensitive and you should be over it by now because life moves on. But I can't move on, so I just say I’m "resilient" instead.
Really, it's just easier this way. Easier for everyone else, that is. See, "resilient" is a much easier pill to swallow than "victim." It implies every horrible thing I've been through but presents it with a bow on top. It's a way of saying I'm different and somehow better than all of those other victims because I got over it.
I'm not over it.
I bought a bumper sticker in Tucson. It says "having weird parents builds character." I bought it half as a joke and half as a way to promote some image of myself. An image of a girl who's better now, a girl who doesn't let it get to her, a girl who is resilient.
But deep down, I'm not resilient. I'm fucking traumatized. I use these meaningless phrases to obfuscate the reality nobody wants to hear about. The reality in which I'm not resilient, I'm a victim.
You see, the problem with resiliency is that it's earned. The very nature of being resilient implies that you've been forced to move on from some terrible event. It's not a trait like honesty — a conscious choice by the person possessing it. Resiliency is thrust upon you, baked in after years of hardship.
A few months back, I was looking for a new job. I went on interview after interview after interview, all in the hopes that someone would pay me minimum wage to do more than is reasonable. But if you know anything about interviewing, you'd know that they always ask you some bullshit question about the hardest moment in your life. Why is that McDonalds' business? Who knows. Nevertheless, it's a fact of life. And each time I'm asked what happened, I evade the question. How do I tell fucking Starbucks that I was abused as a kid? So instead, I say I'm "resilient" because I've had a "tough life."
Tough. That's one way to put it. Another way would be that I've contemplated suicide most of my life.
The secret to this answer is in the implication. Trauma is not my personality, but it sure did form it. So, naturally, you're often asked to explain yourself. But nobody ever really wants to know about the panic attacks that make you think you're dying. Or the night terrors that keep you up until 4 a.m. Or the flashbacks that send you 10 years into the past in an instant. Because that stuff is boring.
What's interesting, on the other hand, is the story of a comeback. Everybody loves those. Somebody who defied all odds and made it out a better person. But that narrative is bullshit. Why is a comeback expected of me?
I look in the mirror and ask myself such a question. What if I didn’t have some triumphant ending to my horrible story? Instead of conquering this insurmountable obstacle, what if I leaned into my past? I look at my unnaturally dyed hair and piercings and tattoos, and I see a girl desperate to change in some way. Any way. I couldn't possibly be the same victim I was before, a meek little brown-haired girl scared of her parents and scared of the world.
But that girl will never leave me. And I'm not sure I want her to.
The truth is, a year and a half ago I lived in a group home. I guess the proper term is "extended care facility," but for all intents and purposes, it was a group home. I'm still not sure I really belonged there, but I didn't quite belong anywhere else either. We would learn things like how to brush our teeth, do dishes and manage our money. I'm fortunate enough that these things come fairly easy to me, but living — as a concept — doesn't.
So I packed up my stuff and moved somewhere where I wasn't responsible for my own life. And while I may not have needed to know how to brush my teeth, I did need to know that life goes on. There is a life after victimhood. Or I should say within victimhood.
Something I've always struggled with is the gray area. The very fact that two things can be true simultaneously. I may be resilient, but I'm still a victim. I can be both. I must be both.
As I navigate the maze that is victimhood, I feel trapped in a labyrinth of my own. Every time I think I'm moving forward, I end up hitting a dead end. But the beauty of a labyrinth lies in the paths untraveled. I may not be moving forward, but I am moving somewhere. And I may never reach my destination, but maybe, just maybe, that’s okay.
As a victim, there is no way you should feel. You may choose to see yourself as someone who has overcome something very difficult. You may see yourself as someone who will never overcome what you’ve been through. But all you have to know is that life does go on. Resiliency or not.
So, I own a lot of meaningless shit. Bumper stickers, tattoos and mementos, all unified by their utter lack of importance in the grand scheme of things. They all paint a useless picture of a girl who has seen too much. A victim. But that's okay. It has to be okay.
Edited by Savannah Dagupion, Leah Mesquita and Audrey Eagerton.
This story is part of The Culture Issue, which was released on February 26, 2025. See the entire publication here.
Reach the reporter at cageare@asu.edu and follow @notevilclaire on X.
Like State Press Magazine on Facebook, follow @statepressmag on X and Instagram and read our releases on Issuu.
