Notes on the Journey: Sometimes Violence is the Answer
- Lauren Lopp
- Reading time: 10 min
What is Violence?
I grew up believing, like most of us I believe, that violence is a physical act that harms another. And, most importantly, the belief that it can only be a physical act.
But the narrowness of that definition makes me feel like I’m suffocating.
For those of us who have experienced other forms of violence, it’s isolating to the point of despair.
Before starting training, if you were to ask me what my definition of violence is, I would have said: violence is destructive force.
Any destructive force. Neither good nor bad. It’s a tool. It just is what it is.
But let’s expand on that.
ESD defines violence as an action (verbal, physical, or otherwise) taken with the malicious intent to disempower.
Malicious intent to disempower, yes, that’s it. Breaking through the surface, those words breathe relief into me like the first gasp of air after a very long time of being held under.
Because violence is so much more than just an act, a behavior, a physical thing that someone does to another. It’s an energy too. An energy that sometimes requires no outward movement at all. But is palpable and effective, nonetheless. Maybe even all the more, hidden between the lines, in the look of an eye, in a stance.
Any action (verbal, physical, or otherwise) yes, that's it too!
Because for those of us who have been on the receiving end of non-physical violence, we know all too well the insidiousness of the damage those blows can do.
And physical or not, they are unmistakably violent—malicious, disempowering, and destructive.
Though some of us can struggle with the idea of wielding physical violence, even in the name of self defense, I think it’s much easier to identify physical violence for what it is.
It’s a more definitive and clear progression of observe, orient, decide, and act.
Someone’s coming at you with a knife? You better do something about it. Even if you’re terrified, even if you’ve been conditioned not to defend yourself, the threat is clear: if you don’t take action, you very well could die.
Your life is in danger.
And when the threat is that high, that clear, in my experience, our instincts take over. We react, we defend. Even if we don’t know what to do, we do something. And we do it without conscious thought or judgement because for better or for worse, our hindbrain is designed to do one thing and one thing only: keep us alive.
But what do we do when the violence being directed towards us is nonphysical? When the threat isn’t to our life, our physical self, but to our emotional, psychological, spiritual selves? Our emotional, psychological, spiritual safety?
Which, let’s be honest, is the majority of the violence we are most likely to encounter in our lives.
What do we do when it’s not a fist that’s raised against us, but words? The slow drip-drip of words that seed self-doubt, and facial cues and body language and gestures that gaslight, manipulate, and diminish our power?
What do we do when it’s not a stranger that’s attacking us, but a loved one? A friend? A family member? A respected member of the community? Someone we look up to?
Setting Boundaries and Burning Bridges
As you may know by now, I’m on a journey of learning how to be in my body and how to set boundaries from a place of empowerment and sovereignty.
And a journey it has been.
Not too long ago, I found myself far from home (in Vegas, for a bachelorette weekend—my own personal form of hell in the form of sensory overstimulation, sleep deprivation, and social overexertion) with people who I didn’t really know that well and (with a few exceptions) who were beginning to show me, did not have my best interests at heart.
Long story short, I’d set boundaries with the bride clearly and calmly beforehand—not once, not twice, but three times prior to us going. I expressed to her that bachelorette parties weren’t my thing and that I that would not be participating in all the activities. I would take breaks from the group when I needed them and as often as I needed them.
(Yay, go me! And several times throughout that weekend others in the group pulled me aside to remark on how strong my boundaries were, but the truth is, I was still acquiescing, I was still fawning to meet the needs of the group.)
The bride, however, had very specific ideas of how I was to show up. Ideas that were not to come to fruition.
I’m easy going, until I’m not. I’m nice, until I’m not.
I'll burn you to Ashes, even if I burn myself too
So, though I’d reached the point of no longer being able to tolerate being around her about five seconds into the trip, I continued to show up as myself. I stuck to my strengths—I took care of parking, I got people back to the room safe, I navigated the hike.
But when I started to say no—No, I wasn’t going to the second pool party. No, I wasn’t going to stick around at the club at one in the morning (did I mention I was sick and doing shots of DayQuil like it was tequila?)—she started to push back. Why don’t you want to go? Because it doesn’t feel good for me. Why did you leave the club early? I didn’t feel good. Well, when the guys get here you better step up. I don’t have to do a goddamn thing I don’t want to do.
From the outside, I’m cool, calm, and collected. Non-reactive to the point of bewilderment and infinite frustration to those coming at me.
On the inside, though, it’s another story entirely—I’m in full sentry mode. The drawbridge has been lifted, the archers assembled, the infantry at alert.
Though I kept stating my boundaries, what was actually happening was: I just kept taking a step back. She’d push. Take another step back. Push again. Another step.
The problem with advancing to the rear though, is often backing yourself up to a ledge.
And whether in this contained instance, or the longer drawn out demise and break up with my boyfriend that followed—in which I had a real Galadriel realizing Halbrand isn’t who he presented himself to be moment —or any other conflict I’ve ever found myself in ever . . . when my boundaries are penetrated and start to collapse, when my back is against the wall, I will, without fail, go full Scorched Earth, Dark Phoenix.
I’ll burn you to ash, even if I burn myself too.
You know what you know, when you know
The experience is terrifying and traumatizing for all involved, myself included. (If for the sole reason that I’m usually disassociated throughout the entire event. I know I’m not the only one here with a background in trauma that manifests itself as dissociation and a delayed response.)
So to get to the end of this story, I abruptly and definitively ended my relationship with the bride that weekend (I also got out of a business partnership with her and the wedding party all in one text message—to date, the most efficient message I’ve ever sent). And a little over a month later, my relationship with my boyfriend (part of her social group) also came to an explosive ending.
And make no mistake, it was violent. A moment of true reckoning for all of us, that not only did they not have any actual power over me, they’d never had it to begin with.
Because somewhere along the way, very early on most likely, I gave up my power to them. I was acquiescing, I was playing along because it was what I’d needed at the time.
The thing is, sometimes we trust the wrong people. Sometimes we put our faith in those who wield it as a weapon against us. Sometimes we truly are outmaneuvered and overpowered, and our power then comes in the form of waiting for and recognizing our moment to strike—the moment when we can best leverage what little power we have to throw them off balance.
And to strike hard. And to strike definitively. And repeatedly.
You know what you know when you know.
The moment I knew—and truly Knew—that not only was I not safe, not only did these people not have my best interests at heart, but that they were actively working to undermine my power, actively stabbing me in the back and then blaming me for it, I ended it.
It was an act of self defense, and it was also violence.
Sometimes you can burn bridges. And sometimes you gotta blow that sh** up.
Irrevocably. So there is no going back.
How to learn how to be in a relationship with ourselves
The story is kind of funny to me now. In retrospect. (At the time it was unbearably uncomfortable and agonizing.)
Low stakes even, especially compared to the horror show that was my marriage, where I’d learned the real meaning of the drip-drip, of systematic disempowerment, of true psychological warfare and violence.
But it was a pivotal learning experience for me, nonetheless.
I’m learning that boundaries aren’t fences to keep others out. Boundaries are how we express to others how we want and need to be treated, to be met, to be loved, to be held.
Boundaries are how we learn how to be in relationship with ourselves. How we teach others how to be in relationship with us.
They’re all the more important when it comes to those we love.
Observe, Orient, Decide, Act
The work for me, now, is to stop the attack—definitively—before I get backed up to the ledge.
How, though?
One, we observe. We build our self-awareness, our capacity to be in our bodies, to feel big emotions. We get to know our baseline (our center) so we can know what it feels like when our boundaries are being crossed, when we are pushed off balance, off our center.
Two, we orient. We learn how to recognize, in real time, what is happening when it is happening—when our lines are being crossed. We learn how to discern—where is this person coming from? What is going on for them? What’s happening at surface level and what’s happening beneath it? What are the externally observable facts? Where are my own triggers and biases coming into play? What does it look like and what does it feel like—and are those two things congruent? And if not, get curious.
All the while, we’ve got to own our shit. We have to take radical responsibility for ourselves, our emotions, our triggers, and our actions.
And all of that, can take a very long time and a lot of experience and a lot of hard lessons to learn how to do. Years, decades even sometimes. It’s a lifelong process. Please, be patient with yourself.
Three, we decide. We make the choice to stand up for ourselves from a deep sense of self-worth, and we protect ourselves. Even if we might not be able to verbalize what exactly is happening, we trust ourselves enough to know that we know that whatever is happening doesn’t feel good and is not okay to continue.
And finally, we act. We set boundaries from a place of empowerment and competency, using de-escalation and nonviolent communication.
To say: this is what I’m seeing happening, this is how I’m feeling, this is what I need, and this is what I need from you.
When I reflect back on the Vegas incident, I see I’d handled myself with as much grace under fire as I possibly could at the time. But if I could go back and do it again? I would’ve pulled her aside and said: this is what’s going on for me (I’m overwhelmed, overstimulated, and sick), this is what I need to do (remove myself from the situation), and if you can’t respect that, this is what is going to happen (I’m going to leave).
Their response is nothing more than information, intel you’re collecting to help you decide you’re best next move.
And in this space, we can (try to) allow for multiplicity. We can acknowledge that both things can be true: it can be true that you love this person and it can be true that they are disrespecting you. It can be true that it can feel scary to hold your own boundaries and it can also be true that you can do hard things. It can be true that you are hurt, enraged, upset at this person and it can be true that they might want the chance to repair the damage done.
Or not.
You know what you know when you know. Observe, orient, and decide.
And when that doesn’t work? We do what we have to do when our boundaries and requests aren’t respected. We act. We walk away. We end the relationship. We strike. We strike hard. We end the interaction definitively, by any means necessary.
We blow up bridges.