“You’re so resilient”: a compliment, generously delivered to me by my manager at my new job, following a traumatic event that had resulted in a three-day absence. This well-meaning sentiment would later haunt me. I was not resilient in the months following that tearful conversation—one that took place in a meeting room with big windows as I did my best to remain composed while my new colleagues went about their morning business.
Just over a year ago, I was assaulted. I had been on a night out, which began in a random pub in King’s Cross and—after a brief but traumatic interlude in Leicester Square—concluded in Charing Cross police station.
I took just two days off, worked from home for a day, then re-immersed myself in office culture: making small talk with my co-workers about their weekends, signing off emails, “All the best, Alice.” I was just 10 days in and wanted to be as accommodating as possible.
At the end of the same month, I was unceremoniously dumped by my boyfriend of 18 months via FaceTime. Something about not being able to make me happy. One of my best friends, Emmeline, returned home one evening to find me crying in the flat we shared. It had only been a few weeks since I’d crawled into her bed at 6am, having been shipped home in the back of a police car.
A month later, the police called to let me know that, for want of evidence, they could no longer pursue my case. This was the straw that broke the camel’s back.
I could no longer muster the strength required to keep going about my daily life—I couldn’t continue riding the Central line to and from work with my Tupperware filled with salad, as though nothing terrible had happened.
I went to bed for a month. When I wasn’t in bed I was with friends, getting coffee, having drinks—not bettering myself or “healing” with meal plans, yoga or books. Guilt trailed after me. Having fun felt like the wrong thing to do. I thought I should either be depressed, validating the reasons I was signed off from work, or actively processing trauma so as to move on and transform into the better person victims allegedly become through their suffering. Instead—between bouts of social interaction—I was bundled up, safely tucked away from the world, asleep or watching TV.
Throughout last summer I was a Victim. I felt the word burrow deeper and deeper into the core of my personhood each time the police used the phrase “victim of crime”. Like any label, “victim” is not without its responsibilities. People will always expect you to cope and to grieve within preordained, socially acceptable parameters, in such a way that it doesn’t disrupt or inconvenience others.
The idealised narrative of victimhood often goes: “They achieved x in spite of y.” They raised a record amount of money for charity, in spite of having a terminal illness. She rose to the top of her career, despite dealing with workplace misogyny at every juncture. He achieved a first-class degree, even after enduring multiple mental health crises.
We use adversity as a measure for success. Your achievement is multiplied by the value of your suffering. Thus, victimhood becomes an opportunity—something to be overcome so you can prove how brave, strong and resourceful you truly are. To succumb to victimhood, on the other hand, is to fail: I was not an inspiration, I was not to be commended for my strength, I did not achieve x in spite of y.
Of course, phrases like, “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger,” and the victim-turned-hero narrative exist to inspire hope and grant survivors agency. But it’s not helpful to insist every personal disaster is a learning opportunity.
It’s OK not to deal with exceptional circumstances in exceptional ways. Sometimes life is just a bit shit and we deal with that shit in shitty ways. Sometimes being alive and still standing at the end of it all is the achievement.
Give yourself permission to be a mess. Life can wait. You’d be surprised by how much things can get better, even when you’re not actively pursuing it through self-improvement books and courses. Drink a lot of wine, smoke a lot of cigarettes and complain about how awful things are to your best friends. Cry a lot. Miss work. Get angry. Be upset.
You don’t owe anyone bravery. I don’t owe anyone resilience.
