When I was betrayed

Someone has betrayed you. Someone you have come to trust, to have leaned on, to see as a true companion in this unpredictable universe.

Violated. Laid bare. The shock is so enormous that you leave your body. The burning humiliation of being exposed the way you did. The shame of having trusted in the first place.

You walk through those first days half-dead, half-burning. Sometimes you dissociate completely, floating somewhere, pretending nothing changed. Then you slam back into your body and feel everything at once.

There are grueling 48 hours of titrating between shock, grief, and the ontological fear of feeling utterly alone in the world. It feels like you are betrayed by humanity. Betrayed by God. Betrayed by all the values you hold dear.

For a moment, you try to jump to forgiveness. You try to justify, to rationalize, to pretend it has not happened. Then you are back in your skin and everything burns.

This is where you start. In the burning. In the shock. In the terrible clarity that comes after betrayal, when you finally see what was always there.

But slowly but surely, you find your way through.

And the only way is through.

See, there is an anger that serves you, and an anger that consumes you.

My suggestion is to honor your anger, but hold it lightly, not like a permanent entity but like a guest in your guesthouse.

Hold it not as the capital-A-Anger that seeks vengeance. Not Aggression that reminds you of your parent. Not the urge to punish, to extract payment for wounds you bear. Not the grand announcement to them or to anyone.

We are talking about the “small-a-anger”. Though churning, it is more like a quiet, steady flame that says: I see what happened here. I will not let it happen again.

Your body holds wisdom that your mind might try to rationalize away. When someone crosses that line and ceases to respect you as a separate entity that deserves respect and boundaries, your body burns. And it should. So trust it and feel it. Yes, you can let yourself feel the stab of betrayal without drowning in it.

The saying ‘forgive but never forget’ does hold wisdom.

Forgiveness is never obligatory; you are doing it for an eudaimonistic reason. It is not a moral imperative and not something you owe to the world. You are forgiving for self-interest.

You forgive because you are not someone who drinks poison. Because carrying someone else’s awfulness in your body betrays your values and insults your intelligence.

So let yourself feel the anger. Feel the humiliation, and trust that it will be digested and transmuted.

It transmutes into a sacred energy that says never. Never again will I let this happen. Never again will I ignore my instincts. Never again will I make myself small to appease or avoid conflicts. The little good boy or girl facade in me has broken now, and I am glad it did. I cannot care about what you think anymore as I can no longer afford to. I am desperate to finally live.

You are letting yourself ride that wave of anger until it transmutes into a beautiful NO.

A glorious boundary that warrants no extra explanation or justification.

Let the anger be a sobering reminder to keep the doors that need to be shut, shut.

Finally, with the memory of small-a anger, you end the endless loop. That abusive loop of: Lies, then promises not to lie, puppy-eyes begging for forgiveness, then, weeks later, betrayal once again.

That cycle has imploded time and time again, and finally, this time, it imploded in your body. You are not seeking revenge. You are not wasting even half a breath to make someone understand or pay for what they did. You are not turning hard or cynical or closed off.

You survived, and you used the anger. And now you are a new human.

Finally, you are calm and clear: never again. I forgive, because I do not drink poison.

But forget: never.

“For there to be betrayal, there would have to have been trust first.” ― The Hunger Games (so simple, yet so sadly true, this quote.)