I'm sure most people are familiar with the phrase "it's not you, it's me" often used to end an ill-fated relationship. Many of us have probably either used or heard it ourselves - it's a yes from me, on both counts. It can be seen as a kind way to gently let people down. A gentle way to say goodbye and move on. Yes?
Okay, Mel, makes sense, no cans (or worms) so far? So... let's dig a little deeper.
Now let's imagine a toxic relationship. I'm not just talking romantic partner here. I'm also talking the relationships we have at work (colleagues and bosses) at school (classmates and teachers) in families, and also in society as we know it. Yep, you see the can looming over the horizon now?
Before further exploration, allow me to explain a little about my background for new readers here. I've coached hundreds of people (over twenty years with business leaders, teams and private individuals, and over more recent years with families and children as well) and have a thorough understanding about toxic relationships in all walks of life. Including my own experiences, both in childhood and also as an adult.
Perhaps the greatest errors I made with those who abused me? First of all I had no understanding that such cruelty existed, and secondly I willingly listened to what they told me, and did my very best to be a good girl - at all costs. I was innocent. I believed the words people spoke. I knew that 'do as you would be done by' was good advice. I felt it was important to listen to other people, so that I could understand, do my best and love them more. I assumed that since I saw the world through the eyes of openness and curiosity, others would be doing the same.
I was wrong.
It was in putting other people first that I blindly walked into systematic abuse. Abuse so underhand and so relentless, that I didn't even realise the levels at which it was happening. Why would I? After all, I wasn't being hit (well, only the once) and I wasn't in any physical danger (or so I thought) and anyway, both my abusers (in childhood it was my guardian, as an adult it was my husband) were the life and soul of the party, right? Everyone admired them, right? I was lucky to have them in my life, right?
Wrong.
The thing is, whilst I had no comprehension of what was happening to me then, I am now acutely aware of how these people work. I also understand how so much of our early conditioning, however well-intentioned, can actually set us up as targets. Lessons such as:
- Putting others first is an act of kindness - not if we lose connection with ourselves, if we lose our inner voice and forget to care for ourselves
- People in authority are here to look after us and have our best interests at heart - really? Such sweeping generalisations create blind trust and mean we're less willing to question what we are told
- Grin and bear it, because it's not polite to tell someone their actions are hurtful - nonsense, it's actually both deeply respectful and relationship strengthening to let someone know the effect they're having on others
- Good things happen to good people - rubbish, sometimes the worst things happen to the best people
Don't get me wrong, I believe that humanity is kind and loving, and that at the core of us we are all innocent and trusting, like children. I also know for a fact that there are certain individuals living and breathing among us, who are the opposite of humanity. Empty souls who have no qualms about harming others for their own gain.
I'll paint a picture for you. A summary of one of the many interactions with my guardian. I went to him when I was sixteen years old, my sister was just about to turn twelve. The sudden death of our mother had left us orphans - frightened, grief stricken, and vulnerable. Mum was a kind, loving, generous woman who taught us many wonderful lessons in the relatively short time we had with her... including the fact that the world was a loving and safe place.
So when my guardian regularly took me aside to advise me as 'the older one' then I of course paid attention.
"Gilly and I" (his innocent wife) "are having problems with your sister. She keeps coming into our bedroom at night, bringing in her duvet to sleep on the floor" (of course, she was frightened and confused) "and it's ruining our sex life. I don't want to have to find alternative living solutions for you, but I'm sure you understand this can't go on. You're the eldest here" (I was sixteen) "so have a word with your sister please, I'm sure you can help her and she'll understand"
Along with those words came the megawatt smile, which somehow never reached his eyes.
These interactions (that also included subjects like my sister's behaviour at school, how important it was that we help Gilly around the house, or reminding me of the adjustments we're all having to do in a situation that none of us asked for because we're in it together) were always done in private. Just me and him. At the breakfast table. Or in the car.
Strangely, whenever there was an audience - visiting friends or family members - he would joke and smile and say how proud he was of the way we're all making things work so well. That's of course why I would be told, on so many occasions, how lucky we were to have been taken in.
My feelings at that time? Confusion. Pain. Loneliness. Grief. And the terrible fear that if I didn't fit in, be a good girl, and help my sister to understand the effects of some of her more rebellious actions (good for her!) then our home and safety was at risk.
It's a clever trick. Pulling me aside to share 'grown up' information (it must mean he trusts me), confiding in me about the struggles that both he and his wife were having (it must mean he trusts me), asking me as the older one to help with my little sister (it must mean he trusts me), and telling me that I had the power to make a difference - oh yes, he certainly trusts me, and absolutely there are things I can do to make the situation better.
The result? I did everything within my power to keep the peace. I did everything I could to help around the house and look after my guardian's young children. I did my very best to reassure my sister. I listened when she was frightened and angry. I did all I could to soothe her. And I regularly reported back to my uncle with the progress I was making. All in order to keep a roof over our heads. The roof that, to the outside world, had been painted as a perfect home.
So when, just a couple of weeks after my eighteenth birthday - a lavish party in our home (now I'm sure it was only thrown in order for him to impress all my friends and countless family members) - he told me (again, alone) that his wife was suffering and we had to leave? Well, I felt a total failure. The cold twisting knot of guilt and shame gnawing at my insides.
It was all my fault. I hadn't done enough. I hadn't been helpful enough. I hadn't been good enough. And now both my sister and I were to face the consequences.
I fundamentally believed that I was to blame. And it shaped me.
Today, twelve years following the end of a ten year marriage to a sociopath, I know that this couldn't have been further from the truth. Now I understand the insidious trickery that was being played out, with my sister and myself the innocent pawns. Years later in my marriage, my son and myself were the innocents.
It didn't matter how much I bent over and complied for the good of the people I loved, who were also trapped in this dangerous game. No matter what I did, I could never have had an influence on what was happening. And yet all the time I believed it was my fault. There was something wrong with me. I wasn't doing enough, I wasn't being enough. The old "it's not you, it's me" syndrome.
Well, BOLLOCKS to that. BOLLOCKS to answering 'how high' when told to jump. BOLLOCKS to fitting in and being the good girl.
It took me a lifetime to learn how to recognise these patterns and to turn things around. These days, the work I'm sharing with the world honours our childlike innocence, love and purity as the most powerful forces of humanity. One of the key messages? Reclaiming our ability to notice toxic behaviours and situations. Reclaiming our voice. Reclaiming our birthright to shine bright and ask questions. To notice the BOLLOCKS - whatever that may be, whether it's our own internal voices or those of people around us - and to call out, loud and clear, "It's not me, it's you"
PS: As for Gilly? Well, she and I finally escaped and made it through. Now, decades later, we both understand the dangerous games that were being played out on all of us. Now we can (and do) support each other. We share our experiences together, we make sense of the crazy, and our relationship has continued to grow. Thank you Gilly, I love you <3
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