The Kingdom of the Blind

 

Sometimes, after waking up from a troubled sleep, it occurs to me that I live in a world to which I have become so accustomed that I wander down its streets like a horse with blinders. I see those things at which I am pointed and accept what I am told about the rest –even about the other horses… And they, like me, process their separate realities as if they were representative. Common grounds. All, no doubt convinced of the uniqueness -the appropriateness- of their own interpretations. Certain that what they see is what we all see –should see- otherwise we are mistaken and groping. Remember, in the kingdom of the blind, the one-eyed man is king.

But we miss a lot unless we stand back and consider what passes for reality. And why. The other day I was listening to an archival podcast from BBC 4 entitled Body Count Rising –a thought-provoking and insightful documentary about how we have come to watch- and accept- crime programs that seem to glorify violence against women. Rape, murder, abuse –all common themes that, had they no fascinated audience, no prurience, would never have gained the popularity they seem to enjoy: http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b07wtggz

To me, only an occasional crime show adherent, the trend was largely invisible. And yet, as a man, maybe even a steady diet of such programs would have slipped past without a comment. Without a conscious recognition that perhaps the overly realistic depictions of female abuse, the preponderance of rape as an important component of the plot, and the salacious depiction of the female corpse was actually a not-so-covert titillation. A not-so-disguised form of necrophilia.

Another component of the podcast documentary that I had not considered until then –and one that I found powerfully compelling- was not so much the increasing demand for these kinds of stories, but rather the effects on the female actors who had to play the role of the victims. I suspect that most of us become so enmeshed in the storyline, so enveloped in the plot that we forget that to be convincing, the actor has to become the character she is playing. Those kinds of victim roles must be devastating -especially when the story purports to depict what is actually happening out there in real life to real women. And yet for the rest of us, we experience it vicariously and from the safety of our living rooms.

Where does the fault lie? The documentary makes an honest attempt to dissect it –from the writers who decide what species of story is saleable, to the networks and producers who pander to audience demand, and even to the actors who, despite their reluctance to glorify the ugliness they are asked to portray, dare not risk declining or criticizing the role for fear of subsequent unemployment… Sometimes I wonder if that isn’t another form of abuse. More subtle perhaps, more deniable, and yet one more gossamer-thin thread in a web of denigration so easily ignored in our society. So readily dismissed. So invisible…

We are all to blame, aren’t we? There are blind spots in each of our lives.

I walked into in a crowded restaurant for lunch the other day, and the only table left was uncomfortably close to one where a man and a woman sat arguing. To be fair, they were initially discreet about it, never raising their voices, nor gesturing suggestively with their cutlery, but nevertheless, I felt almost as if I was a guest in their kitchen and forced to witness a family squabble.

“… Whatever!” the woman hissed sotto voce, as she glanced at me sitting so close to them. She was young –maybe in her mid-twenties- and looked as if she had just come from work. Dressed in a grey skirt and a white now-creased blouse, her auburn hair once pinned on top of her head, escaped strand by strand as she tossed her eyes back and forth from the leftovers on her plate to her partner’s face.

He was probably in his forties, and dressed in a brown suit with a red tie loosened at the neck. Staring intently at the woman, a patient smile tattooed on his face, he was leaning forward on the table when I sat down. He made several desultory attempts to touch her arm, but she withdrew each time. “Sheila asks for it, though, Janice…”

Evidently, this was not the response Janice wanted to hear and she sat up stiffly on her chair and glared at him. “Asks for it! What kind of an animal are you, Jeff?”

“Come on, Jan. Get off your high horse!” he sat back on his chair and his facial tattoo expanded sardonically. Cruelly. “She flirts with every man in the office… Including me,” he added, as if this proved his point.

“Flirts?” Janice’s voice rose unintentionally, but she glanced my way and subdued the rest of her words. “Sheila is just friendly; that’s how she interacts with people.” She shook her head sadly, and several more strands of hair tumbled to her shoulder and danced as she spoke. “You’re so shallow!”

“Friendly is one thing –you’re friendly, but you don’t stand as close as she does when you talk. And you don’t start fondling people to make a point. Sheila bores into your face with her eyes, like she wants to peer inside, or something…”

“You mean she actually listens when you talk…?”

Jeff frowned at the remark and shook his head. “No… it’s more than just listening, Jan. It’s… seductive.”

The skin on Jan’s face tightened, and her eyes tore a strip off his face. “So that’s why Jason gropes her every chance he gets? Because she’s asking for it?”

“Gropes her?” His voice rose unpleasantly loud and people at the nearby tables turned to see who was yelling. He dropped his eyes to his plate again, and lowered his voice. “Janice you’re so bloody naïve! He’s just responding to her. Stimulus-response –it’s not groping! You make it sound so… so damned lewd.”

Janice’s eyes grew to the size of the plate in front of her and her face reddened as the veins on her neck grew fat and swollen. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly before answering. “Suppose Sheila kept grabbing his ass –what would you call that? Or his crotch…? I saw him trying to finger her in the corner, Jeffrey!!”

Jeff rolled his eyes and guffawed. “He’s just playing the game, Jan… And anyway, Jason wouldn’t do that unless she was okay with it.” He toyed with the bit of food left on his plate and then chose a large, dripping piece and put it in his mouth –but slowly and carefully. I could tell he thought he was being seductive.

From where I sat, I could see Jan’s fists opening and closing. She seemed momentarily speechless, although I suppose she was actually trying to calm herself down before she exploded. “Jeffrey, you’re missing the point!” The words came out between clenched teeth, her eyes locked on his. “Jason is her boss, for god’s sake! She feels she has to take it…” She tried to soften her face for a moment as she explained the obvious, but it was a losing battle. “Don’t you understand…?” she said quietly while shaking her head. I could tell she wasn’t far from tears.

But Jeff’s face stayed blank. It was as if Jan hadn’t explained anything. “Sheila could just tell him to stop, if she wanted to.” It was so obvious to him.

Jan glanced at her watch and stood up. “I’ve got to get back now, Jeffrey…” He smiled again and pointed to some food still left on his plate. “Wait till I finish this, Jan,” he said, and not kindly. It was an order, really, so she sat down again and leashed her eyes obediently.

But not before they strayed briefly to my face in apology –a silent recognition of the way things were. An invisible shrug.

 

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Victim

One of the things about illness is that it seems unfair -especially if it involves pain or limitation. To some degree, I suspect we all give in to self-pity in the throes of the process; maybe it’s a coping mechanism: a world view that allows us center stage for a while, an excuse to treat ourselves to some unaccustomed luxury. And why not? It’s only a temporary aberration, limited not only in duration, but in magnitude as well. Tomorrow will undoubtedly be better – the flu will have diminished, the sprain begun to heal. Reality -Life- will peek around the corner and beckon us.

But suppose it’s not; suppose its the same -or worse? Suppose the pain and debility persist and we find ourselves powerless in the grip of something we cannot understand, let alone control? What then? What if you seek help and are told there’s nothing to be done, or that the treatment, even if successful, will come at a once-unacceptable price? At what point do you become someone else? Something else? At what point do you somehow become a victim –someone demeaned? Disempowered? At what point, in other words, do you give up? Assign blame -or assume guilt?

These are vexing questions to which I have no clever answers. But they are problems -dilemmas- that we all encounter as we travel through our days. Certainly the chronicity of pain is a problem in gynaecology. A problem in endometriosis in particular. Perhaps in some future blog I will discuss the condition more fully, but for now suffice it to say endometriosis has the potential for becoming a chronic source of on-going pain with treatment regimes that might include surgery and affect fertility. It is surrounded by myth and misinformation that adds to the burden; it has variable clinical presentations making diagnosis or even suspicion difficult. It can be over-diagnosed on the basis of inadequately investigated symptoms carrying with it the inevitable worry and concern about the future. It can be under-diagnosed leading to multiple unsuccessful treatments and distrust of the medical establishment and their lack of effective medication -a gold mine for alternative therapies.

All understandable I suppose, and yet treated or untreated, I have concerns for the person behind all this -the person experiencing the pain, the person who is experiencing this by herself, as we all must experience pain. I remember an ad in a medical journal years ago. It was an advertisement for a medication for endometriosis and it was a picture of a beautiful woman in an alluring nightie curled up in the fetal position on a rumpled bed. The caption read: “Trapped in her own body!” I was sufficiently disturbed by it to fire off a letter to the company. What it had assumed -indeed encouraged everyone to think- was that she was a victim, someone on whom a punishment, or at the very least an unfair condition, had been imposed.

Unfair? Of course it is unfair -but the word, the description, is inapplicable, really. Pain, diseases, injuries are not judgeable as fair or otherwise. Some are perhaps preventable, some avoidable, all undesirable but unfair..? I suppose I take issue more with the powerlessness of the woman implied in the ad, though. The message is to surrender, I think, like in one of those police shows where the criminal is surrounded with no chance of escape. For him, we are led to believe, the chances of anything he does that might result in his freedom are non-existent. He must give up, not only his freedom and perhaps how he would like to see his life unfold, but also hope.

The analogy is wearing thin here, for sure, but I’d like to think that hope is not what that woman in the ad has lost, that she does not think of herself as merely an undefended receptacle for pain, a defenseless body being assaulted and beaten on a bed somewhere. I’d like to think that she still sees herself as a person, a subject. Not an object: a thing acted upon, something incapable of acting on its own behalf -powerless. I realize that I say this from the  safety of my own health, as an unexperiencing voyager upon the surface of someone else’s disease. And yet despite the distance imposed I can still feel the suffering, however dilute. I can still encourage her to take some control, if only of very little. Any control, any sense of being able to influence direction is important. Even if the outcome, the destination, is unknown, walking along a path wherever it leads, is better than staying lost. It is hope renewed. It is the first step to recovery.