It’s an interesting question!
I don’t think its language for me, but experiences.
I always heard about human compassion and forgiveness and love thy neighbor. But i never saw it for a long time. Not in any way that mattered.
I was also kept in a house from 5-15… a battered child, I almost died several times, from injuries I sustained while being violently abused.
People knew… of course. I remember someone knocking on my door, a neighborhood kid, to tell me he could hear the screams all the way down at his house. Four houses down. I remember praying to god that the neighbor who was a truant officer himself would call someone when he saw my father chase me in his underwear though the neighborhood one Sunday morning, Screaming death threats.I got punched in school in front of teachers who turned a blind eye. Every day. I was molested at school. In a study hall. In front of everyone by one particular kid, while people pretended not to see.
I was a pariah. I could never figure out why. I remember the day I rejected everything people had told me over the years.
I was also aware I was a phone call away from help. Child services could have opened the front door to my house and known something was very very wrong. It was a phone call I couldn’t make. But if someone else did… I’d be OK.
That call never came. No one ever showed up.
Then one day… I had a paradigm shift. I rejected the whole thesis.
Even if I was a worthless piece of shit that had ruined everything in the lives of everyone around me, and deserved all I got and more, at least I could be on my own side. At least I had that… at least monsters could be on their own side. Everyone gets to be on their own side.
So things changed for me after that. That was 15. No one died, or got hurt, and I never ate anyone or anything.
I had some conversations with my father, and my family, about the new realities they lived in. I wasn’t going to kill myself… despite their encouragement to do so. If anyone hurt me or abused me again, I’d kill them. If they didn’t like that, they could kill me. It was as far as it could ever go. No further, and never again. We had reached the final act.
I kept my father so scared of me that he never laid a hand on my mom again. Because I made it clear that killing me wasn’t personal to me… Hurting my mother would end up with peoples faces chewed off and old men gutted and bleeding out in the woods alone. It would be bad. That was a no-no. And a promise. That was personal. That was unforgivable.
I carried this attitude to school too. They all readily agreed to the new terms too. A long coat and a facial expression was all I needed to communicate this. I never said a word to them.
That was bottom. Things have steadily gotten better for me since. But I reached full on psychopathy or sociopathy by the way these things are measured.
It’s always us/them with people. I lack the sophistication most folks seem to have mastered with that. To me its either everyone but me is a them, or we are all us’es. All the Hilters, and Stalins, and Mes… all here with you good people. All sociopaths to one degree or another…
In a great big happy us.
Hug time?