Most people who say they "can’t control themselves" actually DO control themselves just fine around people who don’t make good victims.
Has an abusive husband ever been so overcome with lust that he can't help making out with a sleeping adult? No?— just children and girlfriends? Imagine that.
Does he ever lose control and punch out a sober adult he isn’t fucking?
Nope, just his kid and his girlfriend? Gee.
It’s not a problem "controlling himself" so much as a problem imagining reality.
by Tara Burns, EcoWhore.com
Imagine you, hitting me in the face, right now. Most of you can’t.
But imagine this: you have to get across town to an important meeting that you’re already running late for— and your kid won’t get in the car.
You’re frustrated. You reach out and grab their arm, too hard. They try to pull away, but now that you’ve got them you have to get them in the car.
The more they struggle, the more you have to prove that you’re in control, that you’re getting to that appointment. You can imagine that, right? You can imagine shoving them, lifting them, pushing them too hard into the seat, maybe slapping them. Just once.
Why is it that we can’t imagine hitting someone we don’t care about— but we can easily imagine hitting our precious little ones?
Now, imagine you feel the same way about your girlfriend that you felt about that kid trying to escape the car. You have to prove you’re in control. Maybe you have to push her or slap her or threaten her. It’s no different than a misbehaving three-year-old.
Why is it that some people see all their loved ones as "precious little ones" to control and abuse— and some people don’t?
This has very little to do with self control.
So. Imagine you’re frustrated with your bratty little kid. You’ve had an awful day and you’re about to lose it.
Then I come along and speak soothingly, and take that kid off your hands for a little bit so you can decompress and become yourself again.
Nice of me, right? But imagine that I come along and I’m a judgemental asshole who tries to tell you what to do with your own kid!
Who gets to decide which conversation we’re having?
Imagine your bratty little girlfriend has bratty little friends— and imagine they’re egging her on, encouraging her not to get in the car. You want to slap those smug little smiles off their faces, right?
Just when you’re about to slam that bitch into the car seat, your nice old teacher from the second grade comes along and goes over the problem with you again to make sure you really know how to do your homework.
Who decides if I’m the bratty friend or the nice teacher?
Imagine you’re in a strip club and some greedy stripper is harassing you for cash. You want her to go away but she keeps talking about lap dances. Or... you go to a strip club and you meet a cool sexy girl, and she shows you to the back room where you can have an amazing time for just twenty bucks.
Who decides which one I am?
I do.
Because usually I’m the only one who even realizes that we’re constructing a reality between us.
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