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272 pages, Hardcover
First published April 16, 2019
If you’re a smart white person who happens to be so traumatised by something that you refer to yourself in conversation as a “survivor-victim,� you probably should contact the National Centre for Victims and ask them for help. If you’re a Caucasian adult who can’t read Shakespeare or Melville or Toni Morrison because it might trigger something harmful and such texts could damage your hope to define yourself through your victimisation, then you need to see a doctor, get into immersion therapy or take some meds. If you feel you’re experiencing “micro-aggressions� when someone asks you where you are from or “Can you help me with my math?� or offers a “God bless you� after you sneeze, or a drunken guy tries to grope you at a Christmas party, or some douche purposefully brushes against you at a valet stand in order to cop a feel, or someone merely insulted you, or the candidate you voted for wasn’t elected, or someone correctly identifies you by your gender, and you consider this a massive societal dis, and it’s triggering you and you need a safe space, then you need to seek professional help. If you’re afflicted by these traumas that occurred years ago, and that is still a part of you years later, then you are probably still sick and in need of treatment. But victimising oneself is like a drug—it feels so delicious, you get so much attention from people, it does in fact define you, making you feel alive and even important while showing off your supposed wounds, no matter how minor, so people can lick them. Don’t they taste so good?
This widespread epidemic of self-victimisation—defining yourself in essence by way of a bad thing, a trauma that happened in the past that you’ve let define you—is actually an illness.
How do you fit in?