The first time a little boy pushed you on the playground, you fell to the dirt and cried. You were bigger than him at that point, but you made no move to protect yourself… except to sob. When he straddled you and pinned down your wrists, the tears evaporated into helpless whimpers. He forced his lips against your own, and in that moment, you learned the lesson all pathetic, life-long victims eventually learn:
You can endure.
It is your only life skill; some might call it your saving grace, although I daresay anyone ascribing a state so gloried as “grace” to you has actually betrayed an ignorance of who you are inside. Your endurance isn’t that of a rock, standing strong, proud, and resolute; it’s the endurance of the sea, surrendering whatever a man chooses to take from it and accepting whatever filth he chooses to throw into its depths.
You can take it. That’s who you are.