How to survive a sucker punch
Long after my divorce, I took a three-weekend-long full-force self-defense class and learned the term "parting shot."
A parting shot is the thing the bully says as they walk away, having just lost the fight.
It's designed to get you to reengage by insisting, contrary to all evidence, that they did not lose the battle.
(Hello, a certain ex-president.)
A sucker punch is a close cousin of the parting shot.
Also known as a cheap shot or a coward punch, a sucker punch, according to Wikipedia, is a punch thrown at a recipient while they are distracted, leaving no time to prepare or defend.
Usually, sucker punches are considered unethical.
In boxing, they are illegal.
Harry Houdini died from a sucker punch.
Someone is using tactics like the fact you are distracted to hit you in your vulnerability.
So when my then-husband says, "You're not doing your work," meaning I'm not working on healing my issues, even though I'm spending several hours in therapy each week, hours journaling and praying and writing every day trying to work through my reactivity, and even though he has precisely zero of any of the aforementioned hobbies, it qualifies as a sucker punch.
Being sucker-punched feels like a betrayal.
When someone hits you in your weak spot because they know it's your weak spot, well, fuck. It hurts bad.
Not only are you hit, but someone has targeted the exact place it will do the most damage.
When you start loving yourself, smoothing coconut lotion into your skin in the dark of the living room, grooving to Erykah Badu, and buying clothes that you feel sexy in, well, that can threaten a relationship built on co-dependency.
I don't "need" you to love me if I can love myself.
When I moved to San Francisco, I wanted to feel a certain way I saw people around me feeling: hip.
But not just hip, self-aware.
Confident.
Smooth and suave and attending to their beauty.
Before I moved to the Bay, a friend said, "You are going to move to San Francisco, start wearing all black, and turn gay."
She saw the truth way before I did.
But when you do that, a partner might not like it.
Might feel threatened, jealous, and hostile.
Might start using the sucker punch, as in, "You look like a slut," when you don the new boots it took so much courage to buy.
You're wearing them as you take yourself out on this Saturday afternoon movie date.
You are typically saddled with two little kids, so this date matters.
He doesn't call to apologize, so part of your fun is ruined, and your heart hurts even as you go to the film.
But you still forgive him when he seems self-reflective and hurt, “I thought you would wear those only for me.”
The boots you bought, with the money you earned.
As you come into yourself, he may throw a lot of sucker punches: "You? You're no artist."
As you remember yourself, you have to forget the opportunities for being hurt that live in your body.
If someone takes the shot, they do.
That's on them.
You learn to walk away in your boots.
You learn to surround yourself with people who don't retaliate.
And when you meet one who does, you exit, quickly.
Now, I expect the people I allow into my intimate circle to see my humanity: to see where I'm working, how hard I struggle to be skillful, to speak truth kindly, and to practice honesty and integrity.
I expect my beloveds to hold space for my learning, and I attempt to reciprocate that to them.
We are all always learning.
If anyone were to sucker punch me now, it would be the end of the relationship.
I love myself too much for that shit.
So, how do you cope when a beloved hurts you on purpose?
One shot.
Everybody gets a chance to mess up.
But wait.
Do I really believe that?
No.
Vette those you allow close, and if they ever hurt you on purpose, get the hell out.
You survive a sucker punch by learning to love yourself enough that those fuckers don't ever have access to your soft spots again.
Only those who earn your trust get your vulnerability.
You survive a sucker punch by growing up, developing healthy mistrust and boundaries.
You stop being a sucker.