The Dark Side of the Moon: When You're Always the Victim

We are making history this week.

For the first time in over 50 years, four astronauts are traveling around the moon. They'll see the far side with their own eyes, something none of us here on Earth can ever do.

I still call it the “dark side,” even though technically it gets just as much sunlight as the rest of the moon. I’m a little embarrassed I didn’t know that until this week.

But the phrase has never really been about astronomy. Pink Floyd used it for their iconic 1973 album as a metaphor for the darker recesses of the mind and things we try to ignore about ourselves.

We all have those things we keep hidden because God forbid anyone think we're flawed, damaged, or possibly a little deranged. Not necessarily evil things, though I've met some strong contenders.

This isn't a groundbreaking revelation. We know people are complicated, and it's easy enough to admit you have flaws in some vague, harmless way. Everyone does that.

But it's another to admit you hurt someone without finding a way to make yourself the victim.

You were the problem.

That's probably why people love a good redemption arc.

Stories are full of them, from Gilgamesh to Prince Zuko, Scrooge to Anakin Skywalker, from Loki to Tony Stark (sorry, but you knew a Marvel reference was getting in here somewhere).

Some of them are arrogant jackasses, and some have committed mass murder. Eventually, though, they're forced to face the part of themselves they've always defended, denied, or blamed on someone else.

We remember those characters because they changed, or at least tried to. But they didn't change because enough time had passed or they'd offered a half-assed apology and decided everyone else should move on.

They changed because they finally owned their bullshit.

That hits a little too close to home for me this week, so that's what I'm getting into: pride, accountability, and what happens when someone would rather play the victim than admit the damage they've done.

In Season 2 of Loki, he finally lets himself become vulnerable enough to admit that under all the grandstanding, scheming, and insisting he was destined to rule, he's terrified of being alone.

He craves attention, but what he really wants is somewhere to belong.

By the end, he chooses an eternity of the exact solitude he fears to save everyone he loves, along with the entire multiverse. It's heartbreaking, but it's also perfect. The god who once demanded everyone kneel to him now protects everything and everyone without anyone even knowing he's responsible.

Tony Stark’s redemption began in a cave in Afghanistan, when the billionaire arms dealer was nearly killed by one of his own weapons.

He didn't know his weapons were being sold under the table, but he also hadn't looked too hard, either.

Until the evidence became embedded in his chest.

After that, he didn't just admit there was a problem; he accepted it was his problem to fix, no matter what it cost him. And he did that until the day he died.

Loki and Tony didn't become better people just because they admitted they had issues. They already knew that (and in Tony's case, seemed oddly proud of them).

They changed because they finally understood what those issues had done to everyone else.

That matters to me because I'm on the other end of the situation, and the person responsible still won't genuinely acknowledge what they did. There has never been a real apology or any effort to make it right.

Just the expectation that enough time has passed and everyone should move on.

And I have moved on.
I also don't trust them.

Nothing they've done has given me any reason to believe it won't happen again.

So now they're the victim, and I'm the asshole for not trusting them.

In this case, "moving on" seems to mean returning to the status quo. Forgive, forget, and blindly trust someone who has done absolutely nothing to earn it.

No, thank you.

Look, I'm not asking for some dramatic confession or public flogging. Nobody needs to crawl over broken glass (although I'd like to retain the right to consider it).

I'm asking for honesty.

I'd rather someone tell me theydon't care who they hurt than hurt people and insist they're the real victim.

At least the first one is honest.

Accountability is uncomfortable and embarrassing. It means admitting that maybe you weren't misunderstood - maybe you were just wrong.

I'm including myself here. It's hard to admit when you've hurt someone, but you still have to do it. Saying, "I didn't mean it like that" doesn't make it hurt less.

That's what redemption arcs illuminate. Loki admits his arrogance and hunger for power come from his fear of loneliness. Tony realizes that not knowing where his weapons ended up doesn't let him off the hook. Scrooge is forced to see what t his bitterness has already destroyed and what it will keep destroying if he doesn't change.

In short, they all admit it's me. Hi. I'm the problem, it's me.

Some people never get there, because unfortunately, we live in the real world; we don't always get three ghosts, Yinsen, or the TVA to force self-awareness.

Sometimes you have to move on without an apology, accountability, trust, or even the satisfaction of hearing them admit they were wrong.

It's possible, but depending on what they did to you, it can be a goddamn lot to ask.

Then again, if self-awareness were easy, this website would be considerably shorter.

Heather Papovich is the voice behind Unfinished Business. She's seen some things. She'll tell you about them.