Injustice is my Bitch

Let me tell you a little something about me.

When I was a kid, (8ish) I gave my birthday money to Greenpeace. I remember doing it–we were at a restaurant, and on my way to the restroom I noticed a little donation box for the whale-saving organization. I dropped in my crisp fiver and went about my business. My mother says that when I returned to the table and told her what I’d done, I said, “It just seemed like they needed it more than I do.”

Flash forward to age 10, when I was shown a video in school about how they killed pigs for luaus. (I was blessed to have spent my childhood in Hawaii.) As much as I loved steak and Big Macs, (At age 6, I bet my father I could eat 2 of them, and I did!) I went home and told my mother I was never eating meat again.

Aside from a two month period at age 14, I have been a vegetarian, and now vegan, ever since. 

I’m keenly aware that the above paragraphs sound self-aggrandizing and pompous, but please, bear with me–I’m about to bring it on home.

If I were to analyze my behavior–and I do, all the freaking time–I’d trace my abhorrence of injustice to my older brother, Scotty.

Scotty is profoundly mentally retarded. (I’m aware that this is no longer the preferred term, but it was when Scotty was diagnosed. Please know that I abhor the use of the word ‘retarded’ when it is used to demean a person or action.)

While it can’t be said for certain why, doctors believed it to be because my mother contracted Rubella while she was pregnant and subsequently gave birth 7 1/2 weeks prematurely. If there is such a thing as complete innocence, as utter helplessness, it’s personified by my brother, Scotty.

My brother, Scotty, and me.

My brother, Scotty, and me.

And growing up with him developed in me a fiercely protective nature over anything or anyone I perceive as innocent. Seeing anyone suffer, but especially someone seemingly powerless to end their own suffering, (an abused or slaughtered animal, children, an oppressed society) brings on a sadness and a fury that overwhelms me like no other.

Along with that fury comes a call to action.

I have always felt compelled to “right the wrongs” of the world. Through years of therapy I’ve come to realize that it actually isn’t my job to save anyone or anything except myself.

Injustice is subjective and my saviour complex was just a means to an end–a way to build a strong enough defense to buffer and survive the sadness and depression of my childhood. 

That’s not to say I don’t still believe in “fighting the good fight” so to speak. I’m just aware that my good fight might not be yours. And it isn’t the whole of my existence. 


I am who I am. Which is why today, I am flying higher than can be attributed to caffeine. Today, I feel as though the little guy (in this case, me) might get a win. I’m sorry I can’t be more specific than that, but if you’ve read either this or this blog post, you know a little of what I’m talking about. More details to follow shortly, but for now, I give you this: