The Return of the Iron Goddess of Mercy
By Abbey Leroux
I never knew I needed an alter-ego until I saw those words strung together on a tea menu.
Iron Goddess of Mercy.
It was like someone from another dimension was calling out my long-lost name! Who is she? What does she look like? How does she roll? Somehow I knew. Those three powerful words explained it all. She is strong as iron, unlimited in her divine gifts and powers, and yet sweetly understanding and merciful upon all those she encounters—especially the dudes; the dudes who have been less-than-merciful unto her.
For some reason, the dudes are not immediately fond of this name when I reveal it. Some deeply intuitive part of them does just as the Iron Goddess of Mercy would expect: they tremble in fear. They scoff. They look at me like I might be a little bit more dangerous
than my small frame and generally sweet disposition suggests.
Anyone who is a little bit afraid or critical of unabashed love and compassion will scoff. I get it. The whole alter-ego thing is a tad nutty in itself and an easy target for ridicule from those unimaginative sorts, but it adds a dimension of threat to think of a woman’s alter-ego as so powerful to have attained goddess status.
And the whole iron thing? Forget it. It sounds threatening. And possibly painful. What dude wants to deal with that? It brings to mind that classic phrase: “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.” I’ve never liked that saying. The only way someone can scorn me is if I’m invested in them in the first place. The openness of that investment is my own doing and I’m not ashamed of it (proud in fact!), nor do I seek retribution for someone’s common confused negative reaction to love. I am better off without fury. Much better off. In fact, give me the opposite. Give me mercy. The I. G. of M. smiles sweetly at the scoffing, deflects any negative vibes with her iron arms (think Wonder Woman’s shiny wrist cuffs – waah-PING!!) and then has mercy on them. Let’s change the whole damn thing around. Heaven hath no mercy like a woman reborn.
But the mercy is not just for others. The Iron Goddess of Mercy knows to her bones that compassion cannot be generously dished out to others unless it comes from a place of compassion for and within herself. It is highly likely that I, Abbey, did not realize this until the I. G. of M. let me in on it.
I was visiting a friend at work in a tea shop in Harvard Square. I was just beginning to feel empowered by my post-significant-break-up decisions and plans. This had been a severe, unwelcome, and extremely inconvenient heartbreak to undergo. Most are, of course. It’s practically written into the definition. But in addition to this typical painful dilemma, I had ended up jobless, penniless, and apartment-less in New York City three months after moving there and falling in love with it. I did not want to leave. I did not want to give up. And definitely not just because my boyfriend had decided he didn’t love me anymore.
In order to move on in strength rather than in fear, I had to stop asking those rueful “girl questions” that implied something had malfunctioned in me to put me in such a precarious position. In the midst of the painful “Boston Crab,” the universe held me in I had to call out for mercy. Shockingly, my own calm voice answered back. When I looked at that tea menu and saw those words I had a name for her; that part of myself.
She stayed strong with me through that tumultuous time and faded gracefully into the background until my most recent heart-break. Popping back into existence like Superman from a phone booth, it has become preposterously easy for me to transform my heart-ache into positive brute force when I remember my alter-ego.
Abbey may feel heart-broken but the Iron Goddess of Mercy has a heart impossible to bruise or batter. It simply feels and gives, feels and gives. Perfectly functioning through the good times and bad.
Abbey may be tempted to resent that brilliant douche-bag who loved her and left her, but the Iron Goddess of Mercy only pities him for being unable to receive good love when he gets it and, by virtue of not punishing him outright, is merciful in letting him slink away
unscathed. Oh, and she doesn’t call him names either.
So beware, be ready, and be not afraid, San Francisco. The Iron Goddess of Mercy is back and, as always, better off than before. More iron. More goddess. More mercy. I do not intend for you to tremble in fear, but should you cower and exclaim, “Merciful heavens!” as I pass by, that is what you will get. I will smile. I will keep opening my arms. And I will be merciful.