Giving a Piece of Myself

Best or worst gift you ever gave.

Several years ago I broke off contact with my parents. It was my choice to take a break from interacting with them, as I try to continue healing from CSA and 2 rapes as an adult.
I finally ran out of strength and energy to try and get them to understand my pain, and the things I needed from them. I didn't stop loving them or wanting their approval. 
I needed time to learn that I can love them in all their imperfection, and that their not understanding didn't equal not loving me.

We see each other periodically now, exchanging information via email. I still haven't gotten to the point that I'm comfortable with random phone calls. I just can't take the possibility of being caught off guard with them, but I think we are making progress. Our relationship will never be the one I wanted and needed, but I tried to give them the gift of knowing me when I gave them this gift at Christmas 3 years ago. 

Dear Mother and Daddy,

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year all rolled into one!

This year I have decided to do a joint gift for you. It is a basket filled with things I love and want to share with you. This note is an explanation of each item.

Mother, this shawl is for you. It is made of 100% recycled cotton yarn. When I first returned to crocheting a few years ago, I was determined to learn to read patterns, and this is the first shawl I made using a pattern. I have kept it because I loved it so much, and now I want you to have it. The colors make me think of you. You may wear it or use it as a table linen. I hope you enjoy it. (It can be machine washed on a cold delicate cycle, and then laid flat to dry.)

Daddy, the prayer beads are for you. I have always been intrigued by prayer beads, and as I have worked on healing I have found them to be very helpful in keeping me centered in moments of panic or stress. I have included instructions on how to use them, along with a prayer from Julian of Norwich. Turquoise is one of my favorite stones to work with, and I hope you will enjoy using them or just looking at them and thinking of me. (If you are interested in more information on using them, I have some books you could look at. Feel free to email me about them.)

The remaining items are for you to share:

Common Prayer: A Liturgy for Ordinary Radicals is a devotional book that I have been using for a couple of years now. It is based on The Book of Common Prayer, but has been modernized and simplified. Each day provides a message, readings from the Old and New Testaments and Psalms, as well as a hymn (all in the back of the volume) and then providing an opportunity to pray for others. I frequently look the hymns up on YouTube and listen to them as I read. This particular volume has opened my eyes to a greater understanding of God’s love for all people, and helped me widen my world view.

"The Ghost on the Canvas" is Glen Campbell’s final cd. He has retired since being diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. Campbell has always been one of my favorites. I feel as if I grew up listening to him, along with the Lettermen, and Jimmie Driftwood, among others. Anyway, I have found this cd to be very moving both musically and lyrically. I hope you both enjoy it as well.

First Watch (gift certificate) is a new restaurant in town. I know how much you enjoy going out to eat, and I always enjoy sharing new places with you. The restaurant serves breakfast and lunch until 2:30, no dinner. The food is lovely! Wonderful eggs, waffles, pancakes, sandwiches, and soups. I hope you get a chance to try it, and let me know what you think.

Finally, the basket is from SERRV.org. They are a fair trade organization, and I like the hands on quality of their items, as well as knowing the gift serves a dual purpose. Of course, my theory is you can never have too many baskets!

I want you both to know that I appreciate this time you are giving to me to work on healing, and I look forward to continuing to improve and deepen our relationship. I love you both very much.

Blessings

I know this gift was given with an open, searching heart, and I think they received it that way. A single gift can't repair our damaged relationship, but I still feel positively about my motivations and the desire I had in giving the gift to them. Even now as I write this, I feel the anxiety rising in my body. Tension and discomfort. I wanted so much from them that they were unable to give. I believe I have forgiven them, but I keep them at arm's length for my own wellbeing. 

I will give them gifts again this Christmas, but none will ever be as meaningful as that gift and what I tried to invite and say in the giving of it.

linking up with Writer's Workshop and Just Write

It's the most wonderful time of the year . . .

But is it really? Let's be clear I enjoy the holidays. I especially like Thanksgiving because it's all about being appreciative and grateful for our families, friends, homes, and food. We actually have one day each year set aside to stop and really think about how blessed we are. And there is FABULOUS stuff to eat!

But, but. The holidays bring out a lot of other feelings besides gratitude. A lot of those other feelings are the result of societal expectations, but others are experiential. The commercials tells us to feel one way, but our memories remind us of past holidays and how we felt let down.

I'm attempting to write something with depth and meaning and the reality is I'm depressed. Not as depressed as I was a few days ago, but I know it will be a see-saw from now until after the new year. Because it's hard not to feel bummed when my holidays won't look like the TV commercials, and I'll be reminded of family dissension. Reminded of family I don't interact with (by my own choosing and for my own good), but I miss the idea of a family filled holiday.

I have this little voice in my head that reminds me over and over again that it's all my fault that I don't have a TV family. It's all my fault that I'm not over the top happy for 2 straight months of the year. It's all my fault that I'm tired and headachy, and would rather sleep and watch TV than decorate my house, bake cookies, and shop. So I wind up feeling like the Grinch. And I'm not the Grinch. I'm a basically happy, upbeat person. Yes, parts of the holidays are difficult because they aren't the way I want them to be. But I have family and friends that I share the holidays with -- I am not alone. I have more stuff than I will ever be able to appreciate, let alone use. 

I sat in my therapist's office on Tuesday and felt relief wash over me as tears squeezed from my eyes. She reminded me that PTSD from childhood abuse is one of the most difficult diagnoses to deal with, because these traumatic events happened during my formative years. In my case throughout my formative years. The negative patterns are imprinted on me. It's not that I am unwilling to let go of the past, but rather that it is imprinted on my brain. So, yes, it's going to crop up. There are going to be triggers. Getting over it doesn't mean it didn't happen. Just like getting over the flu doesn't mean you don't remember how sick you felt when you had it. 

I read a quote this morning -- 

“If you believe you deserve nurturing only when you’re extremely upset, you’re like the majority of survivors who feel they have to be totally falling apart before they slow down and take care of themselves. But taking care of yourself should not be confined to times of crisis. Nurturing and taking care of your needs should become a daily habit, not something special to be pulled out in an emergency.” The Courage to Heal Workbook by Laura Davis

and it reminded me to take care of me. So that's what I'm doing. I drinking lots of water, paying attention to what I eat (but not too much!), resting when I'm tired, getting some exercise, doing yoga, seeing the chiropractor, talking with my therapist, and planning some fun things just for me. 

When I dream about the episodes of abuse, it is as if I am reliving them. The key is to remind myself when I awaken that I didn't cause the dreams to come anymore than I caused the abuse to happen. I'm learning to see the return of the dreams as my subconscious telling me to slow down and take care of me. It's not my fault, but I can do some things to help myself.

With those ideas in my head (and in writing) I can enjoy lots of things and people and food this holiday season, hopefully release some those expectations, and just be in the moments to come. 


linking up with Just Write

Just Write

I've been thinking about writing a lot more lately. Between 31 Days of Writing and NaNoWriMo, the idea of writing, being a writer, has been more concrete in my head.

Last night as Alan and I were re-watching Finding Forrester, I was caught by these words:

Why is it the words we write for ourselves are so much

better that the words we write for others.

Followed immediately by this:

No thinking - that comes later. You must write your first draft with your heart. You rewrite with your head. The first key to writing is... to write, not to think!

This resonated deeply with me, because it is truth. When I write from my heart and soul, with the editor muted, the truth is so apparent. The struggle to find the word or phrase that expresses just what I want is cut short, because I don't worry about words or phrasing. I speak from my heart.

Writers are frequently damaged people. We write to clarify what is floating around in our heads. We write for ourselves. I write to clear the fog, to see the truth, to find evidence, to convince myself of reality, and to reclaim my self-esteem. I don't know if those are honorable intentions or not, but that's why I write.

“We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospect.”

― Anaïs Nin

linking up with Just Write

Defining Myself

I have had a week of mini-epiphanies.

It started out with this quote:

 Remember that being a survivor is not an identity; it is an experience. An identity we hold onto; an experience we live through. 

-- Talking Trees

A reminder that I am more than my experiences. There is more to me than the fact that I am a survivor of abuse. I had to remind myself that it is okay that my primary identifying marker was "survivor" for awhile, but it's okay to move on from that.

Later in the week I ran across this:

There is the “event” of childhood sexual abuse that involves the actual acts that occurred. Then there is the experience of childhood sexual abuse that involves the before and after effects of the events. Many people “move on” from the event by forgiving their violator, removing themselves from the environment that supported the event, by achieving success that distracts them from the event, by forgetting the events, or simply ignoring the painful event. Healing from the experience, on the other hand, is much more difficult and complex. It requires a great degree of self-awareness; understanding the guilt and shame, changing damaging scripts in our head, paying attention to relationships and allowing the pain to transform into purpose. There are layers and layers of healing from the experience, which is why it is a life-long journey. It is too long of a journey to go alone. So let’s go together.

-- Talking Trees

A wonderful explanation of of the complexity of the healing process. A reminder that it's okay for it to take as long as it takes, as long as I am moving forward.

I've had a lot of quiet down time this week as I've been fighting a cold. Lots of solitude and little energy has meant sitting and thinking because I'm too tired to do anything. At first it was annoying, but then I began to realize that this illness was providing me with an opportunity I've been needing. Time to think about how far I've come. Where I am now. And what I want in the future. That it's okay to think about life that way -- what I want. It doesn't make me selfish. It makes me self aware.

Then this morning, this little gem:

If we stop trying to improve ourselves and start trying to delight ourselves, we get further as artists.
-- Julia Cameron

Well that pretty much says it all doesn't it? I've moved to a point I can see myself as an artist, and I'm tired of trying to improve. Ready to start delighting. 

This just might change everything.

linking up with Just Write

Weight and Self Worth

I see myself differently everyday. Sometimes every hour. It often depends on who I am with or if I'm all alone.

I have the best opinion of myself when I'm with my long term friends. These are the people who have known me for years and years. Through good and bad and worst. They have known me at every weight and age (at least since I was 15), and they have chosen to remain with me. And I have no idea why.

I've been trying to untangle some relationship knots of late. Like most people I prefer to think that my problems are someone else's fault, but I'm pretty good at taking ownership for things that aren't my fault as well. 

Sometimes I think I work so hard at being honest, that I lose sight of feelings. I work so hard to be sure that I'm not being too easy on myself or being unfair to other people, that I forget to take into account my feelings about things. 

This is all very vague. Let's get down to specifics. I am a 52 year old woman. I am a survivor of childhood sexual abuse and 2 rapes as an adult. I'm 5'2" (on a good day) and I weigh . . . well a lot more than I should according to all the charts that are out there and a lot more than I did over 30 years ago when I met my husband.

I come from a family of overweight, sedentary people. I married a man who is active all the time, and his mother was a swimsuit model. Seriously. 

I've embraced activities over the years. Hiking, swimming, yoga, biking, even scuba diving. Most of them I enjoy quite a bit.

I love to cook, and the older I get the more I love sweets. I've trained myself to stop and think about why I am eating things -- am I hungry? Am I bored? Am I tired? Am I stressed? And I try to eat for the "right" reasons. 

I love sweets and salty carbs. I am working on adding more fruit and vegetables to my snacking menu, and protein too. It's difficult when the rules of healthy eating seem to change everyday. I grew up on "eat what's put in front of you" Southern cooking. I've been down the fat free road, the low carb trek, the high protein approach, Weight Watchers, LA Weight Loss. You name it and I've probably tried it.

I've exercised regularly at times, and sporadically, and not at all. 

I suffer from depression and anxiety. '

And yet the Nike ad runs through my head -- Just do it!

I have good intentions. I make plans. I start and stay with it for a while, but then I get an injury or my allergies and asthma act up as the pollen increases. I get depressed. I feel that I'm never good enough and I'm never going to lose the weight, and if I don't lose the weight then I can't really live.

And the truth is I just want off this merry-go-round. I want to be content with what I look like and accept myself for who I am, but that's hard when the media and people around me tell me I need to change . . . constantly.

So how do you do it? How do you figure out what you really want and do it for yourself? That's the questions I'm asking. And it's not rhetorical.

Therapy and Haircuts

Tuesdays are therapy day. I see my counselor once a week as we continue unwinding my history. It's a good news, bad news scenario. I'd like to say I always feel better after that meeting, but of course I don't. Like yesterday, I thought we were going to talk about one thing, but in the middle of it things shifted to something different. Something I've never talked about much with anyone, because I'm ashamed of how strongly I feel about it.

I've been pregnant twice and given birth to 2 beautiful, healthy children. They are all grown-up now at 24 and 21. I used to joke that I'm bad at pregnancy, but at least I make great kids. 

The reality is there is some really deep pain with those difficult pregnancies. I felt like a failure because here was the most natural thing in the world -- bringing new life into the world -- it's what my body was made for -- and yet, I struggled with it both times. So much so that my ob/gyn practically begged me to never get pregnant again after my son was born. 

I spent a lot of my life feeling like a failure. An outsider. The one who didn't get the instruction manual. Now, at 52, I understand that much of that feeling was the result of the abuse I suffered as a child. But it's also from the resulting relationships I built after missing out on some basic sequential development. Abuse stunts development. Survivors go on growing physically, and we do a really good job of masking and pretending we're just like everyone else, but there's significant damage that's been done, and left alone it festers and grows. 

Yesterday I opened up another chapter to look at and understand pain and loss. It caught me off guard, and I sat sobbing trying to explain between gasps that while I felt better about what we had been talking about to begin with, a whole new area of pain had opened up in the process. My therapist looked at me and let me explain. She sat back and listened and we regrouped. Made some new plans and she gave me homework. 

I left her office still trying to calm the tears, but I didn't really try to hide it and I didn't internally run from the feelings. Instead I sat in my car and thought about what had happened and what I needed now. I took care of myself and made a plan.

Later in the day I had a hair appointment. I'm blessed with a stylist who is smart and caring, and for good or ill a survivor herself. It's another mixed bag having a hair appointment on therapy day. I had another round of discussions with her. Mostly about different things, but still intense. And here's the thing -- it was good. I got a clear cut reminder that I'm not alone in my fear and insecurities. We laughed about scheduling hair appointments for any other day in the future, but it might have been a blessing yesterday.

So today I'm feeling a bit wrung out and I didn't sleep well, but I still feel better. I took something out and looked at it. I'm not carrying it by myself anymore and that is always a good thing.



linking up with Just Write

Barns, Wire, and Healing

It happened again last night. We were watching an old episode of "The Mentalist". It's one of my favorite programs. I am drawn to damaged heroes, go figure.

Jane and Cho are in a sub-basement where 3 skeletons have been discovered. They are investigating and I am intrigued with where the story will go. Jane points out wire wrapped around one of the victim's wrist. And that's when it starts. He wants outside and so do I. 

I look at Alan, but he hasn't noticed. I begin to slow my breathing. I'm relieved as they show Jane walk up the stairs and out into the sunlight. He inhales deeply, raising his arms to the sun. The camera pans back to show he's come out of a barn with the Red John symbol painted on it. But I am stuck on that barn. Looking out over a field. And the realization, just before Jane has it, that he only thinks he's safe there in the sunlight.

I've been in a barn with wire twisted around my wrist to hold me still. I've been desperate to escape the barn and flee into the sunlight, believing I will be safe there. It was all just a bit too familiar.

I kept breathing and reminding myself that, yes, there were lots of reminders here, but I want to watch these characters, and death was not my fate that day. I become intrigued again in the show, but I also start playing solitaire on my phone -- a basic escape, coping mechanism for me. I realize I'm following the episode, but not. And I accept that I may have to watch it again later, but I'll skip the scene in the barn, much the way my son always skips the opening scenes in "Disturbia" so he' doesn't have to see them again. To be wounded by them again. 

And I realize I'm am learning to cope with this history of mine. I'm controlling it much more than it is controlling me. Maybe that's what they meant by healing all those years ago. 


linking up with Just Write

Just Write

Just write the prompt says.

That's how I process most things. I write it out until I feel better, or understand better, or see more clearly.

But sometimes . . . sometimes writing doesn't come. I avoid writing about the hard stuff, because maybe no one else will think it's hard. Maybe someone will laugh at me. Maybe no one will understand.

Last week was that way. It's not that I didn't have anything to write about, I just didn't know how to say it and feel safe. 

I write about a lot of difficult things in this space. I write about a lot of good things here as well. I'm pretty open (some might say ridiculously so), but even I have limits. For me it's usually about collateral damage. I can say whatever I want to about myself. I can say whatever I want to about the abusers because I don't name names. What I can't (won't) do is talk about people currently in my life and the tough stuff that happens with them sometimes, even if it's tied up in healing from abuse. 

Last week was one of those weeks when the tough stuff with the people I love the most was all I could think about, and little or no processing seemed to be happening. The truth is processing was going on, it was just really difficult. I am an extremist. People are good or bad -- there is no continuum. There are only absolutes. I recognize that's something I need to work on, and I am, but it still gets in the way sometimes. 

When someone I love and trust does something that hurts, and I can't make it understood why it hurts, I fall back into old routines and patterns. Extremes. That's a bad place to be. 

So last week was a quiet week, and maybe that's okay. Maybe I don't have to share every single struggle in this space. That's another issue for me -- does incomplete disclosure equal lying? I know the answer, but sometimes (when things are tough) I fall back into old beliefs. We all do. The key is to face those thoughts and beliefs head on with facts, truth, and evidence. Challenge those patterns.

I've done some challenging over the past couple of days. Verbally. With trusted confidantes. And I'm feeling a bit less extreme, and more centered. 

So I sit down at my computer and just write.


linking up with Just Write

The Woman at the Well

She said close yours eyes. Imagine you are the woman at the well (John 4:4-26) and watch the story play out as if it is a movie in your head. You are the woman. Tell me how you interact with Jesus.

I sat with my eyes closed. I saw the dusty ground and the stone-stacked well. There is a bucket sitting on the edge of the well, and I am carrying a jug to fill. 

She asks me to describe what I see. What I am wearing. What I am feeling. I tell her that I am walking down the road from the town toward the well. I am alone, but I can hear the town noises behind me. As I come closer to the well, I see Jesus standing near the well. I do not know who he is, but I do not feel threatened by his presence.

I walk up to the well. I am standing holding my jug in front of me. Jesus walks up to the other side of the well and sits on edge. We begin to talk. He is kind and generous. I listen to every word he has to say. He assures me of my value and worth in his eyes. I believe his words and am comforted. 

When the time comes for us to part, it is not painful or difficult because I know we will meet again, often, to talk and share. Even when he is physically absent, I can find him through scripture and prayer.

She asks me to open my eyes. She tells me that it is a good thing that I am comfortable being that close to Him. Many cannot be in His presence. I am comforted and soothed by her words.

I leave to go and continue my exploration of my life with Jesus.


linking up with Just Write

A Circle of Women

It's been a tough few days. My friend, Robyn, died, and there was visitation and the funeral to deal with. For years I've said that the funeral isn't for the deceased but rather for those left behind to deal and cope with the loss. An introduction to the new normal, if you will.

I hadn't seen Robyn in at least 4 years. Which means I hadn't seen a lot of our mutual friends in a similar amount of time. The upside (if it's fair to call it that) was the opportunity to reconnect with those people. To be reminded of what had made us friends in the first place, and to promise to do a better job of staying in touch.

It was lovely to be in that group again. We sat together at the funeral. We cried. We laughed. We even snarked a bit. But that is who we are.

Afterwards we went out for a farewell drink and meal in Robyn's memory. And once again we broke the mold on the librarian stereotype. When the waitress greeted us with "Are you having a good day?" we all looked around at each, and then laughed and said we'd just come from a funeral. Kudos to the waitress for taking it in stride. She brought us water and chips and salsa while we perused the menu. Drink orders were placed (2 for 1 on most drinks, but she couldn't get us to take her up on most of them) and then food orders. We talked. We laughed. We toasted Robyn. We told stories about her, and remembered her in our own fond ways. 

And then we played catch-up with each other. I'm not the only one who doesn't work with those ladies anymore. There were kid and grandkid updates. Marriage updates. A bit of gossip here and there. And I was reminded again of what a boon a circle of women can be to a battered soul and spirit. 

After a couple of hours, we scattered our separate ways, not recovered from the loss, but lifted up by the companionship and the realization that life goes on. None of us will forget the impact Robyn had on this group. Instead we will raise a glass to her at every opportunity we have to share with each other in the future. Because that's what real friendships are all about.

linking up with Just Write

Assumptions and Love

Words are important to me. 

Clearly I process much of my information and thoughts by writing about them. Recently I've been working on recognizing the importance of the words "I love you". I've found myself in a dilemma. I was raised in house where those words were rarely uttered. I don't know why. We loved each other, but we just didn't say those words, so I grew up craving them.

My husband was brought up in an environment where his mother loved everyone! She was effusive, perhaps to the point that the words became meaningless. So he grew up wondering what exactly those words meant.

Over the years we've had countless conversations about that phrase. He is analytical. I am emotional. Sometimes this can create a distance between us -- a moat. I need to hear those words AND see them backed up with actions. He craves actions over words to express love. 

It's an interesting balance to work on. My need to hear those words is based in part on my fear of assumptions. Assumptions can be very dangerous things. I can't just assume that someone who has previously been kind, helpful, and loving will continue in that path. My experiences have taught me that people can change on a dime. 

With nearly 29 years of marriage together we still traverse this emotional mind field. But I'm choosing to have faith in those 29 years and all the ways he shows his love. This is a safe assumption. He loves me whether he says as often as I'd like or not.





linking up with Just Write

In which I find a new mantra . . .

I said it again yesterday. "He makes me feel . . . " And I was reminded that no one can make me feel anything without my permission. I give someone power over me by not recognizing and validating my own feelings and beliefs. 

It's been a very difficult lesson for me to learn. I'm still constantly working on it, and it's hard not to criticize myself for the continuing struggle. After I said it yesterday, I looked at my therapist and said, "I said something wrong, didn't I?" I could tell from the look on her face, but I had no idea what I'd done. She was quick to reframe it not as my having done something wrong, but rather as an opportunity to see things from a different perspective.

Needing someone else to validate my feelings and beliefs has been one of the toughest aspects of healing from childhood sexual abuse. Trust is broken and often lost as the result of abuse -- not surprisingly. But one of the things I'd never realized until I began to work through it myself, is that trust in self is one of the primary losses. It's obvious to me that victims/survivors would lose trust in the abuser, and maybe in people in general. That makes perfect sense. I couldn't trust people who had previously been trusted because now they had become abusers. It made me wary of other people. Strangers for sure, but even people I already knew, because I couldn't be certain they wouldn't turn on me as well.

Perhaps the greatest loss, though, is trust in myself. Abuse made me question everything I thought and felt, and a lot of what I believed. Retraining myself to trust me has been so difficult, especially when there were times that other people couldn't understand my feelings. Just because someone else doesn't "get it", doesn't invalidate my feelings. (A new mantra for me).

So I'm working on trusting myself more each day. Taking my feelings out for a test drive, as it were. Asking myself why I feel certain things without needing (as much) for someone else to validate those feelings.

It's a bit scary, but like everything else on this path, I'm trusting it's worth it.


linking up with Just Write

Risks

I wrote a post on Monday about a flashback I had over the weekend, and here is what has fascinated me about it. As always, it helped put some things in perspective. Just getting the words out in a coherent pattern. Processing by typing. Friends who read the post via Facebook have been incredibly supportive, and no one has told me I did anything wrong by sharing so openly (my expectation every time I write specifically about the abuse). The post had more hits in a single day than any other I have ever written -- but not one single comment on the blog itself. 

I wonder why that is. Who are those people reading about my trauma? Are they other survivors contemplating their own stories? Are they people who had no idea things like that happened in "nice" families? Are they just people with a prurient interest? I don't know. And the likelihood is I will never know for sure.

But all that wondering brings me back to something I've been thinking about a lot lately. Connections. I crave connections and yet am terrified -- even repelled at times -- by the thought of putting myself out there to connect with other people. Because real, true connections require risks. The risk of being real in another's presence knowing that they may not reciprocate with their own "realness". 

When I started on this path of healing one of the things I feared was that by sharing my story I would somehow be giving other people ammunition to use against me. That my history would be used to prove my invalidity. I was terrified of having the tables turned on me and rugs pulled out from beneath my feet. And yes, it has happened a few times. But so many more times I have received validation and acceptance beyond my ability to comprehend. By risking being real I have given others the opportunity to be real in return and I have received so much more than I have risked. 

I am going to keep risking -- by telling my story, by being honest about my wants and needs, by being kind -- because the potential connections are worth it.

linking up with Just Write and Imperfect Prose

I am just a vessel

I've been talking with someone lately. Helping out a man I've known for years and years. An acquaintance of sorts. He knows a bit of my history, but we've never discussed it. Honestly I figured he'd just think I was nuts, so why go there. 

Recently he's been going through some stuff himself, and I've had the opportunity to help out a few times. Nothing major or big -- just happened to be the one available to help him take care of some things. And he's begun to talk with me. Prefacing comments with, "I've never told anyone this before" and then sharing what to him feels like a deep dark secret.

And I hear myself in his words. The stress and anxiety. The fear of disaster. Not feeling "good enough", and the fear of his feelings being misconstrued.

At first I wanted to fix it for him. Offer him solutions. "This is what I've been through and how I handled it" platitudes. But a voice in my head (Spirit?) told me just to listen. Nothing I could say would be as helpful (powerful) as the listening. I interjected a few times to point out that he's not crazy. I know, because he sounds like I used to sound, and they told me I wasn't crazy.

I have found myself wishing he'd just listen. Why can't he see the flaw in his thought processes? And yes, I see the irony in that. How many people have done and are still doing that for me?

So I'm reminded once again that I am just a vessel. A traveler on a journey that is not really about me, but is more about how God is using me. How the best things happen when I let go of the reins and let Him lead me.

linking up with Imperfect Prose and Just Write

Convertibles and iPods

I drive a Fiat 500c (convertible). It is the most freeing and fun car I have ever owned. 

Recently I reorganized the music on my iPod and I've been tooling around town listening to my incredibly eclectic blend of music. I have everything mixed up together on it -- David Bowie, LeeAnn Rimes, Mama Mia, K-Pax, Bill Withers, blink 182, Melissa Manchester, Johnny Mathis -- anyway you get the idea.

Tuesday was perfect convertible weather -- sunny and 74 with a lovely breeze. I found myself smiling while tooling around on errands. Singing at the top of my lungs along with Pink and Christina Aguilera.

I used to provide a soundtrack for my life. Singing and listening to music were part of everyday. Over time those have diminished. I'm not sure why. Maybe it's just another one of those self-care things that got lost in the shuffle.

For some reason the convertible brings back that need for a soundtrack. Maybe it's the wind blowing through my hair, or the realization that no one can hear me singing -- not even me. So if I miss a note there's no one to care. Whatever the reason, I know that few things make me as happy as riding around town with the top down. My wild and crazy hair going everywhere, and music playing a top volume.

There are worse ways to spend my time.


linking up with Just Write

Blue Ribbons and SAAM

April is Sexual Assault Awareness Month (SAAM) as well as Child Abuse Awareness Month. Each year since my diagnosis of PTSD and the realization that all that pain in my childhood was actually abuse, I put on a blue ribbon to wear all month. I change my profile on Facebook to a blue ribbon and my cover picture to this --

I do it with a lot less panic and stress than it used to cause me. Acknowledging publicly my history, my experiences. A defining part of who I am. Yet I always remember the beginning. The first time I put on the blue ribbon. The stress of walking around wondering what would happen just because of that ribbon pinned to my shirt.

And by now it's become my tradition to repost this -- the first time I talked about it here. 

Put on a blue or teal ribbon if you are willing, but for sure It's Time . . . To Talk About It!

* * * * * *

every april I pull out my blue ribbon and pin it on my shirt. 
the first time I did it, I worried about what people would think/say.
I worried they would ask what it meant.
I worried they wouldn't ask what it meant.
I worried about what I would say.
I worried about what I wouldn't say.
each year that I have worn the blue ribbon it has become a little easier to set aside the worrying -- to expect nothing -- to be happy with a good conversation -- to set aside the discomfort of others.
it hasn't gotten any easier to have them look away though.
yesterday as I was having blood drawn at the doctor's office, the technician said, "what's your pin for?"
"april is child abuse awareness month. I am a survivor."
"oh", startled, she looked away, and I felt it again. the guilt and shame. 
what did she think of me now?
should I have kept my mouth shut?
not worn my blue ribbon?
there was no more conversation and little eye contact. she drew my blood, while I dealt with the pain of the needle in my arm and the accusation in her looking away. I was damaged goods all over again. I was at fault. I was less than.
I read a post this week about seeing people.
all I want is to be seen for who I am. a grown woman who is still 5 years old inside, wishing someone would intercede for me. wishing I didn't feel guilty and ashamed for others' actions.
but every april I pull out my blue ribbon and pin it on my shirt.


linking up with Imperfect Prose and Just Write

Erica Place

Occasionally I drive by the house were it happened. It's not someone's home now. It's a business.

I've walked around the outside of it, acknowledging the changes and additions. In some ways it looks nothing like the house I lived in from the time I was 2 until I was 7. I don't get physically ill when I see it anymore. My head doesn't spin. Instead there is just a feeling of being slightly off kilter. I look like everything is fine, but in my head I have a little trouble staying in the present. There is a pull to the past, but not a past I want to revisit.

We went to dinner, my husband and I, at a little restaurant one block over from the house. And we talked about whether or not I want to go into the house again. I did, but not alone. 

After dinner we drove by the house. There were lights on. The front door was open. I could see people inside. I pulled into the parking lot (what would have been my front yard and gravel driveway). My husband looked at me and I nodded. He was out of the car and up the stoop before I had killed the engine.

He asks if we can come in. "My wife used to live in this house," he says. They are so warm and welcoming. Come in, come in! Introductions are made. The owner asks me questions about changes. Does the house look different? Was this part of the house when I lived here?

I am still wavering between past and present in my head. Getting my bearings. It is different and the same at one time. The living room is now a reception/office area. Doorways have been moved or enlarged. The garage is another room now. Additions have been added to accommodate the business. 

I look around and see it as it is now, but with an overlay of how it was then. The door used to be there. The couch went under those windows. The TV sat in that corner. The wingback chair there. The step down into what had been the dining room. 

The hallway, bedrooms, bathroom, and kitchen the same but different. Memories both good and bad flooding over me. 

I ask if the study is still there. It had been my father's with floor to ceiling bookcases and knotty pine walls. He says yes, but the pine's been painted over. We head to the back of the house. The door to what had been the patio and backyard. Where I sat with my sister the day Martin Luther King was killed, wondering if we were safe.

I turn and there it is. The same but not. The step down. The tiny hall/entry, and I pause. Just like I do in my memory before walking into that space. My stomach flips and my heart rises into my throat. That room. Why would I choose to go back into that room? 

My husband asks if I'm okay. I nod. The gentleman are talking and asking questions. Your father was a professor? What did he teach? American literature, I answer. Well, I have done some good writing in this room. Must be a good vibe here. I smile and nod, but he's wrong there is not a good vibe here.

I am standing by the French doors. The ones she kept watch through. There is the fireplace. The corner windows too high for anyone to see in. 

The room is creamy and warmly lit now, but it used to glow in a haze of reddish orange because of the pine and the curtains on the doors and window. Early American prints in orange and red and gold. Late afternoon sunlight filtering through as he molested me.

My heart is pounding. But other things are happening as well. The room is smaller than I remember. It is a lovely room now. Welcoming and inviting. Warm lamps and a leather sofa. A TV mounted about the fireplace. If I can remove that overlay, I can see that this is a nice place to rest and relax.

I ask if may open the French doors. It's a breezeway now. It used to open onto the patio and the backyard where my swing set waited. The yard is covered now with building additions. My sanctuary smelling of honeysuckle is gone.

We say polite things. Tell them how much we appreciate this opportunity. The owner tells me to stop by anytime. And I wonder if I will go there again.

Those rooms have been frozen in time in my head. The study is always filled with a glow, but now the room has an overlay. Office space. Smiling people. Cream walls and warm light. Perhaps, in time, the overlay will replace the past with an invitation to rest.


You may read more about the house and the study here, here, here, and here

linking up with imperfect prose and just write

Guilt Fast

I've been contemplating Lent for the past several weeks. I've mentioned before that I wasn't brought up in a tradition that observed the religious calendar, and this year found me wondering about the benefit of trying to give something up for Lent. I didn't want it to be just another requirement to be marked off my to-do list. I wanted something meaningful and helpful -- something that would help me focus on God. I did a Google search of Lent ideas and found a few that appealed to me, but one stood out mostly because it made me uncomfortable. What made me uncomfortable was it seemed too focused on me instead of God. I pondered on it for a while and yesterday asked a couple of people their opinion. Both of them responded immediately that this was a really good one for me in particular.

fast from feeling guilty and angry at yourself for things you have done wrong, instead remember God’s great love for you 

That's what I found. It's something I struggle with daily, as well as feeling guilty for what was done to me. I have spent a lot of time trying to reframe my understanding of my own guilt and responsibility for my behaviors, and trying to realize I cannot be guilty or responsible for another's actions. But to make that what Lent will be about for me this year? I don't know. I want to, but I'm worried about what others might think.

And that's when I realized it. It doesn't matter what anyone else thinks. This is between God and me. I feel led to this by Him, and that is all the reason I need.

My counselor asked me to add a proviso to it because I tend to beat myself for failing at things. So I've added this line --

recognize that trying to fast from these feelings is a success even if I have trouble on any given day

I admit I'm a bit nervous still about this one. It still feels self-centered to me, but I'm working on it. I'm going to spend time searching for scriptures on God's love for me.

My Lenten season will be about resting in God's love. That seems a sound way to invite Easter into my life.

Blessings.

linking up with Imperfect Prose and Just Write