Trust and Healing [day 9]

Trust is a big word for survivors of child sexual abuse and trauma in general.

Somewhere along the way our trust was shattered and we have a difficult time figuring out how to regain it.

I left on Thursday to fly to a spa in Austin, Texas. I'm spending a week on my own getting some rest, relaxation, good food, pampering, and reassessing my approach to physical activity.

I can still remember the first time I travelled on my own after being diagnosed with PTSD. I was so proud of myself when I managed to take a train from Rye, NY into the city and visit a few sites in NYC. I also remember thinking how silly it was for me to be that proud of myself.

Yesterday a lot of those feelings came back as I travelled from Nashville to Austin, found the transportation to the spa, and handled all the tipping and checking in for myself. I realize that for some of you this won't sound like much, and for others it will seem remarkable. And therein lies the issue. For years, I just assumed that no one worried about things kinds of things but me. I believed there was something inherently wrong with me that I was afraid to trust myself to handle these kinds of situations. That I worried I'd make a fool of myself. That one of those strangers I'd have to deal with would take advantage of me.

So far this trip has been lovely, not completely trouble free, but still wonderful. Maybe one of the best things so far are the notes that are left on my bed at turn down time.

Good reminders that I may not be doing everything perfectly, but that's okay!



This is day 9 in Write 31 Days

Travel and Healing [day 7]

I didn't grow up doing much in the way of travel. My husband, on the other hand, travelled quite a bit. 

He loves to have a trip to look forward to, and even enjoys the process of planning the itinerary.

This year we celebrated our 30th wedding anniversary, but we couldn't seem to get excited about the same kind of trip to celebrate. So . . . I leave tomorrow to spend a week at a beautiful spa in Texas all by myself!

Let me be clear, my husband offered this trip to me. I would NEVER have come up with this on my own. I am very grateful for this gift and looking forward to it in a big way.

It took me a long time to embrace the travelling vibe, and I still don't crave it or have the energy for it that my husband does. I have learned to navigate flights and airport to hotel transportation on my own. It's something I'm proud of accomplishing. As an introvert, I like the idea of visiting places and getting to set the schedule to please me and having a room all to myself. The downside for the introvert and travel is all of those strangers I have to interact with, but that's probably good for me.

I'll do my best to keep posting (hopefully without making anyone TOO jealous!) while I'm out of town. In the meantime, I hope to have some time to catch up on all the reading I'm behind on. 

Travel is a good method of healing. Yes, it can be expensive, but it doesn't have to be. A change of scenery gives me the opportunity to walk away from the stress and daily struggle for a bit. I can be someone anonymous or someone completely different. I highly recommend it if you have the means.

This is day 7 in Write 31 Days

Creativity and Healing [day 6]

Yesterday I wrote about relationships and healing. I want to clarify one thing before going on to today's post. I was not hurt or disappointed by what happened in my small group. It is the nature of life that sometimes moments get interrupted. I did not feel snubbed or judged. I never intended for the post to be negative, but rather to show how difficult it still is to share my history. 

*****

I never considered myself a creative person, and yet I have found so much healing by allowing myself to create. 

It started with coloring. I needed something to do that occupied my mind, was restful, but required little thought. I loved the idea of sketching, but I can barely draw a recognizable stick figure. I kept reading about art therapy and how so many survivors were helped my drawing their feelings. I did a few exercises, but was never happy with the results (I'm a bit of a perfectionist). 

I don't know who first suggested coloring, but I think it was my husband. I played around with it a bit, testing to see what kind of coloring books relaxed me. I tried crayons and markers, but I found that colored pencils were the most soothing. I got a fairy coloring book (I have an affinity for fairies) and began to take it with me anywhere I had to wait. At the time I was getting allergy shots, and the process had become extremely triggering for me. Walking into the office knowing I was going to let them hurt me, even though it was for my own good, was a tough pill to swallow. 

One day after getting my shots, I was waiting the required 30 minutes and using the time to color. Another lady in the waiting room complimented my picture. She asked if I was a school teacher. I realized I was going to have to tell her something. Another thing you need to know about me, I'm pathologically honest. Especially early on in my recovery I didn't know how to do evasive without it feeling as if I were lying. So I told her it was part of my therapy. I did it to relax in stressful situations. As I sat there waiting for her to mock me, I was surprised to hear her say what a good idea that was. She'd never thought of that before. She had loved coloring as a child and wasn't sure why she'd given it up. Maybe she'd get a coloring book for herself.

I was stunned! That certainly hadn't gone the way I expected.

Now I'm amused by all of the "adult" coloring books that are available. Don't get me wrong, I think it's fabulous. It's just funny to me that nearly 15 years after coloring helped to save my life, everyone's on the bandwagon. Maybe I'm a trendsetter!

This is day 6 in Write 31 Days

Relationships and Healing [day 5]

Nothing has impacted my healing as much as relationships with other people. 

Last night I was reminded of this all over again.

My husband and I were at our small group dinner. There were fewer of us than usual, with several of our members out of town. We sat around eating soup, chips, avocado, and watermelon, and talking about church and life. After dessert (a pumpkin bundt cake -- I'll share the recipe later!), we moved into the sitting room to continue talking.

I'm not sure how it happened, but people began sharing a bit of their histories and life stories. I listened as people told about their children and then the stories would segue to family of origin. One thing led to another and I was sharing my history. Not all the gory details but more than my standard quick and dirty version. I was crocheting as I talked and I never looked up from my work (a typical avoidance technique I use). There were a few comments, but mostly what I felt was stunned silence. 

Our conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the host's daughter, so I never really found out what anyone thought or felt about my revelations. The group dispersed and I found myself walking to the car in a daze, knotting my hands in my purse strap. Sitting in the car, my husband expressed concern that I would begin to doubt myself. We talked a bit about what had just happened. I tried to quell the rising anxiety that always comes with revealing my past to new people. 

Other people had shared difficult pasts as well, and I knew I felt no differently about them. I knew I was glad that our group had moved into a deeper level of knowing one another, but it was difficult to quiet the old tapes in my head -- the ones that tell me I won't be believed; that I'll be shunned; that the world will come crashing down.

At home, I moved into my standard coping and relaxing mechanisms, worrying than I wouldn't be able to sleep. But sleep came fairly easily with only 1 or 2 bad dreams. 

Healing is a constant, on-going process. Building and maintaining relationships are part of the path. 

I guess I placed another stone last night.



This is day 5 in Write 31 Days

Books and Healing [day 4]

I am a librarian by profession, so books have always been my first line of defense. When I was diagnosed I went looking for books to verify the diagnosis and help me understand what it really meant. I also love to read fiction and was surprised at how certain novels impacted my recovery. Spirituality became difficult and yet incredibly necessary, and so I looked for books to help me reconnect with God in a more authentic manner. The following are just some of the titles I've found helpful.

Allen, Jon G. Coping With Trauma: A Guide to Self-Understanding. Washington, D.C.: American Psychiatric Press, c1995.

Benson, Robert. A Good Life: Benedict's Guide to Everyday Joy. Brewster, MA: Paraclete Press, c2004. (out of print)

Claiborne Shane, et al. Common Prayer: A Liturgy for Ordinary Radicals. Grand Rapids, MI: Zondervan, c2010.

Engel, Beverly. The Right to Innocence: Healing the Trauma of Childhood Sexual Abuse. New York: Ivy Books, c1989.

Evans, Rachel Held. A Year of Biblical Womanhood. Nashville: Thomas Nelson, c2012.

Godden, Rumer. In This House of Brede. Chicago: Loyola Press, 2005.

Herman, Judith. Trauma and Recovery: The Aftermath of Violence – From Domestic Abuse to Political Terror. New York: Perseus Books, c1997.

Lucado, Max. God Thinks You're Wonderful! Nashville, TN: Thomas Nelson, c2003.

Martel, Yann. Life of Pi: A Novel. New York: Harcourt Inc., c2001.

Meyers, Robert R. Morning Sun on a White Piano: Simple Pleasures and the Sacramental Life. New York: Galilee Book, c1998.

O'Connor, Flannery. A Prayer Journal. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, c2013.

Palacio, R.J. Wonder. New York: Alfred J. Knopf, c2012.

Peterson, Margaret Kim. Keeping House: The Litany of Everyday Life. San Francisco, CA: Jossey-Bass, c2007.

This is day 4 in Write 31 Days

31 Days of Healing

It's October 1st. The first day of Write31Days. I spent half the day yesterday trying to create a "button". I really don't know what my theme is. I don't have a plan or cute graphics. 

This is the way I write.

Last night I asked my husband what my theme should be, and he quickly responded "Healing". I told him I'd been thinking about spirituality and what my path had looked like, but I liked his idea of incorporating all the paths to healing -- emotional, physical, creative, spiritual, relational.

So that's my goal this month.

Those of you who have read me before know that goals are not my strong suit, so I'll be giving myself A LOT of grace on this one. I will try to write something every day, but I won't beat me up on the days I don't succeed.

For those of you who've never been here before, I'll give you the quick and dirty version of my history. I was diagnosed 15 years ago with chronic PTSD as the result of childhood sexual abuse and 2 rapes as an adult. It's been a long road, and this blog has helped immensely in my healing. (If you'd like to know more of the story, click My Story at the top of the page.)

So that's my first day. We shall see where the path leads. I hope you'll travel with me.

Blessings!

Write 31 Days

Day 1 -- Introduction

Day 2 -- Family (FMF)

Day 3 -- Beading and Healing 

Day 4 -- Books and Healing

Day 5 -- Relationships and Healing

Day 6 -- Creativity and Healing

Day 7 -- Travel and Healing

Day 8 -- (travel day)

Day 9 -- Trust and Healing

Day 10 -- Crochet and Healing 

Day 11 -- 

Day 12 --

Day 13 --

Day 14 --

Day 15 --

Day 16 --

Day 17 --

Day 18 --

Day 19 --

Day 20 --

Day 21 --

Day 22 --

Day 23 --

Day 24 --

Day 25 --

Day 26 --

Day 27 --

Day 28 --

Day 29 --

Day 30 --

Day 31 --

Reframing Honesty

What's the difference between dishonesty and full disclosure?

No, no. I'm really asking.

I had this conversation yesterday. It started out simply enough. I commented that I felt dishonest at times because I don't always share all my feelings. I keep certain things back, even from my husband. I present things carefully so as to keep from getting hurt. Or hurting the other person.

Is it dishonest not to share everything? Or is that just making a personal choice? 

I learned this lesson early on in my life. Limit what you share, because it can be used against you. For humiliation or for pain. So I am still reticent to share deepest thoughts and feelings. Trust takes a long time for me to establish, and is easily extinguished. I typically assume I am wrong -- the only one who feels this way or thinks these things. So it is best to keep these feelings and thoughts to myself.

Over time I have found I am not the only one. When I've found the strength to express things I haven't always been shut down. Sometimes there have been others who shared the same feelings and thoughts. Sometimes there have been others who appreciated my perspective as different from theirs yet still valid. 

By keeping so much to myself I allowed my perception to become skewed. I began to think of myself as dishonest in certain areas. I've joked for years about being pathologically honest. So how could I hold two such divergent views of myself simultaneously? I don't know, but I did.

So now I'm working (again) on reframing my view of myself. Honesty is a huge part of my moral make-up, but so is trust. For years I felt I had to choose between the two. Not so anymore, but it's still a hard lesson to embrace.

linking up with Just Write and Imperfect Prose

Drawing Pictures on Walls

Yesterday I went through an experience I've had before. I did a genogram -- much like a family tree but with additional information regarding relationships beyond bloodlines.

Genograms are used in treating medical and psychological complaints, but also as a form of learning more about our personal development. I've talked about genograms before especially as they have impacted my healing. In the past I've had strong responses to helping create them. The first time I did one I developed a pounding migraine that forced me into a dark room with a cold compress on my head as I willed myself not to throw up.

Thankfully yesterday's went more smoothly. 

I didn't know until I got to the office that we'd be doing a genogram. When the counselor informed me of it I was hit with a wave of anxiety. She asked if I'd done one before and I assured her that I had. As she was preparing her workspace I mentioned that under the circumstances I would take some medication to ease my anxiety. She offered to postpone the process, but I really wanted to get it done. So we proceeded with the proviso that I could call it quits at any time.

As she drew the outline and filled in my information I concentrated on breathing deeply and fully, not hunching my shoulders, and answering her questions honestly. I didn't backtrack too much and I don't think I over explained (a common problem). As we progressed she expressed dismay over certain things that came to light. Most of them were things I'm used to eliciting sympathy.

Some of her queries surprised me and caught me a bit off guard. In the past genograms have been "just the facts" experiences, but she kept asking me to describe certain people on the chart. How did I feel about them. I found myself answering as honestly as I could, but still feeling obligated to minimize certain things.  "She wasn't all bad." Or "I'm sure there are lots of good things I just can't remember".

When we had completed the layout, we continued to talk for a bit. The counselor then expressed gratitude for my willingness to share and she went on to say that she felt I was a very strong woman to have survived all of the trauma. I believed her, but there was still that little niggle in the back of head. Not a full out voice, but just a hint that I was undeserving of her comments. She told me she really liked me and would like to give me a hug if I was okay with that. I assured that would be fine as long as she warned me in advance.

Her comments and the hug brought tears to my eyes. Any expression of kindness, especially from someone who has just sat through hearing some or all of my story, tends to have this effect one me.

It took me a few hours and a couple of mugs of herbal tea to get my bearings again, but I think this has the potential to be a good thing. Perhaps a very good thing.

linking up with Just Write and Imperfect Prose

Truth

The truth will set you free . . . but first it will piss you off. 

My therapist told me this years ago. He was trying to help me see the importance of knowing and admitting the truth of my history while warning me it wasn't going to be pleasant.

It was good preparation. I don't know that it's really made me angry (my current therapist is thrilled if I tell her I'm angry about anything!), but it's been a long, circuitous road, this healing path.

Truth is the answer to all of my struggles. Telling myself the truth, the real, honest, gut-wrenching truth, will always make my path clearer and straighter. But it is often an unpleasant truth. About myself, about others, about episodes from my past, and current relationships. 

Jesus is truth (John 14:6). And Jesus is setting me free.

linking up with Five Minute Friday

Yahweh Shalom

warning: triggers

I retrieved my shawl and crochet basket from my room and moved to the screened in porch. 

As I sat with several others in silence, I began to work on the Danish shawl I am making. I thought about the warmth of the bamboo hook and the yarn gliding through my fingers, and I remembered I was raped with a metal crochet hook, and truth be told, that is why I don’t use metal hooks. 

The thought caught me up short. I closed my eyes and turned away from the others. I touched my survivor pendant, and remembered the verse from this morning – Ps 91:14 – 

He loves me. He will deliver me. He will protect me. He will answer my call & bring honor to me. He will show me his salvation. 

I began to breathe Yahweh Shalom. 

Beauty from ashes – the irony of the joy, pleasure, and comfort I feel while crocheting. He has truly redeemed what could have been lost, and made it something beautiful and of value.



linking up with imperfect prose

Breathing

I am a survivor.

It's taken me a long time to be able to say those words without adding an explanation or proviso. 

I am a survivor of childhood sexual abuse and 2 rapes as an adult.

For years I kept it all buried deep, deep down in box covered in detritus and cobwebs. I never tried to make the box pretty, I just covered it up with everything else I could find to do. Anything to keep that box closed and sealed.

Except there was this one memory that kept leaking out. Every time it oozed out I was horrified by it. I knew it was true. Knew it had happened, but I took it all on myself. Yes it was done to me, but I had participated. Clearly I was at fault. Clearly I couldn't tell anyone because then they would know that my whole life was just an act -- a costume to cover up the horribleness that was me.

The year I was 38 something cracked in the box. The lid just wouldn't stay closed anymore. Other things started oozing out and wrecking havoc in my carefully established veneer of a life. It was a million tiny things pressing on the lid, but eventually the lid blew right off. And I was faced with a lot of stuff I had buried so deeply that it felt like an excavation to uncover reality. 

I've been excavating ever since. It's been hard and painful, and life giving and fulfilling. I've lost some things and people a long the way, and I've recognized that some of those things aren't really lost, because I never had them in the first place. 

I've grieved a distorted childhood and vacuous relationships. I've wished for the opportunity to give my children a better childhood, one that didn't involve a mother coming unglued and piecing herself together again.

At 51 I'm still learning the lesson that life is never perfect. Perfect and happily ever after are storybook notions that we've tried to turn into reality. Most days I take everything a day, an hour, or a minute at a time. I don't plan too far into the future. I don't think it's negativity. I think it's an acceptance of now. That now is all I have, and life changes on a dime.

Would I trade in my history for a different one? Probably not. Am I glad I went through what happened? Definitely not. But the net is this, everything we experience, whether good, bad, or neutral, informs who we are. And how we handle and address joy and adversity teach us about ourselves and the world around us. 

I'm not perfect, but I've learned I wasn't meant to be perfect. So I'm taking perfect off the to-do list, and learning to live with being just me. Flaws and all. It's not always pretty, but I'm breathing easier.

Blessings.

linking up with nesting place

I Am a Survivor

brave -- having or showing courage
(courage -- mental or moral strength to venture, persevere, and withstand danger, fear, or difficulty)

I was okay with "brave" until I read the definition of "courage". Now I'm not so sure.
Here's the problem: people call me brave. Brave for telling my story; sharing my fear; being transparent. Courage is a whole different story. "Courage is fear that has said it's prayers." I can work with that. I think of the Cowardly Lion in The Wizard of Oz talking about courage, and I relate to him, because he's terrified. But then I read that definition, and I shrink from it. But I'm a librarian and word geek and an authority slut. So I'm stuck. 

Webster's defines brave as courage, and courage as having mental or moral strength to venture, persevere, and withstand danger, fear, or difficulty. So if I'm brave, then I'm courageous. And if I'm courageous then I'm all those things that Webster says, and that just doesn't feel accurate. Because I'm the screw-up, the black sheep, the boat rocker, the troublemaker. Because it's a compliment, those words: persevere and withstand danger -- and compliments don't apply to me.

It's circular reasoning, I know, but I'm still stuck with the feeling or maybe even the belief that anything good can't be true about me. 

So I pull myself out of the equation.

A woman in her late 30's comes to the realization that she was abused repeatedly by numerous people when she was a child. She endured 2 rapes as an adult. She walks into a therapist office terrified and sick, but swears she won't leave until the work is done. Until she's figured it all out (as much as is possible). She carries on as a wife and mother while untangling her ugly, painful, terrifying history. She confronts some of the abusers and those who neglected her and allowed the abusers into her life, and it doesn't go well. But she carries on. Putting one foot in front of the other working so hard to get them to understand. So hard that she makes herself ill from it. And when she can't take their denials anymore, she walks away and realizes she's healthier without them in her life. 

She starts to write and talk and tell, finding that it helps her heal and it helps others as well. She blogs. She journals. She talks to anyone who will listen with an open heart. And she finds support, acceptance, understanding, compassion. She finds her voice and realizes she is proud of herself and all the hard work she has done.

People call her brave and courageous. Open, inspiring, and transparent. 

I read her story and I am impressed. I think she is indeed brave and courageous. And I remind myself that she is me. 

I am a survivor of childhood sexual abuse and 2 rapes as an adult. I have persevered, withstood danger, fear, and difficulty. 

I am brave and courageous because I am a survivor.

linking up with Writer's Workshop and imperfect prose

Misperceptions -- OR -- I Thought I Was Fat

This past weekend my husband turned 50. My daughter posted a bunch of old photos on Facebook in his honor. And then she posted a bunch more because she was having fun. It went on and on all weekend. What a good time we had looking back at those photos -- babies, toddlers, school days, dress up. It was lovely.

But . . . but, for me there was a recurring theme that is still nagging at me. I've thought I was fat most of my life. And now at 51 when I'm heavier than I've ever been, I look back at those pictures and I realize I wasn't fat. And I find myself grieving for the lost time spent worrying about weight and what I looked like. Time that would have been so much better spent enjoying myself, my husband, my kids, my friends, my life.

It's vain and shallow of me that one of the first things I noticed looking back was my size, but truth be told I was stunned. How could I have thought I was fat? 

Blame it on a lot of things -- the media, fear of failing (at anything!), misinterpretations of comments made by others, and abuse. Abuse that made me feel "less than". Abuse that made me question every thought and idea and belief that popped into my head. Abuse that made me want to hide my body, as if that would somehow keep me from being abused again -- a protective shield if you will. Abuse that told me if I felt good about myself I was proud and arrogant, and deserving of the past abuse.

So I'm trying to learn to love myself regardless of what the scales say, and I'm learning to ask questions about my health and weight. Learning to eat and exercise in a way that honors my body. That makes me healthy and strong, regardless of what the scales and the dress sizes say.

I still would love to have that time back, but that's not an option. What I can do is move forward with clearer perceptions. And a lot more self-love.

Peace.

Story

Stories are meant to be grandiose. Full excitement, promise, romance, and happy endings.

Or are they? That might be the definition of a make believe story, but a real story is the story of real life and real people. And most real people don't get a make believe story or life.

My story is messy and vile, at times filled with evil and horror. But it's also beautiful and full of love now.

I was abused repeatedly in horrible ways by a variety of people when I was young. I was raped twice by the same person as an adult. And it's taken me years of therapy and crying and praying to realize that, sadly, I am not alone.

But it's not my fault that my life doesn't read like a Disney fairy tale. And truth be told, I'm glad it doesn't. Fairy tales end once everything is as it should be. But I'd rather live the whole story -- warts and all -- than have my story just be "happily ever after".


linking up with Five Minute Friday

The Light at the End of the Tunnel

She said they'd never believe me.

She said they wouldn't even notice if she killed me.

She said they'd abandon me if I told.

And I believed every word.

Sometimes I still believe the lies. It's hard to let go of lies I've lived with for over 45 years. It's difficult to remember the words of my therapist, husband, and close friends. It's easier to remember her words. Especially when they were reinforced by disbelief and abandonment. 

It's easer to believe the bad stuff if that's what you've been trained to believe. 

And it filters over into everything else. If my husband and I have an argument, unconsciously I believe he will leave me, even though I know he never would. If I speak my feelings I believe that I will be hurt, even though I know that's not rational. 

Abuse that happened a long time ago. And yes it still bothers me. And I hate that question, "Aren't you over that yet?"

So I talk and I write, and I listen to the good stuff, and I really do try to snuff out the bad. Some days are better than others, but some days are worse. And when it's particularly bad, my head feels as if it will explode rather than let reality be revealed. But the revelation brings relief . . . after the pain, and only with help from others. From the compassionate witnesses.

I have my series of mantras:

The truth will set you free.

This too shall pass.

I survived it when it happened, I will survive working through it.

Time heals only those wounds that are shared and understood.

There is no right way to heal.

Healing is a process. Like recovery. Like faith. It has it's ups and downs. It's not a straight line. It's the light at the end of the tunnel. So I keep my eyes on the light.

linking up with imperfect prose

The Slap

I've been letting God redeem my childhood for the past several years. It's been a hard battle, but well worth the struggle.

Yesterday I addressed another episode from my past and I made some headway. The incident occurred a few years after the primary abuser had left my life, and before the last abuser's appearance. 

I was probably 10 or 11 years old, and yet there are aspects of the event that I remember so clearly. The heat on my face following the slap. The effort it took to keep my hand from flying up and slapping her face back. My immediate concern of what other's would think. And that recurring vision of myself as stupid, clumsy, and inept. 

Being slapped is supremely humiliating and demeaning. I wonder sometimes if that's why women use slaps as often as they do. It serves a dual purpose -- causing pain and humiliation simultaneously. With my history being slapped raised all kinds of red flags and triggers. I was shocked and terrified. I had thought I was finished with being the victim. I had thought I was safe at school -- in public. I had thought I had nothing to fear in this current environment. I was wrong. Again.

After the slap, climbing into my mother's car to go home, I felt much the same as I had after much more intense episodes. I was hot and sweating. I felt disconnected and disoriented. I wasn't sure how this had happened, nor did I understand why the attacker was not being reprimanded. What I did know was there was no point in telling. She would deny the slap, and somehow turn it around and make it my fault. It was -- as always -- a no win situation.

Looking back on it now it's easy to see these correlations. To see connections and logical reactions that were not readily available to me at the time. 

And I realize I hold an inordinate amount of anger and hate toward this person. Anger and hate that only hurt me at this point. That's why I'm dragging it all out now, all these years later. It's not about retribution. It's about healing. It's about not letting "them" hurt me anymore. It's about not being their tool to continually inflict pain on me. 

So I'm asking God to lead me. To show me where He wants me to go. And I'm trusting that He'll keep walking with me, redeeming the days.

linking up with imperfect prose

Judgements and Opinions

“Write what disturbs you, what you fear, what you have not been willing to speak about. Be willing to be split open.” – Natalie Goldberg

What do I fear? Judgement.

Not the biblical kind. I have faith in God to handle that one.

No, my fear is of the earthly kind. Other people's judgement of me. What they think of me. Assumptions they make about me based on partial information. 

I know some of this is the result of abuse. Of being told repeatedly how others would view me if the knew "the awful truth". And I know that the abusers were just covering their butts with those comments. Locking in my secrecy to protect their crimes.

But here's the problem, I took it and ran with it. Add to it I was brought up in a pretty conservative religious tradition that preached "judge not" but that went around judging right and left, so I learned a mixed message on that one. 

This is what I've come to understand about myself. I judge myself very harshly. I work very hard to not judge others, but my first reaction is usually intensely judgmental until I stop and think about it. Would I want to be judged that way? Of course not.

So here's the thing -- I'm afraid, even after everything I've shared openly about my history, of what you and everyone else in the world thinks about me and every decision I make. Two things come to mind on this point. Number 1 is a comment a friend made to me years ago that I come back to time and time again -- "Wow, I hope you don't judge others as harshly as you judge yourself". That stopped me in my tracks, because I knew it was "wrong" to judge others, and maybe I should cut myself the same slack that I was usually able to cut others.

Number 2 is that somewhat trite maxim that's floating around -- "It's none of my business what anyone else thinks of me". I have mixed emotions on this one. I was raised to "remember who I am", meaning I am an ambassador for God and family. Any "bad" behavior on my part reflects back on them. But that's the guilt incentive. Don't make others look bad based on my actions. And that's a lot of responsibility to take on -- being held accountable for what other people think about different people based solely on my actions. So the aforementioned maxim may be true, but it's still a tough one for me to apply. 

I'd love to tell you every little detail of my life so that I can "prove" my value as a person. You'll respond well and see everything in the "right" light, and then I'll know that I'm a good person. But it doesn't work that way, does it?

I'm working on recognizing judging as a sin with which I really struggle. But I'm also working on letting go of what others may or may not think. Another's opinion of me doesn't define who I am, but I'm just now learning that lesson, and it's a hard one to accept.

Don't judge me, okay?

Now

In-between two extremes. That's where I'm living right now. 

In-between feeling capable, competent, healed, and feeling sluggish, dull, broken.

The long haul of trudging through the muck and mire of the past is ending, I think. I'm proud of the work I've done.

But (oh that word!) healing isn't looking or feeling like I thought it would. Sometimes. I'm a perfectionist at heart. I want all or nothing. Black or white. I'm not good at intermediates. And healing/recovery is an in-between state. The bad isn't gone and it's not good all the time. The bad slips back in sometimes -- usually when I least expect it -- and I fall back into old patterns of self denigration. 

But here's the thing, this world, this life, is an in-between. This world is not my home, I'm just a-passin' through. So there are no absolutes here; no perfection.

I'm learning to embrace the in-between of now, and not push it away. 

Because it's just a stepping stone toward home.

linking up with Five Minute Friday

Summertime Blues

I read stories like emily's post yesterday and the wonderful responses to it. And then I sit down to write, and the guilt washes over me again. 

I write about the abuse from my childhood. About recovery from that abuse. And the ongoing struggle with chronic PTSD. The voice starts in my head -- "Don't compare your 'problems' with other's real problems" or "That happened a long time ago. You should be over it by now". 

But I'm not over it. Hence the term "chronic". I was asked to describe PTSD --

Walking in darkness; fearing the abyss

Appearing normal, but I am shattering inside

I know God is big enough to handle all the problems, large and small. But I'm feeling like a failure these days. Struggling again with extended family issues. Dealing with wanting to run away and hide. Trying to make myself be kind to be me. Stating the truth about my feelings without denigrating them.

And it all just seems so whiny.

The only way out seems to be to remind myself of how bad it really was. To tell myself what I'd tell anyone else who had my experiences. To cut myself some slack (so much easier said than done!). And to believe that I'm not just making excuses and seeking attention.

Recently someone commented on a post --

My past is kinder than yours, but when I'm overwhelmed and/or tired, I slip into what I call "conspiracy-theory mode" where I think everyone's thinking and talking about and working against and hating me.

and that opening phrase -- my past is kinder than yours -- almost made me cry. Someone else acknowledging that is was a hard past, and it's understandable that it still impacts my day to day life.

So will you stand with me . . . again? Have I worn out my welcome with my neediness? 


linking up with imperfect prose