Redeem

Redeem. It's one of those words that gets thrown about. I've heard it all my life. But it's also one of those "Bible words" -- I'm supposed to know what it means, yet I'm often left floundering for a definition.

So I did what I always do. I click on the dictionary link, and this is what I found --

1 a : to buy back
b : to get or win back
2 : to free from what distresses or harms:
a : to free from captivity by payment of ransom
b : to extricate from or help to overcome something detrimental
c : to release from blame or debt
d : to free from the consequences of sin
3 : to change for the better
4 : repair, restore
5 a : to free from a lien by payment of an amount secured thereby

b (1) : to remove the obligation of by payment  (2) : to exchange for something of value
c : to make good
6 a : to atone for
b (1) : to offset the bad effect of (2) : to make worthwhile

I look at all of those definitions, and they make sense. But I know I'll lose their meaning and depth at the next shockwave.

I look at my life, especially the events from childhood, and I crave the second definition -- to free from what distresses or harms. I want redemption from those horrors. And I know I have redemption from those days, but I don't feel it -- I can't retain it. So I keep trying to understand and piece things back together by myself. Because I felt so alone then. I forget I'm not alone now -- wasn't really alone then.

But I felt alone. There was no way and no one to tell. I knew in my little girl heart, God was there, but in my grownup heart I don't understand why He didn't intervene. I accept that bad is part of this world, and that I'm not the only little kid who suffers/suffered. I don't think I deserve better than someone else. I just don't think any child should suffer that level of pain.

I don't want to hear how I need to be grateful for what I did have, and that I survived. I don't mean to sound petty or selfish. I'm just struggling with a lot of emotions right now, and I'm feeling angry and defensive.

So I open my heart once again. And I think of the prayer of Julian of Norwich:

. . . and all shall be well, and all shall be well

And I remember that I am redeemed even if I don't understand it. That God loves me even when I'm angry and confused and defensive. And there is relief in that.


linking up with imperfect prose on thursdays

Stop Looking at Me Like That

stop looking at me like that . . . 

Sometimes when I tell my story, I want to yell this at people. It's not that they look at me with disbelief (which is what I always expect). It's not that they look at me with pity (although a few do). But rather it's that they look at me with admiration (which I have trouble even typing!). 

I don't feel admirable or courageous. I just feel unsure -- unsure of motives; unsure of their admiration. All I did was keep going. It doesn't feel like a choice.

Yes, I suffered abuse as a child. Really, really bad things were done to me. Yes, I was raped in a college and again later, by the same person. But really what choice did I have but to go on?

I thought about killing myself. But I couldn't see how the guilt of that act wouldn't follow me into the next life. And I couldn't imagine knowing what "people" would say about me afterwards (see I am vain that way). 

I think somewhere in it all, I believed that if I worked hard enough, succeeded in having the perfect life (husband, house, kids, etc.) I would be able to make the abuse disappear. There are a lot of flaws in that approach. The obvious one is you can't make something that happened, not happen. It just doesn't work that way. But the big catch for me was I couldn't create the "perfect" life, no matter how hard I tried. I don't have that kind of power and control.

Maybe that's one of the best lessons from the abuse. I don't have all the power and all the control, because nobody does. 

So next time you see me, don't look at me with admiration or pity. Just look at me.

linking up at Writer's Workshop and imperfect prose on thursday

A Story

I want to tell you story. It's a story about a little girl who survived so very much. But it's also a story about a little girl who is still learning to acknowledge her own survival.

I want to tell the story neatly. In chronological order, with explanations for why each horrible episode occurred. I want to package it in a way that will make you understand her pain and silence and fear. I want you to know that it wasn't her fault. That it is true, and that I am telling it because I have to tell.

But I can't do most of that. 

I can't tell the story neatly, because it's a messy story. It's full of anger and fear and confusion. It's full of really bad people doing really terrible things.

I can't tell it in chronological order because memory doesn't work that way, especially traumatic memory. I think that if I could organize it and get it in order, then I would be able to understand it. But that's a fallacy. Just like I'll never be able to explain why it started, or what triggered each episode of abuse, or what would make anyone do such terrible things to another person, especially to a child.

I can try and explain the pain, silence, and fear, but it's likely you won't fully understand it unless you've been there yourself. And I really hope you haven't.

Another flashback a few weeks ago in the middle of what was supposed to be a relaxing massage. A place on my body touched by the masseuse sent me reeling back to an episode of pain and terror. So much pain and terror that in trying to talk about it later, I found myself recoiling from hands extended to help. I was convinced again that I would die, and so I curled myself in and tried to get away. But it was only the memory of the pain and fear. And yet it was so palpable, so visceral. 

How do I tell that story? Who wants to read that story? Why do I want to tell that story? These are all questions that race through my mind, along with thoughts of worthlessness, and the words of abusers telling me that no one will believe me -- of a family member accusing me of "upping the ante". 

A little girl stands in a barn with one end of a wire wrapped around her wrist. The wire pulls her arm up behind her back, and the other end of the wire is wrapped around her neck. Which is worse -- to have the arm pulled from its socket, or to be strangled? Which is worse -- to endure that torment, or to withstand the sadistic, sexual assault while held in that trap? 

I know I survived it, because I'm sitting here typing these words. I'm glad I survived it. I just don't know how to feel (trust) that anyone out there believes me.

linking up with Write at the Merge and imperfect prose on thursday

imperfect prose on thursday -- the flavors of my childhood

flavor |ˈflāvər|
noun
1 the distinctive quality of a particular food or drink as perceived by the taste buds and the sense of smell.

Memory is triggered by so many things -- sound, sight, smell, and flavor. How many of our memories are enhanced by flavor? My husband always photographs our meals on vacation, and it is remarkable how quickly the memories come back as we relive the food we consumed.

My childhood is alive with flavors. I grew up in the south where food ranks only second to religion. Sundays were defined by flannel boards in Sunday school; my daddy preaching from the pulpit; hymns, and maybe a baptism. But the highlight of the day was food. Were we eating at home? Was there a church covered dish dinner? Were we eating at a church member's home? Or maybe with my grandparents?

The flavors of my childhood are replete with fried chicken, biscuits, buttered corn, and green beans cooked with fatback until they are falling apart amid the swirls of fat. The salty crunch of the fried chicken leg as I bit into. The memory of it can still send me into paroxysms of ecstasy. Fluffy, lard based biscuits slathered with butter and homemade preserves. I could eat my weight in my great grandmother's biscuits.

On my mother's side of the family, it was always thin sliced ham that my great aunt had prepared. And Nana rolls. Tiny little yeast rolls ladened with butter. I think one holiday I ate 18 in one sitting!

Covered dish dinners were a pantheon of options! More fried chicken to be sure, but barbecue and macaroni and cheese (which is a vegetable in the South, thank you very much) as well. Desserts that would make your jaw hurt just to look at them. Chess pie! My favorite. The way the sugar and butter have blended together and been layered into that flaky, light pastry. It was a thing a of beauty as it dissolved into my mouth with hints of every flavor available on my tongue for just a moment before it slid down my throat leaving my mouth begging for more.

It's funny now, but we never went out to eat back then. I know some of it was money, but I think it was more about people and food. The two went hand in hand. I have often heard it said that sharing a meal is the most intimate of experiences. I think of the film Babette's Feast, and the scene in Chocolat where they all gather for Armande's birthday dinner. I think of Christ's last supper with His disciples and the memorial of communion we observe today. 

I had a therapist tell me once that he had clients who could only talk to him if they all ate together. What is it about eating and food and flavor that ties us together?

What I wouldn't give to taste a Nana roll again.

linking up with imperfect prose on thursday

(this post was originally posted on 6/29/12)

Does Joy = the Presence of God

I'm struggling right now. I want to write something uplifting and helpful, but the truth is I'm in need of help myself right now.

I had another flashback last week, in the middle of a massage. I got through it, but it's one more piece of the past to be looked at now. And this week I had a physical (which always brings on stress). I saw a different doctor in the group, and she made me feel badly about some of the medication I take. Finally, I'm struggling in the parent department -- not my parents (although that's almost always a background issue), right now I'm struggling as a parent. My daughter has been un-diagnosed with bipolar II disorder, which is a potentially great thing. But, it's really topsy turvy emotionally around the house right now. There's fear, expectations, anger, disappointment, frustration, depression, anxiety, self-doubt -- and those are just a few of the feelings floating around last night!

I've said it so many times before -- all I want is normal. I know, I know -- normal's just a setting on the washing machine, but I crave it like a junkie craves his next hit.

I'm supposed to be writing about joy, but all I've got coursing through me right now is a lot of fear, anxiety, anger, and doubt. And I've prayed, and I've read my Bible, and I'm stepping forward in faith, but I'm still afraid, and angry, and doubting my every thought and move.

Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, S.J. said, "Joy is the most infallible sign of the presence of God." And if that is true, then I am in a world of trouble right now, because joy is not on my list. 

linking up to imperfect prose on thursday

Believe

I believe in God the Father Almighty,

maker of heaven and earth;

And in Jesus Christ his only Son our Lord:

who was conceived by the Holy Spirit,

born of the Virgin Mary,

suffered under Pontius Pilate,

was crucified, dead, and buried;

the third day he rose from the dead;

he ascended into heaven,

and sitteth at the right hand of God the Father Almighty;

from thence he shall come to judge the quick and the dead.

I believe in the Holy Spirit,

the holy catholic church,

the communion of saints,

the forgiveness of sins,

the resurrection of the body,

and the life everlasting. Amen.

I like The Apostles' Creed. It's a comforting summing up of beliefs. It's like a check list, and I love check lists. But what I'm finding the older I get, the more I rest in the Word, the more I open myself to others, is that this Christian life can't be culled down to a simple list. 

There's a reason God gave us more than the Ten Commandments. It's the same reason He gave us free will. He wants us to love Him, worship Him, emulate Him because we want to, not because we have to. 

As a child and on into my early adult years, I just wanted that check list so that I could be sure I was doing it all right. Just follow the list, keep everyone (especially God) happy, and you win the prize -- heaven. Fail at any of it, and you get the eternal life sentence -- hell.

As a child I was taught the 5 steps to salvation: hear, believe, repent, confess, be baptized. I still see the value in all of those steps, but believe means so much more to me than it used to. Believing is all about trusting, having faith in, loving. Without the belief that God loves me and wants me to love Him, the rest feels forced.

So I believe in the teachings of The Apostles' Creed, but mostly I believe that God loves me and I love Him. And that is enough.

linking up with imperfect prose on thursday

Stained Glass Epiphanies

I grew up in the center of the Bible belt -- Nashville, Tennessee. I am the daughter of a conservative, evangelical minister who was a literature professor as well. In his spare time, he loved doing community theater.  A strange amalgamation.

I married a man raised in the Methodist church. His mother had been raised Catholic. We are an odd compilation. 

The first time it happened was in a church in a Key West, FL. My husband and I walked into an episcopal church just as tourists. I sat down in a pew and began to look around at the stained glass windows depicting different scenes from Bible stories with which I was all too familiar. And I began to cry.

It may have been the first crack in the armor I'd been using all my life. Armor established in early childhood to protect myself from the horrors of abuse, but also from the dissonance of my home life. A conservative minister, who gave me Stephen King and The Catcher in the Rye to read. Who took me to see The Effects of Gamma Rays on Man-in-the-Moon Marigolds and Equus by the time I was 14, and quoted Mark Twain more than the Bible. 

I looked at those stained glass windows, and for the first time instead of seeing gaudy, papist opulence, I saw devotion and love between God and man. I saw a God who was in love in with me, instead of a God who held a rule book in one hand and ledger of misdeeds in the other. My husband sat beside me, and understood what I couldn't articulate. 

I've spent a lot of time since then looking, seeking, and reading. Trying to decode what were merely religious traditions from what God actually wants from me and for me. I still have more questions than answers, but it doesn't scare me the way it once did. 

Stained glass epiphanies.

linking up with Write at the Merge and imperfect prose on thursday

Light -- imperfect prose on thursday

We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; the real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the light.~ Plato

Light or dark. 

I've been afraid of the dark all my life. But then again I've been afraid of the light most of my life as well. I lived in the dark for a very long time, because I thought it was the safest place to be. Once I started to let the light in on my history, I was afraid of the light, but only for a little while. The more light I let in, the more used to the light I became, and the more light I wanted. 

The hard part for me was discovering that some people around me preferred to live in the dark. Each time I opened up to them, to let in light, they pulled away from me. Retreated back into their darkness. So for awhile I tried to live in light and dark. Segueing between the two to accommodate them. 

It didn't work for me. Trying to dwell in light and dark simultaneously was like trying to serve two masters -- “No one can serve two masters. Either he will hate the one and love the other, or he will be devoted to the one and despise the other." (Matt. 6:24 NIV). It was cleaving me in two. 

So for now I've walked away from those who fear the light. I need to stay in the light to survive. I want them to join me. To feel the warmth on their skin, and the weight lifted from their shoulders. But I can't force them to come with me. I miss them, and I pray for them, and I dream of them joining me.

The light has become my true friend: filling me with joy, overcoming the darkness, and showing me the way.  I revel in the light -- being truly seen, having the weight lifted off my shoulders.

linking up with imperfect prose on thursday

Lovely Inaccuracies

painting by emily wierenga

If you have a mom, there is nowhere you are likely to go where a prayer has not already been. ~Robert Brault

All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy. No man does. That's his. ~Oscar Wilde, The Importance of Being Earnest, 1895

Grown don't mean nothing to a mother. A child is a child. They get bigger, older, but grown? What's that suppose to mean? In my heart it don't mean a thing. ~Toni Morrison, Beloved, 1987


I read these quotes, and I think how lovely, but inaccurate they may be. They are good things, but they are generalizations -- pictures of how we would like things to be.

I look at those lines, and I don't feel truth in them in my relationship with my mother. And I wonder how much truth is there for my children. My mother was not/is not a perfect role model, but then neither am I.

I believe my mother loves me. I believe she believes she would do anything for me. I know she would not. There are things I have asked of her, needed from her that she did not/would not give. I do not believe I would do anything for my children. I hope and pray I would do anything that was in their best interest. Having a bipolar child has taught me to avoid generalizations and absolutes. People say "I'd step in front of Mack truck to protect my kids", but really how many of us ever find ourselves in that situation. Instead, for me, it's been "I will stand up for my kids' right to be who they are. To ask questions. To make mistakes. I will love through all of that."

Would I like a do-over sometimes? Oh yeah! Daily.

And I keep coming back to this picture of the Holy Spirit as "mother". And I like that. I've made some peace with Abba God, and that's been good for me, and gives me hope for my relationship with my earthly father. Maybe working on Holy Spirit/mother will help me work on my relationship with my earthly mother. Maybe it will help me be a better mother to my own children.

linking up with imperfect prose on thursdays

Acceptance

I've decided trauma recovery has much in common with the grieving process. This isn't really news, but I saw a list of the five steps of grief and realized I've been through most of those in some way since beginning this journey.

1. Denial
2. Anger
3. Bargaining
4. Depression
5. Acceptance

I don't know that I went through them in that order. My therapist and husband will tell you I haven't spent nearly enough time on the anger portion. Obviously, I had denial down pat for years and years. The bargaining was a brief period of "just let me be crazy and they can lock me in a padded room" instead of this reality. The depression . . . well that's an ongoing issue, although not nearly as bad as it used to be. 

That leaves acceptance. I believe getting to acceptance is a process, not an epiphany. Unless you call it an epiphany the way Ann Voskamp does, a "light here, and then it's gone". Each day I learn a little more about accepting the reality of the abuse. I learn a little more about releasing the guilt and shame. I learn a little more about seeing myself as me, and not as their victim. Add up all those little bits, and that's the path to acceptance. 

I'm not happy I was abused. I'd trade it all in for a perfect happy childhood, except, who really gets that? And who would I be if I hadn't been abused? Don't misunderstand me. I'm just accepting the reality of my life now and how I got here. And reminding myself that my current reality is pretty wonderful. It's not trouble free, but life isn't trouble free -- not if you choose to really engage. And I want to be engaged.

So I don't shrink from the past the way I used to, and I don't dwell in the past either. But I do take it out and look at it, turning it around and around in my hands and heart, so that I can learn from it, and see how far I've come. 

"Acceptance means that you perceive reality accurately 

and consciously acknowledge what you perceive".

quote credit

linking up at Writer's Workshop and imperfect prose on thursdays

Fulfilling

Creativity, it’s good theology; it’s what God did in the beginning. 
--Ann Voskamp

Create -- 1  to bring into existence

God created the heaven and the earth — Genesis 1:1

2 a : to invest with a new form, office, or rank  b : to produce or bring about by a course of action or behavior
3 to produce through imaginative skill

I use the word a lot. About a plethora of different things. I talk about creating craft items, meals, a home, an environment. But I've never thought about my desire to create having anything to do with being made in God's image. I don't think much about being made in God's image at all honestly.

For years I squashed the desire to create as frivolous. A waste of time. I belittled people (especially women) who spent time crafting, or painting, or sewing. They (frequently) weren't saving money, which I saw as the only valid reason for doing some of those things.

That attitude, I don't know where it came from, but it may have just been an excuse. A method of hiding my own insecurities. I'm a recovering perfectionist. Actually I'm a recovering, procrastinating perfectionist. I spent so many years afraid of things not turning out perfectly, that I just avoided doing anything. Try was not in my vocabulary as a positive term. Try implied the option of failure, and failure means humiliation. Yes, I recognize it now as one more residual of the abuse I suffered. Yes, I see all kinds of correlations. Yes, I can only learn by sometimes trying and failing. I know. I see it all. Now.

Now I see it was another way of turning my back on God. Another missed opportunity to connect and engage with the One who would ultimately heal me. God was driven to create, and I am made in His image. My need, drive, desire to create, whether it is another baby afghan, prayer beads, or simply order in my life, is another way to connect, reach, be with God.

Not frivolous, fulfilling.

linking up with imperfect prose on thursdays

A Gift

I haven't seen my parents in nearly a year. 
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. 
What I am learning is that I can love them in all their imperfection, and that their not understanding doesn't equal not loving me.

Last night my daughter had dinner with them and took my Christmas gift to them. My hope was that it would be a way for me help them see me -- who I really am. I put a basket together filled with significant things from my life, and I enclosed a letter explaining each item.

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

My daughter said they seemed pleased and touched. I have felt good about this gift for them. I investigated my motivations. I had close friends read the letter. I felt happy with what I had done. 

But now after it is all said and done, I'm not sure what I feel. I am glad that they received it well. I know that I can't control their reactions, and I know that one gift does not heal the past. I want it to be a point of moving forward. I want to get to a place where I can be physically present with them, and be glad to be there. I don't want them to hurt, but I don't want to hurt anymore either.

And so, once again, I hand it over to God. I pray for guidance. I pray for peace. And I remind myself that real life is messy, and looks nothing like a Hallmark Christmas card.

linking up to imperfect prose on thursday

Grieving and Forgiving

One day is fine for grieving and remembering, but the next day life must go on.
I read this line this morning and I thought "Yes!". Because that's exactly the way I feel about sitting and crying in my therapist office over things (horrible things) that happened so long ago. 

And I watched as talk of an abuser turned to talk of mothering and comfort, and then to teaching and prayer, and finally to Jesus. And I am reminded again of the importance of not placing my faith in people. That I have to keep my eyes on Jesus, because people, even good Christian people will fail and let me down.

And I will fail and let other people down.

I told my husband that I realize how completely unprepared I was to be a mother. I knew the mechanics of it, but not the heart and soul. I missed out on opportunities to share with and teach my children, because of my own insecurities. And I'd really like a do-over on so many things. I read about wonderful ways that mothers (and fathers) are building their children up and sharing about Jesus with them every day. And I feel awe and guilt.

I was raised by a preacher, but God and Jesus only showed up at meals and bedtime, and Wednesday night and twice on Sunday. I thought that was how it was supposed to be. And I rail at myself for not seeing it sooner. For not grasping the importance of my job. For not putting my babies first because I was so damned worried about what everyone else might think. 

And then I stop and breathe. I remember that I am God's "baby" and He did put me first. And my babies were His long before I came into the picture. I remember sitting alone with each of them in the hospital after each birth, and giving them back to God because there was no way I could be responsible enough to care for these precious souls.

And I know that He holds their hands in His just like He's held mine. He forgives me, and it's long past time I forgive myself. 

Just because they are 19 and 22 doesn't mean I have to be done mothering them. I can still talk and share. 

But mostly I can forgive and trust.

linking up at imperfect prose on thursdays

Halloween, a Pig, and Blessings

I wrote about it here, but there's a lot I didn't share.

That therapy session was last Wednesday -- Halloween.
My husband offered all kinds of things to help me through the exhaustion, sadness, and depression afterwards.
I didn't know what I needed. So mostly I sat on the sofa in a fog, and cried a little more as I tried to tell him about it.
Then I sat in the living room and waited for trick-or-treaters. And I'll tell you it's pretty hard not to smile when you have little Avengers and princesses and animal-people coming to your door with such anticipation and excitement on their faces.
And when the little boy who lives across the street, and is the cutest child in the world, comes a second time, and I offer just one more piece of candy, and he lays a package of 2 cookies on my candy tray, and his father explains (in his Welsh accent) that Radley wanted to give us a treat -- well what can you do but laugh and smile and feel a belly full of joy.
Then the next evening my husband tells me to close my eyes as he rips open a box from Amazon and places the softest thing in the world in my hands, and tells me to open my eyes, and I see this

I pull her close (because I know right away she's a girl) and snuggle her, and tears come into my eyes as I look up at my husband shyly and still amazed after 27 years of marriage, that he knows, that he gets, what I need in these moments of immense pain. And then he tells me that's just a little thing, the big thing is coming next week.

And suddenly it's still not okay that the horribles happened, but it's wonderful that I don't have to carry it alone anymore. And it's amazing that I have this man in my life, and these children of mine, and precious little people in costumes offering me cookies.

And I think about what I do and don't deserve. And it just doesn't matter so much.

linking up with imperfect prose on thursdays

Flooded

flooding -- A therapeutic technique for treating phobias in which the patient is exposed to painful memories or frightening stimuli until he or she ceases to be anxious.

I was flooded recently with a memory. A memory locked away so tightly that I've fought tooth and nail to keep it so. 

In this memory, I am brutalized by a monster, but then handed off to a fixer. For years I have pitied this woman for being trapped in a terrible situation. But this time as I rode the memory through, I realized some important distinctions. She knew what he was doing to me in the other room. She knew her role as the fixer -- the aid to the cover-up. She made excuses for his actions. She led me to believe she was compassionate and caring, but her true purpose was to clean up his mess, and she did it willingly.

Flooded. Memories rushing over me like Sandy rushing through the northeast. Pain and tears and fear and confusion. Nowhere to safely land in this plethora of emotions. 

So I land where I usually do: first on my therapist's couch, sobbing into a sodden tissue and apologizing for wasting her time while I just sit and cry. Then on my own couch as I try to recount the events of the day to my husband and apologize for everything I failed to accomplish -- dinner and laundry and errands.

But this time, this time is different somehow. I am angry. And I never get angry. I am angry that these horrific people where part of my childhood. I am angry that I wasn't protected from them. I am angry that I am still held responsible by some people for what was done TO me. I am angry, and I am not sorry that I am angry.

I am not going to stop being angry until I feel like it. Because I have been flooded long enough.

linking up at Writer's Workshop and imperfect prose on thursdays

Day 24 of 31

I've been re-skimming Judith Herman's Trauma and Recovery. You know going back through and reading the portions I underlined or starred or highlighted; the pages I turned the corner down on. 
I was diagnosed with chronic PTSD in 2000 and I read this book for the first time in 2003. It was the first book on the subject that really spoke to me. I found myself all throughout the pages. 
It was a good news, bad news dilemma. The good news was I'm not alone. My responses are consistent with others' who have suffered abuse. The bad news was it validated that all these terrible things in my head were true. 
I read a post the other day written by another survivor about serial victims. Another term that unfortunately applies to me. What is it about having been abused that makes other perpetrators see me? It's like having a target on your back, or a flashing neon sign that says, "Pick me". 
And for all those years I believed it was something I had done that made it keep happening, or that the repetition was proof that I was making it all up. More abuse, emotional this time, even though the abusers were long gone from my day to day life.
My therapist and husband keep saying "Be kind to yourself" and "get angry", but I don't know how. Honestly. 
I've spent my entire life finding fault with myself and avoiding anger, except the kind that used to come roiling out at inappropriate times. I've gotten that under control, because I don't want to be like the abusers. Angry for no apparent reason. Lashing out verbally and physically. 
So I'm rethinking anger and what it really looks like. You know, righteous anger. The kind of anger that says you may not hurt me, but don't worry I won't hurt you. 
The "be kind to yourself" is taking even longer. How do I know when I'm doing enough and when I'm just being lazy? It looks silly typed up like that, but that's really what I worry about. How much is enough to make me a valuable, worthwhile, whole person? How much fun can I have and how many things can I do just because I like it, before I've crossed the line and become self-centered and uncaring of others' needs?
And then I remember grace. And I think about the gift freely given to me. The little girl who was abused grown up to be the woman who is trying to stop that cycle of abuse. 
And God says: "But if you give them a hard time, bullying or taking advantage of their simple trust, you’ll soon wish you hadn’t. You’d be better off dropped in the middle of the lake with a millstone around your neck." -- Matthew 18:6 (The Message).
And I find comfort in God's adamant love for me, and choose to embrace His grace.

linking up to imperfect prose on thursdays and Write on Edge

What's Broken? -- [Day 18 of 31]

What's broken?

For a long time I thought the answer to that was me.
If I could just do things right, I'd be slim enough, smart enough, happy enough, friendly enough. People would like me more. I would understand the world at large. There would be less pain, fewer wars, less pollution, no global warming.
I took a lot of responsibility on myself, and gave myself a lot more power and credit than I deserved as well. Oh look, something else to feel guilty about!

What's broken?
The real answer to that is, everything.
Everything in this world is broken. It's not just me, or all my fault. It's that this world is not the way God wanted it to be. But it's the way He knew it would be.

He knew by giving us choices and options, we would invariably make some bad choices; choose some wrong options. But He wanted a real relationship with us. Not just automatons following a preconceived map of action. Where is the fun in that for any of us?

But when I realize that it's not just me, that the whole world is broken, well that makes it a little easier to take in each day. A little easier to be more loving and compassionate to myself and others around me and around the globe. 

God knew we'd screw it up, but He also loved us enough to let us screw it up. And then He sent His Son to fix it for us. 

What's broken?
Nothing. Nothing that God's love can't fix.

linking up with Mama's Losin' It and imperfect prose on thursdays

Day 5 of 31

Well I've made it to Friday, and we've talked about joy and writing and welcome and pain and self-doubt. All good things to talk about. Honest, open feelings. 

What I haven't mentioned is that a member of my congregation died suddenly this week (read the full story here). I didn't know her personally, but all week I've been hearing and reading about her strength and perseverance and love. She was married to a man who has been struggling with ALS for 26 years. She was the mother of 2 adult sons who have had their own struggles. She helped start and run an after school program for underprivileged kids (The Wayne Reed Christian Childcare Center). And now she is gone from this earth. But certainly not forgotten.

And I wonder at the strength of people who are struggling in this world, to take on bigger problems, willingly. Not to ignore their own struggles, but rather to embrace more for others. How do they do it? 

My answer is, it's a calling. We all have difficulties, tests, and trials in this life, of that I am sure. With some people it's obvious what they're fighting. Others of us not so much. 

This is what I do know -- God loves me. He put me here for a purpose, and He allows these trials for a purpose. If I stay in communion with Him and open my heart and really listen, I will find my calling -- my purpose in being in this place, at this time. It may not be big, but it is mine.

Blessings!

Every desirable and beneficial gift comes out of heaven. The gifts are rivers of light cascading down from the Father of Light. There is nothing deceitful in God, nothing two-faced, nothing fickle. He brought us to life using the true Word, showing us off as the crown of all his creatures. -- James 1:16b-18 (The Message)

linking up at imperfect prose on thursdays

Grasp

grasp -- seize, clutch, embrace, understand

i listen as the therapist explains, again, this concept of dissociation.
i lean in to make sure i am absorbing every word she says.
i know in my head the purpose and cause of dissociation.
i know as a child in a horrible situation it was a good thing.
it provided protection, self-preservation, sanity.
but sometimes the messages from the past get mixed up with the truth of the present.
they said, you are a liar . . . no one will believe you.
does that mean i can't believe myself?
i know what is true. i know what happened.
i know that i was in that study with that man doing horrible, terrifying, painful things to my body.
i know that my mind chose to escape my body and go to a place of safety to wait until he was finished with my body.
i know imagery is often used to soothe adults in stressful times.
i am amazed that as a child i could use a similar technique with no guidance or instruction.
i listen to the therapist explain, again, the benefit that dissociation provided then.
i seize. i clutch. i want to embrace, to understand.
i grasp.

linking up with 5 minute friday and imperfect prose on thursday

words

I wrote about it here.
I got a letter from each of them. Separately.

hers started out well enough. Apologies . . . with a "but" attached.
explanations. defense. blame?
I am hurt and angered . . . again.
I am tired. I am lost.
I did not expect to react so strongly. I got, in many ways, just what I predicted.
words . . . but where are the actions and emotions?

his was wonderfully written.
it's what he does.
even so, it felt more real. heartfelt?
there was a literature reference to be sure, but it applied.
he apologized.
no "buts".
no explanations, no defense, no blame.
I cried.
I want to believe.
words . . . but there have been words before.

I shared them with trusted friends, some who know them, some who don't.

several pointed out what I had initially missed. 
they skirt specificity.
they leave unanswered key questions I posed.

I am tired. 
the anger has drained away.
I question whether or not I want to continue this struggle.

when do I say enough?

linking up to imperfect prose on thursday