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

Summer Solstice

The summer solstice. Each year I think about doing something to celebrate or recognize it. I read about others' rituals, parties, and remembrances, and I think it would be nice to participate in that somehow.

But then again it comes in the early summer, and early summer and I are not friends.

This year the summer solstice found me meeting up with some folks I hadn't seen in awhile. My parents. Together. 

I have a difficult relationship with them. I limit my interactions with them for my own sanity. This is made even more difficult because we live close geographically (about 15 minutes apart), and most people I know, know them as well.

Emily Wierenga posted a blog the other day entitled How to write a memoir without hurting your family. I was really excited to get some input and ideas, but her situation is different from mine. I'm still trying to figure mine out.

But I digress. 

Summer solstice was this past Saturday, and I found myself scheduled to cook dinner for some people and to meet my parents to celebrate my dad's birthday. I was not a happy camper, although I had made a conscious, thoughtful decision to test the waters in this way.

I made plans, but ultimately resorted to past coping skills to get through what had to be done. I threw together a casserole and salad from what I had on hand for the dinner which my husband was delivering. I showered and dressed in comfortable clothing, and planned on beating my parents to the restaurant.

I pulled into the parking lot, scanning for their car. I didn't see it, so I headed into the restaurant. I looked through the front window and saw them sitting at the center table. A table I would never have chosen. 

We greeted each other warmly (as warmly as we do -- always some underlying unease on both sides). We chatted. We ordered. We ate. My head began to pound. 

Why? Nothing was going wrong per se. It was just all the same. I invoked my standard coping mechanism that I use with my mother. She is a nice older woman, and I am doing this for her, or in this case for them, and I got through the rest of lunch. 

I left, took 2 ibuprofen, and headed for my reward -- a mani/pedi. I hardly said a word the whole time I was there, as I was fighting the need to lay my head down on the table and sleep.

When I got home, my husband was there to pick up the food. We chatted a bit about my lunch date. He asked (again) why I do this to myself. I tried to explain, but acknowledged that clearly I'm not ready for this yet. 

Once he left I collapsed on the sofa, watched TV, and slept -- typical coping mechanisms for me.

I really need to get planning on next year's summer solstice!

linking up with Writer's Workshop

Reconnecting

It had been 16 months since I'd seen my parents.

My father-in-law died a week and a half ago. My husband and I had discussed whether or not to invite my parents to the funeral. We both agreed it seemed petty to delete them.

We've been in touch via email for the past few months. I had to take a break from my relationship with them to focus on my own healing. You'd think they would be instrumental in helping me heal from childhood sexual abuse (as they were not the abusers), but they haven't been. They've dragged me down. Infused me with guilt. Defended at least one abuser while maintaining a relationship with him. 

They say one set of things, but their actions tell a different story.

I had wondered how we might reconnect. I thought there would need to be a cathartic movie scene. Crying, yelling, apologies, brilliant insight -- all set to swelling music with the scene ending in a warm embrace.

It wasn't like that at all. I was pleased to see them at the visitation. Grateful that my mother had arranged to bring food for those of us there. Deeply thankful when she led my daughter away to regroup and get some food.

I sat and chatted with my dad. Nothing of importance. I felt myself beginning to slip into the old persona, but I stopped myself. 

After the funeral, they were complimentary of the music choices, my husband's comments, and a reading I had done. (They are professional mourners, as a friend of mine says, so they tend to critique funerals.)

I took a moment to tell them that I appreciated their giving me time to heal. They assured me they only wanted to do what I needed. I believe they mean that. There are just aspects of the situation that they are unwilling or unable to follow to the logical conclusion.

The next day I got an email from them --

We thought everything last night was appropriate and well done. Both you and Alan did your parts extremely well. We were proud of both of you. We hope all goes just as well today.

Here is our itinerary for the trip. We will be home on Saturday, May --, about 7:00 or 7:30, if the plane is on time.

Thank you for your wonderful response to us.

So now I am back in touch with my parents. I don't know what that means. I don't know if I can maintain appropriate boundaries for myself. 

I hope so. 



linking up with Just Write

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

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

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

imperfect prose on Thursdays: acceptance

I still haven't talked with my parents, and it's looking less promising all the time. Last week I was convinced it was the right thing to do. Tell them the truth in clear, concise terms. It would make me feel better. I would be able to clearly see I had been open and honest with them. They would surely see, if not understand.
I shared my plans with my therapist, my husband, and trusted friends. There was a general pause that preceded responses from all of them. 
Why are you contemplating this?
What is your goal?
What are your expectations?


Couldn't they see I was trying to take the high road? Do what is right? Be the better person? Make sure I wasn't being unfair to my parents? Give them one more chance?


Couldn't I see that it was unnecessary at best, and horribly hurtful at worst?


I got some helpful responses:
:: While it may seem that you miss the little things, the thing I believe you really miss is the thing you've always missed - outward evidence of their love for you: their desire to protect you and keep you from harm. And then, when you are harmed as we all will be, to step in and lift you up.

:: The truth this side of Heaven tells us that hurt, evil and pain will exist but you can have confidence in claiming His peace and freedom from those things/people who weigh us down.

:: Think healthy. No one would want to live in a toxic landfill, and this is a mental/emotional version. Ooooooo, emotionally organic -- you will only take in high-quality healthful stuff, so if they choose to act like pork rinds and fried twinkies you will push back from the table bec you prefer to eat a delicious and nutritious Provencal country feast. Maybe that made you chuckle?

:: I am so sorry that your parents are hardware stores when you need groceries. The key is shopping at the right store to get what supplies you need. Now don't get me wrong-sometimes people advertise themselves to be grocery stores when they are really fast food places or hardware stores! But in fairness to them they don't even know who they are! You are a daughter of the King-a princess-a pearl of great price. You have great value and walk in that awareness and truth. God has given you great love to give and there are so many that know how to return it to you in a way that blesses you. Focus on those blessings and invest in them. Buy stock in the grocery stores!

My husband took it upon himself to reach out to my parents for me -- in kindness, compassion, honesty.

He got slapped in the face, via email.

What I needed, I think I've gotten. Just not the way I'd intended. A collection of emails back and forth between my husband and father that show each one's true character. 

My husband's nature to help and serve while always speaking truth.

My father's inability to see beyond himself. His unwillingness to take on the role of patriarch in all that is good and pure in that term.

"I don't know what could add to the pain we know now. I am glad Melanie is doing well. We are not."

This is what I know -- "Start with God -- the first step in learning is bowing down to God . . . First pay attention to Me, and then relax. Now you can take it easy -- you're in good hands." (Prov. 1:7, 33 The Message).

So I will immerse myself in His Word, which never fails. I will accept there are things I cannot change, and that may never be right this side of heaven. I will not make forever statements or judgments. I will relax in His hands. Turning everything, even my parents, over to Him and my support staff.

Blessings.

link up at imperfect prose on Thursdays

imperfect prose on Thursdays -- Thinking About Talking

(warning: adult content)


I haven't talked with my parents in over 4 months. In some ways it's been wonderful. In others, just awful.
The good has been not having to decipher their strange method of communicating. Not having to figure out what they mean by what they say and/or do. Not being hurt by their insensitivity.
The bad has been not feeling comfortable calling them with little thoughts on books, acquaintances, recipes, and stories. Not feeling as if I can get copies of old photos that would help me on this journey, because I said I needed a break from them.
Doesn't there have to be something that occurs between the not talking and the talking again?
But does that require an ultimatum? If this, then that?
I know there are things I need to say to them. Not because it will change their behavior, but because I need to have said these things.
I've talked with people I trust about what to say, how to say it, when and where to say these things, but I have yet to feel comfortable about the end result.
What do I hope to gain from saying these things?
I don't believe they will change.
I think it's possible that my dad will be angry with me and my mother will be sad and cry.
I don't think they will understand what I'm trying to say, and I do think, it's possible, that they will verbally lash out at me, potentially hurting me all over again.
And yet . . . 
I need to say these things so that I can know I have said them.
I need to quit trying to assuage their pain.
I need to stand up to them (and myself in the process) and show them that I am strong and capable -- not weak and fragile.
There are no guarantees as to how this will play out. I am not prepared to tell them I will never speak to them again, but I will not continue to allow them to hurt me without pointing out to them when they do it.


This is what I have so far:

1.     I had to take a break from talking to you because it was too hurtful and confusing when I talked with you. Your responses to my pain have been either void of emotions, self-absorbed, or flippant.

2. I can forgive you for the abuse that occurred when I was a child, but I need you to take responsibility for putting me in harm’s way. I need you to ask for my forgiveness.

3. Your reactions and comments over the past 12 years have been often painful and destructive. It has taken countless hours trying to understand your distance and lack of support.

4. I am not fragile. I am strong. What you perceive as fragility is self-preservation, and honoring me and my needs.

5. I will not continue to interact with you if you continue to hurt me, whether intentionally or not. I will not let painful comments go unaddressed.

6. I am offended that you would think I would cut off communication with you because you brought X’s gift to my house on Christmas Eve. I am not that shallow and saddened that you view me as such.

7. I am appalled that Alan has not heard from you since he told you of the second rape. It is unconscionable to me as a person and especially as a parent that you not have followed up on that information.

So, where do I go from here?

link up at imperfect prose on Thursdays

Choices and Consequences

“How are you?” she asks. 

“Not very well, I’m having a hard time,” I reply.

I’m on the phone in my workroom, standing over my computer, too tired to be having this conversation.

“Another flashback? Is that the problem?”

“I have remembered some other things. I just can’t talk about it right now.”

“I’m sorry you’re still having trouble,” she says, and I wonder if I can really say what is in my head.

“I’m going to need to take a break for a while. Not permanently, but just for a while. I just can’t handle talking with you, knowing he’s still a part of your life,” I say it calmly, as if I have the right to say these things to my mother.

She inhales, and says sadly, “Okay. Whatever you need.” The hesitancy and pain in her voice make me think of taking it back, but I’m just too tired. And she always says that, “whatever you need”, but it’s a lie.

“I’ll let you know when I can talk again, but for now if you need something or just want to check in, call or email Alan.”

“I love you.” She never ends a conversation with that. She never says that at all. She’s scared.

I hang up the phone, knowing I’m glad for what I’ve done, but terrified by it.

That was four months ago.

I wasn’t sure about the consequences. I wanted to believe it would be a wake-up call for them; help them come to the realization that I needed more. That things were never going back to the way they were before.

What I’ve gotten is the realization that my mother is sad and scared, convinced that I am in a fragile state – one step away from shattering. My father is angry and it’s impacting his health. What I haven’t gotten is anything different. No efforts to reach out via my husband. Some inappropriate quizzing of my daughter. And a really bad case of martyrdom about my son’s high school graduation.

Those are their consequences.

Mine are different. I’ve had some deep depression. I haven’t questioned my choice, but I have been saddened by the results. And angered. Which my therapist says is good.

It’s been a long time coming, this choice, but I had to get to the point that I could handle the consequences.

link up at Write on Edge and imperfect prose on Thursdays

Fear and Telling

He told me that telling them would make all the difference. My husband and therapist both believed everything I had told them. Why would my parents be any different? 

The day of the meeting I was a wreck. Frantic; nauseated; hands shaking; crying. I knew it was irrational to be this afraid. I’m a grown woman, for God’s sake. Inside I was still the little girl who had been repeatedly told, “they won’t believe you” and “they’ll throw you away like a piece of trash”.

The appointment time finally came. We met at the psychologist’s office. He talked with my parents and then he talked with me. He assured me it would be alright. They would believe me, love me, support me.

I sat in the corner of the sofa, my husband at my side. The psychologist sat across from me. They sat across the room. I told them I needed to tell them some things. I told them about the attack in college. I told them about my cousin and some of what she’d done. I thought I was finished. I looked to my psychologist. He was urging me to share more. I told them about the study.

They murmured placating words -- “How terrible” and “Oh dear”. No emotional response. No rushing to my side to embrace me. The psychologist explained that I would need them; that this was a long road toward recovery and they could be instrumental in my healing. My parents rose from their seats and smiled jovially. They gave me obligatory hugs. They were heading out of town for much needed break. They would call when they got back.

I didn’t get what I needed, but the scariest part was starting. It did get easier. Just not in the way I thought it would.

linking up to RemembeRED and imperfect prose on thursdays

Fajitas and Honesty

Last night we went to dinner with a "new" group of people. Some of them we already knew, but others we'd never met. This is just the kind of social setting that has induced major panic and anxiety for me in the past. There was none (well maybe a smidgen) last night. I don't know why specifically, but I'm choosing to see it as another positive step in recovery. 


Dh and I joined a new congregation about a year ago. We really like it and are finding a niche for ourselves. The congregation has a program called Life Groups. You may be familiar with it. Small groups are formed from the congregation for fellowship, Bible study, home church, and accountability. It's a really great concept, but it can be daunting finding a group where you can feel comfortable. 


Last night we sat around eating fajitas and talking about all kinds of things -- some church related, some not. There were a dozen or so of us there, and dh and I were the "newbies". I knew maybe four of the people before we got there. One was from my "previous" life -- the brother of a guy I went to school with. Invariably familial connections were made and revealed. My dad is a relatively well known person in our area -- he was teacher for many years and lots of people had him for classes. Dh let it slip who he was and it opened a swell of comments, questions, and recognition.


I've seen it before. I'm a nice enough person, and then the other person finds out I'm HIS daughter. I can watch their minds whirring as they make connections to him or things they know about him or things they think they know about him. It changes their perception of me, I think. Sometimes good -- sometimes bad. I joke and say I should have his name tattooed on my head!


When I was younger, I enjoyed being known as his daughter. It gave me an identity. As I've gotten older, it's more of an annoyance. My father and I do not see eye to eye on some things, most importantly, dealing with my past. Don't get me wrong -- my dad loves me, but he's never been able/willing to truly support me regarding the abuse I suffered as a child and young adult.


One of the other people I already knew in the group has worked with the wife of one of the abusers. After the meeting broke up, I pulled her aside and asked if she knew anything about my past from this woman. She assured me that she  did not. I explained a little about the abuse and how it had impacted my relationship with this other woman (sorry to be vague, but I try not out anybody! Lets call the Life Group lady Kay.) Kay was very kind and understanding about my concerns. If I'm going to be in a group where openness and accountability are part of the process, I needed to know where I stood with her. 


She believed me immediately regarding the abuse. This still surprises me. Why do people just take my word for it? Why do acquaintances instantly accept my story when my family found it so hard to accept? I do understand on the one hand, but on the other it is confounding for me.


We had a good time last night and were invited back to the next meeting. I guess we passed muster! It's an interesting process opening up and sharing with new people. 


I'll keep you posted.