No one ever asked

Write a blog post that ends with the line: No one ever asked me.

When I started this blog my plan was to write about the abuse and healing in a way that would help other people. I hope that's been true, but it's really been about helping myself. The more I get it out there and the more positive feedback I get about getting it out there, the less alone I feel.

I spent a lot of years walking around in a fog, pretending (unconsciously) to be something I wasn't. I was striving so hard for perfection that I wasn't really living. Not connecting with myself, so it was impossible to truly connect with anyone else. I even had a friend tell me later in life that he was always so impressed with me because I was so poised. Apparently I was a better actress than I thought I was, because I was doing a good job of fooling the people around me.

Part of my problem was I needed permission to share my story. The abusers had locked it away inside of me. Some with overt threats. Others with implied threats. And over time it just became a given that I wasn't supposed to tell. What few bits and pieces I shared were dismissed or ignored as unimportant, so there was no hope of anyone believing the really bad stuff. I put it away in a box in the back of mind and conveniently "forgot" about it, because it wasn't going to be addressed until I felt someone really wanted to know, but no one ever asked me.

linking up with Writer's Workshop

Scarred

I've been scarred. Both physically and emotionally. 

The physical scars are the result of surgeries or (minor) accidents. The knuckles on my left hand show white scars from a fall I took years ago on a sidewalk while heading into a class. I have scars from foot surgery and a Caesarian section when my daughter was born. For the most part, I don't think about these scars very often.

The emotional scars aren't visible to anyone else, but there are a lot more of them, and the scarring goes much deeper.

Unlike physical scars, sights, sounds, smell, and even comments can trigger pain in those places. Psychic reminders of the episodes that led to scarring. Most of the time no one else would notice the shift, but people who know me well see it. Often they know it even before I do. My husband will look at me and say, "What's wrong? You've got your hand over your mouth." Or I'll begin to fidget and look down. A location may be mentioned or a reference to abuse in a movie or book may come up, and my kids will look at me and say, "Are you okay?"

Often I don't even know the physical evidence is there. Sometimes I don't recognize the internal twisting and knotting until I'm well into the pain. 

Those scars have been triggered by movies and books and songs and the odor of cigars. The sight of a Jack Daniels' bottle can cause a catch in my throat. Wires and barns are not my friends.

Over time I've found that I can't make the scars disappear, but I can smooth them over a bit. It turns out that studying the scars, becoming familiar with them, has helped me not be sideswiped by them as often. Ignoring the scars won't dissolve them. I know. I tried. But looking at them, learning the contours of their outlines, their shading, and their depth, has made it possible to live with them.

Maybe that's part of the appeal of old things to me. Well-worn toys and furniture and books. They, too, are scarred, but they live on, serving their purposes, helping others, fulfilling their calling, scars and all.

linking up with Writer's Workshop

Unanswerable Questions

I was sitting in a friend's kitchen on Easter Sunday. It was late spring and the kids were playing outside while we got lunch ready to eat on the front lawn. We had invited a family from church to join all of us because they were new to our congregation and she was a single mom with 2 kids and no family in town.

Her little girl, maybe 7, wandered into the kitchen and sat down at the table beside me. The mother looked at her daughter and said, "You and this lady have something in common." 

And I froze. 

Our commonality was we had both been abused. I knew this was what the mom was referencing. What I couldn't figure out was what she thought I was supposed to do with that opening. 

There is a space in time that freezes, or at least slows down significantly. I got caught in that time/space. Really it was only for a few seconds, but I clearly remember looking with desperation to the other women in that kitchen. Women who knew my story and were waiting for me to offer this little girl a gift of healing. 

I opened my mouth and said, "What's your favorite color?"

That was all I could process, except to know this was neither the time nor the place, nor was I the person to delve into this child's trauma.

She looked at me timidly and said, "Purple."

I smiled and said, "Me too!" And from there we went into a conversation on the benefits of different shades of purple and what other colors we liked using when we drew pictures.

Her mother wandered from the kitchen. I don't know what she had expected. I don't know what I could have done differently.

Their family didn't stay around at church long. I don't think I drove them away, but I'm not sure I offered them something they needed. So if that little girl is reading this now, or her mother is, this is what I want you to know. 

Purple is my favorite color. And I do love to draw and color pictures. I am infinitely sorry for the trauma you experienced, and I wish I had the wisdom to help you heal. But maybe I gave you something. I hope so. 

Blessings.

linking up with Writer's Workshop

Because I Am Bound to You in Love

Because I am bound to You in love,

therefore will You deliver me;

         You will protect me, because I know your Name.

I shall call on You, and You will answer me;

         You are with me in trouble;

         You will rescue me and bring me to honor.

With long life will You satisfy me,

         and show me Your salvation.

                                    Ps. 91:14-16 (pronouns changed)

Lucy knew God’s name. From an early age she had learned about God and His love through Sunday school, hymns, and Bible readings. She was surrounded by people who professed a love for God. And so in those awful and terrible times, He was there to deliver and protect her.

His protection was not what many would have expected, but God is not a magician. He was with her through all the torment, and when it became too much for her mind to bear, He provided her with deliverance and protection in the form of dissociation and repression. When she could no longer bear the things that the Gene-monster was doing to her in the study, God led her from the room, leaving only her body – her shell – behind. He led her to the backyard and the cool grass where they sat together in peace and comfort. He allowed her to feel the breeze on her face; to feel the cool grass beneath her legs, and to hear the little dog barking in the yard next door. She watched the clouds in the sky, feeling peace and comfort, with all the fear removed. And when she felt drawn back to the darkness, He shone a light around her to fight off the darkness.

When the horror was over and done with her, He kept her mind protected while she was bathed and dressed for bed. And He gave her sleep, and the ability to forget and leave it all behind.

And when it happened again with the Gene-monster and with the Janet-monster, He was there to deliver and protect her -- to take her away from the terror and pain, and lead her to a place of peace, safety, and comfort. Over and over again He rescued her and provided her with comfort. He was there with her in all of the trouble, never leaving her side.

When the time came for her to retrieve the memories, He was with her still. Providing a shield of people to guide her through the treacherous memories. He reminded her that she knew His name, had always known His name, and this had brought His protection. She called on His name, and He answered her with the gift of a loving husband, compassionate counselors, and enduring friends. And in telling her story and sharing what had once been kept a secret, shameful memory, she has gained honor. God has brought me to honor. The time frame was very different than I would have envisioned, but it was in God’s time, which is always perfect in a way we cannot understand. He continues to satisfy me with a long life, and will show me His salvation as He has promised.

(Lucy is the name I use for myself as a child, as I am still unable to talk about the abuse in 1^st person most of the time)

with thanks to Gail Pitts at Dovehouse Ministries

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

Belong

to belong -- to be attached or bound by birth, allegiance, or dependency

I always wanted to belong. But belonging requires trust, acceptance, and honesty. I never felt those things growing up.

Everywhere I went, whether it was church, school, or even with my family, I felt as if I were an outsider. At church I was outside because I had questions that seemed inappropriate. At school I could never figure out what group fit me. At home the closest I came to feeling I belonged was if I toed the party line and never rocked the boat. I was the good child.

Abuse does lots of terrible things to a person, but perhaps one of the worst is taking away that sense of belonging. I longed to be attached to others. To be bound by birth or allegiance. 

When I met my husband I wanted to belong with him. Sometimes I felt it, but I was still busy keeping up my armor. It took 15 years of marriage and 2 kids for that armor to fall. And I am so glad it did. Letting him see the real me, and have him accept me as I was, made it possible to rethink belonging to God, and open myself up to others I could trust.

belong -- to be a member of a club, organization, or set

linking up with Five Minute Friday

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?

One of Those Days

Yesterday was one of those days. 

It was preceded by a bad night's sleep caused by a late night email, that I should have known better than to read.

Restless sleep followed by a screaming dog (mine) who got me out of bed considerably earlier than necessary.

And that email still sitting there. Staring at me. Waiting for a response.

The worst part of it was I knew the sender had no idea what he'd done.

So I responded briefly, but with careful thought.

I passed on the necessary information to my adult children when they got up. This led to a lengthy discussion with my son that turned to venting some of his anger about the situation. 

All of this preceded my weekly appointment for counseling. 

In my counselor's office I felt myself being pulled backwards into a scenario I am all too familiar with and that I thought I had escaped. We talked about the email and what had led up to it. We talked about my options. We talked about why it hurt so much. 

But the thing that kept going through my head was this -- I just want everyone to be happy, and have no one angry with me. And I simply don't know how to make that happen.

Abuse survivor 101. (If I can just keep everyone happy, I'll be safe and won't get the crap beat out of me.)

I said I hated the people doing this to me, and felt immediately guilty for saying it. I don't hate them because I don't hate anyone, but I am angry with them. And I'm still afraid I'll do the wrong thing in someone's eyes -- because I need a right or a wrong. I function better in a world of absolutes. It's the way I was raised.

I left the office feeling some better. I ran my errands, got some lunch, talked to my husband on the phone and tried to explain my anxiety, but it's hard for him to grasp. He doesn't have my history -- my conditioning.

I ran a couple more errands after lunch. I was feeling some better. Really tired, but less anxious. I got home and there was another issue to address. Family members to be calmed and organized. Reminders that I'm willing to help, but I can't be in two places at once. A new task to take on, and all I really want is a cold drink and a long soak in the tub.

I went and helped my husband with an errand. The whole time we were driving I was breathing and praying that the headache and upset stomach wouldn't turn into a migraine. 

We got things taken care of and I learned how to drive my husband's car with the trailer attached. New skill!

We ate a late dinner and agreed to not do the local 5k this morning (I walk, never run) since I was exhausted and heavy rain was predicted. We chatted. My daughter and I laughed at silly things on Pinterest, and my husband and son moved in furniture from my FIL's house. 

I went to bed. And slept in the same position until my husband got up this morning. No waking up and debating with myself for hours in the night. No nightmares of abuse or angry people. (Some annoyance with my neighbors for setting off fireworks last night instead of tonight!) A good solid night's sleep.

emily wants redemption on Thursday. I'm not always sure what that means, but for me last night's rest was redemption. A day that could have run its course filled with anxiety and doubt. A day that started out badly and kept getting worse, was redeemed through an expected path that ended in laughter and good rest.

Amen and amen.

linking up with imperfect prose

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

When Paranoia Comes Knocking

I have another sinus infection. I went to the doctor yesterday, and they were baffled by it. So of course I began to feel responsible, as if I had done something wrong.

The doctor can't figure out why I have another infection, so in my head this is what
happens:
-- that means she thinks I'm making it up
. . . except she said my throat was red and covered with drainage

-- that means she knows I'm just seeking attention
. . . except she suggested sending me to an asthma specialist

She gave me a hug after we finished the exam.
-- does that mean she pities me?
. . . it could mean she likes me, and that's why she said she was glad to see me, but sorry I felt so badly.

Abuse does weird things to the way I process everything. All people are suspect. Motives must be investigated to find ulterior motives.

And when I am sick that just adds another layer to it all. Yesterday there was a resident shadowing my doctor. She seemed nice, but she doesn't know me. Did they talk about me after I left? Did she wonder why my doctor hugged me? Did she think I was malingerer? 

Paranoia. One of the usual signs that I am actually physically sick. Most of the time I can keep it in check, but when an infection wears on my strength, the paranoia sneaks back in. 

So for today, I'm taking my medicine and resting on the sofa. I'm drinking lots of water, and trying to settle my racing thoughts, while really hoping and praying that this round of antibiotics does the trick.

Blessings!


linking up with imperfect prose

Sacraments

http://www.thelivingtruthfellowship.org/

You've been told all your life about the sanctity of Holy Communion. You've been told it's wrong to partake in it until certain rites have been completed. They've told you how wonderful it is. It will bring you closer to God and closer to those with whom you share it.

Imagine having holy communion shoved down your throat while you are being forcibly held down. Imagine they stuff the bread in your mouth and hold their hands over your mouth yelling at you to chew and swallow. Imagine they pour the wine down your throat in a river so you can't breathe or swallow, the whole time telling you to be quiet.

That's what child sexual abuse is like.

Then imagine that all the rites are completed and you are ready (according to the rules) to partake, and everyone around you is happy for you, but you feel dead inside and can't figure out why you're not reacting they way they told you would (should).

That's what sex after abuse is like.

I told my story in a ladies' class and then opened the floor for questions. One brave woman asked if the abuse had effected my sexual relationship with my husband. On the one hand I wanted to look at her and say, "Duh!", but on the other I wasn't sure exactly how to answer that question.

http://www.allsaintscville.org/

 Of course the answer is yes. In truth sex was one of the major reasons we went into marriage therapy years ago. And it's better . . . a lot better. But the truth of it is this, I will never know what it would have been like to give myself freely and without hindrance to my husband the first time, because that opportunity was stolen from me. 

It took a long time for things to improve in that area. We aren't where we want to be, but it's better than it was. It's been difficult for me to bring God into this area. My husband suggested praying before sex, and that seemed so odd to me. But why? Why is it any odder to pray before sex than it is to pray before a meal? Or communion? It helped me begin to put sex back in its proper perspective. It is a holy sacrament. A gift from God. What happened to me as a child didn't have anything in common with God's plan for sex. It was a perversion of the sacrament, but not because of me.

So I've been allowing God to redeem my sexual relationship with my husband. Because He is the only one who can.

linking up with imperfect prose and Write on Edge

Fall

I spent a lot of years stumbling around in the dark. I thought I was in the light. I was doing everything I'd been told to do to have a good life. I'd married a good Christian man. We went to church regularly. We were involved in our congregation -- helping others, teaching classes, opening our home. 

We moved back to our home town. We had a baby. She was perfect in every way. We bought a house. We were doing everything I'd been told would make everything perfect. But it wasn't.

So it must have been me. I just couldn't be satisfied. I expected too much. I wouldn't let myself be happy.

Really the problem was I'd fallen prey to the abuse years before. I'd tucked it away to pretend it didn't happen, but it was coloring everything I thought, said, did, touched, and believed.

So eventually I fell apart. 

And that's when things began to get better. I stumbled out of the darkness of lies and "shoulds", and into the light of truth and love. I fell prey to God, and turned it all over to him. I leaned on him as I worked through the muck and mire of the abuse.

Falling felt good this time. I guess it all depends on where you land.

linking up with Five Minute Friday

View

From here, the view, is sunny with white fluffy clouds. There is hope in the air, and a promise of the future.

Before -- back there -- the view was stilted. It was hopeless, clouded, and dismal.

The change in the view came from within. I expected the change to come from others around me, and circumstances shifting to improve the view. What I didn't know is that what I view is colored by how I view. 

Then I was looking at everyone and everything through the dirty, smudged glasses of lies, threats, and fear. Now I'm learning to look at the world through cleaned up glasses that show truth, reality, and hope. It's a process, and I'm not there yet, but maybe being "there" isn't the point.

The abuse laid a filter over of my view. It filtered out some of the good, and eventually, most of the good. I could only see the bad in myself, and when that's all you see it's a dark world you live in.

It's taken a lot of time, work, and effort, but that filter is thinning. I see a lot more good in myself, which makes the world look a lot better.

I'm enjoying the view from here.

linking up with Five Minute Friday

Tips for Recovery

1. Remember life will go on. 

2. Reduce your stress.

3. Listen to uplifting music.

4. Remember you are not alone.

5. Find humor where you can. Laugh.

6. Buy yourself a stuffed animal. This provides comfort and represents a positive aspect of childhood.

7. Carry a small book of quotes or scriptures with you. Anytime your need a pick me up, read over them.

8. Keep a journal. Write anything you want. No one else has to read this, but you may find it helpful to share when you are ready.

9. Don’t get caught up in being perfect. Stay caught up in finding you.

10. Breathe. Take up yoga or some form of meditation.

11. Be kind to yourself. Watch how you talk to yourself and about your self.

12. Cry or scream into a towel or pillow.

13. Stay connected to friends. You may have to limit the number, but find at least one trusted friend to talk to whenever you need to hear a friendly voice.

14. Get help with the day-to-day chores.

15. Pray. If you can’t pray in your regular way, don’t panic. Try writing a letter to God. Try reading other people’s prayers. Create a God Can.