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The truth will set you free . . . but first it will piss you off.
My therapist told me this years ago. He was trying to help me see the importance of knowing and admitting the truth of my history while warning me it wasn't going to be pleasant.
It was good preparation. I don't know that it's really made me angry (my current therapist is thrilled if I tell her I'm angry about anything!), but it's been a long, circuitous road, this healing path.
Truth is the answer to all of my struggles. Telling myself the truth, the real, honest, gut-wrenching truth, will always make my path clearer and straighter. But it is often an unpleasant truth. About myself, about others, about episodes from my past, and current relationships.
Jesus is truth (John 14:6). And Jesus is setting me free.
linking up with Five Minute Friday
This morning I had a dream. It was not a good dream. It made me realize some fears linger long after the reality is gone.
I dreamed I went to my usual counseling appointment. When I got there a different person called me into the office. It was a man I'd never met before. I asked where my regular counselor was, and he gave a really lame excuse. Add to that my mother and sister were waiting in the room for me.
I asked the counselor if he'd read my file, or if I needed to give him a little background. The whole time I'm thinking this is pointless, and why are they here. He "assured" me that he was familiar with my "case".
The other people in the room began talking and he was nodding his head in agreement with them. Other people began to filter into the room putting in their two cents worth. No one was talking to me or had in interest in listening to me.
And then it happened. The counselor announced that I had made everything up. It was all in my head -- all the abuse, all the struggles to deal with the abuse. He validated the people in the room who had hurt me the most, and just kept telling me I was wrong.
But here is the good part. I stood up and yelled at them all. I began to recount episodes in detail, asking how I could have made that up. I reminded them of validation they had provided about details. I asked them why I would have done this to myself for all this time? What is my motivation? Why do I have physical pain in areas that were harmed by the abuse?
And then I turned on my heel and walked out. I didn't consider for one moment that this new counselor was right. I knew he was wrong. I was angry and sad that he was giving the nay-sayers what they wanted to hear, but I knew he was wrong.
And that was the gift from the bad dream. In the past I would have waked up worrying that this new person was right -- that he had some knowledge that no one else has had.
Redemption is about recovering something. I recovered a little bit of my self-worth in that dream. A little more faith in myself.
Maybe it was a good dream after all.
linking up with imperfect prose on thursdays
Voice(s)
How many voices do you hear in your head?
I hear a chorus. A very discordant chorus.
There are the abusers' voices full of threats and lies.
"You are worthless, self-centered, unloved, dramatic. No one will miss you when you're gone."
There is my child voice.
Full of questions about why this is happening and what I did wrong to make it all happen.
There is my counselor's voice.
Assuring me that I am not a bad person, but rather bad things happened to me through no fault of my own.
There is my husband's voice.
Filled with love and humor, frustration and pain, patience and intellect. Reminding me of what is real and true.
There is God's voice.
Calling to me. Reminding me that I am His. His daughter. Christ's sister. God's "crown of all His creatures" (James 1:18). The only voice that really matters.
And I struggle to tune out the evil ones and focus on the good ones.
To hear the loving voices telling me truth.
And I post a note above my computer -- Only God is truth.
His is the voice on which to focus.
linking up at 5 minute friday and WOE Weekend Linkup
For years I lived in two worlds. In one world, I was myself, most of the time. I thought what I wanted to think. I did what I wanted to do. I breathed in the ease of being myself.
In my other world, I was my parents’ child. I said what they wanted to hear. I behaved how they wanted me to behave. I did what they said. I worried a lot.
The world where I breathed easily was mostly in my head. I thought all kinds of thoughts, but the other world bled over into it too often to ignore. I couldn’t get settled.
Over time it just became so difficult to live that interior life that I began to let it slip away. I was their child, his wife, their mother, the good Christian, the stay at home mom, the baker, the seamstress . . . and on and on.
I broke.
He asked me, “How did you used to feel?” And I answered, “Afraid.”
“Not all the time?”
“Yes. All the time.” But that wasn’t quite true. Sometimes, alone in my head, I wasn’t afraid.
I’ve spent nearly 12 years trying to learn to breathe in the ease of being myself all the time, not just in my head. It’s been a long road. Recently I passed a milestone of sorts.
I sent a letter to them. I told them the unvarnished truth of what they’d done and how badly it had hurt at the time, and how much it still hurts. I never dreamed I’d say those things to them. I was terrified the sun would fall from the sky. I’d stop existing. The world would cease to spin on its axis.
None of that happened. The world is still here. I am still breathing.
Nothing changed, except I wrote the truth. My two worlds collided and neither one ceased to exist.
They still live in their world, but I’m breathing easier in mine.
What happens when you brace for a collision and it’s almost imperceptible?
I’ve asked myself over and over for the past week, why did I wait so long?
The answer is actually quite simple – I had to get to the place where I wouldn’t be surprised by their non-reaction. I had to understand whatever I did was for myself, and I was worth facing the fear of collision.
I've been thinking about truth a lot lately. Actually, I've been thinking about truth for years. John 8:32 says, "The truth will set you free." I want truth, but fear it at the same time. Perhaps it is not the truth that I fear, but rather the reaction of others to the truth.
I consider myself a "pathologically" honest person. I tend to give more information than is needed, to validate and prove the veracity of my comments. This is the result of being repeatedly told by abusers that no one would believe me. From the time that I was four years old, I was constantly told by several people that I was a liar, and if I told my parents about the awful things these people were doing to me, that my parents would abandon me. I believed the abusers. Why wouldn't I?
I was raised in an environment that taught truth was the ultimate determination of value and character. I felt that I was a liar because of all the things I hid and kept to myself. I was unable to "tell the truth" because I feared for my life as threats had been made -- if someone tells you they will shoot you or drown you, of course you believe them when they tell you your parents won't believe anything you have to say.
When I first began to "tell", my therapist quoted John 8:32 to me. I knew it had to be right because it was Biblical, but I couldn't "feel" it. I wanted to be believed so badly! I remember telling my therapist the first time about any of the abuse. I talked with my eyes closed, head lowered, shoulders hunched. There were lengthy pauses. It took everything in my being to force the words out of my body. I could only speak in third person -- "J held the girl down" "the little girl was terrified". After I had recounted the episode to him, I peeked through half closed eyes, and asked, "Do you believe me?" He said he did. The relief was palpable. I had told and the world had not ended! I asked, "Why do you believe me?" He asked me why he wouldn't believe me. I couldn't answer, but in my heart I knew that if he undertood how terrible I was he wouldn't be asking that question.
It's taken a lot of time and therapy to get to this point of telling. Most of the time it feels good. I'm not out for pity or sympathy. I just want to feel like an honest person. I want to be set free.
link up at imperfect prose
I've been thinking about truth a lot lately. Actually, I've been thinking about truth for years. John 8:32 tells us, "The truth will set you free." Many of us want truth, but fear it at the same time. Perhaps it is not the truth that we fear, but rather the reaction of others to the truth.
I consider myself a "pathologically" honest person. I tend to give more information than is needed, to validate and prove the truthfulness of my comments. This is the result of being repeatedly told by abusers that no one would believe me. From the time that I was four years old, I was repeatedly told by several people that I was a liar, and if I told my parents about the awful things these people were doing to me, that my parents would write me off as a liar. I believed the abusers. Why wouldn't I?
I was raised in an environment that taught truth was the ultimate determination of value and character. I felt that I was a liar because of all the things I hid and kept to myself. I was unable to "tell the truth" because of fear for my life, and my acceptance in my own family.
When I first began to "tell", my therapist quoted John 8:32 to me. I knew it had to be right because it was Biblical, but I couldn't "feel" it. I wanted to be believed so badly! I remember telling my therapist the first time about any of the abuse. I talked with my eyes closed, head lowered, shoulders hunched. There were lengthy pauses. It took everything in my being to force the words out of my body. I could only speak in third person -- "J held the girl down" "the little girl was terrified". After I had recounted the episode to him, I peeked through half closed eyes, and asked, "Do you believe me?" He said he did. The relief was palpable. I had told and the world had not ended! I asked, "Why do you believe me?" He asked me why he wouldn't believe me. I couldn't answer, but in my heart I knew that if HE knew how terrible I was he wouldn't be asking that question.
It's taken a lot of time and therapy to get to this point of telling. Most of the time it feels good. I'm not out for pity or sympathy. I just want to feel like an honest person. I want to be set free.
