My baby brother is going to be 33 in just a few days. I can't believe it. I'm sure my lack of communication with him has made me lose track of the years, but I am acutely aware of the his birthday every year.
Being only 14 months old when my first brother was born, I was too young to really understand what was going on. I only know what I was told by my grandma. Having a new baby brother at 14 months old pushed me out of diapers and off a binkie or bottle before he was born. My grandma said I was walking by the time I was nine months old, so potty training me at just over a year old was ok. I wonder if I was ever allowed to progress normally.
At three years old, I was much more aware of my impending new sibling. That was back before you learned what the sex of the baby was earlier than birth. I don't know that I had a preference of brother or sister, but I knew I was getting something and I was excited.
My baby brother came into the world on the cold, snowy morning of January 22, 1979. I don't have any memory of how I was as a big sister until he was a few years old.
When he was still a baby in a diaper, I colored him purple with a magic marker. It was magic alright, it turned my cute little brother into a purple little monster. When I was a little older, I thought it was fun to trick him into eating cat food. It might sound like I was mean, but I really wasn't. I was just a kid, sorta. I actually loved my brother both very much and did my best to take care of them.
Every year on his birthday, I found myself being very angry. I'm sure the adults in my life probably thought I was a jealous sibling because the baby of the family was getting the most attention. That might have been an accurate assumption had I grown up in a typical family, but I didn't.
It took me many years, but I did come to understand why his birthday made me so angry. Sibling rivalry would have been a better reason, but sadly it wasn't.
My parents and grandma headed to the hospital late the night of January 21, 1979, leaving my other brother and myself with my grandpa. We were both tucked into bed with my grandpa before grandma walked out of the room. My brother was asleep and I was restless with excitement after my grandma told me that my mom was having a baby.
What would happen next would feel as though it lasted a lifetime. As I lay looking out the large bay window at the head of the bed, I saw the snow blowing. The wind whistled through the crack that ran from corner to corner. With my finger, I traced around the window and across the crack. I could feel the cold bite of winter as the wind howled. The window became my whole world for the moment so that I could escape what was happening to me.
Years later when I was remembering exactly what happened to me, it was as if I remembered it looking down on the scene. It was like watching a movie, a really bad one. The little girl was just a nameless little girl and what was happening was surreal. Yes, this was my first memory of being sexually abused.
It was my first memory of abuse from any adult. My grandma consistently gave accounts of abuse by my dad as young as when I was cutting teeth, telling details of a time she saw him throw me across a room. So, I have every reason to believe that my story of abuse started younger than three years old. But this was my first memory and it was with my grandpa. Sadly, it would be only the first of hundreds, if not thousands of memories of abuse.
This is also my first indication that at three years old, I was already developing a sophisticated defense system to escape my abuse. I would go somewhere else mentally to avoid the reality of abuse. It's a system I am tied to today, a system that controls my life.
As January 22 is quickly approaching again, I know I don't have unidentified anger. Maybe the anger this year is looking back at the past 33 years and knowing the stronghold abusers had and still have on my life. I long for the day when January 22 is just a day when I think fondly of my baby brother being born. Oh how I wish I could do that now.
Monday, January 16, 2012
Thursday, January 12, 2012
Soaps
Or as they were known in my family "Stories"...
As I sit here mindlessly listening to the last episode ever of some random soap opera, I'm reminded of so many things. I don't think anyone in my family watched this particular soap opera, but aren't they all the same? I'd like to stay it's nostalgic, but that would be giving my dysfunctional family far too much credit.
(As a disclaimer, especially for my husband, I do not watch soap operas and this is the first time I have ever seen this one. It literally was on the station I had been watching and I can't find the remote. My husband can also attest to everything you are about to read.)
For as long as I can remember, all the women in my family watched...well were addicted to soap operas. All My Children, Days of Our Lives, Ryan's Hope, Another World, just to name a few of them. The invention of the video recorders allowed them to perpetuate that addiction even further. I mean how great it is to be able to virtually watch two an hour for a 3-4 hour stretch in the day. Yep, that seems right. Six to eight hours a day.
Over the past several years, it seems like the soap world is dwindling. I am positive that if my grandma hadn't died 13 years ago, this would have killed her. I wish that were a joke.
My grandma planned her entire day around her stories. She couldn't be away from home between 11 am and 3 pm during any weekday. She planned doctors visits, cleaning, shopping, and meals around them. If there was a chance her morning plans wouldn't allow her to be home and eat lunch by 11 am, she would postpone them. If she had a full morning, she would get up at 3 am so that she was safely planted on her love seat by the kick-off.
What is even funnier about her rigid schedule is that she would often fall asleep during them. I mean good grief, she'd been up for hours! I think that's why Friday's were especially important. Everyone knows that all the exciting stuff happens on Fridays to keep you in suspense through the weekend. And really, isn't it all about the climax when it comes to soaps?
You might think that rigid schedule would be enough for one person, but NO. It gets even better....um....I mean worse.
It wasn't just a schedule thing for her. It wasn't just a show for her. My grandma lived as if these people, these actors, were real life people who were allowing their lives to be displayed on tv. My grandma died long before reality tv was wildly popular, so it isn't like she could get it confused.
When my grandpa would return home for the day, he would always sit at the table for dinner and quietly listen to my grandma talk about her day. Since I lived with them for a few years, I got to witness this first hand.
Yes, my grandpa would sit silently as my grandma shared the excitement of her day. She would often lead off with Bo and Hope's adventures and end with some moving story about Cass or talk endlessly about how she didn't know how they were going to get Marlena to not be possessed.
Keep in mind, she didn't talk about these things as if they weren't real. They were very real to her. A hugely unemotional person would cry if someone was fighting for their life or died. It didn't seem to phase her that the funeral she was watching lasted for a week or two.
Monsters, demons, devil possessions....she embraced them all. She never seemed to be shocked by the number of times someone returned from the dead or how many times someone magically spawned a twin or even triplet. It wasn't unnatural to her that a baby born last year was now a vengeful teenager this year.
She took it all in as if it were real. I am not sure why she was this way. It isn't like she lived in filth or with abuse. On the surface, she had nothing to escape from.
My great-grandma was a paranoid schizophrenic. I sometimes wonder if this wasn't carried down to my grandma and her irrational belief in soap operas was part of a hidden or undiagnosed illness.
Personally, I'm not upset to see the soap opera fade away. But I have to wonder exactly how my grandma would have reacted...or maybe I don't want to know.
As I sit here mindlessly listening to the last episode ever of some random soap opera, I'm reminded of so many things. I don't think anyone in my family watched this particular soap opera, but aren't they all the same? I'd like to stay it's nostalgic, but that would be giving my dysfunctional family far too much credit.
(As a disclaimer, especially for my husband, I do not watch soap operas and this is the first time I have ever seen this one. It literally was on the station I had been watching and I can't find the remote. My husband can also attest to everything you are about to read.)
For as long as I can remember, all the women in my family watched...well were addicted to soap operas. All My Children, Days of Our Lives, Ryan's Hope, Another World, just to name a few of them. The invention of the video recorders allowed them to perpetuate that addiction even further. I mean how great it is to be able to virtually watch two an hour for a 3-4 hour stretch in the day. Yep, that seems right. Six to eight hours a day.
Over the past several years, it seems like the soap world is dwindling. I am positive that if my grandma hadn't died 13 years ago, this would have killed her. I wish that were a joke.
My grandma planned her entire day around her stories. She couldn't be away from home between 11 am and 3 pm during any weekday. She planned doctors visits, cleaning, shopping, and meals around them. If there was a chance her morning plans wouldn't allow her to be home and eat lunch by 11 am, she would postpone them. If she had a full morning, she would get up at 3 am so that she was safely planted on her love seat by the kick-off.
What is even funnier about her rigid schedule is that she would often fall asleep during them. I mean good grief, she'd been up for hours! I think that's why Friday's were especially important. Everyone knows that all the exciting stuff happens on Fridays to keep you in suspense through the weekend. And really, isn't it all about the climax when it comes to soaps?
You might think that rigid schedule would be enough for one person, but NO. It gets even better....um....I mean worse.
It wasn't just a schedule thing for her. It wasn't just a show for her. My grandma lived as if these people, these actors, were real life people who were allowing their lives to be displayed on tv. My grandma died long before reality tv was wildly popular, so it isn't like she could get it confused.
When my grandpa would return home for the day, he would always sit at the table for dinner and quietly listen to my grandma talk about her day. Since I lived with them for a few years, I got to witness this first hand.
Yes, my grandpa would sit silently as my grandma shared the excitement of her day. She would often lead off with Bo and Hope's adventures and end with some moving story about Cass or talk endlessly about how she didn't know how they were going to get Marlena to not be possessed.
Keep in mind, she didn't talk about these things as if they weren't real. They were very real to her. A hugely unemotional person would cry if someone was fighting for their life or died. It didn't seem to phase her that the funeral she was watching lasted for a week or two.
Monsters, demons, devil possessions....she embraced them all. She never seemed to be shocked by the number of times someone returned from the dead or how many times someone magically spawned a twin or even triplet. It wasn't unnatural to her that a baby born last year was now a vengeful teenager this year.
She took it all in as if it were real. I am not sure why she was this way. It isn't like she lived in filth or with abuse. On the surface, she had nothing to escape from.
My great-grandma was a paranoid schizophrenic. I sometimes wonder if this wasn't carried down to my grandma and her irrational belief in soap operas was part of a hidden or undiagnosed illness.
Personally, I'm not upset to see the soap opera fade away. But I have to wonder exactly how my grandma would have reacted...or maybe I don't want to know.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Do I really matter?
Do you remember when you were little and all you wanted was to be a grown up? Sure, we all had our different reasons. Maybe some of you wanted to not have to eat peas or wanted to be able to stay up later. Possibly it was something more exciting like you wanted to drive a fast car or be able to go on dates. Maybe you just wanted to remove yourself from a bad family life.
Whatever the motivation, I think that everything points back to the same core reason. Without thought of responsibility or all the other struggles that being a grown up comes with naturally, I think at the core, we all wanted to be able to be taken seriously while meeting our most pressing need or desire. We want to matter and we want our needs to matter too.
It is amazing to me that today, I find myself still striving to get to that point. Obviously, it didn't come with a magical age or specific life status.
I remember my first full-time day job after leaving college. I worked with developmentally disabled adults. In this job, I was the youngest at 19 years old. I was younger than all the clients and the other employees. When I was hired, there seemed to be no hesitation from management. My assumption was that they saw a mature young woman who was entirely capable of doing the job. Boy was I WRONG! It didn't take long to learn that I was hired because I was flexible with no family, had the physical strength needed to do the job and they didn't necessarily get a huge amount of people who wanted this job.
It also didn't take long for me to see that my place was at the bottom. Regardless of what I thought or wanted, I was always at the bottom. Whether it was for a promotion or problem solving, I was bluntly told that I was too young or I just "hadn't been around long enough" to know. And to me, those things are like saying, "you aren't good enough yet."
As a young person, those things are tough to hear. Even looking back, I can honestly say that those assumptions about me were only about half true. It is hard to determine now how things would have gone if I had a chance to improve or gotten any guidance at all.
That seemed to happen a lot in the jobs I had, even up to my last one. With the exception of that first big-kid job, the issue of immaturity or age never caused me to leave a job. Believe it or not, I persevered through the entire list of hit and miss problems I had because of my age.
For me, I don't even think that age is the absolute answer to the problem. It's more of a feeling.
Growing up, I was made to never feel good enough about anything. I could do everything I was asked and it would never be enough. I could do things perfectly and it would never be done right. That wasn't just a feeling. There were actual punishments for not doing things perfectly or doing enough.
It wasn't uncommon for me to be woke up at 3 am by a belt slapping across my chest. Being drug by my hair and beaten all the way to the kitchen, I would inevitably see what spurred the anger in my dad. I had either forgotten to empty the dishwater in the sink or there would be a dirty cup on the counter. Not all that awful for a kid who was 12 and trying to do well in school while practically raising two brothers. But, it definitely set me up hang onto those ideas that I could never be good enough or be taken seriously or that I mattered at all.
As I sit here today, I am feeling much the same. Sometimes I wish nobody around me knew the issues I have. I think people look at my issues and not at me, almost the same way people look at kids.
Believe me, I don't have a super high opinion of myself. With my past business experience, I can say that I'm comfortable in a lot of areas and feel I could contribute in so many areas...especially at church.
But it seems like no matter what I try or volunteer for, the answer is always the same. Verbally or non-verbally, I get told I'm not good enough or I haven't been around long enough.
I volunteered several times to help cook meals and got turned away by being told there was enough help. I have volunteered to be on committees and rejected every time. The one time I was able to be on a committee, I had to step down because I was told I didn't know what I was doing. Well the truth was I didn't. I got put on a committee where I had no experience and it wasn't a good fit for me. I volunteer in the church office where I sit mindlessly for hours on end each week because I have nothing to do. That wouldn't be so bad if I didn't hear people complaining all the time that there was too much to do.
By the way, if you think I'm complaining about the church, I'm not. However, I am looking at my experience and wondering if all of the things that have happened are a sign that I am truly not good enough. Even as a grown-up, I can't get people to take me seriously. My issues have caused people to have a lack of respect for me and my experience.
I think the bottom line to my rant...it's difficult, if not impossible, to believe you matter to God when you don't seem to matter to God's people. And that my friends is a story that began a long time ago for me.
Whatever the motivation, I think that everything points back to the same core reason. Without thought of responsibility or all the other struggles that being a grown up comes with naturally, I think at the core, we all wanted to be able to be taken seriously while meeting our most pressing need or desire. We want to matter and we want our needs to matter too.
It is amazing to me that today, I find myself still striving to get to that point. Obviously, it didn't come with a magical age or specific life status.
I remember my first full-time day job after leaving college. I worked with developmentally disabled adults. In this job, I was the youngest at 19 years old. I was younger than all the clients and the other employees. When I was hired, there seemed to be no hesitation from management. My assumption was that they saw a mature young woman who was entirely capable of doing the job. Boy was I WRONG! It didn't take long to learn that I was hired because I was flexible with no family, had the physical strength needed to do the job and they didn't necessarily get a huge amount of people who wanted this job.
It also didn't take long for me to see that my place was at the bottom. Regardless of what I thought or wanted, I was always at the bottom. Whether it was for a promotion or problem solving, I was bluntly told that I was too young or I just "hadn't been around long enough" to know. And to me, those things are like saying, "you aren't good enough yet."
As a young person, those things are tough to hear. Even looking back, I can honestly say that those assumptions about me were only about half true. It is hard to determine now how things would have gone if I had a chance to improve or gotten any guidance at all.
That seemed to happen a lot in the jobs I had, even up to my last one. With the exception of that first big-kid job, the issue of immaturity or age never caused me to leave a job. Believe it or not, I persevered through the entire list of hit and miss problems I had because of my age.
For me, I don't even think that age is the absolute answer to the problem. It's more of a feeling.
Growing up, I was made to never feel good enough about anything. I could do everything I was asked and it would never be enough. I could do things perfectly and it would never be done right. That wasn't just a feeling. There were actual punishments for not doing things perfectly or doing enough.
It wasn't uncommon for me to be woke up at 3 am by a belt slapping across my chest. Being drug by my hair and beaten all the way to the kitchen, I would inevitably see what spurred the anger in my dad. I had either forgotten to empty the dishwater in the sink or there would be a dirty cup on the counter. Not all that awful for a kid who was 12 and trying to do well in school while practically raising two brothers. But, it definitely set me up hang onto those ideas that I could never be good enough or be taken seriously or that I mattered at all.
As I sit here today, I am feeling much the same. Sometimes I wish nobody around me knew the issues I have. I think people look at my issues and not at me, almost the same way people look at kids.
Believe me, I don't have a super high opinion of myself. With my past business experience, I can say that I'm comfortable in a lot of areas and feel I could contribute in so many areas...especially at church.
But it seems like no matter what I try or volunteer for, the answer is always the same. Verbally or non-verbally, I get told I'm not good enough or I haven't been around long enough.
I volunteered several times to help cook meals and got turned away by being told there was enough help. I have volunteered to be on committees and rejected every time. The one time I was able to be on a committee, I had to step down because I was told I didn't know what I was doing. Well the truth was I didn't. I got put on a committee where I had no experience and it wasn't a good fit for me. I volunteer in the church office where I sit mindlessly for hours on end each week because I have nothing to do. That wouldn't be so bad if I didn't hear people complaining all the time that there was too much to do.
By the way, if you think I'm complaining about the church, I'm not. However, I am looking at my experience and wondering if all of the things that have happened are a sign that I am truly not good enough. Even as a grown-up, I can't get people to take me seriously. My issues have caused people to have a lack of respect for me and my experience.
I think the bottom line to my rant...it's difficult, if not impossible, to believe you matter to God when you don't seem to matter to God's people. And that my friends is a story that began a long time ago for me.
Monday, January 9, 2012
Moving Along
I tease my husband that I had to take a blogging break to give him time to catch up. The real reason is that my mind has been a whirling mess of thoughts for the past month. It's difficult, if not impossible, to pluck one of those things out of the swift winds to focus on and write about.
The pit of holiday depression sucked me and I have stayed there. Not by choice, but for reasons beyond my understanding at this time. So, I try to focus on what I can and while I climb back out one, tiny inch at a time.
Today, we finally saw a little movement in one of the issues we have been facing.
As I shared last month, my mother-in-law has been having some problems with her memory. At Christmas, we had the opportunity to spend a couple days with her. During that time, we were able to see first hand how "forgetful" she was and how much effort she was putting into covering up her problem.
Several times she would forget conversations we had 30 minutes prior. She struggled to call people by name. She repeated several steps in fixing dinner, making it easy to see she had no memory of having just completed simple acts 10 minutes before.
We took time to talk very purposefully to her and my father-in-law before packing up to leave. She admitted that her memory wasn't as sharp as it used to be. It wasn't until then that I was able to get her to admit and not make excuses for not knowing who I was when I called her a week earlier. She couldn't deny it, nor the dozen other examples she gave us.
However, she was certain that her memory issues were directly related to having varicose veins removed 1-2 years ago. She also seemed very content with the solution my husband's sister gave her, a bottle of ginkgo. Had I mentioned that Kent's siblings have been what seemed like a "head in the sand" type of approach to this problem?
She did visit the doctor who removes the veins a few days after we talked to her. Thankfully, that doctor was very honest with her. He told her that her vein removal had nothing to do with it and referred her back to her PCP.
Her PCP did blood work and checked for possible blood flow problems. All were negative for anything that might cause her problem. Things were moving along, but still with no sense of urgency and with two people who aren't super great with talking to doctors.
Today was her follow up with the PCP. We learned this evening that Kent's sister has finally taken a more proactive role in the doctor's appointments. Finally!!!! She is the only sibling who lives close to their parents.
She shared with my husband that their mom had failed the verbal testing for Alzheimer's. I think that was the key to opening the eyes and ears of the family. Today's visit appears to have realigned the thinking of the majority of the family.
The next step will be to do a new MRI and then compare with the one she had a few years back.
It's scary to think about what we might be facing. However, there is a sense of relief.
Even if I can't seem to remove myself from the pit that I'm in, at least I can see something in life is moving along. What looked really impossible a couple weeks ago is finally showing some progress. Now...if only I could see progress like that in everything.
The pit of holiday depression sucked me and I have stayed there. Not by choice, but for reasons beyond my understanding at this time. So, I try to focus on what I can and while I climb back out one, tiny inch at a time.
Today, we finally saw a little movement in one of the issues we have been facing.
As I shared last month, my mother-in-law has been having some problems with her memory. At Christmas, we had the opportunity to spend a couple days with her. During that time, we were able to see first hand how "forgetful" she was and how much effort she was putting into covering up her problem.
Several times she would forget conversations we had 30 minutes prior. She struggled to call people by name. She repeated several steps in fixing dinner, making it easy to see she had no memory of having just completed simple acts 10 minutes before.
We took time to talk very purposefully to her and my father-in-law before packing up to leave. She admitted that her memory wasn't as sharp as it used to be. It wasn't until then that I was able to get her to admit and not make excuses for not knowing who I was when I called her a week earlier. She couldn't deny it, nor the dozen other examples she gave us.
However, she was certain that her memory issues were directly related to having varicose veins removed 1-2 years ago. She also seemed very content with the solution my husband's sister gave her, a bottle of ginkgo. Had I mentioned that Kent's siblings have been what seemed like a "head in the sand" type of approach to this problem?
She did visit the doctor who removes the veins a few days after we talked to her. Thankfully, that doctor was very honest with her. He told her that her vein removal had nothing to do with it and referred her back to her PCP.
Her PCP did blood work and checked for possible blood flow problems. All were negative for anything that might cause her problem. Things were moving along, but still with no sense of urgency and with two people who aren't super great with talking to doctors.
Today was her follow up with the PCP. We learned this evening that Kent's sister has finally taken a more proactive role in the doctor's appointments. Finally!!!! She is the only sibling who lives close to their parents.
She shared with my husband that their mom had failed the verbal testing for Alzheimer's. I think that was the key to opening the eyes and ears of the family. Today's visit appears to have realigned the thinking of the majority of the family.
The next step will be to do a new MRI and then compare with the one she had a few years back.
It's scary to think about what we might be facing. However, there is a sense of relief.
Even if I can't seem to remove myself from the pit that I'm in, at least I can see something in life is moving along. What looked really impossible a couple weeks ago is finally showing some progress. Now...if only I could see progress like that in everything.
Monday, December 19, 2011
Another Blow
It is no secret that the impending 10 days will be difficult for me, nor why. But this morning, I was hit with another harsh reality that myself and my husband's family will be facing this holiday.
My sister-in-law is notoriously hard to shop for and she never appears to be happy with anything. Really, she's just not an overtly happy person. As I have done many times in the past, I hopped on my cell phone while I strolled through Macy's. I called my mother-in-law knowing she is my only solid resource when shopping for the family.
Upon answering, I said hello, how are you? and proceeded with small talk. After I explained what I was calling for and asked for suggestions, I was hit with a return question that instantly broke my heart. She said, "Who is this?" Reduced to a blubbering mess, fighting with everything I had to not burst into tears, I answered. "It's me, Monica." The dead silenced prompted me to explain further who I was.
A deep breath from me and I patiently waited while she "searched her brain" to assimilate who I was and remember her daughter's name. The next few minutes of her trying to get through the conversation felt like hours. A return phone call from her about 15 minutes later was much better, but she was still confusing her daughter and granddaughter.
The relationship with my mother-in-law has always been tense, but we can always manage to have kind and even sweet conversations. I have been in and around the family for over 17 years now. This was the first time I had ever had this experience. Before they had caller ID, she always knew who I was. Regardless of the tension, she has always called me one of her kids (even if her actions haven't made me feel like one).
It was a couple months ago, my husband and his brother began talking about how forgetful their mother was becoming. Not only was she becoming more forgetful, but she was beginning to over compensate for something amiss in her life by being incredibly sweet and needy. At Thanksgiving, my husband had to tell her repeatedly what our plans were and often multiple times in the same phone call.
Conversations between my husband, his dad and all his siblings brought us to the consensus that yes...something was wrong. That something has continued to get worse over the past month. And, I certainly wasn't thinking about that when I called her this morning.
I refer to her problem as "something" because there hasn't been any attempts to medically diagnose the problem. The problem could be a multitude of things, but it's looking more and more like Alzheimer's. But there's a general sense of denial about the problem.
After the phone call today, I don't think I can deny it. My heart is breaking over it. I'm not sure I'm ready to witness this firsthand through Christmas. I'm not sure my husband is ready for one more thing right now.
My sister-in-law is notoriously hard to shop for and she never appears to be happy with anything. Really, she's just not an overtly happy person. As I have done many times in the past, I hopped on my cell phone while I strolled through Macy's. I called my mother-in-law knowing she is my only solid resource when shopping for the family.
Upon answering, I said hello, how are you? and proceeded with small talk. After I explained what I was calling for and asked for suggestions, I was hit with a return question that instantly broke my heart. She said, "Who is this?" Reduced to a blubbering mess, fighting with everything I had to not burst into tears, I answered. "It's me, Monica." The dead silenced prompted me to explain further who I was.
A deep breath from me and I patiently waited while she "searched her brain" to assimilate who I was and remember her daughter's name. The next few minutes of her trying to get through the conversation felt like hours. A return phone call from her about 15 minutes later was much better, but she was still confusing her daughter and granddaughter.
The relationship with my mother-in-law has always been tense, but we can always manage to have kind and even sweet conversations. I have been in and around the family for over 17 years now. This was the first time I had ever had this experience. Before they had caller ID, she always knew who I was. Regardless of the tension, she has always called me one of her kids (even if her actions haven't made me feel like one).
It was a couple months ago, my husband and his brother began talking about how forgetful their mother was becoming. Not only was she becoming more forgetful, but she was beginning to over compensate for something amiss in her life by being incredibly sweet and needy. At Thanksgiving, my husband had to tell her repeatedly what our plans were and often multiple times in the same phone call.
Conversations between my husband, his dad and all his siblings brought us to the consensus that yes...something was wrong. That something has continued to get worse over the past month. And, I certainly wasn't thinking about that when I called her this morning.
I refer to her problem as "something" because there hasn't been any attempts to medically diagnose the problem. The problem could be a multitude of things, but it's looking more and more like Alzheimer's. But there's a general sense of denial about the problem.
After the phone call today, I don't think I can deny it. My heart is breaking over it. I'm not sure I'm ready to witness this firsthand through Christmas. I'm not sure my husband is ready for one more thing right now.
Saturday, December 17, 2011
The First Step
When you have a problem, do you go right to the fixing stage or do you spend time trying to understand why the problem exists before the fixing stage?
My first step is understanding the problem fully. One of my biggest problems lately has been with prayer. I have failed to understand why we do it if God is truly sovereign. If God already knows, why bother discussing it? Much to my surprise, I woke up this morning to a full understanding of why I struggle with this. It's not the solution, but it the first step.
By being in church, this is what I learned by example about prayer:
1. You ask for what you want and if you don't get it immediately, you just keeping asking.
2. The more people you have asking for this specific thing, the more likely it would happen. If enough people weren't asking on your behalf, it might not ever happen.
3. It was ok to ask for whatever you wanted, no matter how outlandish the request might seem...even miracle size.
4. Occasionally, someone might be thankful that one of their requests was fulfilled.
5. The most important request was the first one you made, the request to be forgiven and accepted as a new creation.
Gosh, reading it now...it almost looks like the same thing I've learned from hearing fairy tales of genies that pop out of magic lamps. No wonder I was confused!
A few weeks ago, a very wise woman explained prayer to me in a different way. Ok, it's not genie-esk. Her explanation was that prayer is the relationship with have with God. My interpretation; prayer is a fancy word for just good ole' conversation.
That was easy enough to understand. But why was it still hard to get? Why was a conversation or relationship with God so difficult for me to grasp? And that's what I woke up understanding this morning.
Without a doubt, there are two things I have always struggled with my entire life.
The first is believing the intangible. To me, intangible is make believe and make believe is bad. I wasn't allowed to play as a child, leaving me with an impeded ability to believe what I cannot see, hear, touch, smell or taste. I missed out on those developmental years where creative play, making it almost impossible for me to be ok with the intangible.
The second is relationships. I attribute this problem solely to my childhood. For obvious reasons, my parents didn't foster or encourage relationships with anyone. I think what's worse is that they didn't have a relationship with me, at least not one which would be considered anything close to ok to mimic with others.
It isn't that I haven't ever had relationships with anyone, I have. I have been with my husband for 17 years. I have one friend that I have been close to for 13 years. I now have several friendships that have been established since I've been in church. Honestly, I attribute the success of those relationships to the other person. If they hadn't given me patience, understanding and an enormous amount of unreciprocated love, I doubt they would have lasted.
Through trials and time, I have learned that I can have conversations with each of these people. I know most of the time, I hold back. I still have the fear that if I share everything or the really ugly, they will surely leave or judge me. It's just my natural instinct to withhold some information or not allow myself to be fully vulnerable. My husband, who has been with me the longest, would even tell you that getting me to open up to him fully is nearly impossible.
So, I finally understand why I am struggling so much with prayer. From beginning perception to not being ok with the intangible and dysfunctional relationship skills, I understand why it's so difficult for me.
Whew...that was a big first step that took a while to take. Now, how to fix the problem. I think that's going to be more difficult. The comfort of understanding the problem only gets me so far and I don't know what to do next.
My first step is understanding the problem fully. One of my biggest problems lately has been with prayer. I have failed to understand why we do it if God is truly sovereign. If God already knows, why bother discussing it? Much to my surprise, I woke up this morning to a full understanding of why I struggle with this. It's not the solution, but it the first step.
By being in church, this is what I learned by example about prayer:
1. You ask for what you want and if you don't get it immediately, you just keeping asking.
2. The more people you have asking for this specific thing, the more likely it would happen. If enough people weren't asking on your behalf, it might not ever happen.
3. It was ok to ask for whatever you wanted, no matter how outlandish the request might seem...even miracle size.
4. Occasionally, someone might be thankful that one of their requests was fulfilled.
5. The most important request was the first one you made, the request to be forgiven and accepted as a new creation.
Gosh, reading it now...it almost looks like the same thing I've learned from hearing fairy tales of genies that pop out of magic lamps. No wonder I was confused!
A few weeks ago, a very wise woman explained prayer to me in a different way. Ok, it's not genie-esk. Her explanation was that prayer is the relationship with have with God. My interpretation; prayer is a fancy word for just good ole' conversation.
That was easy enough to understand. But why was it still hard to get? Why was a conversation or relationship with God so difficult for me to grasp? And that's what I woke up understanding this morning.
Without a doubt, there are two things I have always struggled with my entire life.
The first is believing the intangible. To me, intangible is make believe and make believe is bad. I wasn't allowed to play as a child, leaving me with an impeded ability to believe what I cannot see, hear, touch, smell or taste. I missed out on those developmental years where creative play, making it almost impossible for me to be ok with the intangible.
The second is relationships. I attribute this problem solely to my childhood. For obvious reasons, my parents didn't foster or encourage relationships with anyone. I think what's worse is that they didn't have a relationship with me, at least not one which would be considered anything close to ok to mimic with others.
It isn't that I haven't ever had relationships with anyone, I have. I have been with my husband for 17 years. I have one friend that I have been close to for 13 years. I now have several friendships that have been established since I've been in church. Honestly, I attribute the success of those relationships to the other person. If they hadn't given me patience, understanding and an enormous amount of unreciprocated love, I doubt they would have lasted.
Through trials and time, I have learned that I can have conversations with each of these people. I know most of the time, I hold back. I still have the fear that if I share everything or the really ugly, they will surely leave or judge me. It's just my natural instinct to withhold some information or not allow myself to be fully vulnerable. My husband, who has been with me the longest, would even tell you that getting me to open up to him fully is nearly impossible.
So, I finally understand why I am struggling so much with prayer. From beginning perception to not being ok with the intangible and dysfunctional relationship skills, I understand why it's so difficult for me.
Whew...that was a big first step that took a while to take. Now, how to fix the problem. I think that's going to be more difficult. The comfort of understanding the problem only gets me so far and I don't know what to do next.
Thursday, December 15, 2011
Delayed Reaction
My life seems to always have obscure, off-the-wall things happening. I have learned to just accept it and rarely get too upset. Actually, I think my husband and I both have just accepted that strangeness is part of our unique lives.
There have been times my husband has gotten up to find a goopy mess of sugar, syrup and mustard on the stove. We often go to bed with the house nice and tidy, only to wake up with half of the decorations on the floor and books stacked three foot high in front of the back door. That's just a few of the silly little things that are our normal. Yes, there are some more bizarre rituals but I'll save those for another time.
Tonight I was sharing an experience from last week with a friend. I realized I've become so conditioned to accept the oddities that I forget to be upset when appropriate.
Last week, my husband had left to go work out and I was vegging. I heard the garage door open and possibly close. It wasn't uncommon for my husband to close the door before he walked into the house. He loves to let the dogs run into the garage. Half paying attention and half zoned out, I expected my husband to walk in any time.
The dogs were barking and prancing in circles, just like they would any other time my husband came home. I heard the door open to the kitchen, a very distinctive, squeaky metal turn. Again, the dogs barked and pranced excited. They never growled or acted any differently than normal. I heard the door close and assumed he had gotten sidetracked by something in the garage, still not uncommon.
I thought I heard the garage door once again and was now a bit curious. Instead of getting up, I called my husband. The voices in the background didn't phase me as I asked why he was in the garage. He said he wasn't in the garage, he was still at a friend's house and was five minutes away.
Without hesitation, I went outside the front door and stayed on the phone with my husband until he got home. My thought was at least outside I wouldn't be trapped in a sealed house with a stranger. With no shoes or coat, I could still run to a neighbors house.
My husband was home in minutes and searched every inch of the house. Once he was home, I was calm and had once again chalked up my experience to our bizarre life.
When I told my friend what happened, she reacted with such fear. She said it was scary and was scared for me.
I hadn't thought much about it after walking through the house and finding nobody. But, wow! Truly, it was scary. The idea that someone had nearly walked in my house while I was home alone was scary. Maybe my husband had left the garage door open and maybe it was a neighbor, but I don't think so. Some stranger had opened the door of my little home and threatened my security. Wow! I hadn't really thought about it like that.
Had I felt that fear the night it happened, I would have probably gone straight into anxiety attacks. Since it's been about 10 days, I don't feel that intense anxiety. However, I am re-evaluating my response or lack of to the strange things in my life.
There have been times my husband has gotten up to find a goopy mess of sugar, syrup and mustard on the stove. We often go to bed with the house nice and tidy, only to wake up with half of the decorations on the floor and books stacked three foot high in front of the back door. That's just a few of the silly little things that are our normal. Yes, there are some more bizarre rituals but I'll save those for another time.
Tonight I was sharing an experience from last week with a friend. I realized I've become so conditioned to accept the oddities that I forget to be upset when appropriate.
Last week, my husband had left to go work out and I was vegging. I heard the garage door open and possibly close. It wasn't uncommon for my husband to close the door before he walked into the house. He loves to let the dogs run into the garage. Half paying attention and half zoned out, I expected my husband to walk in any time.
The dogs were barking and prancing in circles, just like they would any other time my husband came home. I heard the door open to the kitchen, a very distinctive, squeaky metal turn. Again, the dogs barked and pranced excited. They never growled or acted any differently than normal. I heard the door close and assumed he had gotten sidetracked by something in the garage, still not uncommon.
I thought I heard the garage door once again and was now a bit curious. Instead of getting up, I called my husband. The voices in the background didn't phase me as I asked why he was in the garage. He said he wasn't in the garage, he was still at a friend's house and was five minutes away.
Without hesitation, I went outside the front door and stayed on the phone with my husband until he got home. My thought was at least outside I wouldn't be trapped in a sealed house with a stranger. With no shoes or coat, I could still run to a neighbors house.
My husband was home in minutes and searched every inch of the house. Once he was home, I was calm and had once again chalked up my experience to our bizarre life.
When I told my friend what happened, she reacted with such fear. She said it was scary and was scared for me.
I hadn't thought much about it after walking through the house and finding nobody. But, wow! Truly, it was scary. The idea that someone had nearly walked in my house while I was home alone was scary. Maybe my husband had left the garage door open and maybe it was a neighbor, but I don't think so. Some stranger had opened the door of my little home and threatened my security. Wow! I hadn't really thought about it like that.
Had I felt that fear the night it happened, I would have probably gone straight into anxiety attacks. Since it's been about 10 days, I don't feel that intense anxiety. However, I am re-evaluating my response or lack of to the strange things in my life.
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Tis the Season
I think my fingers needed a vacation from typing the funk of my life. It's not my fingers, it's just the way it is. As the months of the year pass by, I can look at this time of year with full anticipation that it will be hard and that is just the way it is.
My adult life seems to echo a similar theme of disappointment that was so evident as a child.
As a child, you might think the disappointment was concentrated on the gifts or lack of but it wasn't. Even as a child, I knew I desired something more than a trinket wrapped in shiny paper.
Don't get me wrong, not having special memories of Christmas gifts is a part of it. What child, what person doesn't enjoy receiving gifts? When I think about a small child opening empty packages or having nothing under the tree on Christmas morning, my heart breaks. So yes, my heart still breaks for the little me who was deeply scarred by the torment of Christmas.
What's the best part about receiving a gift? For me, it's the unspoken reality that the person giving the gift cares about me. Receiving nothing as a child was a chance for my parents to show me in a very real way that they indeed did not care about me. They said it throughout the year and proved it in big ways during the holidays.
As an adult, the same kind of disappointment settles deep in my heart during the holidays. I've said it before, but it's the time of year that makes me feel most isolated. The disappointment isn't in gifts or even in people. The disappointment is my life.
I watch friends plan and prep for parties with co-workers and friends. Now that I no longer have a job, there's no Christmas party. We (really me) have been unsuccessful in finding a place in any social circle, so there's no party with friends either. I'm also reminded of just how much my previous job filled the void left by my family.
I watch people plan for their children to come home from college or plan every last detail to make their child's Christmas wonderful. People I know are feverishly making plans to go from one celebration to the next, making the most of every minute with family. Even my husband is looking forward to the trip to his parent's house. There's none of that for me.
Literally, everyone around me has something to look forward to as Christmas approaches. Why can't it be that way for me? When will my heart ever be filled with something besides disappointment during Christmas?
I know Christmas is truly about the celebration of the birth of Christ. Most Christians will tell you that the birth of their Savior should be sufficient and there should be no disappointment. I'd say those same people have never gone through a Christmas without a family or knowing that their family doesn't care about them.
My adult life seems to echo a similar theme of disappointment that was so evident as a child.
As a child, you might think the disappointment was concentrated on the gifts or lack of but it wasn't. Even as a child, I knew I desired something more than a trinket wrapped in shiny paper.
Don't get me wrong, not having special memories of Christmas gifts is a part of it. What child, what person doesn't enjoy receiving gifts? When I think about a small child opening empty packages or having nothing under the tree on Christmas morning, my heart breaks. So yes, my heart still breaks for the little me who was deeply scarred by the torment of Christmas.
What's the best part about receiving a gift? For me, it's the unspoken reality that the person giving the gift cares about me. Receiving nothing as a child was a chance for my parents to show me in a very real way that they indeed did not care about me. They said it throughout the year and proved it in big ways during the holidays.
As an adult, the same kind of disappointment settles deep in my heart during the holidays. I've said it before, but it's the time of year that makes me feel most isolated. The disappointment isn't in gifts or even in people. The disappointment is my life.
I watch friends plan and prep for parties with co-workers and friends. Now that I no longer have a job, there's no Christmas party. We (really me) have been unsuccessful in finding a place in any social circle, so there's no party with friends either. I'm also reminded of just how much my previous job filled the void left by my family.
I watch people plan for their children to come home from college or plan every last detail to make their child's Christmas wonderful. People I know are feverishly making plans to go from one celebration to the next, making the most of every minute with family. Even my husband is looking forward to the trip to his parent's house. There's none of that for me.
Literally, everyone around me has something to look forward to as Christmas approaches. Why can't it be that way for me? When will my heart ever be filled with something besides disappointment during Christmas?
I know Christmas is truly about the celebration of the birth of Christ. Most Christians will tell you that the birth of their Savior should be sufficient and there should be no disappointment. I'd say those same people have never gone through a Christmas without a family or knowing that their family doesn't care about them.
Thursday, December 8, 2011
Junk Drawer
Let's face it, we all have them and they typically look like this:
The good thing is that the drawer stays closed unless you reach that point of desperation. Out of sight, out of mind...right?
This is much what it's like inside my head most days and probably what I look like to the people around me too. There's an array of stuff in there all the time and it would probably scare anyone to step inside. I can get what I need, when I need it most of the time. It might not always come out exactly when or how I would like it to, but I can usually make myself functional. In fact, most of the time I can make myself look so functional that people would never know I have a problem.
There is one upside to the specific illness I deal with. There is something inside me that puts it all together and allows me to look functional on the surface.
The truth is that mental illness has little to do with intelligence in my case. Those close to me might forget that sometimes, especially when they see the less functional sides of me. Even in a diminished mental state, my organized system is still functional and capable of maintaining. An outburst, misunderstood action or just not seeming like myself isn't a reflection of my inability but of my ability.
When there's so much junk in the drawer, it's hard to remember that it's all very organized in there somewhere. So when I look like this:
...it's just me, my humanness, my brokenness, in my pain and striving to understand myself and accept myself.
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Christmas Cards from Hell
Admittedly, today was a little stressful but I wasn't feeling overly depressed or anxious. That is until I got home and opened the mail.
Amid the ads and propaganda was a small Christmas card. The return address from my hometown, which I understandably refer to as "Hell." My heart pounding and tears filling my eyes, I opened the envelope.
The envelope contained a small, innocent Christmas card. "To wish you all the joys of a MERRY CHRISTMAS Season" was printed on the inside, followed by an impersonal signature..."Grandmother Grandfather H-----d.
Christmas cards from my family had tapered off over the past few years and last year, I received none. This card reduced me to an angry mess almost immediately.
It wasn't the cold, impersonal signature that made me angry. This set of grandparents has never been overly loving or warm. My grandma is an incredibly submissive wife to my overbearing, berating grandpa. While I've never seen him be physically aggressive with her, I have seen him abuse her emotionally at family gatherings. Not a huge stretch of the imagination considering what my dad is like.
Some of the past cards have included an invitation to Christmas dinner, but this one did not. It is truly one of those cards you get knowing you are just on "the list."
What angered me was that stabbing reminder that I do have family members. Even more aggravating was that their beloved first born child is the reason why I cannot have any contact with any of that family. Their son!
That ignites a whole string of thinking and emotions for me. Do they know their son is the reason I cannot be near my family? Why do they think it's been five years since they have seen their oldest grandchild? Do they even wonder how life is for me, do they even care?
Why have they never been loving or showed really any sense of genuine care for me? They have grandchildren they have shown genuine interest in, but not in my brothers or myself. Was that because my dad didn't allow them close to us? My mom never liked them, but I never understood why. Was it her that didn't allow them close?
It's easy to consider my hometown as a place similar to my perception of hell when I think about the evil I faced in my childhood. The face of evil took several forms in my life, but notably in the face of my dad. My dad who was the product of these two people.
Do they have any idea just how evil their own son is? Do they have any clue about all the things he did to his children? Do they know he beat his children, raped them, forced them into prostitution, forced drug use on them or haunt them as adults?
My heart can't fathom it, but my mind has to ask....Are they the reason he is evil? Do they bare some responsibility for what he became as an adult? My life is severely altered as an adult because of how I grew up. Is that his story too?
Do NOT for one second think that I am somehow searching for a reason to excuse his behavior. I have NEVER stepped into that depth of dysfunction just because it was done to me. But I have to wonder. Could the Christmas card I'm holding look innocent, but come from the origin of where my life went wrong?
I really do hate that a Christmas card can kick me back down into my out of control emotional spiral. Please bottom, hurry fast!
Amid the ads and propaganda was a small Christmas card. The return address from my hometown, which I understandably refer to as "Hell." My heart pounding and tears filling my eyes, I opened the envelope.
The envelope contained a small, innocent Christmas card. "To wish you all the joys of a MERRY CHRISTMAS Season" was printed on the inside, followed by an impersonal signature..."Grandmother Grandfather H-----d.
Christmas cards from my family had tapered off over the past few years and last year, I received none. This card reduced me to an angry mess almost immediately.
It wasn't the cold, impersonal signature that made me angry. This set of grandparents has never been overly loving or warm. My grandma is an incredibly submissive wife to my overbearing, berating grandpa. While I've never seen him be physically aggressive with her, I have seen him abuse her emotionally at family gatherings. Not a huge stretch of the imagination considering what my dad is like.
Some of the past cards have included an invitation to Christmas dinner, but this one did not. It is truly one of those cards you get knowing you are just on "the list."
What angered me was that stabbing reminder that I do have family members. Even more aggravating was that their beloved first born child is the reason why I cannot have any contact with any of that family. Their son!
That ignites a whole string of thinking and emotions for me. Do they know their son is the reason I cannot be near my family? Why do they think it's been five years since they have seen their oldest grandchild? Do they even wonder how life is for me, do they even care?
Why have they never been loving or showed really any sense of genuine care for me? They have grandchildren they have shown genuine interest in, but not in my brothers or myself. Was that because my dad didn't allow them close to us? My mom never liked them, but I never understood why. Was it her that didn't allow them close?
It's easy to consider my hometown as a place similar to my perception of hell when I think about the evil I faced in my childhood. The face of evil took several forms in my life, but notably in the face of my dad. My dad who was the product of these two people.
Do they have any idea just how evil their own son is? Do they have any clue about all the things he did to his children? Do they know he beat his children, raped them, forced them into prostitution, forced drug use on them or haunt them as adults?
My heart can't fathom it, but my mind has to ask....Are they the reason he is evil? Do they bare some responsibility for what he became as an adult? My life is severely altered as an adult because of how I grew up. Is that his story too?
Do NOT for one second think that I am somehow searching for a reason to excuse his behavior. I have NEVER stepped into that depth of dysfunction just because it was done to me. But I have to wonder. Could the Christmas card I'm holding look innocent, but come from the origin of where my life went wrong?
I really do hate that a Christmas card can kick me back down into my out of control emotional spiral. Please bottom, hurry fast!
Monday, December 5, 2011
Hidden in a Snow Globe
This morning I was reminded of a conversation I recently had with a friend. She couldn't fathom how a true Christian could get depressed when all they needed was Jesus. I understand her argument that God should be enough no matter what the situation. Living as if that is absolute truth is more difficult than it is to let those words fall from your lips. In fact, I have come up against many Christians who don't believe depression should ever be an ailment of other Christians. So NOT true!
Thinking through that this morning, I had the little voice inside me reminding me that there are real reasons for the way I feel. Becoming a Christian only made things like Christmas more difficult. Becoming a Christian meant I had to look at everything in truth and stop hiding in the dark. Christmas time is one of those things that had to be kept in the dark, so that it didn't threaten to bring me down like it is doing now.
I know I've mentioned a little bit in the past about what Christmas was like for me as a child and to summarize, it was never good. It was always a time of pain, physically and emotionally.
Someone asked me the other day if there were things from my childhood that I remembered about Christmas that were good. Yes, but no was my answer.
I went several years with some extended family to the Christmas Eve Midnight Mass at their church. I absolutely loved the warm, decorated church. My favorite part was the music. It was my chance to sing the Christmas music that I knew from school. Obviously this was back in the day when it was still ok in a small town school to sing about Christ.
It was still impossible to hold onto that joy for longer than the 60 minute service. The priest was the one who had witnessed my cousin molesting me and failed to stop it. The other downside was that the same cousin would always find a way to molest me shortly after arriving home from the service.
Somewhere along the way, I received a gift of a snow globe. In the glittery snow sat a manger scene and it played O' Little Town of Bethlehem. At the time, it was just a song I knew and knew I liked. The manger scene inside wasn't about baby Jesus at all. To me, this was a very real picture of a mother and father who loved their baby so much that they could do nothing more than stare intently. Because of the song, I knew it was somehow associated with Christmas.
Whether my heart was broken or I had been beaten and assaulted on one my dad's rampages, I could look into my snow globe and see what it would be like if my parents had loved me. My dad tried many times to take that snow globe away from me, causing me to learn to hide it well. I used to think he didn't want me to think parents were supposed to care like that. However, now I think it represented a God that he hates.
The last time I saw the snow globe was one night over Christmas break as a teen when I had been savagely beaten and raped. I desperately stared at the baby, wishing to be in the presence of two parents who loved me. Without any warning and in the blink of an eye, my dad grabbed the snow globe from my hands. He took it to the front steps and smashed it onto the sidewalk.
It's not an exaggeration to say I was devastated. It's also not a stretch to understand how the constant evil in my life could possibly be wreaking havoc with me today.
It's easy when you aren't a Christian to keep everything in the dark pit, locked up and unexposed. But being a Christian has forced me to crawl in that pit and expose myself to what is really true. I know that the end goal is to emerge from the pit, living with a new truth...exposed and unashamed of what was, looking forward to what is and will forever be.
Until that day, it's a constant fight in that pit. I believe it's a battle, a spiritual battle. Either give up and walk away from the truth or stay in the pit and fight it out until I can get out. Do what's easy or do what's hard. It's getting harder to do the hard thing. I said it last night and I'm learning it's more true everyday. I cannot do this by myself. By myself, I will lose the battle.
Thinking through that this morning, I had the little voice inside me reminding me that there are real reasons for the way I feel. Becoming a Christian only made things like Christmas more difficult. Becoming a Christian meant I had to look at everything in truth and stop hiding in the dark. Christmas time is one of those things that had to be kept in the dark, so that it didn't threaten to bring me down like it is doing now.
I know I've mentioned a little bit in the past about what Christmas was like for me as a child and to summarize, it was never good. It was always a time of pain, physically and emotionally.
Someone asked me the other day if there were things from my childhood that I remembered about Christmas that were good. Yes, but no was my answer.
I went several years with some extended family to the Christmas Eve Midnight Mass at their church. I absolutely loved the warm, decorated church. My favorite part was the music. It was my chance to sing the Christmas music that I knew from school. Obviously this was back in the day when it was still ok in a small town school to sing about Christ.
It was still impossible to hold onto that joy for longer than the 60 minute service. The priest was the one who had witnessed my cousin molesting me and failed to stop it. The other downside was that the same cousin would always find a way to molest me shortly after arriving home from the service.
Somewhere along the way, I received a gift of a snow globe. In the glittery snow sat a manger scene and it played O' Little Town of Bethlehem. At the time, it was just a song I knew and knew I liked. The manger scene inside wasn't about baby Jesus at all. To me, this was a very real picture of a mother and father who loved their baby so much that they could do nothing more than stare intently. Because of the song, I knew it was somehow associated with Christmas.
Whether my heart was broken or I had been beaten and assaulted on one my dad's rampages, I could look into my snow globe and see what it would be like if my parents had loved me. My dad tried many times to take that snow globe away from me, causing me to learn to hide it well. I used to think he didn't want me to think parents were supposed to care like that. However, now I think it represented a God that he hates.
The last time I saw the snow globe was one night over Christmas break as a teen when I had been savagely beaten and raped. I desperately stared at the baby, wishing to be in the presence of two parents who loved me. Without any warning and in the blink of an eye, my dad grabbed the snow globe from my hands. He took it to the front steps and smashed it onto the sidewalk.
It's not an exaggeration to say I was devastated. It's also not a stretch to understand how the constant evil in my life could possibly be wreaking havoc with me today.
It's easy when you aren't a Christian to keep everything in the dark pit, locked up and unexposed. But being a Christian has forced me to crawl in that pit and expose myself to what is really true. I know that the end goal is to emerge from the pit, living with a new truth...exposed and unashamed of what was, looking forward to what is and will forever be.
Until that day, it's a constant fight in that pit. I believe it's a battle, a spiritual battle. Either give up and walk away from the truth or stay in the pit and fight it out until I can get out. Do what's easy or do what's hard. It's getting harder to do the hard thing. I said it last night and I'm learning it's more true everyday. I cannot do this by myself. By myself, I will lose the battle.
Sunday, December 4, 2011
My Road Block
While looking at Christmas lights tonight, I realized something very important. Just because I am struggling to put one foot in front of the other right now, there are people who are not. There are people who solidly place faith in prayer and are not currently wrestling through what they believe.
I know some amazing prayer warriors. They will be on their face in prayer over every request brought to them and over things they've yet to know.
It seems almost hypocritical to ask anyone for prayer when I'm struggling with the act of it myself. Not only that, but I'm such a mess that I don't know how to summarize what I need right now.
You know that feeling you get when someone taps your shoulder because you are standing in their way? That's exactly what I was feeling tonight as I thought about all of this.
The truth is that I'm living day to day in a pretty dark world right now, emotionally and mentally. I physically don't feel well with some inner ear problems going on and my adnomyosis acting up. I crawl into bed every night with a fairly grim outlook on life.
Drudging through day after day without having anything hopeful to hang onto is tiresome. But am I just standing in the way? I don't necessarily mean am I just a roadblock that needs to be removed from life...or maybe I do. In keeping this mostly to myself, putting a smile on my face when I'm anywhere near most other people, am I standing in the way of truly allowing people to help?
Outside of trying to talk through some of what is going on with me, what could anyone really do to help? Aren't I just another waste of time that never gets any better? Or is the very thing I struggle with really the answer?
Can the thing I need the most to save me from this awful dark place be found in prayer? Not prayer from me, but prayer from others. Am I being a roadblock by not pursuing help in this spiritual battle? How do I hold onto something I struggle to believe if I don't have a firm grip on those who do?
I don't have the answer to any of those questions. However I rest firmly in knowing this...I cannot do this alone. Without help, I will never be able to merge from this darkness.
I know some amazing prayer warriors. They will be on their face in prayer over every request brought to them and over things they've yet to know.
It seems almost hypocritical to ask anyone for prayer when I'm struggling with the act of it myself. Not only that, but I'm such a mess that I don't know how to summarize what I need right now.
You know that feeling you get when someone taps your shoulder because you are standing in their way? That's exactly what I was feeling tonight as I thought about all of this.
The truth is that I'm living day to day in a pretty dark world right now, emotionally and mentally. I physically don't feel well with some inner ear problems going on and my adnomyosis acting up. I crawl into bed every night with a fairly grim outlook on life.
Drudging through day after day without having anything hopeful to hang onto is tiresome. But am I just standing in the way? I don't necessarily mean am I just a roadblock that needs to be removed from life...or maybe I do. In keeping this mostly to myself, putting a smile on my face when I'm anywhere near most other people, am I standing in the way of truly allowing people to help?
Outside of trying to talk through some of what is going on with me, what could anyone really do to help? Aren't I just another waste of time that never gets any better? Or is the very thing I struggle with really the answer?
Can the thing I need the most to save me from this awful dark place be found in prayer? Not prayer from me, but prayer from others. Am I being a roadblock by not pursuing help in this spiritual battle? How do I hold onto something I struggle to believe if I don't have a firm grip on those who do?
I don't have the answer to any of those questions. However I rest firmly in knowing this...I cannot do this alone. Without help, I will never be able to merge from this darkness.
Saturday, December 3, 2011
I think I can, I think I can...
Nope...my little train can't.
I might be reaching the point of desparation in the daunting task of pulling my butt off this downward spiral I am in currently. It isn't that I'm afraid of being depressed or that this is something new to me.
Most years, I'm standing on the other side of January 1st thinking, "whew I made it." The holidays are always difficult. With the exception of last year, I don't remember ever having an ok Christmas for as long as I can remember.
Last year was unique, which I think could be making this year even more difficult. This time last year, I was wrapped up in a friendship that offered me something I had never had. The whirlwind activities of November and December filled my mind and heart with a block from the normal slope of emotions.
This year there is no buffer and now I also am left to grieve what was lost with the end of that same relationship, adding even more emotion.
I am TRYING, I really am. I feel like I have to reassure myself that yes, I am doing everything I can.
Even music isn't working right now. I have tried to listen, but the words can't seem to wiggle around the walls that keep them from penetrating my head and heart. Listening intently to songs which have taught me or spoke deeply to me at one time only bring me to tears now as I can't register one bit of it.
One of the songs I go to in the worst of times is Third Day's "Cry Out to Jesus." Because I'm struggling to understand or believe in prayer, even my go to song isn't working. There's nobody to cry out to when you don't believe anybody is listening. So, I just cry.
I absolutely hate feeling this way. I hate being a depressed, anxiety filled mess going into each night, wondering if daylight will come or if I'll step into another day of darkness.
I might be reaching the point of desparation in the daunting task of pulling my butt off this downward spiral I am in currently. It isn't that I'm afraid of being depressed or that this is something new to me.
Most years, I'm standing on the other side of January 1st thinking, "whew I made it." The holidays are always difficult. With the exception of last year, I don't remember ever having an ok Christmas for as long as I can remember.
Last year was unique, which I think could be making this year even more difficult. This time last year, I was wrapped up in a friendship that offered me something I had never had. The whirlwind activities of November and December filled my mind and heart with a block from the normal slope of emotions.
This year there is no buffer and now I also am left to grieve what was lost with the end of that same relationship, adding even more emotion.
I am TRYING, I really am. I feel like I have to reassure myself that yes, I am doing everything I can.
Even music isn't working right now. I have tried to listen, but the words can't seem to wiggle around the walls that keep them from penetrating my head and heart. Listening intently to songs which have taught me or spoke deeply to me at one time only bring me to tears now as I can't register one bit of it.
One of the songs I go to in the worst of times is Third Day's "Cry Out to Jesus." Because I'm struggling to understand or believe in prayer, even my go to song isn't working. There's nobody to cry out to when you don't believe anybody is listening. So, I just cry.
I absolutely hate feeling this way. I hate being a depressed, anxiety filled mess going into each night, wondering if daylight will come or if I'll step into another day of darkness.
Friday, December 2, 2011
For Me
The title simply put is exactly why I have continued to write, even though it wasn't my goal when I started. I wanted a place to come to see the ups and downs of my life. A place to easily find the best of times to hang onto while wading through the worst of times.
That's still the case, but even with all I have written I can't seem to dig myself out of the current downhill slide. Wrestling with all things bible based is not a new thing for me. In fact, it's usually where I've learned the most about myself and about God. But this time is different.
This time there is an internal battle brewing inside me like a civil war in my gut and far different than what I've experienced in the past. In the past, I might struggle through a particular time, subject or hurt for a short amount of time, bouncing back after some time to calm down or think clearly.
Not this time. There might as well be a double solid brick wall between me and the bible, the church and especially God.
I don't want life to be like this. I truly do have enough to struggle through. I wish someone could tell me how to fix this mess so that the distance between me and all that is right can be closed again.
That's still the case, but even with all I have written I can't seem to dig myself out of the current downhill slide. Wrestling with all things bible based is not a new thing for me. In fact, it's usually where I've learned the most about myself and about God. But this time is different.
This time there is an internal battle brewing inside me like a civil war in my gut and far different than what I've experienced in the past. In the past, I might struggle through a particular time, subject or hurt for a short amount of time, bouncing back after some time to calm down or think clearly.
Not this time. There might as well be a double solid brick wall between me and the bible, the church and especially God.
I don't want life to be like this. I truly do have enough to struggle through. I wish someone could tell me how to fix this mess so that the distance between me and all that is right can be closed again.
Thursday, December 1, 2011
Slipping Away Again
Now is the first day of December and I can already feel another Christmas slipping away from me. My string of A-Z problems are once again threatening to let all the holidays fly past without being able to see experience any joy.
It's been several years since I've been able to decorate my house. I start with every good intention, but quickly get sidetracked. Most years I'm barely able to throw a wreath on the wall and the stockings on the mantle. As I covered before, I don't even have a mantle this year.
Yes, the little holiday bug has burrowed into my heart. Not in a Scrooge-like way, but in a way throws me into the depths of depression.
My husband has tried for many years to change the holidays for me. But, I've decided that might be too big of a job for one person.
Watch the movies or listen to the music...holidays are times of joining together with family and friends. Historically, neither as been true for us. It's a time when we find ourselves more isolated because everyone around us is celebrating in their realms of tradition.
Christmas time for me is void of all warm-fuzzy memories with family. But the older I get, the more I realize how many pieces of my tattered heart still break over what never was and what can never be. I will never have a mother who anxiously awaits my return for the holidays.
Not that it's perfect, but my husband has a family who loves him and cannot wait for him to visit during the holidays. I know how badly he wants for me to have that with his family, but it's just not so. It is such a bittersweet time to be with his family at Christmas. The love they share, even in their own dysfunction, is amazing. I love seeing them all together and the love they show to each other. It makes me smile while tears threaten to drown me inside. It's not my family. Although some have tried to include me, the tight knit family makes it impossible to ever feel fully included.
Since it is only the first day of December, there's still time. But, I know part of what lies in the days ahead and I fully expect the whole month to pass me by. Given the spiritual state of my life, there's not even a shred of hope that things will somehow end differently than I suspect.
It's a dark place to rest when the world around you is moving at a steady pace amongst twinkling lights and even the true reason for celebrating escapes from your heart.
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
You Just Don't Know
Today I heard several people commenting about suicide. They had the typical responses to the word that many people don't understand.
People tend to believe suicide is a selfish choice made by a person who just didn't understand how to find the positive in life. They make comments about how awful it is for that person to have done "that" to their family.
I have come to the conclusion that those people have lived blessed lives in which suicide has never filtered through their thinking. How wonderful it must be to have a life that has never offered such a deep hurt to bring a person to that permanent solution.
It's personally hard to hear those comments knowing how I think and what I have been through.
Let me say that I have lost friends and family members to suicide. I have never felt as though they were selfish. In fact, I have been heartbroken for them that their life had taken them in that direction.
It is only honest for me to say I often feel the same way. For the past several years, I try to make a point to share appreciation with those who care about me. Always because I am appreciative of what they have done in my life, but also because I never want there to ever be any question. If day comes when I truly cannot handle my life any more, I want those people to know they did what they could and they are never to blame.
Because I have spent a lot of time thinking through this for myself, I can honestly say that I believe those who take their lives are victims of suicide.
There has never been someone take their own life who doesn't have any problems. They are sick people who aren't able to get through that illness. Some live with depression or chronic physical pain and others have made mistakes which they feel are unforgivable. Some people live without any hope that their lives will improve.
Regardless of the situation, the truth remains the same. The person has an illness and often untreated. I believe it is the illness which drives them to take their lives.
In my case, I have an illness which statistically reads like a life long battle with years in therapy and not being able to lead a life that I had dreamed of having. There is a good reason why insurance companies refuse to offer life insurance to people like me. The risk is too high.
I have seen great depths of evil and often feel as though I can't possible go through another painful event. There are even times I want to offer a way out for those who take care of me. It only takes one blow up with my husband to drive me to want to allow him to spend the rest of his life without having to deal with me.
There are times when I feel like a walking open wound and that there is no way out of the mess I am in. My parents didn't want me and only saw me as a burden. It's easy to think the rest of the world would feel the same. It isn't a selfish act that would drive me to do it, it is the illness that keeps me down.
The truth is that unless you have been down that path, you really can't say anything about suicide. You just don't know how deep the pain was nor how dark the place where they lost their fight.
People tend to believe suicide is a selfish choice made by a person who just didn't understand how to find the positive in life. They make comments about how awful it is for that person to have done "that" to their family.
I have come to the conclusion that those people have lived blessed lives in which suicide has never filtered through their thinking. How wonderful it must be to have a life that has never offered such a deep hurt to bring a person to that permanent solution.
It's personally hard to hear those comments knowing how I think and what I have been through.
Let me say that I have lost friends and family members to suicide. I have never felt as though they were selfish. In fact, I have been heartbroken for them that their life had taken them in that direction.
It is only honest for me to say I often feel the same way. For the past several years, I try to make a point to share appreciation with those who care about me. Always because I am appreciative of what they have done in my life, but also because I never want there to ever be any question. If day comes when I truly cannot handle my life any more, I want those people to know they did what they could and they are never to blame.
Because I have spent a lot of time thinking through this for myself, I can honestly say that I believe those who take their lives are victims of suicide.
There has never been someone take their own life who doesn't have any problems. They are sick people who aren't able to get through that illness. Some live with depression or chronic physical pain and others have made mistakes which they feel are unforgivable. Some people live without any hope that their lives will improve.
Regardless of the situation, the truth remains the same. The person has an illness and often untreated. I believe it is the illness which drives them to take their lives.
In my case, I have an illness which statistically reads like a life long battle with years in therapy and not being able to lead a life that I had dreamed of having. There is a good reason why insurance companies refuse to offer life insurance to people like me. The risk is too high.
I have seen great depths of evil and often feel as though I can't possible go through another painful event. There are even times I want to offer a way out for those who take care of me. It only takes one blow up with my husband to drive me to want to allow him to spend the rest of his life without having to deal with me.
There are times when I feel like a walking open wound and that there is no way out of the mess I am in. My parents didn't want me and only saw me as a burden. It's easy to think the rest of the world would feel the same. It isn't a selfish act that would drive me to do it, it is the illness that keeps me down.
The truth is that unless you have been down that path, you really can't say anything about suicide. You just don't know how deep the pain was nor how dark the place where they lost their fight.
Thursday, November 24, 2011
Not Quite the Same
It's almost 10 PM on Thanksgiving day and I've yet to do anything more significant than shower. I wasn't sick, not physically anyway. The reality of the season kicked my butt today and rendered me useless.
Most years, we make a whirlwind trip back to Kent's parents just to eat lunch. The last time I saw any of my family on a holiday was over five years ago. Since then, it's always been hard to visit Kent's family. They live minutes from mine and not seeing my niece's and nephew's is painful.
This year we thought we would try to avoid the emotional drag of the Thanksgiving weekend by traveling to Branson. We have a little cabin that we just love, nestled away from all the traffic and crowds. The cabin has everything we need to feel at home.
Kent made some amazing chili and cleaned up the kitchen. I watched the Macy's parade without seeing much of it, losing my focus to what was really in my heart.
The overwhelming loneliness that settles deep in my heart this time of year had taken hold even though I had tried to run from it. No family to celebrate with. No real progress in the hardest parts of my life to be thankful for this year. Not even turkey, dressing or homemade pie.
I do have things to be thankful for this year. However, I am thankful for those things all the time and not just on a day which draws you to thankfulness.
The truth is that having no children and no family and so many issues that I must live in a self-protective bubble doesn't get any easier. And....it only gets more difficult through Christmas.
My holiday funk this year just happens to hit me as my spiritual life is feeling rocky at best. All the while I have to try to produce an outward smile to make those around me comfortable.
The past few years I have gone into this time of year seriously wondering if this would be the last time I would feel this way. I don't think this year is any different. I can't help but think that even if I tried, I'd still be hit with the same problem next year.
I've been accused of being overly negative. How can it be negative if it's exactly what's in your heart and that honesty comes pouring out? Oh well, that's another post for another day.
I sincerely hope your holiday was filled with family, friends and good food.
Most years, we make a whirlwind trip back to Kent's parents just to eat lunch. The last time I saw any of my family on a holiday was over five years ago. Since then, it's always been hard to visit Kent's family. They live minutes from mine and not seeing my niece's and nephew's is painful.
This year we thought we would try to avoid the emotional drag of the Thanksgiving weekend by traveling to Branson. We have a little cabin that we just love, nestled away from all the traffic and crowds. The cabin has everything we need to feel at home.
Kent made some amazing chili and cleaned up the kitchen. I watched the Macy's parade without seeing much of it, losing my focus to what was really in my heart.
The overwhelming loneliness that settles deep in my heart this time of year had taken hold even though I had tried to run from it. No family to celebrate with. No real progress in the hardest parts of my life to be thankful for this year. Not even turkey, dressing or homemade pie.
I do have things to be thankful for this year. However, I am thankful for those things all the time and not just on a day which draws you to thankfulness.
The truth is that having no children and no family and so many issues that I must live in a self-protective bubble doesn't get any easier. And....it only gets more difficult through Christmas.
My holiday funk this year just happens to hit me as my spiritual life is feeling rocky at best. All the while I have to try to produce an outward smile to make those around me comfortable.
The past few years I have gone into this time of year seriously wondering if this would be the last time I would feel this way. I don't think this year is any different. I can't help but think that even if I tried, I'd still be hit with the same problem next year.
I've been accused of being overly negative. How can it be negative if it's exactly what's in your heart and that honesty comes pouring out? Oh well, that's another post for another day.
I sincerely hope your holiday was filled with family, friends and good food.
Monday, November 21, 2011
All I Want for Christmas
...is a fireplace mantle.
I know that might seem like an odd thing to wish for, but maybe not when you understand why.
As you can imagine, my childhood was filled with trauma and pain. Each year I allowed myself to be full of hope, only to have it ripped away. My parents fulfilled only empty promises and left me heartbroken. They thought it was funny to take me to see Santa and let me excitement grow. On Christmas morning, I often found nothing for me or empty boxes filled with the echoes of my parents laughter as they watched my tears fall to the bottom. On occasion, I opened heavy, full gifts to find miscellaneous items for my brothers.
My grandma always hung stockings on fireplace for each of the six of us grandchildren. The other five had candy and toys filling their stockings. Because my grandma knew my dad would never allow me to keep candy or toys, she filled my stocking with apples, oranges and bananas. While it wasn't a complete disappointment, it still hurt. As a kid, I wondered why Santa wouldn't give me the same goodies the other kids got. However, it was better than nothing...never questioning and secretly crying in the corner.
When Kent and I looked at houses, I desperately wanted one with a fireplace. It wasn't that I wanted a fireplace so much as a mantle. I envisioned hanging stockings on the mantle for my kids, my husband and myself, filling them with everything wonderful.
I may not have been able to ever have stockings for children, but for 12 years I have been able to hang stockings for Kent, the dogs and myself. I fill each of the stockings and Kent fills mine. Without fail, we have been able to fulfill that deep-seeded desire to have a tradition which moves me further away from the many years of disappointment.
This year we won't be able to continue our tradition and it's difficult to accept.
Most of the house has been refinished since March of this year. It wasn't our decision to do the complete overhaul of the house, although it needed done. We were pushed into the decision by someone who hadn't considered what it would take to put back together. That person failed to take into consideration that we didn't have the finances to pay people to put the house back together once it was torn apart. We've gotten a lot done, but it's far from finished.
We had a few people help paint and do a couple miscellaneous repairs, but for the most part it has fallen all on Kent. He works three jobs and rarely has time to take on any of the many projects which are left. One of those projects is the mantle.
Our old mantle was ugly, but functional. It was ripped off the wall without any regard for when we be able to replace it. We found a mantle several months back. But the mantle is very low on the priority list, I mean we still don't have a bathroom sink installed in our 1/2 bath. So, it stays sitting in the box nestled in the back of the garage.
That silly mantle is a double whammy for me this year. It symbolizes wreck most of this past year has been and all the mess that is still undone in our lives or house. It also brings back some of those same feelings of disappointment that I've been keeping at bay for the past 12 years.
I don't care that the house remodel has tapped us out and there won't be much under the tree. My Christmas list consists of finishing the house with the mantle on the top of the list.
I know that might seem like an odd thing to wish for, but maybe not when you understand why.
As you can imagine, my childhood was filled with trauma and pain. Each year I allowed myself to be full of hope, only to have it ripped away. My parents fulfilled only empty promises and left me heartbroken. They thought it was funny to take me to see Santa and let me excitement grow. On Christmas morning, I often found nothing for me or empty boxes filled with the echoes of my parents laughter as they watched my tears fall to the bottom. On occasion, I opened heavy, full gifts to find miscellaneous items for my brothers.
My grandma always hung stockings on fireplace for each of the six of us grandchildren. The other five had candy and toys filling their stockings. Because my grandma knew my dad would never allow me to keep candy or toys, she filled my stocking with apples, oranges and bananas. While it wasn't a complete disappointment, it still hurt. As a kid, I wondered why Santa wouldn't give me the same goodies the other kids got. However, it was better than nothing...never questioning and secretly crying in the corner.
When Kent and I looked at houses, I desperately wanted one with a fireplace. It wasn't that I wanted a fireplace so much as a mantle. I envisioned hanging stockings on the mantle for my kids, my husband and myself, filling them with everything wonderful.
I may not have been able to ever have stockings for children, but for 12 years I have been able to hang stockings for Kent, the dogs and myself. I fill each of the stockings and Kent fills mine. Without fail, we have been able to fulfill that deep-seeded desire to have a tradition which moves me further away from the many years of disappointment.
This year we won't be able to continue our tradition and it's difficult to accept.
Most of the house has been refinished since March of this year. It wasn't our decision to do the complete overhaul of the house, although it needed done. We were pushed into the decision by someone who hadn't considered what it would take to put back together. That person failed to take into consideration that we didn't have the finances to pay people to put the house back together once it was torn apart. We've gotten a lot done, but it's far from finished.
We had a few people help paint and do a couple miscellaneous repairs, but for the most part it has fallen all on Kent. He works three jobs and rarely has time to take on any of the many projects which are left. One of those projects is the mantle.
Our old mantle was ugly, but functional. It was ripped off the wall without any regard for when we be able to replace it. We found a mantle several months back. But the mantle is very low on the priority list, I mean we still don't have a bathroom sink installed in our 1/2 bath. So, it stays sitting in the box nestled in the back of the garage.
That silly mantle is a double whammy for me this year. It symbolizes wreck most of this past year has been and all the mess that is still undone in our lives or house. It also brings back some of those same feelings of disappointment that I've been keeping at bay for the past 12 years.
I don't care that the house remodel has tapped us out and there won't be much under the tree. My Christmas list consists of finishing the house with the mantle on the top of the list.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Dry as a Desert
What would you say if I told you that I hadn't opened my bible in over a year? What would you say if I told you I hadn't been to church more than once or twice in over three months? What would you say if I told you that I rarely pray? What would you say if I said I had only limited involvement in bible study or church groups? Would you have a response? Would you shake your head and walk away thinking it was my problem to deal with? Would you discuss it further with a genuine concern for my spiritual life?
Chances are you would never know because it would be rare for me to share those things with anyone for fear of judgement. I mean how in the world could I call myself a Christian if this is how I live my life, right?
But guess what? All those things are true, brutally so. Do I think I'm really a Christian? I mean how dare I call myself one if I don't live like one. Honestly, I don't know. Maybe I'm not a Christian. I belong to a church, prayed the prayer to accept Christ as my Savior and truly do believe there is a God who loves me.
In fact, I am confident in that. Do I necessarily believe God is all that I have been told? Probably not, but that's why I don't consider myself a mature Christian. I suppose my confidence lies more in believing that God knows exactly how I feel right now.
Maybe it's just a phase people go through, I'm not sure. Nobody really ever talks about this part of being a Christian much, so it's hard to know if I'm the only person to ever feel this way or not.
My bible has been in a case floating from room to room and being tucked into places with the occasional dusting of the cover, but hasn't been cracked open in a year. In fact, it is a very nice study bible and I think it's been open maybe a dozen times in three years. I like to use the excuse that nobody ever explained to me how to use it. But the truth is more that I know what to do with it. I can open it to a page and read, but the words aren't going to make sense to me.
I can give you many, many excuses about why I don't go to church. I'm not sure any of them are valid enough to skip out for the past several months. If you know much about me, you might have some understanding of the constant battles in life I face. But it's a special kind of battle that usually starts on Saturday night and follows me into Sunday. I have more than a resistance to church. Repulsion is probably more like it. The few times I have gone have been absolutely fruitless and I was not able to take in one word of what was said and log it to memory...let alone apply it to my life.
The same is true for bible studies. This is probably the one area where I continue to show up even if I don't feel up to it or know it's not sinking into my thick head. It's rare for me to make it to the various bible studies around church, but I have managed to pick up some privately. I really do try in those times and continue to do so, but there seems to be a wall that just won't crumble for me.
I have left or just stopped going to any and all small groups I was once involved in at church. To show up for those only makes me feel like a hypocrite when I constantly bail on everything else. Why not be consistent, right? As much as I love singing and being in choir, I can't bring myself to go to that either. Why go when I'm not there on Sunday.
That brings me to prayer. I'm not convinced that prayer is of any help at all. If God is truly sovereign, then what place does prayer have in a Christian life? I wish someone would explain that to me. Why bother asking when God's going to do what God's already planning to do? What makes me think that my words or thoughts would have any influence over that? Well, I don't believe they would. Prayer is something I certainly don't understand and the common, "Do it because it's the right thing to do," answer doesn't really work for me.
Yes, my spiritual life is like a dry desert full of dust covered sand and the remains of what was once a growing land of trees and grass that has long dried up.
Don't get me wrong, everything I've written in the past I fully believe to be true. And, I don't necessarily believe God has left me. Although I do think I'm a million miles away and continuing to head even further. That brings this song to mind and I think is very fitting of how I feel right now.
Maybe I've left Him. Not because He had nothing to offer me, but maybe because I didn't know how to get what I needed. It's way easier to give up and move on than to figure out how get what you need.
Chances are you would never know because it would be rare for me to share those things with anyone for fear of judgement. I mean how in the world could I call myself a Christian if this is how I live my life, right?
But guess what? All those things are true, brutally so. Do I think I'm really a Christian? I mean how dare I call myself one if I don't live like one. Honestly, I don't know. Maybe I'm not a Christian. I belong to a church, prayed the prayer to accept Christ as my Savior and truly do believe there is a God who loves me.
In fact, I am confident in that. Do I necessarily believe God is all that I have been told? Probably not, but that's why I don't consider myself a mature Christian. I suppose my confidence lies more in believing that God knows exactly how I feel right now.
Maybe it's just a phase people go through, I'm not sure. Nobody really ever talks about this part of being a Christian much, so it's hard to know if I'm the only person to ever feel this way or not.
My bible has been in a case floating from room to room and being tucked into places with the occasional dusting of the cover, but hasn't been cracked open in a year. In fact, it is a very nice study bible and I think it's been open maybe a dozen times in three years. I like to use the excuse that nobody ever explained to me how to use it. But the truth is more that I know what to do with it. I can open it to a page and read, but the words aren't going to make sense to me.
I can give you many, many excuses about why I don't go to church. I'm not sure any of them are valid enough to skip out for the past several months. If you know much about me, you might have some understanding of the constant battles in life I face. But it's a special kind of battle that usually starts on Saturday night and follows me into Sunday. I have more than a resistance to church. Repulsion is probably more like it. The few times I have gone have been absolutely fruitless and I was not able to take in one word of what was said and log it to memory...let alone apply it to my life.
The same is true for bible studies. This is probably the one area where I continue to show up even if I don't feel up to it or know it's not sinking into my thick head. It's rare for me to make it to the various bible studies around church, but I have managed to pick up some privately. I really do try in those times and continue to do so, but there seems to be a wall that just won't crumble for me.
I have left or just stopped going to any and all small groups I was once involved in at church. To show up for those only makes me feel like a hypocrite when I constantly bail on everything else. Why not be consistent, right? As much as I love singing and being in choir, I can't bring myself to go to that either. Why go when I'm not there on Sunday.
That brings me to prayer. I'm not convinced that prayer is of any help at all. If God is truly sovereign, then what place does prayer have in a Christian life? I wish someone would explain that to me. Why bother asking when God's going to do what God's already planning to do? What makes me think that my words or thoughts would have any influence over that? Well, I don't believe they would. Prayer is something I certainly don't understand and the common, "Do it because it's the right thing to do," answer doesn't really work for me.
Yes, my spiritual life is like a dry desert full of dust covered sand and the remains of what was once a growing land of trees and grass that has long dried up.
Don't get me wrong, everything I've written in the past I fully believe to be true. And, I don't necessarily believe God has left me. Although I do think I'm a million miles away and continuing to head even further. That brings this song to mind and I think is very fitting of how I feel right now.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
You Tube
I am by no means technologically challenged, but putting together a music video slide show for You Tube was a challenge.
A little over a year ago, I put together a slide show to Matthew West's song "Broken Girl." Since the post date, it has been watched nearly 100,000 times.
The slide show is a personal collection of photos, including one of my baby photos and another recent photo of me. It was an easy decision to include those. You see, I believe I was born absolutely perfect and was meant to be a blessing to my parents. That was not to be the case with my family and various abusers making me a broken girl.
Admittedly, I am not a big fan of the actual music. However, the words are my life. Putting my pictures to these words was a way for me to tell the world that the shame of my abuse falls on the abusers and NOT on me. It was my personal admission that I did nothing to deserve it, nor could I have prevented it. It was my personal way to stand up and be counted as one of the millions.
The video has taken on a life of it's own or maybe a ministry. Several times a week, girls and women of all ages not only watch but leave comments. Some of them credit the song for giving them strength. Some of them are at their lowest point and they find comfort in knowing they are not alone. Some of them are searching for something to hold onto, they are searching for Jesus. Some of them come broken with the belief they will never be anything but broken.
Some of the girls have contacted me directly. I never think twice about reaching out to those girls and women. I always pray for them. I always recommend they reach out for help locally. There are times I even have to give out crisis phone numbers for those who mention suicide.
I have even been contacted by boyfriends and husbands who ask how they can best help their girlfriends and wives who have been abused.
The first young lady to ever contact me has stayed in constant contact with me. Through facebook, I have watched her life change dramatically over the past six months. She graduated high school, found a job, is headed to school in two months, began talking with her dysfunctional family and is finally in steady counseling. It has been amazing to see her life change and grow.
I'm not taking any credit for anything that has transpired from that video. I don't think I've changed anyone and I don't think I have done anything aside from posting the video. But it is amazing to watch God use a video or a song to speak to all the broken girls.
A little over a year ago, I put together a slide show to Matthew West's song "Broken Girl." Since the post date, it has been watched nearly 100,000 times.
The slide show is a personal collection of photos, including one of my baby photos and another recent photo of me. It was an easy decision to include those. You see, I believe I was born absolutely perfect and was meant to be a blessing to my parents. That was not to be the case with my family and various abusers making me a broken girl.
Admittedly, I am not a big fan of the actual music. However, the words are my life. Putting my pictures to these words was a way for me to tell the world that the shame of my abuse falls on the abusers and NOT on me. It was my personal admission that I did nothing to deserve it, nor could I have prevented it. It was my personal way to stand up and be counted as one of the millions.
The video has taken on a life of it's own or maybe a ministry. Several times a week, girls and women of all ages not only watch but leave comments. Some of them credit the song for giving them strength. Some of them are at their lowest point and they find comfort in knowing they are not alone. Some of them are searching for something to hold onto, they are searching for Jesus. Some of them come broken with the belief they will never be anything but broken.
Some of the girls have contacted me directly. I never think twice about reaching out to those girls and women. I always pray for them. I always recommend they reach out for help locally. There are times I even have to give out crisis phone numbers for those who mention suicide.
I have even been contacted by boyfriends and husbands who ask how they can best help their girlfriends and wives who have been abused.
The first young lady to ever contact me has stayed in constant contact with me. Through facebook, I have watched her life change dramatically over the past six months. She graduated high school, found a job, is headed to school in two months, began talking with her dysfunctional family and is finally in steady counseling. It has been amazing to see her life change and grow.
I'm not taking any credit for anything that has transpired from that video. I don't think I've changed anyone and I don't think I have done anything aside from posting the video. But it is amazing to watch God use a video or a song to speak to all the broken girls.
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