In November, I was given the opportunity to work with some very talented, special women. We were tasked with creating an event for women of our church.
That might sound like a simple thing to do, but it isn't. When you bring women together, all with different backgrounds, lives, likes and dislikes, there is going to be various preferences.
This group certainly went through a time of learning how to communicate with each other and a time of learning respect for each other's differences.
Through all of the ups and downs, big ideas and realistic planning, the event came and went. I would say it was a huge success. The feedback was great from those who attended. But that wasn't what made it a success to me. Those planning it, who had never worked together before on a project of this size, made it through with smiles on their faces.
We were all glad it was over because of the energy it takes to put on an event of this size. But I bet each of the ladies would say it was a joy to plan.
Through the planning of this event, I felt a change in my own heart.
I haven't always had patience with young people. I haven't ever found myself wanting to be around younger people. The lack of maturity that some young people exhibit has always been difficult for me to accept and spend time around.
This event solidified a change in me. For the past year, I found myself wanting to reach out to the younger ladies in our church. On occasion, I would send them an email to encourage them or just pray for them as I thought about them at random times.
Being around this spectacular group of young women made me care even more for the young ladies of our church. While I never shared this with them, I could see myself in so much of them. Whether it was juggling work and home or school and work, I could identify with where they were at in life.
I kick myself for not sharing this with them, but hearing them talk about life was the first time ever in our church when I felt like my life experiences could have prepared me to walk with anyone through anything.
Despite trying to fight it, I believe God laid that age group of women on my heart. I find myself wanting to encourage them or pray for them. If you know me well at all, you know that's not like me.
There really isn't a need or place for me to do anything with this, especially in our church. Our church is great with supporting this age group with a list of women who want to walk with this age group. So, I'll sit silently cheering them on and praying for them as I randomly hear of their various needs.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Monday, February 27, 2012
Who Are You?
That is the moment every loved one of a dementia patient dreads, but knows will come.
The past month has been a tough one for my husband and probably his family.
I am only guessing about his family, because they seem to have some communication malfunctions. Being slightly on the outside of things, I can see this for what it is. Two parents, 4 siblings, 4 grandkids, 1 son-in-law and 2 daughters-in-law are all trying to process this ugly thing called dementia. Everyone acts out of their own perceptions and fears. Some of that comes out in very hateful conversations or just a lack of all communication and all of this while trying to live through their own lives.
We could have only hoped that the past month would be status quo, but that wasn't to be.
The month started off with a birthday party for my husband's sister. His mom had a hard time keeping his sister and neice's names correct. That was hard for him to see. He came home from the party deflated, but I know he was thankful for the time he spent with his family.
In the following week, we received a save the date for his oldest neice who is getting married in Las Vegas in February 2013. A difficult realization set in as we both thought through the idea that his mom might not be able to mentally capable or phyiscally able to travel to see her first grandchild get married.
During the past week, things have been a bit tense for my husband. His mom was hospitalized for a short time with dehydration. We aren't sure if she had a virus or if her medication caused her problems.
What we learned was that when someone has dementia, they are not reliable in communicating health problems and cannot be reliable for overseeing their own medications. Through a conversation with the Neurologist's nurse, it was suggested that it was time for the family to consider adding a home health nurse for continued care.
Given his sister's frame of mind and increased stress level, a home health nurse is a wonderful suggestion. His mom is taking medications which are statistically given to late stage dementia patients. Those patients are usually in care facilities where the medications can be monitored. A home health nurse would make it possible for her to live at home longer, which will make everyone happier.
I believe it is fear of the unknown variables that are causing the siblings to not communicate well with one another. I wish they could see that this is a time to forge solid bonds with each other. I hate the idea that any of them could look back on this time with regrets.
This Friday will be the next trip to the neurologist. This will bring a change in medication. I hope the doctor will offer some support for the family. As someone who loves each one of these people dearly and someone who is painfully watching them all hurt, I hope they will be encouraged to seek support from others who have dealt with this awful disease.
The past month has been a tough one for my husband and probably his family.
I am only guessing about his family, because they seem to have some communication malfunctions. Being slightly on the outside of things, I can see this for what it is. Two parents, 4 siblings, 4 grandkids, 1 son-in-law and 2 daughters-in-law are all trying to process this ugly thing called dementia. Everyone acts out of their own perceptions and fears. Some of that comes out in very hateful conversations or just a lack of all communication and all of this while trying to live through their own lives.
We could have only hoped that the past month would be status quo, but that wasn't to be.
The month started off with a birthday party for my husband's sister. His mom had a hard time keeping his sister and neice's names correct. That was hard for him to see. He came home from the party deflated, but I know he was thankful for the time he spent with his family.
In the following week, we received a save the date for his oldest neice who is getting married in Las Vegas in February 2013. A difficult realization set in as we both thought through the idea that his mom might not be able to mentally capable or phyiscally able to travel to see her first grandchild get married.
During the past week, things have been a bit tense for my husband. His mom was hospitalized for a short time with dehydration. We aren't sure if she had a virus or if her medication caused her problems.
What we learned was that when someone has dementia, they are not reliable in communicating health problems and cannot be reliable for overseeing their own medications. Through a conversation with the Neurologist's nurse, it was suggested that it was time for the family to consider adding a home health nurse for continued care.
Given his sister's frame of mind and increased stress level, a home health nurse is a wonderful suggestion. His mom is taking medications which are statistically given to late stage dementia patients. Those patients are usually in care facilities where the medications can be monitored. A home health nurse would make it possible for her to live at home longer, which will make everyone happier.
I believe it is fear of the unknown variables that are causing the siblings to not communicate well with one another. I wish they could see that this is a time to forge solid bonds with each other. I hate the idea that any of them could look back on this time with regrets.
This Friday will be the next trip to the neurologist. This will bring a change in medication. I hope the doctor will offer some support for the family. As someone who loves each one of these people dearly and someone who is painfully watching them all hurt, I hope they will be encouraged to seek support from others who have dealt with this awful disease.
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Abbreviated
Wowee Zowee...
I can't believe it's been a month since I've graced the pages of blogosphere. Life is life. My life has been partially consumed by working with some amazing young ladies at church to plan an event. Partially consumed by being sick, a time I'd rather forget after having high fever hallucinations. Partially consumed by the ongoing issues with my mother-in-law. All of them could have a post to themselves.
But I would rather share a thought about something that has increasingly weighed on my mind lately.
Abbreviations
My favorite bible verse is Romans 12:9. However, when I see it written as Rom 12:9, I cringe. In fact, I cringe any time I see a book of the bible abbreviated.
I know you might be thinking that I am a bit knit-picky and it is a matter of personal preference. Actually, at the core of this...it is all about respect.
As I learn about how the bible came to be, I am amazed at what it took to produce the book in my hands. Words said by God; carried down through generations; etched into stones; copied and recopied; debated; translated. It is breathtaking to think of the trail from God's mouth to my hands.
Think through that one more time...the words from God's mouth have traveled to you through the very book in your hands. No other book has ever been printed as often or verified as carefully as the bible. When you think through that, not only should that cause a moment of awe but ignite a respect deeper than you can explain.
Do you understand why I cringe when I see anything from the bible abbreviated?
I asked a friend once why she thought it was ok to abbreviate the books of the bible. Her response was because she had seen parents, Sunday school teachers and pastors do it that way for years. My response to that was...why does that make it ok?
Don't get me wrong, I feel this way across the board. Anything which deserves respect, I believe deserves the time and energy to be spelled out fully. I often see friends put comments on facebook about spending time with their "fam" or "hubs." If you love and respect your family or spouse, I believe they deserve to be called by their respected name.
Whether you are wife, teacher, husband, daughter, son, leader, follower, I firmly believe that your respect of something should be shown in the way you spell it out. My hope is that family and the bible would mean enough to you that you would pass it on to the generations in a respected way.
I can't believe it's been a month since I've graced the pages of blogosphere. Life is life. My life has been partially consumed by working with some amazing young ladies at church to plan an event. Partially consumed by being sick, a time I'd rather forget after having high fever hallucinations. Partially consumed by the ongoing issues with my mother-in-law. All of them could have a post to themselves.
But I would rather share a thought about something that has increasingly weighed on my mind lately.
Abbreviations
My favorite bible verse is Romans 12:9. However, when I see it written as Rom 12:9, I cringe. In fact, I cringe any time I see a book of the bible abbreviated.
I know you might be thinking that I am a bit knit-picky and it is a matter of personal preference. Actually, at the core of this...it is all about respect.
As I learn about how the bible came to be, I am amazed at what it took to produce the book in my hands. Words said by God; carried down through generations; etched into stones; copied and recopied; debated; translated. It is breathtaking to think of the trail from God's mouth to my hands.
Think through that one more time...the words from God's mouth have traveled to you through the very book in your hands. No other book has ever been printed as often or verified as carefully as the bible. When you think through that, not only should that cause a moment of awe but ignite a respect deeper than you can explain.
Do you understand why I cringe when I see anything from the bible abbreviated?
I asked a friend once why she thought it was ok to abbreviate the books of the bible. Her response was because she had seen parents, Sunday school teachers and pastors do it that way for years. My response to that was...why does that make it ok?
Don't get me wrong, I feel this way across the board. Anything which deserves respect, I believe deserves the time and energy to be spelled out fully. I often see friends put comments on facebook about spending time with their "fam" or "hubs." If you love and respect your family or spouse, I believe they deserve to be called by their respected name.
Whether you are wife, teacher, husband, daughter, son, leader, follower, I firmly believe that your respect of something should be shown in the way you spell it out. My hope is that family and the bible would mean enough to you that you would pass it on to the generations in a respected way.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Pitter-Patter
The rare sound of rain falling on the roof may threaten to break the physical silence surrounding me, but not the hush in my heart.
There is a whiff of soup from the stove, a tick of the clock and a variety of dog licking, sniffing and snoring noises all around me. My head is filled with the chatter of voices, young and old. But inside me, I hang onto the silence I have created to hold back the pain.
When I wrote my last post about January 22, I thought that was all I needed to get through this year. A little journaling and I should have been just fine. I mean that's what they teach you in counseling. Put it somewhere so you don't have to carry it with you.
I get an A for effort, right? I have shared the experience in counseling and written about it. But, the long-term effects are tearing me apart and maybe more today than ever before.
A person might think that something which happened 33 years ago shouldn't effect me the way it does. Maybe in theory that would be the case had it been the first and only instead of the first of hundreds or thousands.
Outside of this one way conversation here in blogosphere, nobody really knows the pain I am in today. I am not placing blame on anyone, except maybe myself.
I have allowed myself to become a bit of a hermit the past couple weeks. My socialization has dwindled to face to face contact with the bare minimum of people and for minimal amounts of time. I am able to smile and make myself look as normal as possible.
My husband is understandably preoccupied, making him less of risk to my finely tuned plan to keep everyone at bay.
I have learned that even with my counselor, who I saw today, I am a master of avoidance. She pushes when necessary, but sometimes in the wrong direction. Again, I am not placing fault with anyone, especially her. She would gladly let me verbally vomit all of my pain. But I've gone that route and it didn't work...remember the pain is worse this year than in years past.
The biggest fault in my master plan of avoidance is that I have left myself completely alone. That is a dangerous place to be when you are me. That is when the clock begins to tick louder as the minutes of my life flutter away.
It is when the silence that once surrounded my heart turns into chaos and I begin to search for the thing that will make me feel better the fastest. Then comes the moment I knew would come. The moment when I realize how desperate I am because of the solitude I willingly created for myself.
I have been here before. Those times are when I realize everything I protected myself from is exactly what I need to survive the pain that is about to envelope me.
Those are the times when I send a text message or call someone who I believe will understand exactly where I am, but the phone goes to voicemail or they don't pick up the text until the next day.
Maybe it is predictable for me to end up here...alone. I certainly set myself up for it, so I guess I deserve to be here. Reliving that day, 33 years ago, as if it were happening right in front of me. Physical and emotional pain as real as the moment was then. Overwhelmed by the destruction of my life that can be traced back to that day. My heart broken over everything that was lost that day. Living with the fear that there will never be any restoration of my stolen soul. Not knowing if it will ever be possible to out live the pain.
There is a whiff of soup from the stove, a tick of the clock and a variety of dog licking, sniffing and snoring noises all around me. My head is filled with the chatter of voices, young and old. But inside me, I hang onto the silence I have created to hold back the pain.
When I wrote my last post about January 22, I thought that was all I needed to get through this year. A little journaling and I should have been just fine. I mean that's what they teach you in counseling. Put it somewhere so you don't have to carry it with you.
I get an A for effort, right? I have shared the experience in counseling and written about it. But, the long-term effects are tearing me apart and maybe more today than ever before.
A person might think that something which happened 33 years ago shouldn't effect me the way it does. Maybe in theory that would be the case had it been the first and only instead of the first of hundreds or thousands.
Outside of this one way conversation here in blogosphere, nobody really knows the pain I am in today. I am not placing blame on anyone, except maybe myself.
I have allowed myself to become a bit of a hermit the past couple weeks. My socialization has dwindled to face to face contact with the bare minimum of people and for minimal amounts of time. I am able to smile and make myself look as normal as possible.
My husband is understandably preoccupied, making him less of risk to my finely tuned plan to keep everyone at bay.
I have learned that even with my counselor, who I saw today, I am a master of avoidance. She pushes when necessary, but sometimes in the wrong direction. Again, I am not placing fault with anyone, especially her. She would gladly let me verbally vomit all of my pain. But I've gone that route and it didn't work...remember the pain is worse this year than in years past.
The biggest fault in my master plan of avoidance is that I have left myself completely alone. That is a dangerous place to be when you are me. That is when the clock begins to tick louder as the minutes of my life flutter away.
It is when the silence that once surrounded my heart turns into chaos and I begin to search for the thing that will make me feel better the fastest. Then comes the moment I knew would come. The moment when I realize how desperate I am because of the solitude I willingly created for myself.
I have been here before. Those times are when I realize everything I protected myself from is exactly what I need to survive the pain that is about to envelope me.
Those are the times when I send a text message or call someone who I believe will understand exactly where I am, but the phone goes to voicemail or they don't pick up the text until the next day.
Maybe it is predictable for me to end up here...alone. I certainly set myself up for it, so I guess I deserve to be here. Reliving that day, 33 years ago, as if it were happening right in front of me. Physical and emotional pain as real as the moment was then. Overwhelmed by the destruction of my life that can be traced back to that day. My heart broken over everything that was lost that day. Living with the fear that there will never be any restoration of my stolen soul. Not knowing if it will ever be possible to out live the pain.
Saturday, January 21, 2012
You Want to Know...
...but you don't!
It seems like forever ago we started to notice problems with my mother-in-law. In reality, it was just November. Just a short two months ago, my husband and his siblings started to notice oddities in their mom's behavior. Two months!
Only three weeks ago, we sat down with his parents to push them into getting to the bottom of the memory problems. We did that only after there was a noticeable difference from November to December.
When you look at the big picture, that's a really short amount of time. But when we talked to them, we both were passionate about her getting the help she needed. I think in our hearts, we were hoping for some medical excuse for the memory loss.
His mom used every possible medical reason for her memory loss, even though each one was less viable than the last. A few weeks of visiting one specialist after another, she was assured that her memory problem was not from leg problems, back pain, varicose veins, neck pains or blood clots.
This week, she received a solid diagnosis of dementia. Nothing specific, such as Alzheimer's...just dementia. Early onset and aggressive progression.
That is a lot to soak in when you consider just a few short months ago, she was still the active, family hub who was still working on occasion.
Even though we knew what was coming, I don't think anyone was really ready to hear it. But, even that is hard to tell when most of my husband's family are natural introverts who internalize everything.
I have been asked by a couple close friends how I am doing with the news. The obvious answer is I'm fine. I mean she isn't my mom.
Maybe that isn't entirely true. For as many problems as I have had with her over the past 18 years, she has been a part of my life. Outside of my family and my husband, nobody has been a part of my life quite that long.
I've had many people who came into my life and were around a lot less longer...it was a devastating loss when some of those people exited my life.
Honestly, my heart is aching for my husband, his family, my mother-in-law and myself. It is heartbreaking to know the best days have already passed and the worst is still ahead.
There is a hint of guilt that goes along with all of this too. We pushed so hard for her to get to the bottom of her problem and the bottom was her being handed a death sentence. It's hard to accept that.
I know, you might think that is too harsh of a statement but I'm a realist. There is no cure. There are meds that can slow the progression, but they won't fix it. The fast progression from November to December is a possible indication of how quickly she could decline. With my medical knowledge, I fully understand what to expect.
But even a realist can be angry. A realist can still be angry when they have confirmation of what they already knew.
It seems like forever ago we started to notice problems with my mother-in-law. In reality, it was just November. Just a short two months ago, my husband and his siblings started to notice oddities in their mom's behavior. Two months!
Only three weeks ago, we sat down with his parents to push them into getting to the bottom of the memory problems. We did that only after there was a noticeable difference from November to December.
When you look at the big picture, that's a really short amount of time. But when we talked to them, we both were passionate about her getting the help she needed. I think in our hearts, we were hoping for some medical excuse for the memory loss.
His mom used every possible medical reason for her memory loss, even though each one was less viable than the last. A few weeks of visiting one specialist after another, she was assured that her memory problem was not from leg problems, back pain, varicose veins, neck pains or blood clots.
This week, she received a solid diagnosis of dementia. Nothing specific, such as Alzheimer's...just dementia. Early onset and aggressive progression.
That is a lot to soak in when you consider just a few short months ago, she was still the active, family hub who was still working on occasion.
Even though we knew what was coming, I don't think anyone was really ready to hear it. But, even that is hard to tell when most of my husband's family are natural introverts who internalize everything.
I have been asked by a couple close friends how I am doing with the news. The obvious answer is I'm fine. I mean she isn't my mom.
Maybe that isn't entirely true. For as many problems as I have had with her over the past 18 years, she has been a part of my life. Outside of my family and my husband, nobody has been a part of my life quite that long.
I've had many people who came into my life and were around a lot less longer...it was a devastating loss when some of those people exited my life.
Honestly, my heart is aching for my husband, his family, my mother-in-law and myself. It is heartbreaking to know the best days have already passed and the worst is still ahead.
There is a hint of guilt that goes along with all of this too. We pushed so hard for her to get to the bottom of her problem and the bottom was her being handed a death sentence. It's hard to accept that.
I know, you might think that is too harsh of a statement but I'm a realist. There is no cure. There are meds that can slow the progression, but they won't fix it. The fast progression from November to December is a possible indication of how quickly she could decline. With my medical knowledge, I fully understand what to expect.
But even a realist can be angry. A realist can still be angry when they have confirmation of what they already knew.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Where's the life jacket?
Why is it that when you feel like you are about to drown, the life jacket is just too far to reach?
It seems like my life is a lot that way right now. I still struggle to understand or believe in prayer. So while I wade through that life around me is crumbling apart. And ya know what? When you dont' think prayer is useful, it leaves you with nothing to hang onto.
Not that my life was all put together before, because it wasn't. In fact, my life tends to swirl in the pit most days (actually nights, but that's another story). But it seems the past month has brought a new challenge each week.
One that I've been open with in this forum is the current concerns with my mother-in-laws health. She failed the verbal tests and all medical tests indicated no cause for the memory loss. Last week, she had an MRI to compare with one done last year.
She got the results of the MRI comparison today. She has cerebral atrophy with more on the left than the right. There are several diseases which could cause the atrophy, but the most probable is Alzheimer's. She exhibits many of the symptoms of Alzheimer's and failed the verbal tests for this particular type of dementia.
On Friday, she will have a consultation with a Neurologist and we hope to know more.
The flood of emotions are beginning for my husband. He's angry, REALLY angry. He loves his mom dearly, so I understand his anger. I also know he feels like he has missed the past five years with her because he has been taking care of me.
I'm not sure I'm ready for all of this. I don't have my life jacket, it's still too far away to reach. I'm not emotionally able to take on one more thing. I'm not at all capable to handling my own stress and my stressed, emotional husband. I'm not just being selfish, I'm being honest.
As much as I wanted her to find out what was wrong with her, I wasn't ready for that to happen. Bottom line...I'm not close enough to God to be able to go through this with my husband.
There are dynamics to this that I can't understand and make me of little help to my husband. I don't know what it's like to love a parent and I certainly haven't been in a health crisis with a loved parent.
I get worried about my husband, but now I'm really worried about him. He works in a high stress job. He works three jobs. He has a house that is still undone that he works so hard on when he has a free minute. He beats himself up over everything. He has to take care of me. Now he has this on his plate. He does have a small support system, but nowhere near what he will need.
How do I trust he will be ok when I don't even trust that I will be ok? Ack! I wish I had more faith right now. I really do. At least then I'd know that the life jacket was within reach for both of us.
It seems like my life is a lot that way right now. I still struggle to understand or believe in prayer. So while I wade through that life around me is crumbling apart. And ya know what? When you dont' think prayer is useful, it leaves you with nothing to hang onto.
Not that my life was all put together before, because it wasn't. In fact, my life tends to swirl in the pit most days (actually nights, but that's another story). But it seems the past month has brought a new challenge each week.
One that I've been open with in this forum is the current concerns with my mother-in-laws health. She failed the verbal tests and all medical tests indicated no cause for the memory loss. Last week, she had an MRI to compare with one done last year.
She got the results of the MRI comparison today. She has cerebral atrophy with more on the left than the right. There are several diseases which could cause the atrophy, but the most probable is Alzheimer's. She exhibits many of the symptoms of Alzheimer's and failed the verbal tests for this particular type of dementia.
On Friday, she will have a consultation with a Neurologist and we hope to know more.
The flood of emotions are beginning for my husband. He's angry, REALLY angry. He loves his mom dearly, so I understand his anger. I also know he feels like he has missed the past five years with her because he has been taking care of me.
I'm not sure I'm ready for all of this. I don't have my life jacket, it's still too far away to reach. I'm not emotionally able to take on one more thing. I'm not at all capable to handling my own stress and my stressed, emotional husband. I'm not just being selfish, I'm being honest.
As much as I wanted her to find out what was wrong with her, I wasn't ready for that to happen. Bottom line...I'm not close enough to God to be able to go through this with my husband.
There are dynamics to this that I can't understand and make me of little help to my husband. I don't know what it's like to love a parent and I certainly haven't been in a health crisis with a loved parent.
I get worried about my husband, but now I'm really worried about him. He works in a high stress job. He works three jobs. He has a house that is still undone that he works so hard on when he has a free minute. He beats himself up over everything. He has to take care of me. Now he has this on his plate. He does have a small support system, but nowhere near what he will need.
How do I trust he will be ok when I don't even trust that I will be ok? Ack! I wish I had more faith right now. I really do. At least then I'd know that the life jacket was within reach for both of us.
Monday, January 16, 2012
Thirty-three...33
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.
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.
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.
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