As I sit here in central Indiana tonight, my plan was to walk you through this unique shopping experience that I had today. It was wild and crazy and certainly deserves a post all of it's own. But not tonight.
Sitting on the edge of an air mattress, I find myself very overwhelmed. Yes, I'm still on sensory overload from the past two days, but this is different. My eyes are swelling and tears are sure to follow as I examine exactly what it is that I am feeling.
There is a sadness, a continuous longing to be home. The truth is that I miss it. I miss my husband and I miss my dogs. I love them all so much and it's hard being away from them. Sometimes, I think these times are meant to happen so I don't become complacent and forget how much I love them and need them in my life.
In an odd way, the other thing I find myself feeling is grief. It isn't so much a hugely sad grief, but one that is full of gratitude.
Ok, without a doubt, there was nothing functionally normal about my family. My reality was that family couldn't stand to be around each other, acted hateful toward each other, never showed genuine love, was loud and obnoxious, and really could have been mistaken for a gang of hated enemies. I promise you, I have seen multiple fist fights, bloody noses and police at family reunions.
You could easily say that I've seen family done really, really wrong.
This weekend is the first time that I've spent extended time with a Christian family. Day and night, eating and sleeping in the same house with and just living life for multiple days along side a real, grounded in faith family.
Let me tell you, I've seen something very special....almost surreal.
I am with a friend, her daughter, grand daughter and the daughter's best friend. We all have been welcomed and made to feel at home by my friend's in-laws. Since I come from a family where in-laws are more like outlaws and given my experience with my in-laws, it's almost unnatural to see in-laws be so loving and gracious.
Last night for dinner, the in-laws, the gang of Missouri gals and my friend's mother, sister and grandpa all joined us for dinner. That's right, you read that right. My friend had her in-laws, mom, sister, grandpa, daughter, grand daughter and two friends all around the table, enjoying pizza. And get this, they weren't just enjoying pizza...they were enjoying each other even more.
There was smiling, gut-splitting laughing, funny stories, bantering and a complete void of anything negative. The evening was like living in a family-friendly twilight zone for me. I kept thinking; when is somebody going to get mad and walk out?; when are they going to start fighting or throwing punches?
I realized fairly quick that this was a family done right. Now, I didn't say done perfect, but done right.
Listening and observing, I could see, hear and feel the genuine love they have for one another. Sure, it is the marriage of my friends who brings these two families together. But, it's obviously something much bigger that brings them together as one family.
When you observe how these families operate and function altogether, you understand what that big something is...it's God. The way they lead God-centered lives is so apparent in how they live, but completely, overwhelmingly obvious in how they love each other and the people who come into their lives.
Given so many of my experiences with people in and out of church, I wondered if any one's life really, truly reflected the way they presented themselves at church or even one-on-one. I have absolutely seen that this weekend.
So, as I get ready for the second half of this crazy, long weekend, I leave you with three thoughts:
1. Yes, absence really does make the heart grow fonder. For me, I am reminded that I do love parts of my life and I am connected to them in real ways.
2. Family done wrong, is just that...wrong. Just because something is a certain way, doesn't mean it's right. It also doesn't mean that you can't ever see it done right. It's also ok to grieve when all you've ever known is family done wrong.
3. Family can be done right, not perfect...but right. It isn't a person, place or thing that can bring people together in harmony. I believe it's only God who can do that and when He does....well...it's just heartwarming, overwhelmingly, beautiful and you can't help but want to be a part of it.
Saturday, April 14, 2012
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
His Little Sailor
Most husbands come up with cute nicknames for their wives. Some of my friends are called "Sweetie" or "Baby" or "Babydoll." I won't lie, on occasion, my husband will call me babydoll. Truthfully, the one he uses the most is "His Little Sailor."
Nope, it isn't because of a cute little story from when we were first dating. I wish it were. It isn't because I love boating, even though I do.
Yes, it is because of the filthy language that falls from my mouth all the time. And believe me, I don't say that with any sense of pride.
Before I go any further, I have to acknowledge that there is a high percent of the foul language that is directly associated with the disorder I have. (not turrets in case you were wondering) That's not to dismiss the fact that I do use my fair share of cuss words.
I don't do it because I like it, it just happens. Growing up in a home where four-letter words were capitalized, punctuated and flowed naturally like a gushing waterfall, I believe it is in an inherited behavior.
My family had no filter, no sense of right and wrong, so I'm sure it doesn't surprise you to know they had limited vocabulary outside of slang and swearing. I mean good grief, my mom walked around naked and my grandparents were fine connoisseurs of raunchy, low-budget pornography. Why would they ever feel compelled to limit their swearing around young, impressionable children?
I obviously live my life much differently than my parents or grandparents, and well...pretty much my entire family. I never tried smoking, which is almost as rampant in my family as abuse. I was able to turn away from the drug and alcohol use, which has plagued so many in my family. But this one, not so much.
I don't purposely swear, it just happens. It isn't like I use it in every sentence, but definitely more than I would like. You would think it would be a constant struggle to be mindful of my language in church, but interestingly enough, it's not.
When I am in church, it doesn't seem to be a problem. There is no effort that I have to intentionally make to keep from swearing in church. It's not even that difficult to control when I am outside of church and around friends from church. Now, I'm not saying that is because those around me use filthy language because they don't. It's just not hard and it rarely happens. In fact, I would say it happens only when there is a certain level of comfort with a person AND there is an increased amount of emotion regarding a particular subject being discussed.
I wonder sometimes why it can't be that easy to not use that language at home. My husband lovingly corrects me or redirects me to another way to phrase what I am saying. Sometimes that is helpful, others not so much.
As we talked about a semi-unrelated topic today in bible study, I had two thoughts about this and each one led me back to the work of the Holy Spirit in me. I know, pick your mouth up off the ground...I said the work of the Holy Spirit in me.
The first is that I, and through no effort of my own, have developed a filter for church. I obviously did not learn what was right or wrong in church from my family or until I started going to church five years ago. It wasn't self-taught, how could it be? It was the work of someone far more powerful than I to put in me how to act in church and how to have respect for a building and the people in it.
The other thing I realized is that while I am ashamed of the problem, the potty mouth, the ugliness of sin in my life that I really don't have any problem admitting that I'm not actively pursuing an end to...I don't have any shame in admitting that I have sin in my life to others.
There is no shame for me, no worries of judgement from others...even though I know some may be very judgemental when I do share a particular type of sin with them. The fact is that we all have sin in our lives. Nobody is sinless. Honestly, admitting that I have an ugly sin in my life and hearing others admit they do to, well....it just makes me feel more a part of those around me than anything. It normalizes a life that feels so abnormal most of the time.
Truthfully, I have a long list of things that I need to work through before I ever get to that icky foul mouth of mine. Until then, I will just enjoy knowing that God has brought me a long ways and still has a long way to go with me. Oh yea, and I'll still be my husband's little sailor...for now.
Nope, it isn't because of a cute little story from when we were first dating. I wish it were. It isn't because I love boating, even though I do.
Yes, it is because of the filthy language that falls from my mouth all the time. And believe me, I don't say that with any sense of pride.
Before I go any further, I have to acknowledge that there is a high percent of the foul language that is directly associated with the disorder I have. (not turrets in case you were wondering) That's not to dismiss the fact that I do use my fair share of cuss words.
I don't do it because I like it, it just happens. Growing up in a home where four-letter words were capitalized, punctuated and flowed naturally like a gushing waterfall, I believe it is in an inherited behavior.
My family had no filter, no sense of right and wrong, so I'm sure it doesn't surprise you to know they had limited vocabulary outside of slang and swearing. I mean good grief, my mom walked around naked and my grandparents were fine connoisseurs of raunchy, low-budget pornography. Why would they ever feel compelled to limit their swearing around young, impressionable children?
I obviously live my life much differently than my parents or grandparents, and well...pretty much my entire family. I never tried smoking, which is almost as rampant in my family as abuse. I was able to turn away from the drug and alcohol use, which has plagued so many in my family. But this one, not so much.
I don't purposely swear, it just happens. It isn't like I use it in every sentence, but definitely more than I would like. You would think it would be a constant struggle to be mindful of my language in church, but interestingly enough, it's not.
When I am in church, it doesn't seem to be a problem. There is no effort that I have to intentionally make to keep from swearing in church. It's not even that difficult to control when I am outside of church and around friends from church. Now, I'm not saying that is because those around me use filthy language because they don't. It's just not hard and it rarely happens. In fact, I would say it happens only when there is a certain level of comfort with a person AND there is an increased amount of emotion regarding a particular subject being discussed.
I wonder sometimes why it can't be that easy to not use that language at home. My husband lovingly corrects me or redirects me to another way to phrase what I am saying. Sometimes that is helpful, others not so much.
As we talked about a semi-unrelated topic today in bible study, I had two thoughts about this and each one led me back to the work of the Holy Spirit in me. I know, pick your mouth up off the ground...I said the work of the Holy Spirit in me.
The first is that I, and through no effort of my own, have developed a filter for church. I obviously did not learn what was right or wrong in church from my family or until I started going to church five years ago. It wasn't self-taught, how could it be? It was the work of someone far more powerful than I to put in me how to act in church and how to have respect for a building and the people in it.
The other thing I realized is that while I am ashamed of the problem, the potty mouth, the ugliness of sin in my life that I really don't have any problem admitting that I'm not actively pursuing an end to...I don't have any shame in admitting that I have sin in my life to others.
There is no shame for me, no worries of judgement from others...even though I know some may be very judgemental when I do share a particular type of sin with them. The fact is that we all have sin in our lives. Nobody is sinless. Honestly, admitting that I have an ugly sin in my life and hearing others admit they do to, well....it just makes me feel more a part of those around me than anything. It normalizes a life that feels so abnormal most of the time.
Truthfully, I have a long list of things that I need to work through before I ever get to that icky foul mouth of mine. Until then, I will just enjoy knowing that God has brought me a long ways and still has a long way to go with me. Oh yea, and I'll still be my husband's little sailor...for now.
Sunday, April 8, 2012
Holiday
This probably won't sound like any other Christian on Easter Sunday, but then again...normal just doesn't seem to fit me.
As my friends flood facebook with comments of praise for a Savior who has risen, I find myself asking why?
It isn't that I don't understand the importance of the resurrection of Christ. If Christ hadn't lived a sinless life, been sacrificed and resurrected, the bible would be only a story book carried through the ages and the idea of salvation would be just that. So in case you are wondering, yes, I do believe in Christ and His life, death and resurrection.
What I struggle with is that so many of my Christian counterparts only celebrate this one day a year. I have a similar thought about Christmas. The birth of our Savior is celebrated by many on Christmas day and that day only.
If you look at the the entire life span of Christ, including how He exists in your current day life, then don't you have to consider birth, sinless life, sacrificed by death on the cross and resurrection? Isn't THAT exactly what every aspect of being a Christian and salvation ultimately comes back to?
It is the entire life of Christ that makes our security in heaven possible. The ENTIRE life of Christ is what Christians place all their hope in.
Each day you have breath; every time you are thankful for any blessing; whenever you pray; shouldn't you be filled with remembrance of Christ's entire life?
For as much as I struggle with prayer and understanding faith, I can honestly say that the gift that Christ's life is to me is never overlooked when I consider salvation. I don't need Christmas to remind me to be thankful for the birth of Christ. I don't need Good Friday to remind me of the horrific death Christ endured because of sin, my sin. I don't need Easter to remind me how wonderful it is that Christ conquered death.
All of our religious holidays could be wiped off the calendar and I would still know, believe and be thankful for Christ's life.
I'm not saying that I don't appreciate today and the enthusiasm I see in my Christian friends. What I am saying is that their excitement over the life, death and resurrection of Christ should permeate their lives each day of the year instead of being confined by a calendar.
As my friends flood facebook with comments of praise for a Savior who has risen, I find myself asking why?
It isn't that I don't understand the importance of the resurrection of Christ. If Christ hadn't lived a sinless life, been sacrificed and resurrected, the bible would be only a story book carried through the ages and the idea of salvation would be just that. So in case you are wondering, yes, I do believe in Christ and His life, death and resurrection.
What I struggle with is that so many of my Christian counterparts only celebrate this one day a year. I have a similar thought about Christmas. The birth of our Savior is celebrated by many on Christmas day and that day only.
If you look at the the entire life span of Christ, including how He exists in your current day life, then don't you have to consider birth, sinless life, sacrificed by death on the cross and resurrection? Isn't THAT exactly what every aspect of being a Christian and salvation ultimately comes back to?
It is the entire life of Christ that makes our security in heaven possible. The ENTIRE life of Christ is what Christians place all their hope in.
Each day you have breath; every time you are thankful for any blessing; whenever you pray; shouldn't you be filled with remembrance of Christ's entire life?
For as much as I struggle with prayer and understanding faith, I can honestly say that the gift that Christ's life is to me is never overlooked when I consider salvation. I don't need Christmas to remind me to be thankful for the birth of Christ. I don't need Good Friday to remind me of the horrific death Christ endured because of sin, my sin. I don't need Easter to remind me how wonderful it is that Christ conquered death.
All of our religious holidays could be wiped off the calendar and I would still know, believe and be thankful for Christ's life.
I'm not saying that I don't appreciate today and the enthusiasm I see in my Christian friends. What I am saying is that their excitement over the life, death and resurrection of Christ should permeate their lives each day of the year instead of being confined by a calendar.
Friday, April 6, 2012
A Big Weekend of a Little Crazy
We just returned home from a weekend trip away with the in-laws. This would be where I would love to be able to say that it is the first of many, but it won't be. It was probably the first and last.
This wasn't something we did often prior to the dementia diagnosis with my mother-in-law. Her and I get along great while we are together, but not well enough to enjoy it. She's never really appreciated me being married to her first born and I've never appreciated her desire to be over controlling and use guilt in her son's life. I just call it fair and go on.
Now that her dementia is diagnosed and getting worse, it's even more difficult to spend time with her. I am not saying that in a hateful or spiteful way. Even my father-in-law gets frustrated. This weekend was just a sampling of what life must be like for him daily and my heart aches for him.
Her obsessing began early in the week with multiple phone calls and emails asking when we would be leaving. With a crazy schedule, we were only able to guess and hope to stick to it.
She was insistent that we meet and eat at a favorite chicken place in Springfield. Admittedly, it was difficult to go with the flow and let her call the shots. With all the anxiety of the prep behind us, we met up at the restaurant. It is a fried chicken place, a place where you go for down home comfort food and gobs of fried foods. As was stated, "it's one of my favorite places to eat and we always stop there." Not one of my favorite places, but who I am to keep someone from enjoying their favorite.
I noticed several times walking into the restaurant that my father-in-law spends a lot of time physically guiding her. She seems to get lost if not. After they spent time looking at the menu and asking what was good, I realized the claim of it being their favorite place to eat was far from true. Needless to say, they both ordered chef salads....at a chicken place!
Onto Branson we went. We spent the evening relaxing or trying to. She spent the evening asking her husband for permission to make phone calls and constantly trying to feed us. Even though there were only four of us, she had baked cupcakes, muffins, two kinds of cookies, and brought several kinds of prepacked cookies.
The next day, I realized how her once professional style dress had long since slipped away. She wore a pink shirt, red high-water pants, bright pink shoes and socks that were an inch shorter than her pants. To top that off, she transferred all items from her purse to a fanny pack. She wore the fanny pack, not around her waist, but over her shoulder like a purse.
Through our day of shopping, she continuously stated that she wanted everyone to have fun and she didn't want to "bring anyone down." At times, she acted like a child who had been beaten down and made to feel like they were the root cause of everything wrong in life. She hasn't been treated that way, so it was difficult to hear this all day.
We spent a little time that afternoon and evening back in our condo, relaxing. It was a repeat pattern of her asking for permission to do everything and trying to feed us. I had the added fun of hearing her make not-so-nice comments about me when my husband was sleeping or walking the dogs.
We tried to find an activity or show to go to that would be enjoyable for each of us. Each suggestion was met by a quick, "I've already done that." During a drive through town and talking more about all the shows, we figured out that she really hadn't done all of the things she thought she had.
By Sunday, I think I was probably ready to go home more than anyone. I felt like I needed to get away from there to get a break from my weekend. She wore me out!
I hate feeling like that, but that was the truth. I thought the best thing to do was to provide a way for my husband to spend time with his parents. But wow, it's a lot of work trying to spend time with them. From the demands to the quirky behavior, it wasn't much rest for either of us. Definitely the last time for us for a long time anyway.
This wasn't something we did often prior to the dementia diagnosis with my mother-in-law. Her and I get along great while we are together, but not well enough to enjoy it. She's never really appreciated me being married to her first born and I've never appreciated her desire to be over controlling and use guilt in her son's life. I just call it fair and go on.
Now that her dementia is diagnosed and getting worse, it's even more difficult to spend time with her. I am not saying that in a hateful or spiteful way. Even my father-in-law gets frustrated. This weekend was just a sampling of what life must be like for him daily and my heart aches for him.
Her obsessing began early in the week with multiple phone calls and emails asking when we would be leaving. With a crazy schedule, we were only able to guess and hope to stick to it.
She was insistent that we meet and eat at a favorite chicken place in Springfield. Admittedly, it was difficult to go with the flow and let her call the shots. With all the anxiety of the prep behind us, we met up at the restaurant. It is a fried chicken place, a place where you go for down home comfort food and gobs of fried foods. As was stated, "it's one of my favorite places to eat and we always stop there." Not one of my favorite places, but who I am to keep someone from enjoying their favorite.
I noticed several times walking into the restaurant that my father-in-law spends a lot of time physically guiding her. She seems to get lost if not. After they spent time looking at the menu and asking what was good, I realized the claim of it being their favorite place to eat was far from true. Needless to say, they both ordered chef salads....at a chicken place!
Onto Branson we went. We spent the evening relaxing or trying to. She spent the evening asking her husband for permission to make phone calls and constantly trying to feed us. Even though there were only four of us, she had baked cupcakes, muffins, two kinds of cookies, and brought several kinds of prepacked cookies.
The next day, I realized how her once professional style dress had long since slipped away. She wore a pink shirt, red high-water pants, bright pink shoes and socks that were an inch shorter than her pants. To top that off, she transferred all items from her purse to a fanny pack. She wore the fanny pack, not around her waist, but over her shoulder like a purse.
Through our day of shopping, she continuously stated that she wanted everyone to have fun and she didn't want to "bring anyone down." At times, she acted like a child who had been beaten down and made to feel like they were the root cause of everything wrong in life. She hasn't been treated that way, so it was difficult to hear this all day.
We spent a little time that afternoon and evening back in our condo, relaxing. It was a repeat pattern of her asking for permission to do everything and trying to feed us. I had the added fun of hearing her make not-so-nice comments about me when my husband was sleeping or walking the dogs.
We tried to find an activity or show to go to that would be enjoyable for each of us. Each suggestion was met by a quick, "I've already done that." During a drive through town and talking more about all the shows, we figured out that she really hadn't done all of the things she thought she had.
By Sunday, I think I was probably ready to go home more than anyone. I felt like I needed to get away from there to get a break from my weekend. She wore me out!
I hate feeling like that, but that was the truth. I thought the best thing to do was to provide a way for my husband to spend time with his parents. But wow, it's a lot of work trying to spend time with them. From the demands to the quirky behavior, it wasn't much rest for either of us. Definitely the last time for us for a long time anyway.
Sunday, March 25, 2012
Easter Dress
With Easter quickly approaching, I am quickly beginning a battle inside myself.
For people who aren't regular church attendees, Easter is about hunting eggs, bunnies, pretty dresses, the beginning of Spring and of course, chocolate.
For the Christian, Good Friday brings the somber remembrance of the sacrifice of Jesus on the cross. Easter Sunday is a celebration of the resurrection of Jesus. Many Christians will take part in one or more services, as well as the same things other people do. Even Christians will incorporate hunting eggs, bunnies, chocolate and pretty dresses.
I know, it is a lot of wonderful things to celebrate all at one time. But it is a little harder for me to set aside the past on Easter to only celebrate the good things.
During an event at church a couple years ago and here on this blog, I shared the following from my 4th grade year:
The last time I went to that church was Easter Sunday. The lady who picked me up gave me a purple dress and white shoes. I got to change before church started. I sat and listened to a story about Jesus. I didn’t know who that was, but I felt good in my pretty new dress. For one of the only times I can remember, I felt like somebody cared about me. Church was merely a background thought that day. The beauty of the day ended the minute I walked back in the door of my house. In his anger, my dad punished me for disobeying him. He destroyed the dress and threw the shoes away. My fear of being punished again would swallow any desire I had to go back to church.
Unfortunately, that was only part of the truth.
My dad had anger towards the church, God and especially about me going to church that far surpassed just a simple punishment.
When I returned home from church in my new dress that day, I saw the anger in his eyes as he dragged me to the garage. He tore off his belt, demanding I grab my ankles and not let go, while beating my back and legs.
Because he had beaten me several times for going to church, he likely knew that a beating would do little to dissuade me from ever going again.
With tears covering my eyes, I couldn't see but only sense that his anger was only growing.
My pretty purple dress had a big white bow in back to match the white shoes. I think that was the first time I ever had matching clothes and shoes or a big fluffy bow...ever! My hair was long and straight with a hint of curl. To say I felt good was probably an understatement. It was one of the few times I ever felt like a little girl.
Being a child, I should have been naive to what danger was lurking for me as my dad's anger grew. Being a child in my home, the only unknown was how bad it would get before he would stop.
I don't remember if it was his evil laugh or the warmth on my back, but I soon learned when he would stop.
He had lit on fire the bottom of my fluffy bow. Within seconds, he left the garage and I was left to get myself out of a burning dress.
I am sure it was seconds to few minutes that I had to get the dress off before it was fully on fire laying on the garage floor.
Some of my hair had burned and smelled awful. My feet were covered in blisters where the shoes had melted onto my feet. When I looked in the mirror, it was hard to tell if my lower back was red from the beating or being burnt. In the days following, my lower back and legs would be covered in blisters.
I wasn't quite 10 years-old and I was having to hide the aftermath of being set on fire for going to church. I was a 9 year-old who had been set on fire for going to church. I was set on fire for going to church. Yes, I have to repeat it just to remind myself that it happened to me and it's not just a story I'm telling that I'm unattached to.
One of the awful parts of having PTSD (post traumatic stress disorder) is reliving things as if they were currently happening (also known as a flashback).
There's a lot about this time of year and with Easter approaching that are causing flashbacks of the Easter dress. It's not anything I can control and it's not the worst of the worst, so I've spent very little time being able to talk through it in counseling.
As a Christian, I want to be able to celebrate the sacrifice God made with Jesus' death and resurrection. But, it's hard. I want to be in church during this time of year so I can hear and be reminded of how Jesus died for me too. But, it's hard.
When the flashback of that Easter dress starts, I can only hear my own screams and feel my own anxiety as if my dress were being set on fire right then and right there...all over again.
That battle between present and past is strong in me right now as I try my best to remember that God is still actively pulling me further away from the past.
I would say I long for Easter to pass, but that will only clear the path for flashbacks of birthdays to be begin.
As I said....it's hard!
For people who aren't regular church attendees, Easter is about hunting eggs, bunnies, pretty dresses, the beginning of Spring and of course, chocolate.
For the Christian, Good Friday brings the somber remembrance of the sacrifice of Jesus on the cross. Easter Sunday is a celebration of the resurrection of Jesus. Many Christians will take part in one or more services, as well as the same things other people do. Even Christians will incorporate hunting eggs, bunnies, chocolate and pretty dresses.
I know, it is a lot of wonderful things to celebrate all at one time. But it is a little harder for me to set aside the past on Easter to only celebrate the good things.
During an event at church a couple years ago and here on this blog, I shared the following from my 4th grade year:
The last time I went to that church was Easter Sunday. The lady who picked me up gave me a purple dress and white shoes. I got to change before church started. I sat and listened to a story about Jesus. I didn’t know who that was, but I felt good in my pretty new dress. For one of the only times I can remember, I felt like somebody cared about me. Church was merely a background thought that day. The beauty of the day ended the minute I walked back in the door of my house. In his anger, my dad punished me for disobeying him. He destroyed the dress and threw the shoes away. My fear of being punished again would swallow any desire I had to go back to church.
Unfortunately, that was only part of the truth.
My dad had anger towards the church, God and especially about me going to church that far surpassed just a simple punishment.
When I returned home from church in my new dress that day, I saw the anger in his eyes as he dragged me to the garage. He tore off his belt, demanding I grab my ankles and not let go, while beating my back and legs.
Because he had beaten me several times for going to church, he likely knew that a beating would do little to dissuade me from ever going again.
With tears covering my eyes, I couldn't see but only sense that his anger was only growing.
My pretty purple dress had a big white bow in back to match the white shoes. I think that was the first time I ever had matching clothes and shoes or a big fluffy bow...ever! My hair was long and straight with a hint of curl. To say I felt good was probably an understatement. It was one of the few times I ever felt like a little girl.
Being a child, I should have been naive to what danger was lurking for me as my dad's anger grew. Being a child in my home, the only unknown was how bad it would get before he would stop.
I don't remember if it was his evil laugh or the warmth on my back, but I soon learned when he would stop.
He had lit on fire the bottom of my fluffy bow. Within seconds, he left the garage and I was left to get myself out of a burning dress.
I am sure it was seconds to few minutes that I had to get the dress off before it was fully on fire laying on the garage floor.
Some of my hair had burned and smelled awful. My feet were covered in blisters where the shoes had melted onto my feet. When I looked in the mirror, it was hard to tell if my lower back was red from the beating or being burnt. In the days following, my lower back and legs would be covered in blisters.
I wasn't quite 10 years-old and I was having to hide the aftermath of being set on fire for going to church. I was a 9 year-old who had been set on fire for going to church. I was set on fire for going to church. Yes, I have to repeat it just to remind myself that it happened to me and it's not just a story I'm telling that I'm unattached to.
One of the awful parts of having PTSD (post traumatic stress disorder) is reliving things as if they were currently happening (also known as a flashback).
There's a lot about this time of year and with Easter approaching that are causing flashbacks of the Easter dress. It's not anything I can control and it's not the worst of the worst, so I've spent very little time being able to talk through it in counseling.
As a Christian, I want to be able to celebrate the sacrifice God made with Jesus' death and resurrection. But, it's hard. I want to be in church during this time of year so I can hear and be reminded of how Jesus died for me too. But, it's hard.
When the flashback of that Easter dress starts, I can only hear my own screams and feel my own anxiety as if my dress were being set on fire right then and right there...all over again.
That battle between present and past is strong in me right now as I try my best to remember that God is still actively pulling me further away from the past.
I would say I long for Easter to pass, but that will only clear the path for flashbacks of birthdays to be begin.
As I said....it's hard!
My Legacy
Last week, I was sitting at a concert when I heard Matthew West talk about family dysfunction prior to singing his song "Family Tree." The song talks about how what your family has done and done to you does not have to be your legacy.
I have heard him sing this song live a couple times and listened to it many times. But never had it reduced me to tears the way it did that night.
There were a couple things that punched me in the gut...both good and bad.
The song starts with:
You didn't ask for this
Nobody ever would
Caught in the middle of this dysfunction
It's your sad reality
It's your messed up family tree
And all your left with all these questions
With all that I have been and continue to go through, the start of this song epitomizes my life. A lot of what you see on my blog is the tough times when I question. I don't just question, but I get angry. That's right, I get angry with God. I blame and continuously wrestle through the past, present and future with God. I'm sure you even see I try to run away from or destroy anything good in my life. Rarely do I embrace what is good during those times and remember that all that's good is wrapped tightly in my heart.
Understanding that without knowing my full story, you won't be able to grasp why my reality is that I have more bad days than good. And...the reason falls directly on the shoulders of the dysfunction of my family. A sad reality that has left me with a long road still to overcome.
The next part of the song:
No, this is not your legacy
This is not your destiny
Yesterday does not define you
No, this is not your legacy
This is not your meant to be
I can break the chains that bind you
This is where I found the good. In fact, the only good thing that really matters.
I once read a quote that said something like this: I couldn't have chosen God unless he had first chosen me.
When I think about my family and the dysfunction which still exists, I have no choice but to believe that God chose me. God chose to pluck me away from what surely would have been a longer life of evil and dysfunction. Not that it is all gone, but it is much improved.
To date, God hasn't chosen to pull any of the other family members away from the swirling pool of dysfunction. I'm not sure why and I certainly don't spend a lot of time agonizing over it.
God has not only drawn me out of it, but He has provided the tools to moved beyond it. That's pretty amazing to me. God has provided a way to change my legacy by showing me that my family's dysfunction is not my destiny.
Here is the video for the song I referenced. I encourage you to listen to it and apply it to your dysfunctional family tree.
I have heard him sing this song live a couple times and listened to it many times. But never had it reduced me to tears the way it did that night.
There were a couple things that punched me in the gut...both good and bad.
The song starts with:
You didn't ask for this
Nobody ever would
Caught in the middle of this dysfunction
It's your sad reality
It's your messed up family tree
And all your left with all these questions
With all that I have been and continue to go through, the start of this song epitomizes my life. A lot of what you see on my blog is the tough times when I question. I don't just question, but I get angry. That's right, I get angry with God. I blame and continuously wrestle through the past, present and future with God. I'm sure you even see I try to run away from or destroy anything good in my life. Rarely do I embrace what is good during those times and remember that all that's good is wrapped tightly in my heart.
Understanding that without knowing my full story, you won't be able to grasp why my reality is that I have more bad days than good. And...the reason falls directly on the shoulders of the dysfunction of my family. A sad reality that has left me with a long road still to overcome.
The next part of the song:
No, this is not your legacy
This is not your destiny
Yesterday does not define you
No, this is not your legacy
This is not your meant to be
I can break the chains that bind you
This is where I found the good. In fact, the only good thing that really matters.
I once read a quote that said something like this: I couldn't have chosen God unless he had first chosen me.
When I think about my family and the dysfunction which still exists, I have no choice but to believe that God chose me. God chose to pluck me away from what surely would have been a longer life of evil and dysfunction. Not that it is all gone, but it is much improved.
To date, God hasn't chosen to pull any of the other family members away from the swirling pool of dysfunction. I'm not sure why and I certainly don't spend a lot of time agonizing over it.
God has not only drawn me out of it, but He has provided the tools to moved beyond it. That's pretty amazing to me. God has provided a way to change my legacy by showing me that my family's dysfunction is not my destiny.
Here is the video for the song I referenced. I encourage you to listen to it and apply it to your dysfunctional family tree.
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
A long time ago...
People used to send lovely little cards like the one above. No, not so long ago that the dinosaurs were roaming the earth but it seems like that long ago.
I think our "have to have it right now" mentality has made us hunger for immediate gratification and lose all respect for who provided for the gratification.
It wasn't during my childhood that I learned how important it was to show appreciation for what I received. However, it was during that time when I had absolutely nothing, that I learned how to be thankful for what I was given.
When I sat at the lunch table with my paper lunch sack in grade school, my only thought was that I hoped nobody saw I was eating a plain bread sandwich. One time when a boy in my class saw what I was eating, he generously gave me half his banana and chips. I savored every bite and was filled with gratitude. The next week I walked to the gas station and bought that little boy M&Ms with change I dug out of my piggy bank. At the time, it was the only way I had to show my appreciation for what he had done.
Of course, years later, I have learned that I can't buy M&Ms for everyone who does something I appreciate. However, I have also learned that I can never do anything better than showing that person how appreciative I am by just saying "Thank you."
For me, the most efficient way to do this is to send a thank you note. Occasionally when I have no stamps or note cards with me and I want to immediately share my heart or gratitude for an act of kindness, I will send an email or text message. That's definitely my least favorable form of communication in this area.
If someone sacrifices their time, energy, etc., I know that they deserve at least the few minutes it takes to sit down and jot down a genuine, from the heart thank you.
What I can't figure out is, what happened to this type of communication?
I've talked with friends about this very subject. Across the board, the thoughts are the same. There seems to be a general loss of respect and appreciation for people who go out of their way to give or sacrifice for others.
Please understand, this isn't me patting my own back but merely giving you an example of what I am talking about.
Last year at this time, my house was a disaster because of the remodel and we were on a limited budget. I also had very little time to do anything besides work on the remodel. One evening I put all of that aside to provide a meal for a family in need. I had to purchase food items, make the meal and deliver it. I was happy to do it. I was happy to sacrifice my own wants at the store, so that I could afford a full meal for a family of five. Because of the remodel, I had to wash every utensil and dish prior to cooking the meal. Time and financial sacrifice it was, but again...I was happy to do it.
The next week, month, and year have passed and I never heard anything from the family. No hint of appreciation during conversation, no thank you card, not one ounce of anything to encourage me to serve others in this way.
I think that gets to the heart of what the problem really is anyway. The signs of appreciation are what encourage me to continue doing something. When you feel good about something, you tend to want to do it more or at least know that you weren't completely off base with what you were trying to do.
Don't get me wrong, I have gotten thank you notes and cards from people. But it is definitely lopsided by a 30:1 margin. It makes me very sad. Not because I feel like I deserve any recognition or anything for that matter. But it makes me sad because the general population seems to have lost all sense of appreciation.
Whether it is a gift, random act of kindness, a meal, an encouraging word that changes your day...I challenge you to make a point of showing your appreciation in genuine ways, ways that acknowledge the sacrifice that was made for you.
Saturday, March 3, 2012
On the road again...
I'm sitting here in western Kansas listening to the wind gusts whip against the window screen of our hotel room. The land on the other side of the window is flat, dry and a dull grayish shade of gold. My husband is grabbing his post-breakfast, pre-drive nap before we head off on the last leg of our trip out to the mountains.
We have never traveled this far or long with three dogs. I have to admit, it's been interesting. Trying to meet the needs of the dogs is a challenge on long road trips. I want them to stay hydrated so that they won't have a problem with the altitude change. But of course, they don't understand and will only drink on their schedule.
There were only a few mishaps yesterday and the funny thing is that they were all centered around one of our dogs. Our boy dog! Maybe it's true that boys are difficult!!!! He laid down in the water bowl, which meant he was all wet for part of the trip. Then one of his favorite toys fell out of the car and the blustery wind took it across a parking lot with me chasing behind. He promptly vomited in his kennel upon arrival and squirmed out of his collar and leash, which led to a slick grab-the-tail catch by yours truly.
After checking into our hotel, we headed out to fill an RX that we forgot to pick up and find something for dinner in a town that only has about 10 restaurants. The people aren't super friendly here, even though I know that's not typical for small town Kansas. Afterward, we were able to relax and head to bed early.
Our little monsters woke us up at their usual 5:30 potty time, which is promptly 4:30 mountain time. They weren't the only ones who didn't get the memo that we are now on mountain time for the next week. A particular parent decided she need to call us at 7:30. I'm not sure I've been back to sleep since then.
Besides the wind, our only eventful weather was in southeast Kansas as we drove through a rain and monster snowflake mix. Considering what the forecast had called for at various times throughout the week, I think we got fairly lucky.
We got to stop in Salina, Kansas for lunch and indulge at the Cozy Inn. They sell half-dollar sized onion burgers. They are 85 cents each or you can get a bag of 4, a bag of chips and a can of pop for less than $5. The greasy spoon doesn't have any inside seating, but it's a nationally known diner. A must try if you are ever near Salina, KS and love burger joints.
Mostly this has already been a nice break from our usual routine.
I woke up with a particular bible verse in my head today. in everything give thanks; for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus. 1 Thessalonians 5:18
That hasn't happened to me for a long time. I could have thought about the long drive and all the little mishaps we had. But even in those, I would have to just be thankful for the opportunity to travel or have time to spend away from all that brings me down. So today, I'm just thankful.
We have never traveled this far or long with three dogs. I have to admit, it's been interesting. Trying to meet the needs of the dogs is a challenge on long road trips. I want them to stay hydrated so that they won't have a problem with the altitude change. But of course, they don't understand and will only drink on their schedule.
There were only a few mishaps yesterday and the funny thing is that they were all centered around one of our dogs. Our boy dog! Maybe it's true that boys are difficult!!!! He laid down in the water bowl, which meant he was all wet for part of the trip. Then one of his favorite toys fell out of the car and the blustery wind took it across a parking lot with me chasing behind. He promptly vomited in his kennel upon arrival and squirmed out of his collar and leash, which led to a slick grab-the-tail catch by yours truly.
After checking into our hotel, we headed out to fill an RX that we forgot to pick up and find something for dinner in a town that only has about 10 restaurants. The people aren't super friendly here, even though I know that's not typical for small town Kansas. Afterward, we were able to relax and head to bed early.
Our little monsters woke us up at their usual 5:30 potty time, which is promptly 4:30 mountain time. They weren't the only ones who didn't get the memo that we are now on mountain time for the next week. A particular parent decided she need to call us at 7:30. I'm not sure I've been back to sleep since then.
Besides the wind, our only eventful weather was in southeast Kansas as we drove through a rain and monster snowflake mix. Considering what the forecast had called for at various times throughout the week, I think we got fairly lucky.
We got to stop in Salina, Kansas for lunch and indulge at the Cozy Inn. They sell half-dollar sized onion burgers. They are 85 cents each or you can get a bag of 4, a bag of chips and a can of pop for less than $5. The greasy spoon doesn't have any inside seating, but it's a nationally known diner. A must try if you are ever near Salina, KS and love burger joints.
Mostly this has already been a nice break from our usual routine.
I woke up with a particular bible verse in my head today. in everything give thanks; for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus. 1 Thessalonians 5:18
That hasn't happened to me for a long time. I could have thought about the long drive and all the little mishaps we had. But even in those, I would have to just be thankful for the opportunity to travel or have time to spend away from all that brings me down. So today, I'm just thankful.
Thursday, March 1, 2012
Rest
Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Matthew 11:28
After so many years of having chronic insomnia, this is one of my favorite verses.
Even now, I know that days and days without sleep should have crippled me to the point of physical and mental exhaustion. With a few exceptions, I was able to go days and weeks with no more than 1-2 hours of sleep in any 36 hour time period.
I believe the reason I was able to function, albeit not well at times, was because of the rest promised in that verse. It was the rest that came for my mind and body in other forms besides sleep. For most people, rest means sleep and only sleep. My rest came in other forms.
There were times when I was able to close my eyes in a dark room at church and my mind would slow enough to feel a bit of escape from my exhaustion. Other times, my rest would come in the form of a friend letting me doze on her couch or just be in a quiet place where I could relax. There were even times when I reassured by a friend that they cared and were praying for me.
I still have problems with sleep, they haven't magically disappeared. I am able to sleep 4-5 hours on average now, which is better. I had two doctors tell me to be considered "cured" of my insomnia, I would need to sleep 8 hours per night for an average of 5 nights per week consistently and one week for each month I had suffered insomnia. That would mean I need to sleep like that for about 40 weeks to be considered "cured" of my insomnia. Whew! I'm definitely not there yet.
Right now my pattern is to alternate nights of sleeping 4-6 hours or 1-2 hours per night. I've got a ways to go.
As we get ready to leave for a week long vacation, I am reminded so affectionately of Matthew 11:28. I'm exhausted! I have enough going on in my life, that without insomnia, I'd still be exhausted.
We have rented a vacation home in a canyon at the base of the Rocky Mountains. There is no more beautiful place in the world, in my opinion. We will have our dogs and all the comforts of home. But, I'll struggle to get comfortable and sleep will be a challenge if the past is any indication.
I know that I will find rest, regardless of sleep. I'm so thankful that I can look forward to that rest. God knows how much Kent and I both need it right now.
I am hoping that this break away will be a time of rejuvenation for both of us....a chance to remember where our rest is found....a reminder where our strength comes from....a revival of the new creations we are to be.
After so many years of having chronic insomnia, this is one of my favorite verses.
Even now, I know that days and days without sleep should have crippled me to the point of physical and mental exhaustion. With a few exceptions, I was able to go days and weeks with no more than 1-2 hours of sleep in any 36 hour time period.
I believe the reason I was able to function, albeit not well at times, was because of the rest promised in that verse. It was the rest that came for my mind and body in other forms besides sleep. For most people, rest means sleep and only sleep. My rest came in other forms.
There were times when I was able to close my eyes in a dark room at church and my mind would slow enough to feel a bit of escape from my exhaustion. Other times, my rest would come in the form of a friend letting me doze on her couch or just be in a quiet place where I could relax. There were even times when I reassured by a friend that they cared and were praying for me.
I still have problems with sleep, they haven't magically disappeared. I am able to sleep 4-5 hours on average now, which is better. I had two doctors tell me to be considered "cured" of my insomnia, I would need to sleep 8 hours per night for an average of 5 nights per week consistently and one week for each month I had suffered insomnia. That would mean I need to sleep like that for about 40 weeks to be considered "cured" of my insomnia. Whew! I'm definitely not there yet.
Right now my pattern is to alternate nights of sleeping 4-6 hours or 1-2 hours per night. I've got a ways to go.
As we get ready to leave for a week long vacation, I am reminded so affectionately of Matthew 11:28. I'm exhausted! I have enough going on in my life, that without insomnia, I'd still be exhausted.
We have rented a vacation home in a canyon at the base of the Rocky Mountains. There is no more beautiful place in the world, in my opinion. We will have our dogs and all the comforts of home. But, I'll struggle to get comfortable and sleep will be a challenge if the past is any indication.
I know that I will find rest, regardless of sleep. I'm so thankful that I can look forward to that rest. God knows how much Kent and I both need it right now.
I am hoping that this break away will be a time of rejuvenation for both of us....a chance to remember where our rest is found....a reminder where our strength comes from....a revival of the new creations we are to be.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Young Ladies
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.
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)