Sometimes acting tough and wearing that forced smile is a hard job to do. I had a moment today where my tough, nothing is wrong with me exterior cracked and my heart ached. Sure, I have emotional breaks where I unload my frustrations on here, but that's a little different than what happened today.
Recently, our cat went through a short period of urinating before he got to his box. I think maybe he had an infection that he has since worked out of his system. The urine stained carpet on the stairway had been shampooed and treated, but still stunk.
As I sat in my chair this morning, I could not get that awful urine stench out of my nose or head. For me, it is more than just a bad smell. Smelling urine for an extended time will and does hurl me into full blown flashbacks of abuse.
One of the more standard things my dad did to me was urinate on me. He must have found great pleasure in it, because I can recall dozens of times when he did it. Smelling urine will mentally remove me from present time and transport me back to one of those many times.
If you don't understand what a flashback is like, let me explain. For me, they come in a few different ways. One is where I feel, see, smell, hear everything as if it were happening right then. Another is like mentally watching the event happen as if it were a real movie scrolling in my head. Another is to physically feel the pain of whatever was happening, often accompanied by smells or sounds. Flashbacks are very common with post traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), which I do have.
I believe an hour passed this morning before I realized I had been consumed by one flashback after another. The same had happened last night.
It was my ability to remain calm and let the adrenaline leave my system that had escaped me. I went to the garage, grabbed a pry bar, screwdriver, hammer and pliers. And away I went to the stairs.
I ripped the carpet up first. Then began to work on the tack strips and padding and staples.
Maybe it was the outbursts of cussing at people who were no where near me or the intermittent bouts of bawling that kept me from realizing how many times I had smashed a hammer into my finger or the blisters that were already forming on my thumbs.
Needless-to-say, I was far outside my skill set and didn't have the least bit of care.
At some point, I know I knew I could go no further. I had nothing left in me, physically or emotionally, to finish the job.
With sweat pouring off of me and in a urine soaked haze, I laid down on the floor and put my cheek down on the cold wood. The wind was blowing outside and for a few seconds, it seemed to be carrying music. That's where I cracked.
What started as momentary rest had turned into a face planted on the floor petition to God. For someone who struggles to believe that prayer is necessary or real or works, this was outside of normal for me.
It started with a simple plea, that soon became a long-winded session of begging and pleading. As I sobbed, I begged for repair. I had reached a point where I understood that things were too broken for me to fix. I begged for help. I realized that nothing was getting done to improve our living conditions and that there is no end to that in sight. I begged for change. I finally accepted that without intervention in my life and heart, my life is going to be short and constantly full of pain. I begged for rest. Without it, I know I can never move forward.
Of course a few hours later, my skepticism has set in and I question why God would listen or answer any of my prayers.
Having been in counseling for a few years now, I have heard this several times. Maintaining a life that looks to be normal for me is like trying to keep a beach ball under water. A beach ball full of air is hard to hold underwater. Try it sometime. It's a fight to keep in submerged, always having to readjust or use your legs when your hands get tired. When you have exhausted every resource, you finally lose control and the beach ball goes flying out of the water.
To most of the world, I've managed to keep my beach ball firmly underwater for several months now. I must admit, it's been difficult at times. In fact, unless you are a regular reader on this blog, you would never know I've had much emotion at all the past six months. I might even look a bit "normal" to you.
But I'm tired. All of my internal resources are exhausted. I have nothing left to hold it down any longer. I'm afraid my beach ball is about to shoot out of the water like a rocket.
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
Girlyness
It's funny, I used to think a mani-pedi was something bad. By bad, I mean something like a bikini wax kind of bad. Funny how you think a certain way when you have no idea what something is.
In my entire life, I've only had one manicure. Why? Because up until a few years ago, I never liked "girly" things. I also am a self-convicted nail biter. It's pretty subconscious thing. My fingernails are really flat and super thin. That means they tear easy and not much fun to grow out anyway.
But I learned what a pedicure was several years ago and boy did I love it.
The first time I had one, I was so nervous. I was scared to have anyone touch my feet. It was a fear that I didn't understand, but it would stress me out. After my first dozen or so pedicures, I would go directly home and cry like a baby. By the next day I would be so happy with my pretty toes and soft feet. Yes, I had developed a secret love for the girlyness of a pedicure.
To most people, that wouldn't sound like that big of a deal. For me, it was. It took me a long time to really understand my crying, fearful reaction to having something done to my feet that I really did enjoy.
When I was in grade school, my dad tortured my brother and I one day in a fit of rage that I still don't understand. He stripped us of our clothes and sat us on the concrete floor of the garage. One by one, he pulled our toenails off with a pair of pliers.
I think my reaction to having anyone touch my toes was probably understandable. As much as I love pedicures, I still get tense and can get teary-eyed afterward.
But....this is one, maybe the only one, little thing that I haven't let him steal every bit of joy out of.
My birthday was low-key this year. I received one gift. A gift certificate for a mani-pedi. I going to go use that gift certificate. I may get stressed and hate it for a moment, but I'm going to enjoy it afterward. I'm going to enjoy a moment of girlyness.
In my entire life, I've only had one manicure. Why? Because up until a few years ago, I never liked "girly" things. I also am a self-convicted nail biter. It's pretty subconscious thing. My fingernails are really flat and super thin. That means they tear easy and not much fun to grow out anyway.
But I learned what a pedicure was several years ago and boy did I love it.
The first time I had one, I was so nervous. I was scared to have anyone touch my feet. It was a fear that I didn't understand, but it would stress me out. After my first dozen or so pedicures, I would go directly home and cry like a baby. By the next day I would be so happy with my pretty toes and soft feet. Yes, I had developed a secret love for the girlyness of a pedicure.
To most people, that wouldn't sound like that big of a deal. For me, it was. It took me a long time to really understand my crying, fearful reaction to having something done to my feet that I really did enjoy.
When I was in grade school, my dad tortured my brother and I one day in a fit of rage that I still don't understand. He stripped us of our clothes and sat us on the concrete floor of the garage. One by one, he pulled our toenails off with a pair of pliers.
I think my reaction to having anyone touch my toes was probably understandable. As much as I love pedicures, I still get tense and can get teary-eyed afterward.
But....this is one, maybe the only one, little thing that I haven't let him steal every bit of joy out of.
My birthday was low-key this year. I received one gift. A gift certificate for a mani-pedi. I going to go use that gift certificate. I may get stressed and hate it for a moment, but I'm going to enjoy it afterward. I'm going to enjoy a moment of girlyness.
Monday, April 30, 2012
The day is past...
...and I still can't seem to pick my butt up off the floor.
There's just not another time of year when I think about my mom more. I wonder sometimes if she even thinks about me.
About a year ago, an old acquaintance from back home told me that my will often tell people she has two sons. She doesn't say two sons and a daughter, just two sons.
That makes me wonder how she could so easily write me off. Does she just want to avoid any uncomfortable conversation about why I only live two hours away, but she never sees me? Or is it just that easy to turn her back on someone she gave birth to?
My husband often tells me that people with a traumatic past have the hardest time letting things go. Maybe he is right, even though it makes me angry every time he says it. But maybe it's because there is so much that keeps us from being able to understand what has been done to us.
Good grief, it isn't like I don't have ample opportunity to discuss this with someone to help make sense of it. Most weeks, I am in counseling or therapy at least 3-4 times. I'm convinced that those helping me struggle to explain things they also cannot understand.
I have watched ladies in our church pursue women who are less mature in their faith or just entering new phases of life. They go after those young ladies in loving ways because they care. Even when they get told politely to bug off, they still pursue. I would think that a mother would work much the same.
I would think a mother would want to always lovingly remind their daughter that they are there for them. Even when the daughter pushes away, I would think their love runs deep enough that they never stop pursuing.
It's hard to not have that and impossible to understand why I don't.
For the past many, many years, all I wanted to do was be a mother. It's hard to understand how someone who was given that ability would neglect it so.
I don't know what to do, that desire just won't leave me....
There's just not another time of year when I think about my mom more. I wonder sometimes if she even thinks about me.
About a year ago, an old acquaintance from back home told me that my will often tell people she has two sons. She doesn't say two sons and a daughter, just two sons.
That makes me wonder how she could so easily write me off. Does she just want to avoid any uncomfortable conversation about why I only live two hours away, but she never sees me? Or is it just that easy to turn her back on someone she gave birth to?
My husband often tells me that people with a traumatic past have the hardest time letting things go. Maybe he is right, even though it makes me angry every time he says it. But maybe it's because there is so much that keeps us from being able to understand what has been done to us.
Good grief, it isn't like I don't have ample opportunity to discuss this with someone to help make sense of it. Most weeks, I am in counseling or therapy at least 3-4 times. I'm convinced that those helping me struggle to explain things they also cannot understand.
I have watched ladies in our church pursue women who are less mature in their faith or just entering new phases of life. They go after those young ladies in loving ways because they care. Even when they get told politely to bug off, they still pursue. I would think that a mother would work much the same.
I would think a mother would want to always lovingly remind their daughter that they are there for them. Even when the daughter pushes away, I would think their love runs deep enough that they never stop pursuing.
It's hard to not have that and impossible to understand why I don't.
For the past many, many years, all I wanted to do was be a mother. It's hard to understand how someone who was given that ability would neglect it so.
I don't know what to do, that desire just won't leave me....
Thursday, April 26, 2012
Me and a Cookie
I woke up this morning incredibly anxious for the day to end, no surprise. The one thing I couldn't get out of my head was a photo my grandma had taken on my 17th birthday. I searched and searched until I finally found it! I found a couple others I'd like to share too. They probably encapsulate the 4 only good birthday memories I have.
You'll have to excuse the poor photos.
This was my 4th or 5th birthday with all of my little friends. Oh, and my brother who is 18 months younger than me. He's the cute little boy on the right side edge with the curly hair. The kids were all children of family friends. I lived and breathed Sesame Street, hence the cookie monster cake. I remember the cake because it was chocolate. Even then, I didn't like chocolate cake. It's such a sweet, innocent photo. It makes me sad to know now what was going on in my life even that early.
This was my 4th or 5th birthday with all of my little friends. Oh, and my brother who is 18 months younger than me. He's the cute little boy on the right side edge with the curly hair. The kids were all children of family friends. I lived and breathed Sesame Street, hence the cookie monster cake. I remember the cake because it was chocolate. Even then, I didn't like chocolate cake. It's such a sweet, innocent photo. It makes me sad to know now what was going on in my life even that early.
This one is from my 16th birthday. Not your typical birthday picture. My junior prom fell on the eve of my 16th birthday with activities ending the day of. The young man I went to prom with is probably the most talented actor/singer I have ever personally known. He is still acting and singing in Chicago and I'm so proud of him. I was born at 3:27 am. He sang to me at the exact minute of my birthday. Pretty cool! I don't know many other 16 year-olds that get serenaded like that.
I'm skipping a couple years. This is from my 19th birthday. My grandma tried her best to make birthdays good for me. You have to keep in mind that my grandma was highly dysfunctional too in her own ways. However, because she wasn't directly abusive, she was a safer person for me to be around. She always made each of us a cake on our birthday. My dad always used this as another form of birthday torture. Yet, grandma always managed to get a picture of us and the cake before that would happen.
I might look happier here by design. I had just moved out of my parent's house and had already met the man who would later become my husband. You might notice something funny about the cake. Besides the fact that it is pink with green writing, it also says Happy Birthday Jo Jo. My family never called me by my first name. Mostly, they called me Jo Jo. That has stuck! Last time I saw my nieces and nephews, they still called me Aunt Jo. I was so accustomed to having to leave the cake at my grandparent's house, that I didn't eat or take this one home either...even though I lived alone. Some things stick with you a long time!
Here it is! This is the picture that I woke up thinking about. This was from my 17th birthday. Remember me saying that my dad used my grandma's cakes as a form of torture? On my 16th birthday, she had made me a chocolate cake, which my dad made me sit and eat the whole thing and making me very sick. Not wanting to live through that again, I asked my grandma to not bake a cake for my 17th. To which she begrudgingly agreed, even though she knew what happened every year. (I told you she was dysfunctional. She did things just to anger my dad.)
While grocery shopping with her...yep, that's how cool I was, spending my birthday grocery shopping with my grandma...we found this cookie. Our grocery store had just then added a bakery. It's hard to see, but there are two chocolate chip cookies, with a big scoop of pastry cream in the middle and red hots to make a face in the side of the cookie.
You might also notice the smile and hint of animation. This is probably the only picture from my childhood that shows either. I think the smile was truly because I knew I wouldn't have a cake to be tortured over. I had a treat that was mine, all mine. It's a rare gem from the giant mountain of photos I have.
This picture makes me smile when I think about it and even more when I see it. It makes me sad too. It doesn't reflect how my life really was at the time, which is probably why it makes me happy and sad. It seems to reflect a moment of my life that was how it should have been. Again...maybe that's why it's both happy and sad.
There you have it...the only good birthday memories I have from 19 and younger. The memories still plague me with sadness, knowing that the happiest of times were so few and still so full of difficulty.
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Mailbox
As I grabbed the mail from the box this afternoon, I realized it held more than just my Southern Living magazine and advertisements. I realized I held more than just excitement over the magazine.
It was the continuous disappointment that snaked it's way out of the box and punched me in the gut.
I have been walking to the mailbox everyday with the subconscious thoughts that somewhere among the junk and bills, I would find something from home...a birthday card from anyone in my family.
Even though I haven't spoken to or had contact with my immediate family in nearly five years. And even after all this time, I still long to have some tangible, healthy contact from them.
There is no real reason for me to ever get my hopes up that this will happen. Honestly, it didn't happen much before all contact with them stopped.
For two years prior to cutting contact, nobody had given my birthday much thought. I got a phone call or two from one of my brothers a few days late. However, it would be several weeks before my mom acknowledged my birthday.
I have to believe that any woman who gives birth to a child would remember that day forever. How could they not? I don't think she forgot, I think she just didn't care. I know she didn't care.
My mom has never been into celebrating my birthday. By not into it, I mean she usually watched whatever horrific thing my dad was doing to me and never did anything special. She sent a couple cards after I was married, but usually weeks to months late.
Nobody else in my family has ever really sent cards on my birthday. I had a sister-in-law once who usually would send a card with pictures of my niece and nephew. That sister-in-law was smarter than anyone gave her credit for and got out of the family....but that's another blog post for another time.
So, I have no real reason to expect something from them. But that does little to squelch what I think is a natural desire. I wish that desire would die in me so that I am not constantly disappointed. If I could change it, I would.
At least I only have one more day to walk to the mailbox to be let down. I'm not sure my broken heart could take much more. I've said it before and I'm sure I will say it again...I don't understand why they never wanted me.
It was the continuous disappointment that snaked it's way out of the box and punched me in the gut.
I have been walking to the mailbox everyday with the subconscious thoughts that somewhere among the junk and bills, I would find something from home...a birthday card from anyone in my family.
Even though I haven't spoken to or had contact with my immediate family in nearly five years. And even after all this time, I still long to have some tangible, healthy contact from them.
There is no real reason for me to ever get my hopes up that this will happen. Honestly, it didn't happen much before all contact with them stopped.
For two years prior to cutting contact, nobody had given my birthday much thought. I got a phone call or two from one of my brothers a few days late. However, it would be several weeks before my mom acknowledged my birthday.
I have to believe that any woman who gives birth to a child would remember that day forever. How could they not? I don't think she forgot, I think she just didn't care. I know she didn't care.
My mom has never been into celebrating my birthday. By not into it, I mean she usually watched whatever horrific thing my dad was doing to me and never did anything special. She sent a couple cards after I was married, but usually weeks to months late.
Nobody else in my family has ever really sent cards on my birthday. I had a sister-in-law once who usually would send a card with pictures of my niece and nephew. That sister-in-law was smarter than anyone gave her credit for and got out of the family....but that's another blog post for another time.
So, I have no real reason to expect something from them. But that does little to squelch what I think is a natural desire. I wish that desire would die in me so that I am not constantly disappointed. If I could change it, I would.
At least I only have one more day to walk to the mailbox to be let down. I'm not sure my broken heart could take much more. I've said it before and I'm sure I will say it again...I don't understand why they never wanted me.
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
My Plan
Why is it that when you tell people you've lived through something traumatic, their response is "God must have big plans for you!"
Is it because they truly believe that to be true or is it just a generic answer that they give? I tend to think it's a generic response that they use in their own mind to justify and redeem what you have been through so that they can better understand it....even though they probably can't.
I hear it so often, that I've developed quite a blase response. How do they know? If God had a big plan for me, why would He be withholding it? Why would a God who loves me withhold something good from me, especially when it's something that makes me feel so terribly bad?
You see why such a simple statement could do little to build my confidence in a God who supposedly loves me?
I don't think that this week has much to do with how I am feeling today. In fact, the way I feel might actually be driving me to have a more emotionally trying week and why I'm having an even more difficult time with my birthday.
If you have kids, have a job, have grand kids, have people who rely on you, you probably have a good idea where you will be needed and a general idea of what you will be doing. You know before your feet hit the floor or inhale a deep breath of fresh morning air, that you will be needed in some way that day.
Think about how you would feel to not wake up with those purposes everyday. I think it's fair to say you might feel a little useless.
That is how I feel every single day. I wake up not thinking, but knowing that I don't have any real driving reason to put my feet on the floor or take that first deep breath of the day.
There is nobody who depends on me, nobody who needs me, nobody who really expects anything from me on a regular basis. I have no place where I contribute anything of any value. My uselessness is my reality.
If I were to disappear today, there would be nobody deeply affected outside of my husband who would feel the loss of my presence at home. Sure, many people might acknowledge my previous existence, but deeply affected....no.
Really, this isn't a life that I can look at and believe that God has big plans.
Yes, there is a very real part of this that comes from my past. I was made to believe that my life had no value and everyone would have been better off if I had never been born. Those things were said and proven so many times for so many years, that I cannot easily drop those thoughts and walk away. But this is much more.
All day, I have mentally scoured my life to find one little shiny nugget hiding in a dark corner and I just couldn't.
Each time I try to do, give, or be a resource for an individual or group of people, I am usually rejected. I'm not ragging on church, but that's one place I've felt this. I have volunteered to help in so many places and been turned away. Each time I've reached out to a fellow Christian who was hurting or offered to help during a time of need, I've been rejected. I'm not sure why, but it happens that way all the time.
If my past somehow makes me more equipped to carry out some big God plan, then I'm failing. How can I possibly use what I've been through when I don't have a way to do that?
One thing I know is true and that nothing is hidden from God. I can logically deduce that God obviously knows how big of a struggle this is for me. I know He knows just how far down my feelings of uselessness push me into the hole of darkness.
Maybe there isn't some big plan. Maybe those people are wrong. People misuse Jeremiah 29:11 as proof that God has big plans for people like me. When in reality, the verse says that He knows the plans for us. Not that they are big plans; not that they are plans to use your past trauma; not that the plans are even good. Just that He knows the plans.
What if this is all there is to my life? No end in sight of day after day of going through the motions and pretending that everything will somehow make sense someday. What if this is the big plan? What if the plan for my life is for it to be a short one? What if the plan for my life is that I am supposed to be this disgusted with life? What if my life doesn't have any value and God's just waiting for the right time for it to be over?
If God knows everything already, He knows my plan, then who's to say that this is the way it's just supposed to be.
I think God probably already knows how our lives will end, regardless of what we plan. I also think I'm tired of the deep breath in the morning that quickly turns into a big sigh.
Is it because they truly believe that to be true or is it just a generic answer that they give? I tend to think it's a generic response that they use in their own mind to justify and redeem what you have been through so that they can better understand it....even though they probably can't.
I hear it so often, that I've developed quite a blase response. How do they know? If God had a big plan for me, why would He be withholding it? Why would a God who loves me withhold something good from me, especially when it's something that makes me feel so terribly bad?
You see why such a simple statement could do little to build my confidence in a God who supposedly loves me?
I don't think that this week has much to do with how I am feeling today. In fact, the way I feel might actually be driving me to have a more emotionally trying week and why I'm having an even more difficult time with my birthday.
If you have kids, have a job, have grand kids, have people who rely on you, you probably have a good idea where you will be needed and a general idea of what you will be doing. You know before your feet hit the floor or inhale a deep breath of fresh morning air, that you will be needed in some way that day.
Think about how you would feel to not wake up with those purposes everyday. I think it's fair to say you might feel a little useless.
That is how I feel every single day. I wake up not thinking, but knowing that I don't have any real driving reason to put my feet on the floor or take that first deep breath of the day.
There is nobody who depends on me, nobody who needs me, nobody who really expects anything from me on a regular basis. I have no place where I contribute anything of any value. My uselessness is my reality.
If I were to disappear today, there would be nobody deeply affected outside of my husband who would feel the loss of my presence at home. Sure, many people might acknowledge my previous existence, but deeply affected....no.
Really, this isn't a life that I can look at and believe that God has big plans.
Yes, there is a very real part of this that comes from my past. I was made to believe that my life had no value and everyone would have been better off if I had never been born. Those things were said and proven so many times for so many years, that I cannot easily drop those thoughts and walk away. But this is much more.
All day, I have mentally scoured my life to find one little shiny nugget hiding in a dark corner and I just couldn't.
Each time I try to do, give, or be a resource for an individual or group of people, I am usually rejected. I'm not ragging on church, but that's one place I've felt this. I have volunteered to help in so many places and been turned away. Each time I've reached out to a fellow Christian who was hurting or offered to help during a time of need, I've been rejected. I'm not sure why, but it happens that way all the time.
If my past somehow makes me more equipped to carry out some big God plan, then I'm failing. How can I possibly use what I've been through when I don't have a way to do that?
One thing I know is true and that nothing is hidden from God. I can logically deduce that God obviously knows how big of a struggle this is for me. I know He knows just how far down my feelings of uselessness push me into the hole of darkness.
Maybe there isn't some big plan. Maybe those people are wrong. People misuse Jeremiah 29:11 as proof that God has big plans for people like me. When in reality, the verse says that He knows the plans for us. Not that they are big plans; not that they are plans to use your past trauma; not that the plans are even good. Just that He knows the plans.
What if this is all there is to my life? No end in sight of day after day of going through the motions and pretending that everything will somehow make sense someday. What if this is the big plan? What if the plan for my life is for it to be a short one? What if the plan for my life is that I am supposed to be this disgusted with life? What if my life doesn't have any value and God's just waiting for the right time for it to be over?
If God knows everything already, He knows my plan, then who's to say that this is the way it's just supposed to be.
I think God probably already knows how our lives will end, regardless of what we plan. I also think I'm tired of the deep breath in the morning that quickly turns into a big sigh.
Monday, April 23, 2012
Mondayyyyy
I knew I didn't have the physical or emotional energy to juggle anything additional this week and I was right.
The way my day started should have been an indicator of how today would go. It started by being woke up by a dog nearly barfing in my face. Not the best alarm clock! No to mention, I usually sleep a little later on Mondays and don't head into the church office until lunch.
Once I was ready, the first order of business was to call our insurance agent. Our mortgage company had sent a letter, received this weekend, that informed us our insurance had been cancelled. He was happy to confirm that letter was correct, until I reminded him that two months ago he said he would take care of the problem. By lunch time, he had rectified the problem and we now have coverage again. However, he failed miserably to apologize for his mistake and left me with more work to do in finding a new company.
There really wasn't anything specific during the biggest portion of my day that was necessarily bad. I think it was mostly little irritations. Not being able to find what I needed. Things missing that were in the right place last week. Internet that wouldn't work great. Forgot my lunch. All of my electronics were dead and needed charged. You know, the little irritants that add up.
I usually have a psychology appointment every Tuesday. This week, it was on Monday. That really threw me off. I normally don't want to go and dislike it, but being on a different day certainly intensified those feelings.
Most of the time, I genuinely believe there is little value in the time or money spent at the psychologist's office. Today was much the same. What I really hate is someone trying to force you to talk about something you don't want to. Good grief, no wonder I can't leave that crap in the past.
And speaking of crap, I walked into a bunch of it when I got home. Literally!
My dog, who rarely causes any problems while I am gone during the day, decided to be quite a menace today. Do you know how hard it is to see dog poop on a dark hardwood floor? Well, hard to see, but easy to step in. Oh and I didn't just step in it once, but twice.
In trying to clean up the mess, I headed to the bathroom where I found that the same dog had unloaded the trash and knocked over the toilet paper holder. Double whammy for her! She and her co-conspirator had left me a fine layer of fresh tissue snow all over the green floor. What fun for me!
Heading back into the kitchen, I found a two-liter of pop that had been played with and thankfully not punctured. Evidently, I'm the only person in the house who can put groceries away. Oh I digress...
By 5 pm, I was in my pjs and had far surpassed pissed off. I really don't have what it takes to deal with any more days like this. I'm not sure I have what it takes to even chance having another day like this. Off to eat ice cream...yes, that's the healthiest choice I can make right now. Anything else would be a relief for me, but piss everyone else off.
The way my day started should have been an indicator of how today would go. It started by being woke up by a dog nearly barfing in my face. Not the best alarm clock! No to mention, I usually sleep a little later on Mondays and don't head into the church office until lunch.
Once I was ready, the first order of business was to call our insurance agent. Our mortgage company had sent a letter, received this weekend, that informed us our insurance had been cancelled. He was happy to confirm that letter was correct, until I reminded him that two months ago he said he would take care of the problem. By lunch time, he had rectified the problem and we now have coverage again. However, he failed miserably to apologize for his mistake and left me with more work to do in finding a new company.
There really wasn't anything specific during the biggest portion of my day that was necessarily bad. I think it was mostly little irritations. Not being able to find what I needed. Things missing that were in the right place last week. Internet that wouldn't work great. Forgot my lunch. All of my electronics were dead and needed charged. You know, the little irritants that add up.
I usually have a psychology appointment every Tuesday. This week, it was on Monday. That really threw me off. I normally don't want to go and dislike it, but being on a different day certainly intensified those feelings.
Most of the time, I genuinely believe there is little value in the time or money spent at the psychologist's office. Today was much the same. What I really hate is someone trying to force you to talk about something you don't want to. Good grief, no wonder I can't leave that crap in the past.
And speaking of crap, I walked into a bunch of it when I got home. Literally!
My dog, who rarely causes any problems while I am gone during the day, decided to be quite a menace today. Do you know how hard it is to see dog poop on a dark hardwood floor? Well, hard to see, but easy to step in. Oh and I didn't just step in it once, but twice.
In trying to clean up the mess, I headed to the bathroom where I found that the same dog had unloaded the trash and knocked over the toilet paper holder. Double whammy for her! She and her co-conspirator had left me a fine layer of fresh tissue snow all over the green floor. What fun for me!
Heading back into the kitchen, I found a two-liter of pop that had been played with and thankfully not punctured. Evidently, I'm the only person in the house who can put groceries away. Oh I digress...
By 5 pm, I was in my pjs and had far surpassed pissed off. I really don't have what it takes to deal with any more days like this. I'm not sure I have what it takes to even chance having another day like this. Off to eat ice cream...yes, that's the healthiest choice I can make right now. Anything else would be a relief for me, but piss everyone else off.
Sunday, April 22, 2012
The Week
Ack! It's finally here. I have several dreaded weeks of the year and this is one of them.
A couple weeks from now, hopefully I'll be able to look back at this week and only see a blur. It can't possibly be a surprise that I hate it so much given all I've shared. Sadly, I haven't even shared the worst.
This week, more than any other, I have that nagging thought..."Why was I even born?" For as far back as I can remember, I have always wished April 26th had never happened. I know that comes from year after year of being told that I should have never been born.
After sitting here for the past four hours with one birthday memory after another creeping through my head, I know that question is looming again this year. Why? Why was I born?
My parents didn't want me. In fact, most of my family didn't want me. They still don't want me. It's been over five years since I've had any substantial contact with any of my family. I didn't hatefully sever ties with any of them. I didn't make a formal statement that I would never contact them again. They just never contacted me again. It's an easy conclusion that they still don't want me.
My birthday is one of those times when it's incredibly apparent that they never have cared. I have three grandparents, two parents, two brothers, one sister-in-law, two nieces, two nephews, four uncles, four aunts, twelve cousins and numerous great-whatevers. Outside of an ex-aunt, not one of them contacts me...ever!
So, if my family doesn't care and doesn't want me, why was I born? I don't have kids and I'm more of a hindrance for my husband than a partner. Really, I am someone he has to take care of, not live life with and I create a fair amount of worry for him. I don't really make any significant contribution to anyone or anything. I don't have a job and I spent most of my time feeling fairly useless.
It's an awful feeling, but it is all true.
As far back as junior high, I can remember attempting to end my life in one way or another during the week of my birthday each and every year. That is how strong those feelings get in me. Even last year was no exception.
Two days after my birthday last year, I sat contemplating my own demise over a bottle of nail polish remover, a bottle of aspirin and a tube of super glue.
Believe me, it isn't the way I want life to be at all. I don't want it to be that way now either. As the day gets closer, I can't help but feel like this year is going to be much the same. I just hate it!
A couple weeks from now, hopefully I'll be able to look back at this week and only see a blur. It can't possibly be a surprise that I hate it so much given all I've shared. Sadly, I haven't even shared the worst.
This week, more than any other, I have that nagging thought..."Why was I even born?" For as far back as I can remember, I have always wished April 26th had never happened. I know that comes from year after year of being told that I should have never been born.
After sitting here for the past four hours with one birthday memory after another creeping through my head, I know that question is looming again this year. Why? Why was I born?
My parents didn't want me. In fact, most of my family didn't want me. They still don't want me. It's been over five years since I've had any substantial contact with any of my family. I didn't hatefully sever ties with any of them. I didn't make a formal statement that I would never contact them again. They just never contacted me again. It's an easy conclusion that they still don't want me.
My birthday is one of those times when it's incredibly apparent that they never have cared. I have three grandparents, two parents, two brothers, one sister-in-law, two nieces, two nephews, four uncles, four aunts, twelve cousins and numerous great-whatevers. Outside of an ex-aunt, not one of them contacts me...ever!
So, if my family doesn't care and doesn't want me, why was I born? I don't have kids and I'm more of a hindrance for my husband than a partner. Really, I am someone he has to take care of, not live life with and I create a fair amount of worry for him. I don't really make any significant contribution to anyone or anything. I don't have a job and I spent most of my time feeling fairly useless.
It's an awful feeling, but it is all true.
As far back as junior high, I can remember attempting to end my life in one way or another during the week of my birthday each and every year. That is how strong those feelings get in me. Even last year was no exception.
Two days after my birthday last year, I sat contemplating my own demise over a bottle of nail polish remover, a bottle of aspirin and a tube of super glue.
Believe me, it isn't the way I want life to be at all. I don't want it to be that way now either. As the day gets closer, I can't help but feel like this year is going to be much the same. I just hate it!
Thursday, April 19, 2012
Box of Kittens
As my husband watched one of his cop drama shows tonight, I heard a quote that sent me over the edge.
"Nobody is always bad or always good. Everyone has some good and bad in them."
Even though it was just a show, I believe that is a statement most people would find true. The majority of the general population is naive enough to believe that everybody has some good in them.
There has NEVER been and will NEVER be a time when I will ever tell you there was anything good in my dad. If you have ever read any of my other posts regarding my dad, I suppose you could have been naive enough to believe somewhere in his dysfunction there was something good.
Well...you'd be WRONG!
He is an evil, rotten bastard who lacks any hint of a redeeming quality. That is not an overstatement.
I keep going back to another birthday where he tormented me.
When I was in second grade, I kept asking my parents for a kitten for my birthday. At the age of 8, all I wanted was something to love me and knew I could find that in a kitten. Of course I would think the love of a kitten would be sufficient, I was 8.
At 8 years-old, I didn't understand how cats reproduced or that a momma cat in our neighborhood was about to nest in our garage and give birth to a litter of kittens. I just knew my birthday was coming and I wanted a kitten.
When my dad got home on the day of my birthday, he walked in the door carrying what looked like a package. He handed me a shoe box and told me to open it. Much to my surprise, there were three tiny kittens in the box.
I immediately sat on the floor in total amazement. I so clearly remember that overwhelming love I had for these kittens. I know I was in a bit of disbelief that I had actually gotten what I wanted. Not only had a gotten a kitten, but I got three! I petted and held and loved all of the kittens. I was instantly bonded to these little creatures.
After what seemed like an hour with the kittens, my dad took the box from me. He put the lid on the box, wrapping it with tape. Although I was horribly upset, I knew they would be ok. There was a big hole in the side of the box. It wasn't big enough for them to crawl out, but plenty big enough for them to get air.
My dad took me and my box of kittens outside. I was sure he was going to show me where they would be staying in the garage.
He had me hold the hole in the box up against a pipe on his truck. Being 8 years-old, I'm sure I had no clue what he was doing. He turned on the truck and turned it off after a few minutes. He came back to where I stood holding the box and removed the tape from it.
Again, I remember so clearly what he said. "Take your cats and go play."
Walking away, I still didn't know what had happened. I'm sure my excitement over having kittens way outweighed any questions about what he had done. But that wouldn't last very long.
As I got to the garage and opened the lid of the box, I saw my little kittens laying there. They were lifeless and limp. I petted them, held them and loved on them, but nothing happened. The rambunctious, squirmy kittens I had held 20 minutes earlier had the life taken out of them, leaving me heartbroken and confused.
What had happened to them?
I cried as the reality of their demise set into my little head and heart.
My dad, the same one who had seemingly made an 8 year-old's dream come true, was now standing over me with belt in hand.
As he swung his belt across my arms and back, he kept mumbling about how mean of a little girl I was to kill a bunch of kittens. I was getting in trouble, big trouble, for killing these sweet babies. I loved them so much and yet, was so upset that I had hurt them.
It wasn't until years later that I really grasped what had happened. Though from that day on, I never asked for another pet and was fearful to love anything for a long time. For a long time, I feared that having a pet or loving anything would cause it to die. When I figured out that it wasn't me, I still lived with fear. It was more a fear that my dad would kill a pet or anything I loved.
I don't believe it is just an opinion, I believe it is truth to say that this man was and is evil. He isn't good sometimes and bad sometimes...he's bad all the time. I don't think he has anything in him that can ever be good enough to equal it all out.
I'm really not ashamed to admit that I am filled with nothing but hatred towards this man. In fact, I think the bible even supports that hatred. Romans 12:9 says love must be sincere, hate what is evil and cling to what is good.
He is evil and I hate him!
"Nobody is always bad or always good. Everyone has some good and bad in them."
Even though it was just a show, I believe that is a statement most people would find true. The majority of the general population is naive enough to believe that everybody has some good in them.
There has NEVER been and will NEVER be a time when I will ever tell you there was anything good in my dad. If you have ever read any of my other posts regarding my dad, I suppose you could have been naive enough to believe somewhere in his dysfunction there was something good.
Well...you'd be WRONG!
He is an evil, rotten bastard who lacks any hint of a redeeming quality. That is not an overstatement.
I keep going back to another birthday where he tormented me.
When I was in second grade, I kept asking my parents for a kitten for my birthday. At the age of 8, all I wanted was something to love me and knew I could find that in a kitten. Of course I would think the love of a kitten would be sufficient, I was 8.
At 8 years-old, I didn't understand how cats reproduced or that a momma cat in our neighborhood was about to nest in our garage and give birth to a litter of kittens. I just knew my birthday was coming and I wanted a kitten.
When my dad got home on the day of my birthday, he walked in the door carrying what looked like a package. He handed me a shoe box and told me to open it. Much to my surprise, there were three tiny kittens in the box.
I immediately sat on the floor in total amazement. I so clearly remember that overwhelming love I had for these kittens. I know I was in a bit of disbelief that I had actually gotten what I wanted. Not only had a gotten a kitten, but I got three! I petted and held and loved all of the kittens. I was instantly bonded to these little creatures.
After what seemed like an hour with the kittens, my dad took the box from me. He put the lid on the box, wrapping it with tape. Although I was horribly upset, I knew they would be ok. There was a big hole in the side of the box. It wasn't big enough for them to crawl out, but plenty big enough for them to get air.
My dad took me and my box of kittens outside. I was sure he was going to show me where they would be staying in the garage.
He had me hold the hole in the box up against a pipe on his truck. Being 8 years-old, I'm sure I had no clue what he was doing. He turned on the truck and turned it off after a few minutes. He came back to where I stood holding the box and removed the tape from it.
Again, I remember so clearly what he said. "Take your cats and go play."
Walking away, I still didn't know what had happened. I'm sure my excitement over having kittens way outweighed any questions about what he had done. But that wouldn't last very long.
As I got to the garage and opened the lid of the box, I saw my little kittens laying there. They were lifeless and limp. I petted them, held them and loved on them, but nothing happened. The rambunctious, squirmy kittens I had held 20 minutes earlier had the life taken out of them, leaving me heartbroken and confused.
What had happened to them?
I cried as the reality of their demise set into my little head and heart.
My dad, the same one who had seemingly made an 8 year-old's dream come true, was now standing over me with belt in hand.
As he swung his belt across my arms and back, he kept mumbling about how mean of a little girl I was to kill a bunch of kittens. I was getting in trouble, big trouble, for killing these sweet babies. I loved them so much and yet, was so upset that I had hurt them.
It wasn't until years later that I really grasped what had happened. Though from that day on, I never asked for another pet and was fearful to love anything for a long time. For a long time, I feared that having a pet or loving anything would cause it to die. When I figured out that it wasn't me, I still lived with fear. It was more a fear that my dad would kill a pet or anything I loved.
I don't believe it is just an opinion, I believe it is truth to say that this man was and is evil. He isn't good sometimes and bad sometimes...he's bad all the time. I don't think he has anything in him that can ever be good enough to equal it all out.
I'm really not ashamed to admit that I am filled with nothing but hatred towards this man. In fact, I think the bible even supports that hatred. Romans 12:9 says love must be sincere, hate what is evil and cling to what is good.
He is evil and I hate him!
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
Butterfly Kisses
Have you ever heard that song by Bob Carlisle, Butterfly Kisses? If you haven't, take a few minutes to listen, read the lyrics and think about them.
This was a very popular song to play at weddings when I got married years ago. I think you can understand why. It is a song that seems to encapsulate everything that a father should feel as their little girl grows up. I think a woman's wedding day is probably the most significant in the handing off of responsibility from the father to the husband and why this song has been used so often.
I know you can't possibly be surprised that I did not use this song at my wedding. In fact, I don't care much for it. I don't even care much for butterflies. They aren't a decoration you will find much of in my home and I don't have much love for them as a symbol of anything.
The song is probably a polar opposite of the true story behind the title of this blog post.
As the most dreaded day of the year inches closer, I am swamped with one horrific birthday memory after another. Yes, I HATE my birthday and not because I don't want to get older like a lot of other women.
On my 16th birthday, I got this gift from my dad.
The picture is new, but the gift is the very one I received nearly 21 years ago. It looks like a harmless gift. In fact, if you have read any of my posts about my dad, you might even think this was an amazing gift and begin to believe he did, somewhere in his cold, dark heart, have some redeeming quality.
This necklace and earrings set was presented to me on my 16th birthday in a small, shiny, blue box. My mom, brothers and brother's friends were all gathered around to see what my dad had bought for me. This was the only time I remember him ever actually purchasing a gift for me, a rarity indeed.
He insisted that I give him a kiss before receiving the gift. If we were a moderately healthy family with even a mediocre moral compass, I am sure this would have been an acceptable activity. A kiss on the cheek to show appreciation wouldn't seem that much of a stretch in most families.
With a crowd of people, I was hesitant to do as asked. After much pressure, I did as requested and leaned forward to kiss him on the cheek, even though I was completely embarrassed.
A second before I was able to do that, he turned his head causing me to plant a kiss on his lips. Unintentional on my part, completely planned on his. He slapped me across the face as if I had intentionally acted inappropriately.
I was incredibly embarrassed by what had happened and by being hit in front of everyone at the house. I went straight to my room, my dad a foot step behind.
He beat me repeatedly with his belt before throwing the box down on the floor and leaving.
It probably took me weeks to months before finally opening the box to find the necklace and earrings.
I can assure you that they weren't worth the beating. Yet, I lived with the assurance that if I hadn't done as he requested, I would have been beaten anyway. It was another no win situation for me, as I often found myself in as a kid. And, let's not forget that even at 16, I was still just a kid.
Even after all this time, I still have the necklace and earrings. Neither have been worn. I cannot even tell you why I kept them. It isn't like I need a physical reminder of what a bad guy my dad is, I have enough of that with memories alone. It isn't because they were such a special sweet 16 gift either. They weren't anything I had asked for or expected. They certainly aren't anything I would wear today either.
If this were the worst birthday experience I had in the past 36 years, I would still have a reason to dislike my birthday. Unfortunately, it's just one of 36 and I have vivid memories of so many of them being much worse than this. Even as an adult, I have struggled to have a good birthday because there has always been a certain level of outside, dysfunctional interference.
Maybe this year could start a new trend, so that I'm not constantly wishing I had never been born....but I've wished that for a long without any luck!
This was a very popular song to play at weddings when I got married years ago. I think you can understand why. It is a song that seems to encapsulate everything that a father should feel as their little girl grows up. I think a woman's wedding day is probably the most significant in the handing off of responsibility from the father to the husband and why this song has been used so often.
I know you can't possibly be surprised that I did not use this song at my wedding. In fact, I don't care much for it. I don't even care much for butterflies. They aren't a decoration you will find much of in my home and I don't have much love for them as a symbol of anything.
The song is probably a polar opposite of the true story behind the title of this blog post.
As the most dreaded day of the year inches closer, I am swamped with one horrific birthday memory after another. Yes, I HATE my birthday and not because I don't want to get older like a lot of other women.
On my 16th birthday, I got this gift from my dad.
This necklace and earrings set was presented to me on my 16th birthday in a small, shiny, blue box. My mom, brothers and brother's friends were all gathered around to see what my dad had bought for me. This was the only time I remember him ever actually purchasing a gift for me, a rarity indeed.
He insisted that I give him a kiss before receiving the gift. If we were a moderately healthy family with even a mediocre moral compass, I am sure this would have been an acceptable activity. A kiss on the cheek to show appreciation wouldn't seem that much of a stretch in most families.
With a crowd of people, I was hesitant to do as asked. After much pressure, I did as requested and leaned forward to kiss him on the cheek, even though I was completely embarrassed.
A second before I was able to do that, he turned his head causing me to plant a kiss on his lips. Unintentional on my part, completely planned on his. He slapped me across the face as if I had intentionally acted inappropriately.
I was incredibly embarrassed by what had happened and by being hit in front of everyone at the house. I went straight to my room, my dad a foot step behind.
He beat me repeatedly with his belt before throwing the box down on the floor and leaving.
It probably took me weeks to months before finally opening the box to find the necklace and earrings.
I can assure you that they weren't worth the beating. Yet, I lived with the assurance that if I hadn't done as he requested, I would have been beaten anyway. It was another no win situation for me, as I often found myself in as a kid. And, let's not forget that even at 16, I was still just a kid.
Even after all this time, I still have the necklace and earrings. Neither have been worn. I cannot even tell you why I kept them. It isn't like I need a physical reminder of what a bad guy my dad is, I have enough of that with memories alone. It isn't because they were such a special sweet 16 gift either. They weren't anything I had asked for or expected. They certainly aren't anything I would wear today either.
If this were the worst birthday experience I had in the past 36 years, I would still have a reason to dislike my birthday. Unfortunately, it's just one of 36 and I have vivid memories of so many of them being much worse than this. Even as an adult, I have struggled to have a good birthday because there has always been a certain level of outside, dysfunctional interference.
Maybe this year could start a new trend, so that I'm not constantly wishing I had never been born....but I've wished that for a long without any luck!
Saturday, April 14, 2012
Family Done Right
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.
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.
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.
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