I spent today like I do many Fridays (and a lot of days too), mostly alone. I'm ok with being alone most of the time, but sometimes it lets my mind wander too far off course and I end up stuck on a thought that I can't shake.
As I took a break from cleaning, it hit me that I've been couped up in my house most of this week alone. A full week of looking at the same walls with just an occasional break in the silence by barking dogs.
Most everyone I know has an idea that I do not drive. No, it's not because I lost my license or got into legal trouble. Since I most weeks I get less than 12 hours of sleep, it's not safe for me or others if I am behind the wheel of a car. Once in a while when I have gotten a bit more rest, I'll get to drive during the day. That's pretty rare though.
There are probably only a handful of people who really know what life is like for me. Those are the ones who have a better idea of what it's like for me when I am stuck in this house for five days straight.
Outside of my husband, there are only two people who really make sure I get to where I need to go or get errands done or even just get out of the house for my own mental health.
That means, if I want to go anywhere at all, I have EXACTLY three people to rely on. My husband works three jobs and is exhausted by the time he finally makes it home around 9 pm. One of those is a woman who goes above and beyond to make sure I'm taken care of, but has a job, family, etc. The last of the three, is a woman who takes me out one evening a week. We get dinner, do grocery shopping and might catch an occasional errand.
I found out this week that one of the women who help me will eventually be moving away, narrowing the field back down to two. Out of all the people I know, I will have to rely on two....ONLY 2...people to do everything I need to do.
Not that I don't count all three as a blessing, I do. I am very thankful for the time each of them spend with me. But even at three, it sucked. When you have to rely on others for everything, three just isn't enough. So, two is really going to suuuuuccckkkk! I'm really not whining either, just being honest.
So my moppy little head started to wander or maybe wonder today. With no end in sight with the sleep problems and being grounded to the house, what's the next thing? Will that base of resources ever grow with healthy people who have a desire to help? Will the rest of my life be like this?
Tangled up in that mess in my head are the many voices that have all said, "God is sufficient. God will supply. God knows and isn't tied down by the same boundaries that bind us." And, I know all of that is true. I just can't see that when the road ahead looks so empty.
Ahhh...back to cleaning I go...time for more fun and less thinking!
Friday, May 18, 2012
Thursday, May 17, 2012
They are our future?
I did something tonight that I never thought I would ever do…I sat
through a preschool graduation. Of
course not for any child that I know, but to help my husband do video and
sound.
One thing is very clear. If the
future leaders of our country will need a mastery of nose picking skills, then
we have nothing to worry about…these kids got that nailed!
Since I really didn’t do anything, I had plenty of time to observe the
few hundred people sitting around me.
Wow! That’s the simplest way to
put it. Wow!
I saw several smaller children misbehaving without much correction, but
one was particularly funny. A young man,
much younger than those graduating, pulled his pants down in the corner of the
room. It took me a minute to figure out
that he was working on pulling his diaper off.
Yes indeed, if dad hadn’t come to the rescue this fine young man would
have urinated in the corner.
Now since I don’t have kids and I didn’t graduate from anything before
high school, I don’t quite grasp the big to do with a preschool
graduation. It seems like it might be
more of an event designed for the adults.
First you have the teachers and administrators who have worked with the
kids throughout their time in preschool.
That’s maybe two or three years I am guessing that they have watched these
kids grow. But from what I saw of this
group of people, it seems like a big deep sigh of relief. They have done their time with these kids and
now they are somebody else’s problem.
Woohoo for them!
Then you have the parents. I’m
not sure it’s such a huge accomplishment that the kid has survived two or three
years of preschool. Do they not realize
that they now have another 13-17 years to continue pushing these kids through
school? I got the impression from some of
the parents that this might be the only graduation they ever get to attend for
the child.
I had to wonder exactly what the accomplishment was of some of the
kids. Goodness, not a one of them could
follow directions. What did they spend a
couple years teaching these kids, anyway?
Oh yea, the first sentence of the Gettysburg Address, how to say a bunch
of Spanish numbers followed by a quick wiggle and a loud “cha cha cha,” and all
of the states in alphabetical order. I
think it was about Minnesota before I deciphered that they were in fact
screaming the name of the states.
There were certainly a wide spread spectrum of parents. We had a couple stripper moms. I’m not hating on them, they make a nice
income. They were easy to spot with their shorty, shorts, their fake jumblies
hanging out and tattoos that didn’t make me want to whip out a $1.
There were a couple dads who could have been easily confused with their
kids, being loud and obnoxious. It was
equally as easy to pair up the children with Mohawks and mullets to the dads
with Mohawks and mullets.
Another thing I noticed was that nobody seemed overly happy to be
there. I think I heard the entire list
of complaints from those who walked by. “When
is this going to be over?” “I’m hungry
and tired.” “That kid is ugly.” “That kids mom is ugly.” And the list goes on…
As I watched the video collage of photos scrolling on the screen that
included baby photos too, one thing became very clear. Regardless of the reason that brought all
these people together, despite what anyone looked like or said, each one of
these children came into this world beautiful and perfect. Being at that graduation was a gift for each
one of them, even if they have long since taken it for granted.
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
Fleas and Scars
I know, you are probably wondering what in the world do fleas and scars have in common...well I'm going to tell you.
Our recent visit to my in-laws gifted our little ones with little ones of their own. For the life of me, I can't figure out how my in-laws aren't bothered by the constant flea infestation in their house. Despite our best attempts with preventative, those little boogers always latch on and make the trek home with us.
I spent the greater part of today shaving and shampooing two of the three dogs. What a mess!
Even though I had searched their little bodies over, I had only found one stinkin' flea. It was the constant itching that gave it away. Through all of the shaving and shampooing, I still didn't find more than a couple. I guess it only takes a couple mean ones to do the trick. Our Gizmo and Winnie are covered with tiny welts from the bites and broken skin from scratching.
Had I not shaved them, I would have never seen their poor, irritated skin. Without seeing that, I wouldn't have known to treat the irritation, which would have left them miserable for much longer. It took that extra little effort and getting underneath the surface to find the problem and help them the best I could.
While shaving Winnie, I made another discovery. The first day we got Winnie, she was timid and wouldn't let anyone touch her. The second day I gave her a bath and she literally became a different dog. Her hair was long and I couldn't see much skin. She's been groomed twice, but always professionally.
Shaving her today, I found two long, deep and relatively recent scars on both sides of her back. My best guess is that she was either hit extremely hard on both sides. My other guess is that she was tied so tight and for so long that whatever it was had lodged deep in her skin. Kent thinks maybe she got stuck in a fence for an extended amount of time.
We won't ever know exactly what happened, but what we do know is that whatever happened had to be very painful. I'm beside myself at how someone could have ever hurt or neglected this little sweetheart so badly.
Winnie has really become my dog. She will only listen to me and come to me. For a long time, my husband has taken it quite personally that this dog who he has tried valiantly to win over has only refused his every effort. Given the now visible signs of trauma to her little body, I think we both understand why she would be so afraid of people.
Again, I would have never have found the source of her reluctance had I not spent time shaving her and taking time to see what was going on with her little body. It all makes sense now and all I had to do was take time to see what was underneath all that hair.
Those things all hit me very personally, so identifiable. Going a step further to find the root of a problem; taking time to understand what's really underneath; accepting that the deeper the scars, the deeper the hurt, the longer it takes to heal. Sometimes it takes extra time, patience and care to really see what is going on under the surface. Sometimes it takes extra effort and energy to get really involved and go through life with someone who has deep hurt. Sometimes it takes an extra special person to accept those deep, deep scars for what they are and who proceeds with caution.
It's just another example of how my pets have impacted my life. They haven't changed anything for me, but they have changed me. They've taught me that it's ok to let those special people see those deep, deep scars, so they can understand and help where they can.
Our recent visit to my in-laws gifted our little ones with little ones of their own. For the life of me, I can't figure out how my in-laws aren't bothered by the constant flea infestation in their house. Despite our best attempts with preventative, those little boogers always latch on and make the trek home with us.
I spent the greater part of today shaving and shampooing two of the three dogs. What a mess!
Even though I had searched their little bodies over, I had only found one stinkin' flea. It was the constant itching that gave it away. Through all of the shaving and shampooing, I still didn't find more than a couple. I guess it only takes a couple mean ones to do the trick. Our Gizmo and Winnie are covered with tiny welts from the bites and broken skin from scratching.
Had I not shaved them, I would have never seen their poor, irritated skin. Without seeing that, I wouldn't have known to treat the irritation, which would have left them miserable for much longer. It took that extra little effort and getting underneath the surface to find the problem and help them the best I could.
While shaving Winnie, I made another discovery. The first day we got Winnie, she was timid and wouldn't let anyone touch her. The second day I gave her a bath and she literally became a different dog. Her hair was long and I couldn't see much skin. She's been groomed twice, but always professionally.
Shaving her today, I found two long, deep and relatively recent scars on both sides of her back. My best guess is that she was either hit extremely hard on both sides. My other guess is that she was tied so tight and for so long that whatever it was had lodged deep in her skin. Kent thinks maybe she got stuck in a fence for an extended amount of time.
We won't ever know exactly what happened, but what we do know is that whatever happened had to be very painful. I'm beside myself at how someone could have ever hurt or neglected this little sweetheart so badly.
Winnie has really become my dog. She will only listen to me and come to me. For a long time, my husband has taken it quite personally that this dog who he has tried valiantly to win over has only refused his every effort. Given the now visible signs of trauma to her little body, I think we both understand why she would be so afraid of people.
Again, I would have never have found the source of her reluctance had I not spent time shaving her and taking time to see what was going on with her little body. It all makes sense now and all I had to do was take time to see what was underneath all that hair.
Those things all hit me very personally, so identifiable. Going a step further to find the root of a problem; taking time to understand what's really underneath; accepting that the deeper the scars, the deeper the hurt, the longer it takes to heal. Sometimes it takes extra time, patience and care to really see what is going on under the surface. Sometimes it takes extra effort and energy to get really involved and go through life with someone who has deep hurt. Sometimes it takes an extra special person to accept those deep, deep scars for what they are and who proceeds with caution.
It's just another example of how my pets have impacted my life. They haven't changed anything for me, but they have changed me. They've taught me that it's ok to let those special people see those deep, deep scars, so they can understand and help where they can.
Monday, May 14, 2012
My Pets, My heart
Before I ever crawled out of bed this morning, I was already locked in a struggle that would set the tone for my day. An acquaintance proclaimed boldly how dumb a person would be to spend money on a pet.
With friends and strangers alike, I make it very clear that my pets are like children to me. As you know, we can't have children. For reasons completely out of our control, we can never be considered for adoption or even foster care.
Also out of our control, the amount of love that we have the natural need to share. Without family around, that love gets poured into our pets.
As you can see, my pets are a big part of my life and have an enormous place in my heart. My 147 point IQ could potentially be used to refute the idea that I am dumb. So, I unequivocally disagree with my acquaintance.
I would and have spent a lot of money on my pets. Just a trip to the vet costs at least $100 and we average $75 a month on food. Our little Lucy just had leg surgery, which was a whopping $1600 process. Yes, that is money we desperately needed to finish our bathroom. But, I wasn't heartless enough to leave my pet in pain, no matter how badly I want to take a shower in a tub that doesn't leak or how much of a mold problem I have.
Unfortunately, my day got worse for several reasons I can't really go into. This evening, like I've only done a few times before, I fell to the floor in a weeping mess.
When I finally pulled my head from hands and wiped my eyes enough, I saw a half circle of animals sitting around me. All with varying looks of concern, they stared at me intently. Every time I can remember sitting on the floor crying, they've come to my side.
Dumb? I don't think so!
Crazy? Maybe!
When I fall to the floor in disbelief, sobbing over the friend who hurt me deeply or took advantage of me or turned their back on me, they are always there. They don't judge me for my faults. I never have to worry about them sharing my darkest secrets. They are easy to please. I never have to worry about their compassion or love being given on a contingency. They never disagree, but in an odd way their simplicity makes me want to do the right thing. I never have to pretend I'm happy or something I'm not around them. They never hurt me and they leave.
Sure, they live their natural life span and it is always far too short. But who could call that dumb?
I kind of wonder if maybe I'm not dumb at all and this was just the plan for me...
Maybe, it's just what's in my heart!
With friends and strangers alike, I make it very clear that my pets are like children to me. As you know, we can't have children. For reasons completely out of our control, we can never be considered for adoption or even foster care.
Also out of our control, the amount of love that we have the natural need to share. Without family around, that love gets poured into our pets.
 |
| This is Gizmo. He's our big boy. At almost 4 years old, he's our most anxious but probably our sweetest. He jumps up on our laps and demands attention after a long day of being kenneled. He's probably our funniest and predictable too. The only time he gets in a bad mood is when he's got a belly ache. He's also our smelliest and gets bathed about once a week. He definitely loves his toys and often carries them outside when we aren't paying attention. |
 |
| This is Lucy. Our oldest at just over 5 years old. She is our watch dog. We are certain she will bark if someone slams a door two blocks away. She is the only pet we've ever bought from a puppy mill and is the reason we will always adopt from a shelter. She's our least healthy pet. When she was spayed, the vet said some of her organs never fully developed. She also has very malformed back legs and recently had a leg surgery. She's our singer, howling on demand or as we walk in the door after being gone all day. |
 |
| This is Kirby. At almost 2 years old, he is the youngest and the only feline of the bunch. He is minus his claws because even as a kitten, it was clear he would use them as weapons. He is our biggest instigator. If nobody is paying attention to him, he will go on the hunt for the first person or pup willing to play. He loves to curl up in peculiar places. In this picture, he is trying to stow away in a bag as we prepared to leave for vacation. He has quite a personality and the longest legs I've ever seen on a house cat. |
 |
| This is Winnie. She is the newest member of our family and the most timid. She was a severely abused and neglected rescue dog. She's afraid of men, but is a serious momma's girl. All of 10 lbs, she's almost 4 years old and has amazingly given birth several times. She sleeps beside me or above my head on my pillow and rarely leaves my side. She's still a work in progress with Kent. Even though he pets her and sings to her, she's still hesitant to warm up to him. She's so little that her favorite toys are cat toys. She's also our fastest runner and the only one who isn't big enough for a fair fight with the cat. |
As you can see, my pets are a big part of my life and have an enormous place in my heart. My 147 point IQ could potentially be used to refute the idea that I am dumb. So, I unequivocally disagree with my acquaintance.
I would and have spent a lot of money on my pets. Just a trip to the vet costs at least $100 and we average $75 a month on food. Our little Lucy just had leg surgery, which was a whopping $1600 process. Yes, that is money we desperately needed to finish our bathroom. But, I wasn't heartless enough to leave my pet in pain, no matter how badly I want to take a shower in a tub that doesn't leak or how much of a mold problem I have.
Unfortunately, my day got worse for several reasons I can't really go into. This evening, like I've only done a few times before, I fell to the floor in a weeping mess.
When I finally pulled my head from hands and wiped my eyes enough, I saw a half circle of animals sitting around me. All with varying looks of concern, they stared at me intently. Every time I can remember sitting on the floor crying, they've come to my side.
Dumb? I don't think so!
Crazy? Maybe!
When I fall to the floor in disbelief, sobbing over the friend who hurt me deeply or took advantage of me or turned their back on me, they are always there. They don't judge me for my faults. I never have to worry about them sharing my darkest secrets. They are easy to please. I never have to worry about their compassion or love being given on a contingency. They never disagree, but in an odd way their simplicity makes me want to do the right thing. I never have to pretend I'm happy or something I'm not around them. They never hurt me and they leave.
Sure, they live their natural life span and it is always far too short. But who could call that dumb?
I kind of wonder if maybe I'm not dumb at all and this was just the plan for me...
Maybe, it's just what's in my heart!
Sunday, May 13, 2012
Innocent Ignorance
Everyone has really tried their best to either dance around the mother's day issue with me or get me to admit that it was a wretched day. Neither of those things have been overly helpful, nor have they swayed me one way or the other.
Maybe it's because I have been emotionally flat or maybe it's because I have just finally accepted the way life is for me. I am not a mother, nor do I have a mother who loves me. There's nothing anyone can say or do which can ever change either of those things. Any tear shed would be wasted.
Today as we headed back to see my husband's mom, I still clung to "this is just another day" feeling in my gut.
Don't get me wrong, anytime I head back to the area, it is like heading back into the belly of the beast. I did everything I could to get away from there and going back always sucks. About an hour away, I begin to have that tight feeling in my chest and am ready to head back home. My whole body and mind become consumed by fear.
I have to deal with the pressure of how my in-laws will act and react with me. I have to constantly be on guard, watching for family members that I don't care to see. I have to be weary of my husband's emotions as he deals with his family. All systems spend the entire time there on overload.
It's also just a different world there.
My mother-in-law was without a doubt quirkier than normal. It was awkward, yet brief visit and I was ok with that. I still felt not much emotion and certainly nothing that tied me to mother's day.
After a couple hour, we headed home. As a treat, we stopped at a BBQ place once we were closer to home. The restaurant was busy as normal and yet it still wasn't registering that there were tables full of families celebrating moms.
As I stood waiting for them to finish our order, the cashier said "Happy Mother's Day to you."
I can tell you exactly what went through my head and thankfully never found it's way to my lips. "What the hell! You stupid ass, why would you just assume I am celebrating Mother's day? Do I just look old enough to be a mom, so I must be? Are you kidding me? I want to crawl over counter and smack the piss out of you and cram the word mom back down your throat!"
Wow, yep! Innocent ignorance finally set me off. It didn't make me cry. It didn't make me sad. It didn't even make me angry. It made me wish people wouldn't make assumptions.
I had just about escaped the day without feeling much of anything. It didn't last long, whatever it was that I was feeling.
Whatever it was, I am glad it's over and hopefully I don't have to be reminded of it for another year.
Maybe it's because I have been emotionally flat or maybe it's because I have just finally accepted the way life is for me. I am not a mother, nor do I have a mother who loves me. There's nothing anyone can say or do which can ever change either of those things. Any tear shed would be wasted.
Today as we headed back to see my husband's mom, I still clung to "this is just another day" feeling in my gut.
Don't get me wrong, anytime I head back to the area, it is like heading back into the belly of the beast. I did everything I could to get away from there and going back always sucks. About an hour away, I begin to have that tight feeling in my chest and am ready to head back home. My whole body and mind become consumed by fear.
I have to deal with the pressure of how my in-laws will act and react with me. I have to constantly be on guard, watching for family members that I don't care to see. I have to be weary of my husband's emotions as he deals with his family. All systems spend the entire time there on overload.
It's also just a different world there.
My mother-in-law was without a doubt quirkier than normal. It was awkward, yet brief visit and I was ok with that. I still felt not much emotion and certainly nothing that tied me to mother's day.
After a couple hour, we headed home. As a treat, we stopped at a BBQ place once we were closer to home. The restaurant was busy as normal and yet it still wasn't registering that there were tables full of families celebrating moms.
As I stood waiting for them to finish our order, the cashier said "Happy Mother's Day to you."
I can tell you exactly what went through my head and thankfully never found it's way to my lips. "What the hell! You stupid ass, why would you just assume I am celebrating Mother's day? Do I just look old enough to be a mom, so I must be? Are you kidding me? I want to crawl over counter and smack the piss out of you and cram the word mom back down your throat!"
Wow, yep! Innocent ignorance finally set me off. It didn't make me cry. It didn't make me sad. It didn't even make me angry. It made me wish people wouldn't make assumptions.
I had just about escaped the day without feeling much of anything. It didn't last long, whatever it was that I was feeling.
Whatever it was, I am glad it's over and hopefully I don't have to be reminded of it for another year.
Thursday, May 10, 2012
It's a Hallmark Moment
Have you shopped for your Mother's Day card yet? It's just a few short days away, so if you haven't then you should get yourself on out there. You don't want to miss out on finding that perfect card for your mother or wife or even daughter.
I, on the other hand, will not be shopping for or be the recipient of any card this Mother's Day. I'm just fine with that.
Hallmark seems to cover so many occasions, but it just doesn't ever seem to cover Mother's Day for me. Oh, it's a Hallmark moment for certain. They just don't have the right cards.
I used to buy a Mother's Day card, but not for my mom. It was always a time of year that I honored my mother-in-law. Not because she was so incredibly awesome towards me, but because she raised the man I love. She is one half of who my husband is and that makes her pretty special, regardless of how I feel about her at times. They just don't make cards that would really be appropriate this year. I would need a card that somehow reminded her of who I am and explained to her how thankful I am for a son who she's likely forgotten how she raised him.
They have lots of lovely cards for mothers. Some are funny, capturing the mothers with a sense of humor or from the child who has that kind of relationship with their mom. Some are sappy, sweet and share simple thoughts that a child wants to express to their mom. Some share gratitude for a job well done.
But they just don't make one that says what would be appropriate for my mom. It would need to start with a congratulatory, "Thanks for being the worst mother anyone could ever have." I envision the inside would be filled with a list of the attributes that keep her from being mother of the year. You turned your back on your daughter; allowed your daughter to be beaten and raped; encouraged your daughter to be used as a prostitute for extra cash...just to name a few. I think the conclusion would be a quaint, "I hope you choke on it." That was my mom's famous line any time we asked for food or drinks as children.
Oh and I certainly won't be receiving any cards this year. That's not a stretch, I've never gotten one and for good reason. I'm not a mom. I might care for, feed, bathe, comfort when sick and dress wounds, but it just doesn't count when the little ones walk on four legs.
They don't make cards for people like me. I have never seen a card that conveys a heartfelt message about what a good mom I would have been if it hadn't been for the untreated, massive infections caused by years of horrific abuse. Nobody has ever made a card that tells you that you would have made a great mom if your body hadn't decided to naturally abort them.
I may have found my next profession, greeting card writer. I would definitely cover the areas that you can't seem to find anywhere. Ok, maybe not.
I, on the other hand, will not be shopping for or be the recipient of any card this Mother's Day. I'm just fine with that.
Hallmark seems to cover so many occasions, but it just doesn't ever seem to cover Mother's Day for me. Oh, it's a Hallmark moment for certain. They just don't have the right cards.
I used to buy a Mother's Day card, but not for my mom. It was always a time of year that I honored my mother-in-law. Not because she was so incredibly awesome towards me, but because she raised the man I love. She is one half of who my husband is and that makes her pretty special, regardless of how I feel about her at times. They just don't make cards that would really be appropriate this year. I would need a card that somehow reminded her of who I am and explained to her how thankful I am for a son who she's likely forgotten how she raised him.
They have lots of lovely cards for mothers. Some are funny, capturing the mothers with a sense of humor or from the child who has that kind of relationship with their mom. Some are sappy, sweet and share simple thoughts that a child wants to express to their mom. Some share gratitude for a job well done.
But they just don't make one that says what would be appropriate for my mom. It would need to start with a congratulatory, "Thanks for being the worst mother anyone could ever have." I envision the inside would be filled with a list of the attributes that keep her from being mother of the year. You turned your back on your daughter; allowed your daughter to be beaten and raped; encouraged your daughter to be used as a prostitute for extra cash...just to name a few. I think the conclusion would be a quaint, "I hope you choke on it." That was my mom's famous line any time we asked for food or drinks as children.
Oh and I certainly won't be receiving any cards this year. That's not a stretch, I've never gotten one and for good reason. I'm not a mom. I might care for, feed, bathe, comfort when sick and dress wounds, but it just doesn't count when the little ones walk on four legs.
They don't make cards for people like me. I have never seen a card that conveys a heartfelt message about what a good mom I would have been if it hadn't been for the untreated, massive infections caused by years of horrific abuse. Nobody has ever made a card that tells you that you would have made a great mom if your body hadn't decided to naturally abort them.
I may have found my next profession, greeting card writer. I would definitely cover the areas that you can't seem to find anywhere. Ok, maybe not.
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
Bible Story Book
One of my first blog posts back in early 2009 was about a Bible story book I had been given by a neighbor for a birthday in early elementary school. I invite you to go back to that post for a bit of background on the book.
With Mother's day approaching, I was searching deep to find something about my mom to be thankful for. It was a huge stretch, but I found something. After being beaten for holding onto this Bible story book as a kid, I thought I had lost it for good. Years later as an adult, I bought it back from my mom at a garage sale for $2.00.
I'm thankful that it was never actually destroyed, even though it had been taken away from me years ago. I'm thankful in her craziness, she put it in a garage sale.
I want to share the pictures of this tattered book and a few stories behind it.
There's no doubt that I had a very warped idea of what the pictures meant and I certainly didn't understand the stories.
I guess I really didn't find a reason to be thankful for my mom. I really found a reason to be thankful for God. I found yet another reason to be thankful for what Jesus did on the cross. I am incredibly thankful for those people who have explained some of this to me and worked so hard to correct what my dad made wrong.
With Mother's day approaching, I was searching deep to find something about my mom to be thankful for. It was a huge stretch, but I found something. After being beaten for holding onto this Bible story book as a kid, I thought I had lost it for good. Years later as an adult, I bought it back from my mom at a garage sale for $2.00.
I'm thankful that it was never actually destroyed, even though it had been taken away from me years ago. I'm thankful in her craziness, she put it in a garage sale.
I want to share the pictures of this tattered book and a few stories behind it.
 |
| This is the book. When I got it, the cover was bright white. It is heavily stained from being thrown in the trash. I remember many times of digging it out and wiping coffee grounds off the cover. I'm sure my tears added to the stains as I held it tight while being beaten for not wanting it taken away from me. |
 |
| You can see the white spots where I ripped the dirt away as I pulled the $2.00 garage sale sticker off the edge. My only regret is not leaving it on so that it would be a reminder to me of the day I bought it back. |
 |
| As you can see here and in the first photo, the lower edge is tattered and ripped. I remember the day that happened. I opened my closet to make sure it was still safely hidden and found a mouse gnawing on the edge. I may not have really known why I so highly guarded this book, but I was certain it meant more to than to allow a mouse to make a nest of it. |
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| The book is certainly old. Published and printed in 1968 and landing in my hands in the early 1980's. I didn't know then, but I understand now that my kind neighbor was a Christian and this was one of her many attempts to share her love of Christ with myself and my family. |
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| I didn't have much of an imagination as a child, but most of what I remember came when looking at this book. I didn't know who Adam and Eve were and I certainly didn't understand the story of Noah. What I did know was that a big boat with a bunch of animals seemed like a lot better place to be than my house. |
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| This was the picture that I tried to recreate every year when our teachers made us draw our favorite bible story on a poster for our annual bible celebration. I don't know about favorite story, but it was the easiest thing for this little girl with no artistic ability. It also helped me get through those dreadful days of making posters without being made fun of. Since I was one of the very few unchurched children, it was humiliating having to ask the teacher what a bible story was. |
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| For a little unchurched girl who was already experiencing hell on earth at home, this picture wasn't about Abraham's obedience to God. It looked like some guy who was going to kill a bad man and I often wondered if some man would ever do that to my dad. |
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| This picture looked like nice angels coming to get a little kid while they were sleeping. It's sad to think that as early as second grade, I was wishing for nice angels to come rescue me while I slept. |
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| This was my absolute favorite of the bible story pictures. I knew my parents didn't want me. So, I always wished they had left me in a basket somewhere. That way a nice lady would have found me and I could have had a mom that really wanted me. |
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| Again, I had no idea what the story was really about. I saw a big man who looked like he could protect me and that's all I longed for most days. |
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| A little bit like the angels, I often wished somebody like this would come along and carry me away. |
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| I know now this depicts God talking to Jeremiah. Without having a clue that's what was happening, I created my own caption. It was a much bigger, meaner person than my dad pointing at him and telling him he was bad and needed to stop hurting me. Sad, but true. |
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| I had no idea that this was Jesus' birth. What I saw was a baby that was so loved that people couldn't wait to see it. I realize now that was true and should be true of every child. |
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| Again, a bunch of people oogling over a baby. I used to pretend that it was my baby picture and that's how much everyone loved me. Goodness, I never would have thought at that age how special that baby would really be. |
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| The way this mother held her child, it looked like she was shielding it from everything bad. That's what I wanted for myself. I desperately wanted a mom to hold me, protect me from the world and love me forever. |
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| This was one of the more confusing pictures for me. As I got a little older and could identify this person as Jesus, it led me to begin believing what my dad said. He said God was mean and hated people. He said God hated me because I was a bad girl. Since I didn't know the story at the time, then this highly resembled all the times my dad had come at me with his belt. |
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| But I found so many places where there were good things. I often wondered what was really true. Just pages apart, I saw the picture above and then I would see this one. A bad person wouldn't rescue a sheep, right? That was the perpetual confusion my dad created for me by using by curiosity about God against me. |
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| Another place where I saw someone do something bad, but another person do something good. I didn't understand what a good Samaritan was when I was little. I certainly never saw enough of them in my life. This was one of those pictures that didn't seem real to me. I never thought anyone would ever want to help me. |
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| This is one of the many pages that got stained inside. This particular stain came from me. In a fight to hold onto my book, my dad had hit my face hard enough that blood from my nose splattered everywhere. |
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| This is another picture of what I dreamed of for myself. A kind person who would come to my room during those couple hours while my dad was asleep and rescue me. |
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| Also a confusing picture, I really believed that my dad had to be right. This person was a bad person who was mean. That had to be why they killed him. That's how I thought as a kid. |
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| Another picture I couldn't reconcile as a child when I knew this was Jesus. I couldn't understand why if he was a bad man that was killed, then why would he be alive again. |
I guess I really didn't find a reason to be thankful for my mom. I really found a reason to be thankful for God. I found yet another reason to be thankful for what Jesus did on the cross. I am incredibly thankful for those people who have explained some of this to me and worked so hard to correct what my dad made wrong.
Monday, May 7, 2012
Fat and Ugly
For the past several years, the ring tone I have set on my phone for my husband has been the same. I invite you to listen to the full song as you read this post.
We had the opportunity to go to a meet and greet with the singer/songwriter of this song. He shared a sweet story about how his wife's self esteem led him to write this song.
Let me make something very clear, I know my husband loves me. He just doesn't have the kind of personality that is especially complimentary. The only time he makes a comment on my hair, clothes, personality or physical appearance, it is usually in a corrective or critical way. Maybe it's because I've lived with this for so long or maybe because I just want it to be so, I don't believe it bothers me much any more.
I am realistic. I am an overweight woman who is not attractive. I don't have a super sparkling personality. Knowing all of that, I know my husband isn't like that to me just to be hateful. And because I don't get those kind of compliments from anyone else, I'd probably not believe he was sincere even if he was to be complimentary.
Even though my head reminds me that I just don't care about this, my heart sometimes kicks me and tells me otherwise.
I think that's why I chose the song, More Beautiful You, as my husband's ring tone. If he won't say, then I at least get told that by a stranger every time he calls. How sad is that, right?
Why is it that even the most secure women need to overtly be told that they are attractive? Good grief! What was God thinking? Wasn't all of our girly problems enough to strap us with? Did He really have to throw in a good dose of insecurity for us all?
Last week, I saw several people on news programs talking very boldly about "ugly" or "fat" people. They weren't being kind either. They were being hateful and I couldn't believe how offensive they were.
I have several friends who struggle daily with self-esteem. Some of them have gone to great lengths to change their appearance. Not all, but most of them have done so because they didn't believe they were good enough in the eyes of another person. It breaks my heart to see it.
Even I struggle with that. I don't take it to extremes like yo-yo dieting fads. I think for me it goes really does go back to that unspoken desire I have to be attractive to my husband. Although, dieting would change my size, not my face.
Those of us who do dislike how we look or struggle with self-esteem really are harder on ourselves than anyone else ever could be. So, I wonder why people think they need to be hateful and hurtful to those who aren't size 6 and Barbie beautiful.
I am even saddened by the number of Christian friends I hear being overly critical of others' appearances. It makes me wonder how they reconcile that to how God sees that person or even themselves. Does God look down on us with those same eyes? Does he stand there, pointing and saying look at her, she's got a big, cottage cheese butt? Does he laugh as he sees the lady standing at the make-up counter and comment that she must have been smacked by the ugly stick?
Do people really not believe Psalm 139:14, I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Wonderful are your works; my soul knows it very well.? I don't think that is meant solely for the person reading it, but for each and every person who believes in a creator who doesn't make mistakes.
I wish I knew how to exchange the hatred and judgement of the world on physical appearance for all of that verse. Believe me, I'm not there either. I'm not so much on the being hateful side of things as I am the receiving side of the hate.
Truly, I believe I would find great happiness in seeing each and every person I know treating everyone they know as if they really believe each person was fearfully and wonderfully made.
Let me make something very clear, I know my husband loves me. He just doesn't have the kind of personality that is especially complimentary. The only time he makes a comment on my hair, clothes, personality or physical appearance, it is usually in a corrective or critical way. Maybe it's because I've lived with this for so long or maybe because I just want it to be so, I don't believe it bothers me much any more.
I am realistic. I am an overweight woman who is not attractive. I don't have a super sparkling personality. Knowing all of that, I know my husband isn't like that to me just to be hateful. And because I don't get those kind of compliments from anyone else, I'd probably not believe he was sincere even if he was to be complimentary.
Even though my head reminds me that I just don't care about this, my heart sometimes kicks me and tells me otherwise.
I think that's why I chose the song, More Beautiful You, as my husband's ring tone. If he won't say, then I at least get told that by a stranger every time he calls. How sad is that, right?
Why is it that even the most secure women need to overtly be told that they are attractive? Good grief! What was God thinking? Wasn't all of our girly problems enough to strap us with? Did He really have to throw in a good dose of insecurity for us all?
Last week, I saw several people on news programs talking very boldly about "ugly" or "fat" people. They weren't being kind either. They were being hateful and I couldn't believe how offensive they were.
I have several friends who struggle daily with self-esteem. Some of them have gone to great lengths to change their appearance. Not all, but most of them have done so because they didn't believe they were good enough in the eyes of another person. It breaks my heart to see it.
Even I struggle with that. I don't take it to extremes like yo-yo dieting fads. I think for me it goes really does go back to that unspoken desire I have to be attractive to my husband. Although, dieting would change my size, not my face.
Those of us who do dislike how we look or struggle with self-esteem really are harder on ourselves than anyone else ever could be. So, I wonder why people think they need to be hateful and hurtful to those who aren't size 6 and Barbie beautiful.
I am even saddened by the number of Christian friends I hear being overly critical of others' appearances. It makes me wonder how they reconcile that to how God sees that person or even themselves. Does God look down on us with those same eyes? Does he stand there, pointing and saying look at her, she's got a big, cottage cheese butt? Does he laugh as he sees the lady standing at the make-up counter and comment that she must have been smacked by the ugly stick?
Do people really not believe Psalm 139:14, I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Wonderful are your works; my soul knows it very well.? I don't think that is meant solely for the person reading it, but for each and every person who believes in a creator who doesn't make mistakes.
I wish I knew how to exchange the hatred and judgement of the world on physical appearance for all of that verse. Believe me, I'm not there either. I'm not so much on the being hateful side of things as I am the receiving side of the hate.
Truly, I believe I would find great happiness in seeing each and every person I know treating everyone they know as if they really believe each person was fearfully and wonderfully made.
Sunday, May 6, 2012
A Different View
It's a rare occasion for me to go to church and unheard of for me to go to church and sit in a different spot. But today, I did just that. It gave me an opportunity to make some insightful observations.
1. It's way harder to pay attention sitting on the back row. I've always had a problem with this, but it was way harder today. I think it's because people watching just got so darn interesting.
2. The iPad is a great tool for bible search and making notes during church. However, I am not the only one who thumbs through email, scans facebook or even places a competitive online game during a sermon. And here I felt guilty about doing that, like I was the only one. Who knew?
3. Speaking of not feeling guilty about something...my husband is NOT the only person who falls asleep during church. I really did see a guy nearly bang his head on a pew in front of him. That must have been a good nap! He wasn't the only one either. I'd say the average is at least one per row and that's just the ones who have yet to master the ability to sleep while looking wide awake.
4. Some of the younger ladies in our church need a serious lesson in modesty. With all the shirt skirts/dresses and low-cut tops, I saw far more than I wanted to of our congregation today. Good grief, dress like you would if Jesus were going to be sitting right next you!
5. The family atmosphere in our church is very sweet. Because I sit up front, this is an aspect of our church that I often miss. Seeing families sitting together is such a precious sight for me. What is really awesome is to see children, parents, grandparents and even aunts and uncles sitting together. It warms my heart to know that really happens.
6. My pastor and God are super tight! The past two weeks there has been thunder or lightening at particularly interesting moments during the service. They provided an exclamation to the point he was making and happened exactly on cue.
7. From my seat, I could see our drummer during the music. I must say, he is fun to watch. I go to a Baptist church, so you might not think the drummer would necessarily be kickin' it. But he was! It was so much fun to watch him really enjoying the music and enjoying his part of the worship team.
8. When you change seats, you maybe mistaken for a visitor. I've been at this church for over 5 years. In fact, I've volunteered in the church office for over two years and spoken at a women's conference. However, I was welcomed to the church by a member. I know it's my photographic memory, but I've met the person several times. I smiled and said thank you.
9. I got to see a completely different group of people. It isn't that the people I normally sit around are bad at all. I think it's funny how most people have their section of the church and never journey far from it. The awesome part of it was that I got a few hugs from people that I normally wouldn't ever see in church. A few of them were particularly meaningful to me.
And drum roll please.....
10. My biggest observation is that some people need to seriously update their facebook photos more often. I'm friends with a large number of people from our church. However, I barely recognized them because the photo that pops up every time they post something on facebook is a few (quite a few in some cases) years old.
Ahhh....the joys of a different view.
1. It's way harder to pay attention sitting on the back row. I've always had a problem with this, but it was way harder today. I think it's because people watching just got so darn interesting.
2. The iPad is a great tool for bible search and making notes during church. However, I am not the only one who thumbs through email, scans facebook or even places a competitive online game during a sermon. And here I felt guilty about doing that, like I was the only one. Who knew?
3. Speaking of not feeling guilty about something...my husband is NOT the only person who falls asleep during church. I really did see a guy nearly bang his head on a pew in front of him. That must have been a good nap! He wasn't the only one either. I'd say the average is at least one per row and that's just the ones who have yet to master the ability to sleep while looking wide awake.
4. Some of the younger ladies in our church need a serious lesson in modesty. With all the shirt skirts/dresses and low-cut tops, I saw far more than I wanted to of our congregation today. Good grief, dress like you would if Jesus were going to be sitting right next you!
5. The family atmosphere in our church is very sweet. Because I sit up front, this is an aspect of our church that I often miss. Seeing families sitting together is such a precious sight for me. What is really awesome is to see children, parents, grandparents and even aunts and uncles sitting together. It warms my heart to know that really happens.
6. My pastor and God are super tight! The past two weeks there has been thunder or lightening at particularly interesting moments during the service. They provided an exclamation to the point he was making and happened exactly on cue.
7. From my seat, I could see our drummer during the music. I must say, he is fun to watch. I go to a Baptist church, so you might not think the drummer would necessarily be kickin' it. But he was! It was so much fun to watch him really enjoying the music and enjoying his part of the worship team.
8. When you change seats, you maybe mistaken for a visitor. I've been at this church for over 5 years. In fact, I've volunteered in the church office for over two years and spoken at a women's conference. However, I was welcomed to the church by a member. I know it's my photographic memory, but I've met the person several times. I smiled and said thank you.
9. I got to see a completely different group of people. It isn't that the people I normally sit around are bad at all. I think it's funny how most people have their section of the church and never journey far from it. The awesome part of it was that I got a few hugs from people that I normally wouldn't ever see in church. A few of them were particularly meaningful to me.
And drum roll please.....
10. My biggest observation is that some people need to seriously update their facebook photos more often. I'm friends with a large number of people from our church. However, I barely recognized them because the photo that pops up every time they post something on facebook is a few (quite a few in some cases) years old.
Ahhh....the joys of a different view.
Friday, May 4, 2012
Pretty in Peach
Today was my girlie day. See...
I have matching toes too. But you won't see a picture of them and certainly not any closer up of the fingernails.
Why is it that everything I do seems to be cluttered with peculiarity?
My wonderful husband gave me a birthday gift card specifically for a mani-pedi. I was so excited! I only get to have a pedicure about twice a year. Because I don't grow fingernails out long enough, I have only had one manicure in my life.
I got to the salon a few minutes early. To my surprise, I ran into a friend and had a few minutes to chat.
My nail tech summoned me to the nail portion of the salon. She didn't really introduce herself or say much of anything besides my name. In fact, she may have done little more than grunt.
Keep in mind, this is one of the classier salons. It wasn't one of those quickie nail salons where nobody speaks English and the only guarantee is that you will get a rip roaring infection that will eat away your toenails for six months.
With a swirl and additional grunt, she pointed to my throne. Ahhh...there it set, ready for me to crawl in for an hour of relaxing. The massage controls were there all shiny and inviting. I already had a plan. Roller massage for 15 minutes, vibrating massage for 15 minutes, shoulder massage for 15 minutes, and finish it off with another 15 minute vibrating massage.
I settled in quickly and hit the controls. What? Nothing! I pushed every button and got nothing. I asked the tech if the chair was broken. Not by her grunt but by the nod of her head, she told me that it indeed was broken.
Ok, not the end of my fun spa time, right?
My chair was leaning back about 45 degrees and was hurting my lower back. I asked the tech if there was a way to sit it more upright. I thought it was a reasonable request given that all the other chairs were upright. I pretty sure that grunt meant it was broken in that way too.
I can take it, I'm tough!
As she scrubbed, snipped, soaked, and girlified my feet, I sat quietly playing a game on my phone. It was my attempt to still make the most of my time there relaxing even though nothing I counted on had been so.
In my own little world, I started to really enjoy the leg and foot massage but something felt a little odd. As I looked down, I was a bit mortified. My tech was a heavier woman and was wearing an extremely low cut orange t-shirt. Not because of the angle I was sitting but her shirt, I was exposed to her stretch mark covered jumblies.
Ugh...she had my foot lodged between her two grapefruit filled gym socks. Every time I tried to pull my foot away from them, she tugged my leg closer to her like she was hungry and it was a pork chop. Finally that was over!
In the only full sentence she spoke thus far, I was told I hadn't picked out a color before sitting down. Ooops! I asked for pink and she brought 7 choices of orange. Ok, maybe she was a little color blind too. Light coral it would be then.
Finally, she finished my toes. I will admit that my callused feet are a bit smoother. However, my toenails are the same shape and length they were when I sat down. She didn't trim or do much to my toenails besides slop some paint on them. And that is with heavy emphasis on slop!
Onto my manicure we would go. Deep breath! I would be face to face with her and maybe she would be forced to be a bit more personable.
Again with a grunt, she pointed me to the chair and table. I sat down and immediately shared with her that my nails are fragile and super thin. I also asked if she recommended anything for brittle nails. Without a grunt or word, she sat a bottle in front of me. I suppose I could have read the info off the bottle, but I wasn't much into her suggestions by that point.
Disclaimer: I can't make this stuff up, I'm not that creative. She flopped her jumblies up on the table, leaving me barely enough room to put my hands down flat without touching her. That was a bit too close for me.
She grabbed my hands one at a time and worked them over with a nail file. Remember I said repeatedly that I have brittle nails.
By the time she was ready to again slop paint on them, she had ripped two of my fingernails in the center of the nail. They aren't rounded or even or even smooth.
In the only other sentence she spoke, she told me her fees were $74. I told her my husband had bought a package and that I had made that very clear when I made the appointment. Can you guess what response I got from her? That's right, another grunt.
As she was painting my nails, she seemed to have a problem with lint or some kind of long white strings sticking to my nails. She picked one off, but never fixed the polish. She wasn't as diligent with the others and just left them, painting over them.
She added the clear coat and left me to sit. She came back with the charge ticket and laid it beside me. I asked how long I needed to sit before leaving. Again, no answer. Just a grunt and hand thrown in the air. I'm guessing she meant five minutes and wasn't waiting for a high five.
I left extremely disappointed. There just wasn't much pleasurable about that. I mean I am so thankful for the gift my husband gave me, but it wasn't that fun.
When he got home and I shared with him my experience, he said I should call the salon about the service. I think that is all I needed to hear. He hadn't gotten the service he had paid for and wasn't happy about it.
After a five minute call, it was determined I would get a new manicure. I'm just not that excited to go back. And now, I have to wait for my two nails she split to grow back out.
Getting two manicures for the price of one is ok. Honestly, I'd rather have just had one done right. the first time. Oh well, I won't turn down another day to be girlie.
Why is it that everything I do seems to be cluttered with peculiarity?
My wonderful husband gave me a birthday gift card specifically for a mani-pedi. I was so excited! I only get to have a pedicure about twice a year. Because I don't grow fingernails out long enough, I have only had one manicure in my life.
I got to the salon a few minutes early. To my surprise, I ran into a friend and had a few minutes to chat.
My nail tech summoned me to the nail portion of the salon. She didn't really introduce herself or say much of anything besides my name. In fact, she may have done little more than grunt.
Keep in mind, this is one of the classier salons. It wasn't one of those quickie nail salons where nobody speaks English and the only guarantee is that you will get a rip roaring infection that will eat away your toenails for six months.
With a swirl and additional grunt, she pointed to my throne. Ahhh...there it set, ready for me to crawl in for an hour of relaxing. The massage controls were there all shiny and inviting. I already had a plan. Roller massage for 15 minutes, vibrating massage for 15 minutes, shoulder massage for 15 minutes, and finish it off with another 15 minute vibrating massage.
I settled in quickly and hit the controls. What? Nothing! I pushed every button and got nothing. I asked the tech if the chair was broken. Not by her grunt but by the nod of her head, she told me that it indeed was broken.
Ok, not the end of my fun spa time, right?
My chair was leaning back about 45 degrees and was hurting my lower back. I asked the tech if there was a way to sit it more upright. I thought it was a reasonable request given that all the other chairs were upright. I pretty sure that grunt meant it was broken in that way too.
I can take it, I'm tough!
As she scrubbed, snipped, soaked, and girlified my feet, I sat quietly playing a game on my phone. It was my attempt to still make the most of my time there relaxing even though nothing I counted on had been so.
In my own little world, I started to really enjoy the leg and foot massage but something felt a little odd. As I looked down, I was a bit mortified. My tech was a heavier woman and was wearing an extremely low cut orange t-shirt. Not because of the angle I was sitting but her shirt, I was exposed to her stretch mark covered jumblies.
Ugh...she had my foot lodged between her two grapefruit filled gym socks. Every time I tried to pull my foot away from them, she tugged my leg closer to her like she was hungry and it was a pork chop. Finally that was over!
In the only full sentence she spoke thus far, I was told I hadn't picked out a color before sitting down. Ooops! I asked for pink and she brought 7 choices of orange. Ok, maybe she was a little color blind too. Light coral it would be then.
Finally, she finished my toes. I will admit that my callused feet are a bit smoother. However, my toenails are the same shape and length they were when I sat down. She didn't trim or do much to my toenails besides slop some paint on them. And that is with heavy emphasis on slop!
Onto my manicure we would go. Deep breath! I would be face to face with her and maybe she would be forced to be a bit more personable.
Again with a grunt, she pointed me to the chair and table. I sat down and immediately shared with her that my nails are fragile and super thin. I also asked if she recommended anything for brittle nails. Without a grunt or word, she sat a bottle in front of me. I suppose I could have read the info off the bottle, but I wasn't much into her suggestions by that point.
Disclaimer: I can't make this stuff up, I'm not that creative. She flopped her jumblies up on the table, leaving me barely enough room to put my hands down flat without touching her. That was a bit too close for me.
She grabbed my hands one at a time and worked them over with a nail file. Remember I said repeatedly that I have brittle nails.
By the time she was ready to again slop paint on them, she had ripped two of my fingernails in the center of the nail. They aren't rounded or even or even smooth.
In the only other sentence she spoke, she told me her fees were $74. I told her my husband had bought a package and that I had made that very clear when I made the appointment. Can you guess what response I got from her? That's right, another grunt.
As she was painting my nails, she seemed to have a problem with lint or some kind of long white strings sticking to my nails. She picked one off, but never fixed the polish. She wasn't as diligent with the others and just left them, painting over them.
She added the clear coat and left me to sit. She came back with the charge ticket and laid it beside me. I asked how long I needed to sit before leaving. Again, no answer. Just a grunt and hand thrown in the air. I'm guessing she meant five minutes and wasn't waiting for a high five.
I left extremely disappointed. There just wasn't much pleasurable about that. I mean I am so thankful for the gift my husband gave me, but it wasn't that fun.
When he got home and I shared with him my experience, he said I should call the salon about the service. I think that is all I needed to hear. He hadn't gotten the service he had paid for and wasn't happy about it.
After a five minute call, it was determined I would get a new manicure. I'm just not that excited to go back. And now, I have to wait for my two nails she split to grow back out.
Getting two manicures for the price of one is ok. Honestly, I'd rather have just had one done right. the first time. Oh well, I won't turn down another day to be girlie.
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
My Beach Ball
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.
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.
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!
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