It Makes Me Chuckle….just a little.

I won’t really blog today.  It’s not the day for such things…

I have far too much on my mind and plate, and far too many more  pleasant-a- plethora of ponderings to ponder…to be precariously perched…! (I’ll stop now – I could go on like this for days…)

Anyway, as I’ve said before, my “site stats” tell me a lot about what’s going on as far as the readership of my words…

and all I will say is that someone…or somebodies are rather into me today!

And it just makes me chuckle…just a little.

Why read my little ol’ blog?  Hmmmm….?

And the choices of posts are interesting too. 

I’ve got someone in a dither, and it’s just funny that’s all. 

Well, I’ve got more important things to think about than the angst of a child molester and his cronies.

And, yes, I will give thanks for that fact – both today, tomorrow…and every day.

Peace…to those of you who will have it!

You are not alone…

 

The holidays have always been my favorite time of year. 

I’ve always been a dreamer - a day-dream kind of dreamer, and the holidays have always played into my dreams of how things ought to be.  As a child I was told more than once that I expected too much of …life – of people, events, holidays.  I was reminded quite regularly that life often just didn’t imitate the day-dreams in my head.  Of course, if any time came close it was the holidays.

Now, as an adult, I have found myself thinking back to those days that I used to place my hopes in…that I used to day-dream about:  family gatherings, the perfect holiday meal, the way it felt as a little girl on the night before Christmas…wondering if we would see snow on Christmas day.  And of course as my own children began to grow, I saw these times anew through their eyes – that was even more magical than my own visions of sugar plums dancing in my head…

By the time I had reached adulthood I did try my best not to expect too much from any one event or holiday – to just take each moment for what it offered.

I don’t believe I ever really mastered that art, though. 

And now, with the holidays approaching - holidays like I’ve never known them to be - I find myself wishing for the days of my childhood when I lived in blissful ignorance as to the facts of my surroundings.  The experts call it denial associated with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.  But, for me it’s more like a rude awakening….cold water in the face with each thought of turkey and stuffiing or of decorating a Christmas tree.

You see, along with the fact that my entire life has changed since last Christmas - in ways I don’t really desire to go into in this blog, which is mainly about the “pitfalls” of being the adult survivor of sexual abuse as a child so I will just leave it at that - I am reminded, as the holidays approach, that the last time I saw my family (not my immediate family: children, etc., but the family in which I grew up), with the exception of my mother, was last Christmas Eve.

Since last Christmas Eve, I’ve had the misfortune to be bed-ridden for 3 months which began an “unraveling” that led to my confronting my abuser, having to defend my claims to other members of the family and the eventual estrangement in which I now live with nearly all of my extended family.

So now with each Christmas carol  (I know!  They just keep playing them earlier and earlier!!), I keep having to push back the thoughts of “What has happened to my life?”

misty water-colored memories...

I still love this time of year, and spending it with the loved-ones I have left in my life is truly a blessing.  It’s just…

I do wonder how life can be so unkind at times. 

They say that the holidays are the most difficult time of year for those who are grieving.  And I understand that so much better this year than ever before.

The clarity that comes with time is not always a beautiful thing.  Sometimes it’s like the difference between seeing a refinery on the Gulf Coast at night with all of the twinkling lights and as a child when you still can be fooled into thinking it’s a thing of sheer beauty compared to in the stark light of day when you are middle-aged and you know full-well why the sky overhead is a mixture of gray and yellow…

Sometimes it would just be nice to be able to go back to believing that all sparkling things - and the holidays – are magical and filled with the stuff of the day-dreams of a small dreamer who always saw the world through rose-colored glasses…

and who always believed, in spite of mounds of evidence to the contrary, that the world was a safe and happy place.  Especially when she was with those whom she loved and believed loved her - and always would.

no matter what…

Sometimes dreams die hard.  I guess that’s what was on my mind tonight.  And I guess I just wanted to remind everyone to love those around you while you can.  Because you never really know what tomorrow holds…

you have a friend.

And to those who are struggling this holiday season with grief of your own, I won’t say that I know what you’re going through, but I will say that I do understand pain - and you are not alone. 

I hope that helps…that you have a friend who understands. 

I really, really do.

Just a thought. Or Two…

I was thinking about…people.  More specifically, I was thinking about “Christian” people…especially men in the ministry – you know preachers,  men “of the cloth”,  etcetera…

and I was wondering why we believe them so readily.

I have come to believe that most people don’t like to feel duped.  We like to feel in control of our own mind even if we’re ones who’ve rarely had an original thought in our head.  We  we like to believe that people don’t do bad things for no good reason, that the most innocent among us don’t ever get truly devastated without the victim being responsible somehow, that there aren’t inexplicable acts carried out by seemingly “normal” people every day. 

We just don’t want to believe that bad things can just happen to us without warning and brought on by no fault of our own.  We want to hold to these beliefs so badly that we will vilify anyone who meddles with this world-view. No one wants to believe that a good and “godly” person could lead a double life or that someone who is innocent could just be accused of engaging in terrible things through no fault of their own.

 If a girl is raped after leaving a bar, she was asking for it. If a child is abused and a beloved coach is fired, people riot in the streets – not in defense of the small child who was brutalized, but because the community has lost someone that they selfishly idolized.

Nowhere is this phenomena more prevalent than in the “Christian” community.  It’s just easier to blame the victim than to believe we were wrong about someone we’ve held in high esteem.   If a pastor is abusing his power and engaged in taking advantage of those in his congregation, living a duplicitous life and addicted to deviant pornography, it’s so often just easier to vilify the victims than to lose the image of the man who baptized our children or married and buried our loved ones.

We can be a selfish and judgmental bunch…

I’ve experienced this first-hand, unfortunately.  When evangelical ministers heard of the abuse I (and my sister) alleged, they responded with (almost 100% of the time) a desire to not get “in the middle” or  total disbelief.  It was just easier to say that we were crazy, immoral, troubled in our youth, under Satan’s influence or, worst of all to me, liars desiring to get attention.  It was even said that we were trying to “absolve our sins by blaming them on our abuser”.

I don’t even know what that means…

(This “community” even went so far as a local minister coming after me and trying to “dig up dirt” to discredit me or those who support me.  What was never mentioned, though, is the fact that this minister has an axe to grind with members of my immediate family for being involved in his “exit” from a church after he had been caught in his own admitted deviant sin involving a minor.  And, again, to the dear Reverend I have this to say:  I have nothing else to lose at your hand, so bring it big boy! ) 

 Of course, like I said in a previous post, birds of a feather….

The bottom line is that as sad as it may be, as wrong as it may be, the truth is much less relevant than an individuals own need to protect their beliefs…their world.  We want to hold to these beliefs so badly that we will vilify and even destroy anyone who meddles with our world-view.

As I have come to this realization, railed against it, then tried to accept it, I have wanted to scream:  What about the victim?! 

I’m not saying that every allegation should be believed without question - to the contrary!  In fact, there are those who are victimized every day by false accusations.  And how do you prove you didn’t do something?

Again, people would rather vilify one person than believe that the world is such an unpredictable place that anyone can be either abused in any way or accused of anything – no matter how they’ve lived their life up to that point.

I guess the question that should be asked is “what does the victim stand to gain by speaking out?”.  Is there custody at stake in which one party stands to gain by lying?  Is there money to be had or lost?

I’ve said this over and over, of course to a mostly unhearing audience:  What have I gained by speaking out?

I can tell you what I’ve lost:  friends, family….almost my entire extended family, inheritance, my sense of safety in that I will be believed by those who’ve known me my whole life and have never known me to be anything but honest.

But, still none of it carries as much weight as each individual’s desire to protect their world…and their view of it.

The truth is that bad things happen.  They do. 

Children are abused and people will riot in the streets if someone they idolize is fired as a result.

But what if were your child? 

 I was 7 years old when the abuse, that I remember, began.  SEVEN.  I was 11 when I was brutalized to the point where I never slept a full night for the remainder of my childhood and teen years.  ELEVEN. 

If someone can look at a small child that they love with all of their heart and say it’s okay for that child to be violated – just as long as they don’t have to be affected….then that person is a monster in their own right.

I guess, at the end of the day, all I ask is that the next 7 or 11-year-old is not overlooked - that no one else is treated as so disposable…

If one child is spared – If one person who has been oblivious in the past just pays attention – If one “bystander” decides to look into the eyes of a little one, or an adult who is expressing their pain, regardless of the consequence to them personally, then it’s worth it to be misunderstood, mislabeled, misjudged…even villified.

What if it were your daughter, your wife, your mother or son?  What if it were you who were accused and everyone found it easier to just disown you rather than listening to the facts?

What if?…

Everyone thinks it will never happen to them.

Just think about it.

And think about how you would want to be treated – how you would like for your child or loved one to be treated.

You don’t have to think about any of my words – that’s the beauty...and the curse.  You can move on and read other things, think happier thoughts, and just live in sweet oblivion.

It’s just that those of us who’ve walked this road can never again live in such luxury.  We just can’t…

Of course, I don’t miss those days of “ignorance is bliss” – not one bit.  Now my heart beats to a different drum.  It beats to be a listening ear to any soul who has walked a similar path.  It desires to save even one child from being victimized.

And, perhaps most of all, it longs to be a beacon…a reminder that there but for the grace of God go all of us.

Even you.

The Other Side of the Same Coin…

Please visit me at my personal blog:  PeaceandaRubyRedFaintingCouch…

…same girl, different vibe.

I welcome your comments and input.  I guess I needed a place where I can just let my hair down and have some fun!

Join me!

Peace

…and a ruby red fainting couch!

 

It’s funny…

It’s funny how I’ve always seen the blank page – like a gift.  Every year when school would begin and I would get brand new school supplies, I would take out clean sheets of loose-leaf notebook paper and just before I would put them in my binder I would always do the same thing.  I would hold them up to my face and breathe deeply…

I do the same with books, old and new.  I just love….words.  I love a blank page because the possibilities for configuring the 26 letters of the English alphabet into phrases, sentences…paragraphs are endless.  I love a new book with it’s lingering smell of freshly dried ink.  And I love old books for the mystery that they contain in that they have been held and read by untold people…each with their own words…their own stories.

Sometimes, like tonight, I just need to see words on a page – to feel my mind configure those 26 letters even though I have no idea how the pieces will come together when I begin to write.  The possibilities are endless.

And I guess that gives me hope.  Hope that as long as I can have a fresh page on which to write, as long as I can read the thoughts and stories others have penned…as long as there are still stories to tell and days to tell them, there is hope.

It is a necessity in life:  hope.  To feel that with each new day comes an opportunity for expression, for release, to start over with a blank page and fill it with your dreams…or even your fears.

It’s funny how seeing my thoughts on a page has always taken the teeth right out of most of my fears.  There is so much truth to the fact that we are only as sick as our secrets, and I believe I’ve had a love affair with words for my entire life because I needed so desperately to just let it out.

I’ve learned, though, that there are those who are quite threatened by the concept of making what is secret known, of too much communication, of….not continuing to allow oneself to be sickened by secrets. What is left unspoken can have great power if you live in fear of it coming to light. 

What's down in the well must come up in the bucket...or so I've been told.

How awful must it be to live every day in fear of the truth. 

Lately, the dreams of my childhood have been replaced by day dreams of a different sort.  I’ve dreamed of the day when the truth is known about my abuser…and all of those who have maligned me realize that I was telling the truth.  Of course, I know that is just the stuff of fairy tales.  But, what must it be like to live in a self-constructed prison of deceit – always wondering if you will be found out – always waiting for the other shoe to drop?

What hell must that be?

Hmmmm…..

So, I look at the blank page and I think about all that I know, all of the secrets that I held for over 30 years, and I wonder if today will be the day that I just say….well, I won’t say what I say in my mind, but it ends with my proclamation of the truth in no uncertain terms…

It ends with all of those who have aided my abuser because they stand to lose if He is exposed being….well, exposed.

So, I wonder:  Is today the day?

It’s funny that I can wonder that and it does nothing to me except give me something to ponder - I have no more fear of the truth, but my abuser and those who aid him, well, not so for them.  It must at least give them pause to know how much power the blank page holds each day for someone as powerless as I once was.

It’s funny.

Hmmmm…..

Well, that’s just what I thought about today when I saw the blank page in front of me.

I do wonder what I will think about tomorrow.  I think I’ll go and buy some brand new loose-leaf notebook paper, hold it up to my face…and breathe in very, very deeply.  Mmmmm….  Smells like freedom.

Just a little comment from the peanut gallery…

I’ve not written in months.  I guess this blog was a place for me to vent my emotions as I dealt with…dealing with the abuse that I had suffered as a child.  It turned into something else, though.  My anger and feelings of betrayal came through loud and clear, and some who read couldn’t help but react to that, letting me know how I was failing in showing grace and providing a safe place for others who had endured similar pain.

So, I just stopped writing.  I couldn’t take the critism…not and deal with the memories, the loss of family and friends, the feeling that no one believed or supported me, even though there were many who had supported me through everything. 

I guess what I would say now is that I’ve learned that everyone deals with abuse, betrayal, being misjudged and lied about in their own way.  I’ve said I wanted this site to be a safe place for others…a place for healing.

But, before the healing is the…surgery, the treatment, the medicine – some of which can include such horrible days as one undergoing chemotherapy.  And who am I to judge how another person deals with their own pain, their suffering and tears?  Even if I’ve suffered my own abuse, can I really know what their journey has entailed?  No, I can’t.

So, for those of you who think that I’ve failed in my mission to make this a “safe place” and a place of healing, I apologize.  I suppose I should have said, “Come as you are, and whatever you take away is fine.”  Because, after all, how can I offer healing or safety when I’ve not achieved either yet myself?

This has been just a small glimpse into one girl’s journey to come to terms with the realities of the many faces of abuse.  That’s all.  The abuse is ugly and so is the response, much of the time.  It is my great hope to someday get to the place where I can rise above the label of “victim” and offer a hand to others.  But, I think that will take a lot of time…maybe more time than I even actually have.

Who knows?  That’s why it’s called a “journey”.  We can make our best plans and have the best of intentions, but….stuff happens, people reject and betray, lies are believed, abusers get away with no visible consequence every day.  It’s a journey – full of twists and turns, bad weather, stupid maps and mean onlookers.

But, there are also those days when we find a lighthouse, a gentle breeze, a kind stranger who knows the way…

...a kind stranger who knows the way.

there are those days.

I hope this site can provide just one of those days for another weary traveler such as myself.

And if the seeming “road rage” is just not your cup o’tea, then be encouraged that my journey is not yours, and you can pick another spot to do some sightseeing.

Isn’t that the great part?  If you gain some encouragement from my story, “wrecks” and all, then by all means, kick off your shoes and stay a while.  If you can’t stand the scenery, then be glad that there is an endless “wide world of web” out there…

Just make the most of your own journey because who knows how much of it any of us has left.

I thank those of you who have been an encouragement to me, and I thank those of you who have wanted to curse me because you have reminded me of how this world can treat someone who speaks out – that most people don’t want to hear about any pain except their own…that’s natural.

This blog is not intended to say that I’m going to start writing again…I haven’t decided about that yet.  I just wanted to say “Thank you” to everyone who has read and commented…even those who weren’t particularly nice, perhaps especially those who weren’t nice because you have reminded me that we all live in a world that can be cruel and harsh and no matter what kind of day I’m having, there’s probably someone who’s having it a heck of a lot worse.  So, I’ve been reminded to be kind, to be soft and gentle to everyone I encounter.

Because the truth is you never know by looking at someone’s face – or visiting their blog – what someone is really going through.  They could have just about given up on life and one kind word or gentle gesture could mean the difference between giving up or fighting to see another day.

So, let’s be kind to one another.  I don’t know what you’re walking through right now, but I do know what it is to suffer, to be betrayed, to lose almost every loved-one you claimed as your family.  I do know pain. 

And I’ve found that the best way to deal with my worst day is to encourage someone else.

Just think what the world would be like if we all did that every day…something to think about, isn’t it?

Anyway, peace to you until I write again.  Peace and kindness….always.

You Will Remember Me with Each Step You Take…

guarding the violets...

Since this may be my last post for a while, I thought I would talk about something so difficult, yet important.  I’ve written about this subject already in a previous post “Crushing Violets”, but I guess now further into my journey  (and with a lot more to forgive), I thought I might have a little different perspective.  I’m not sure forgiveness is about perspective, but I know that all of the things I am still struggling to forgive have given me a whole new perspective on life.

How can you forgive someone who has, in many ways, changed the very essence of who you are?  You don’t view the world the same way, love…marriage.  You don’t see others the same.  Will others just use you as you’ve grown accustomed too, even if you’ve blocked out your abuse?

Because of this perspective, many who’ve experienced abuse will turn to the “I’ll use you first, then you don’t have power over me!”…..but don’t they?  The main reason for these faulty thought processes is that you don’t see yourself the same.  Maybe your abuse began at such a young age (as it did with me) that you even know what the true “essence of you” is except for pleasing others.

So how do you forgive, in effect, a stolen life – a future tainted forever – a mind damaged and broken – a heart that doesn’t even know how to love…or what it even looks like?

How do you forgive being robbed of the essence of who you are, and all for what - control, power, pleasure?

And what is the price for the soul of a child?  It’s priceless, which means there’s nothing this side of Hell which could ever make restitution for what has been taken.  So, all that’s left is to deal with…you.

How do you transform what has been “stolen”?  Well, it can never be done by focusing on what can’t be changed, and it can never be accomplished by giving your abuser one more day of power over your life, your future, your mind or your heart.

When I wrote my abuser to tell him that I remembered, then, some of what he had done, I told him, “I forgive you, so don’t ask me for forgiveness…save your words for God.”  I said this not because I’m so spiritual that I have no trouble forgiving all things (if in doubt about my “humanity”, just refer to my other

taking the power back...

posts…or the comments, for that matter?), I said this because I wanted to begin this new “relationship” I would have with my abuser on my terms.  I was choosing to forgive for myself, not because he was asking or groveling, but so that I removed that power from his hands. 

After all, he’ll need all of his eloquent words and lofty phrases for God – who, no doubt, will be impressed by neither.

“Forgiveness is the fragrance the violet sheds on the heel that has crushed it.”

I don’t think I’ve read a better metaphor.  If the fragrance is released through forgiveness, then no matter what the heel goes on to do, the violet lives on – and with each step the heel takes, the fragrance of the tiny flower just grows stronger and stronger.

Kind of an oxymoron:  a powerful and strong, tiny and crushed violet.  But, it’s not really.  It just all depends on the releasing power of forgiveness.

And only you possess what it takes to release that power in which a tiny, crushed flower…or a tiny crushed child, is stronger and sweeter than the heel could ever hope to be.

no longer "tiny" but still dimpled...and stronger

So, for my tiny, dimpled blonde child crushed by one she loved with all of her little heart, I say I’m stronger than you, more powerful than you, of a sweeter fragrance than you…and I will live on.  My story will live on long after you’re in the ground, and it’s all because I released myself!

Without you even asking from the bondage in which you held me by uttering three little words:

I FORGIVE YOU.

And that is something that no abuse or abuser can ever take from me.  I have shed my fragrance and with each step, as you try to escape it, it just grows stronger and stronger.  And so do I.

It’s Such a Pain…

I thought I’d write a about pain.  Maybe because I, and my family, have experienced more than our fair share in the past few months.  Still, we all deal with it.  Those of use who have been sexually abused as children, deal with emotional pain every day.   

But, how do we deal with it?

My choice as a child, often was the “I don’t see you – you do not exist.” method.  Of course, while I was hiding away in my head, it depended upon how

I don't see you. You do not exist...

astute the one speaking to me was as to how they reacted (and how much trouble I was in) to my innocent looking face, but totally blank eyes.

It sounds cute to blame it on “Blonde airheadedness”…and I’m sure there’s some of that too, but what I was doing, and will still do today, on occasion, was employing a defense mechanism that allowed my brain to absorb less pain when it was overloaded – like during abuse.  This cute little airheadedness, that I was reprimanded for by every teacher I can remember, actually saved my life.  It saved my brain from shutting down.

Over the years, it has seemed to take more and more emotional pain to really get my attention.  I thought it must be because the pain was getting easier to handle.  It was the exact opposite!  I was more sensitive to pain each time something would happen – like a burn victim, so I employed my method of zoning out more than ever, I just didn’t realize it.  It’s why I have very little memory of my childhood, even once the abuse had stopped.

I have very little, if any, tolerance for emotional pain, but what I can take is physical pain.

Once, it was time for me to have our second child, so we went to the hospital.  The staff didn’t believe I was far enough along to get a room, so they said I could go home or walk the halls until I was further along.  So I walked and walked for almost 2 hours.  Then, I sat down and refused to walk anymore, and told them to get me room please.  When they half-heartedly checked me, and they found that  I was dilated 7 cm!  She said, “You had to be in terrible pain, walking through those kind of contraction!.” I just said, “They told me to walk so I walked until I couldn’t anymore.”  The baby was born about 45 minutes later.

I don’t just tell you this story to herald my skills in childbirth (I mean, it’s coming out somehow!) I tell you because there’s a reason physical pain is often more tolerable to someone who has been sexually abused than to those who haven’t.   It’s all about control.  A child who is abused has no control.  So, often when they are hearing bad news or getting into trouble, they will inflict pain upon themselves...for 2 reasons:  1) They can make it stop whenever they want  2) The physical pain gives them something else to focus one so they don’t feel the emotional pain.

Of course, this behavior is a pre-cursor to cutting, self-mutilation, and eating disorders. For instance, I never considered myself as having an eating disorder because I knew I wasn’t fat and I never threw up.  But, if it’s all about control, then wouldn’t it be basically the same thing to just not eat – self deprivation – I would rather feel an empty stomach, that I can fill or not, than to feel the full weight of my depression.  As I’ve said before, my lowest weight  was 100lbs. at 5’9″.  I looked like I was starving myself, and I didn’t think I was, but my body said otherwise.

needing the noise...

It seems like an  oxymoron:   a poet who can’t stand quiet.  But, that was me, t.v. on in every room, maybe talk radio or something like that too, plus, I would be on the phone as well.  I was extremely impulsive in my younger years, often putting myself in possibly dangerous situations.  Getting bored so easily (and then all I’d have is my thoughts!) caused me to need constant stimuli…even crisis, and if there wasn’t one, I’d create it.  I had a seeming lack of fear of death, but it was more what I thought about life, so I would drive over 100 mph next to semis on a bridge for example,…one blowout or mistake and….

But I had to have excitement.  If I didn’t it would lead to depression, not eating, not doing…anything.  It just always had to be in extremes.

And the whole time I was doing the same thing I did as a small child - taking myself away.  When I was young I “floated away” from my abuse, and when I was older I did anything to drown out my thoughts.

All of this is just the evidence of emotional pain that can’t be faced…because those who are sexually abused as a child never learn to

finding some peace in the quiet now...

deal with emotional pain.  And you know what, neither has your abuser.  That’s his ”drug” of choice.  That’s why often certain types of incestual child abusers will abuse more during certain times.  I’ve discovered that my first “sex talk” abuse was right around the time when my abuser’s own child had died years before.  Rather than dealing with the overwhelming pain that pornography couldn’t take away, he chose to abuse me.

When dealing with pain now, as an adult, my tactics are much more subtle - I do drive within the speed limit for one thing. But, I will often completely obsess about something, to the point of no sleep - although I do thing my home could use a little more Feng Shui-ing.  And then, of course, I’ll still  retreat to bed, not eat….I’m working on these things, but they’re very deeply ingrained.

I have learned to deal with quiet better, I guess because my thoughts aren’t the demons they once were.   And I no longer have to live with that feeling of “knowing”, but never ever wanting to slow down enough to really know what it was.  Now I know.

I wonder, now that my emotional pain tolerance is increasing (slowly), if my physical pain tolerance will decrease?”

Well, I know I won’t find out in the delivery room unless I fall and hit my head!  ‘Cuz this kitchen’s closed!!

One More Time…

I know I’ve said this before, but this time I really need to follow through.  I just need a little time…a break from the world of technology.  It’s been a wonderful outlet and a way for me to feel supported and loved by all my friends during this difficult time, but it also has its downsides and there have just been some hurtful things I’ve been subjected to because of my love of the Internet.  And I’m just not emotionally equipped to deal with any more pain right now.

I would ask that you pray for me and my family.  Most of this is personal, though.  Just so much loss.  Loss after loss, and it’s caused me to shut down.  Yesterday, I didn’t get out of bed.  Just cried.

People can be hurtful even when they don’t mean to be, and when they mean to be, it’s horrible.  And I’m a fragile soul these days – I wish so badly I weren’t.  In my mind, I can take on the world with no fear or hesitation, but my heart is a different story.   It’s just been broken so many times over the past few months, I didn’t think it was possible.

I covet your prayers.  Pray for my children, too.  They need a strong mother, not a broken one.

You have no idea how I’ll miss you…miss just writing, knowing that you’re reading.  It gave some purpose to this madness.

But, I can’t carry on right now.  Forgive me, I feel like I’m abandoning  you all.  But, I just can’t go on.  I need to let myself…my heart heal from some of the wounds inflicted upon it.  It’s so weary in its breaking that it just feels like…dust.

Thank you for being so loyal and kind.

I want to return to this blog and continue what I started, but I just don’t know when that will be.

This is a dark time for me, for my family…rather than writing all of my feelings down for the world to see, I think I need to take some time to whisper them…to God, to myself, and let myself just grieve.

It just seems there’s so much to grieve.  I don’t know where to begin.  So I’ll shut my laptop and bury my face in my pillow and whatever makes me weep first is where I’ll begin until it’s all been wept over and there are no more tears.  I feel it should be able to fill an ocean.

Sometimes the brutality of life just wounds me in and of itself.  Just the world:  brutal and blunt, with no sensitivity causes me to think for the millionth time that I was not made for this world.

And so I have to take a break from what comes into my mind and heart, even though so much of it is good and kind.  It’s the other that causes me harm.  And I don’t want to, as one reader put it, be “bitter”.  I want to stand for justice but also for love.

I don’t want this world to affect me so that I’m the “brutal and blunt” one, taking out my suffering on everyone around me.  I don’t believe I was made for that, and I don’t believe that God allowed this gift of abuse so that I could then turn around and abuse.

Those of us who have experienced abuses of the worst kind don’t think like others, it’s true.  But maybe rather than looking at it as a handicap, we could see it as a higher consciousness of the needs of man…of their suffering and pain.

If one little child could just be spared what I was subjected to because of my story, I would be able to die happy with having been abused.

So, I leave you…hopefully only for a little while.  I’ll just have to let my heart tell me when to return.

If I Could Let Go of Her Hand…

I want to write because maybe it will ease this heaviness in my heart, but I just don’t have the words.

I hope if what has seemed like anger has offended you, that you will forgive me.  I’m not angry…not in general.  I mean, child molesters make me angry, hurting children make me angry, this world, I guess, often makes me angry.  It is such a brutal and blunt place, seeming to not care who is devastated by its brutality.

But, I’m not angry about all the things surrounding my abuse.  I’m just broken.  I’m broken over the things that will never be again.  I’m broken over all that my children are losing because I’m trying to heal, but I’m nowhere near there yet.  I’m broken because I can’t give them their family back.

I opened a box that I can never be closed again.  And the ramifications will be felt for generations.  I know this.

I know this because I’m not the same, my family’s not the same…nothing’s the same.  The world just looks totally different to me now.   It feels like somewhere I’d rather not be.  So, I go into my shell and hide thinking maybe tomorrow will be better, yet knowing for it to be better I’d have to go back in time.  Back before I opened the box…back before the first fateful day of my abuse.

They say that if you look at the brain of a child that’s been abused and one who has not, they are different.  I understand this.  I’ve never felt things like everyone else seems to.  Someone can be loving me with all that they have and I feel nothing.  I don’t make wise choices, and I can’t even tell you why.

It’s like I’ve been searching for something my entire life – some kind of affirmation that I can feel, that says I’m worth taking up space on this planet.  Because I’ve never felt that.  Ever.

I know, in time, I’ll “get better” – until I’m not again and have to start over with my therapy.  But, no matter how God has blessed me – a beautiful, healthy family, a husband who loves me, I don’t see it that way.  I still see that little girl in my head looking at me as if I should help her…and I want to so badly, but I can do nothing.

And it makes me question all of the good things God has placed in my life - like it’s just a matter of time before it’s all gone, because that’s what God seems to have for me.  If I were meant for these good things, that I can’t even fully feel, then why did God not rescue me when I was 7 and having to “float away” so I wouldn’t know what was happening, or when I was 11 and I was abused in a way that many adults couldn’t take…for days - where were His blessings then?

Instead, I receive them now when I’m too broken to hold their love - I’m like a pot full of holes and they keep pouring in the love and it runs right out no matter how hard I try to hold on to it.  And it’s not that I don’t feel love for them, I feel it desperately, but when I don’t respond the way most would to something done in love, it hurts them.  And I’m so tired of hurting them.

I’m not sure what my point is with this post.  It’s just me – how I feel, raw and honest.  I’ve spent my life feeling broken and empty, and it’s as if I were a porcelain doll who looks beautiful from the front, but if you look at her back, she’s been smashed and shattered.  So, I’ve always had to keep only the front of me showing at all times.  Never let anyone see what’s behind the pretty face.

Being a pastor’s daughter turned pastor’s wife, this has been excruciatingly difficult.  I’ve lived my life in a fish bowl, viewed from all angles, but trying to hide my brokenness.  So I scoured my Bible for verses of hope, and underlined every one.  My old Bible looked like a crime scene…  But, still I couldn’t feel it the way others seemed to.  Even God’s love seemed to pour right through me.

And I wondered, if God can’t love me, who can?  But, it was all because I had been damaged...smashed for someone else’s pleasure.

Now I know intellectually that God and people are loving me, and I’m trying to feel it, but I’m nowhere near there yet.  And what I hate about it the most is that it hurts the ones I love the most.  Mainly, my husband – he gets the worst of it, he always has, because he’s a man.  I know he’s not just some man who wants something from me, but sometimes it takes everything in me not to act like he is.

22 years, we’ve been married and up until a few months ago, I had no idea why there were times when I couldn’t stand the thought of affection from him, why I didn’t trust him even though he had never broken my trust, why I always needed affirmation from others…his wasn’t enough.  I hurt him and out of his pain, he’d hurt me back, and neither of us knew why.

I don’t know if there’s a point…an age at which it’s just too late for any real change in a person’s mindset because of abuse, severe abuse, but if there is I think I’m right at it.  34 years is a long time to function through the filter of such ugliness.

I used to tell my husband, “I feel like I wasn’t made for this world.”  I understand that so much better now.  I spent years going away to another world where the ones you love don’t use and abuse you.  So, after all of that “floating away” that I had to do as a child, this world seemed uglier and uglier when I’d have to return.  I probably spent more time in other worlds, as a child, than not.

So how am I supposed to trust this world now?  How am I supposed to have any desire to be here?  How am I supposed to trust someone – especially a man – when they say they love me….when my abuser said that over and over.

I don’t know what all the answers are, I just know that I’m still a long way from what I see and feel to what I should see and feel.  My therapist says in her soft voice,  “Stay with me now.  You’re not there.  It’s not happening now.”  But 34 years later it still feels like it is.

So, I guess I’m asking God to save that little girl I see in my head constantly, because I can’t.  I can’t help her and she is me.  So, I feel lost in the middle somewhere.  But I’m asking God to do what I can’t do myself…what I’ve been trying almost my entire life to do:  Rescue myself.  I’m just a broken pot, a shattered doll and I can’t even feel loved, so how could I possibly save her.

Maybe if God will intervene in my head…in my heart and I can let go of that little girls grip she has on my hand…maybe then I’ll begin to feel like I’m worth taking up space on this planet, some of the holes will be filled and I’ll be a brand new doll…scars, yes, but no longer needing to hide.

That will be a merciful and gracious day.