Today was just a good day, quite ordinary and unremarkable. There was nothing fantastic or horrible about it. I relished this day. Driving down the road with the wind blowing in through the open window and the air conditioner on full blast while drinking iced coffee on my way to a therapy appointment for one of my little guys, found me smiling. I am grateful for these days sprinkled in my life and at times poured in. I have been in need of a day like this.
About a month ago something amazing happened to me. It didn't make all my future days wonderful and normal, but it has changed my life in an area I had given up hope in ever getting any better.
It's been a lot of years since I've read the Bible and felt safe doing so. I didn't know what was wrong with me and it became one more guilt item on my list proving what a lousy Christian I was, if I even was one. Because of course all Christians read the Bible, and I didn't, so what did that mean? Once I learned about triggers and flashbacks I realized that hearing and reading the Bible was one of my many triggers. That explained a lot; except it didn't fix it.
For the last two and a half years other things have been the main focus in counseling. My inability to read the Bible, without being triggered or having intense fear associated with it, has been the elephant in the room that would stampede anytime it was poked at. For a long time I could barely tolerate hearing the Bible read. It wasn't much of an issue until the last few years because I was so disconnected(dissociated) that I didn't hear much of anything that happened at church between the opening and closing "Amens" anyway.
I spent Monday and Tuesday of the first week of June 2015 spell checking an introductory book on post millennial eschatology, The Covenantal Kingdom, by Ralph Smith for my pastor. I've pointedly avoided eschatology up until now, but for some reason I wanted to read this book, not just spell check it. The ideas that came out loud and clear in the portion I read of the book was the love of God for me, and his greatness.
I also spent more than a week with at least 10 attempts of trying to listen all the way through the sermon from Pentacost Sunday, but I kept falling asleep by or before the five or six minute mark. Tuesday night I made it almost through the whole sermon and finally heard the part of the sermon that when I had heard it on Sunday made me want to think more about it, but at the time I couldn't hang on to it long enough. I knew I would recognize it when I heard it again, but I didn't expect to be overwhelmed by the Holy Spirit at that point in the sermon, or at all.
"When the fire of God descends on the people of God, there is no distance between God and his people. There is no distance."
At that point everything was different. I was crying, but I didn't know why. I'm not sure which came first. It was a flooding of feeling that finally connected me to what I've said I knew about God. It was God's love, his greatness and his nearness suddenly becoming real all at once and it made me cry, but it didn't hurt or scare me. It was like a switch got flipped and I felt it, and in that moment, fear and dread about reading the Bible or hearing it read was gone, and in its place was a desire and hunger to read it. I wasn't afraid of it hurting me anymore. I felt open and safe like I was in the country after being in the city for a long time. A weight was gone and even though I was crying, I could breathe easier.
The things I've acknowledged about God to be true, but couldn't believe it in a deeper and more personal way are real now. It wasn't anything I did to get some emotion going. That's not me. I believe that the Holy Spirit unlocked something in me, took away my fear of reading the Bible and gifted me with feeling God's love, greatness and nearness and a desire to read the Bible. I've been reading in Acts for a while now. I'm also looking forward with anticipation to reading actual scripture to my little guys and teaching them intentionally about God using a real Bible curriculum. I was unable to do that with my older children.
The timing was odd in how I needed to read a good chunk out of that book and hear the sermon at the same time before everything happened. God didn't let me listen to that sermon again until he put in my head a bunch more about his greatness and love from Ralph Smith's book. The idea of the nearness of God has always been a fearful thing to me, but not anymore. For days afterward I was smiling and it was an at ease sort of smile, at peace. It's been over a month now; concerns of life have wiped the constant smile off my face, but I can still read the Bible and want to, and that peace keeps coming back and the smile shows up too.
My story isn't finished, so I can't have that happily ever after ending just yet, but I know it will be there someday.
Monday, July 13, 2015
Tuesday, May 19, 2015
Prayer of a Doubter
I found a book of prayers called Guerrillas of Grace: Prayers for the Battle written by Ted Loder. Some of them fit, like this one and a bit more added itself at the end.
God... Are You There?
God...are you there?
I've been taught,
and told I ought
to pray.
But the doubt
won't go away;
yet neither
will my longing to be heard.
My soul sighs
too deep for words.
Do you hear me?
God...are you there?
Are you where love is?
I don't love well,
or often,
anything
or anyone.
But, when I do,
when I take the risk,
there's a sudden awareness
of all that I've missed;
and it's good,
it's singing good.
For a moment
life seems as it should,
But, I forget, so busy soon,
that it was,
or what
or whom.
Help me!
God...are you there?
The real question is,
God are you there, listening to me?
Do you hear what I would say, if I could?
I can't even think a prayer.
My eyes dart to and fro, my heart pounds,
all coherent thought is gone.
Only fear is left.
Not much of a prayer, but it's all I have.
God, do you hear that...prayer?
God... Are You There?
God...are you there?
I've been taught,
and told I ought
to pray.
But the doubt
won't go away;
yet neither
will my longing to be heard.
My soul sighs
too deep for words.
Do you hear me?
God...are you there?
Are you where love is?
I don't love well,
or often,
anything
or anyone.
But, when I do,
when I take the risk,
there's a sudden awareness
of all that I've missed;
and it's good,
it's singing good.
For a moment
life seems as it should,
But, I forget, so busy soon,
that it was,
or what
or whom.
Help me!
God...are you there?
The real question is,
God are you there, listening to me?
Do you hear what I would say, if I could?
I can't even think a prayer.
My eyes dart to and fro, my heart pounds,
all coherent thought is gone.
Only fear is left.
Not much of a prayer, but it's all I have.
God, do you hear that...prayer?
Friday, April 10, 2015
Pre-Written Prayers Are Reusable and Helpful Too
Growing up IFB(Independent Fundamental Baptist) I was taught that the only real prayers were those you prayed on the spot. It was clearly said that any accidental recordings of prayers weren't able to be prayed again because they could only be prayed once. Of course the Psalms were never seen as any type of prayer. The "Lord's Prayer" wasn't a real prayer either; it was just a model of how we were to pray. The older I grew the more restrictions and rules there were that applied to how to properly pray to God. I didn't have to use thee's and thou's, but if I did evidently God required grammatical consistency in order to be pleased with my prayer, and I couldn't mix in a 'you' anywhere.
By the time I reached my early 20's I stopped praying. I was too afraid I'd do it wrong and incur God's wrath for my presumption in prayer. I would pray for specific requests for people in great need or pain. Eventually pastors caught on that people prayed for things and weren't praying all the other proper sorts of prayers that were divided correctly into whatever the right way to pray was. So for a while in my 20's and early 30's I heard more about how wrong it is to use God as only someone to ask things from, but not talk to him in any other way in prayer. Big push on prayer, not prayer requests. Once again I altered the way I prayed and only prayed for life or death issues.
Imagine my surprise when we began going to a different church and I observed men going up to pray from the pulpit with their prayer already written out. Now I knew that sort of thing happened at Bob Jones University in chapel, but I counted that as a speech requirement for the 'preacher boys' and never considered they were praying for real. But here this was a real church and they had written prayers? Baptist love to talk about the slippery slope, but seeing prayers written out and prayed in a meaningful way in public for the first time was a first step in a long theological journey away from fundamentalism.
I still don't pray my own original prayers, except on rare occasions, but I'm learning to pray the prayers that others have written. Here is one that fits me pretty well right now.
and aching disappointments,
and anxious trying,
and breathe into me
something like quietness
and confidence,
that the lion and the lamb in me
may lie down together
and be led by a trust
as straightforward as a little child.
Catch my pride and doubt off guard
that, at least for the moment,
I may sense your presence
and your caring,
and be surprised
by a sudden joy
rising in me now
to sustain me in the sudden then.
from Guerrillas of Grace by Ted Loder
By the time I reached my early 20's I stopped praying. I was too afraid I'd do it wrong and incur God's wrath for my presumption in prayer. I would pray for specific requests for people in great need or pain. Eventually pastors caught on that people prayed for things and weren't praying all the other proper sorts of prayers that were divided correctly into whatever the right way to pray was. So for a while in my 20's and early 30's I heard more about how wrong it is to use God as only someone to ask things from, but not talk to him in any other way in prayer. Big push on prayer, not prayer requests. Once again I altered the way I prayed and only prayed for life or death issues.
Imagine my surprise when we began going to a different church and I observed men going up to pray from the pulpit with their prayer already written out. Now I knew that sort of thing happened at Bob Jones University in chapel, but I counted that as a speech requirement for the 'preacher boys' and never considered they were praying for real. But here this was a real church and they had written prayers? Baptist love to talk about the slippery slope, but seeing prayers written out and prayed in a meaningful way in public for the first time was a first step in a long theological journey away from fundamentalism.
I still don't pray my own original prayers, except on rare occasions, but I'm learning to pray the prayers that others have written. Here is one that fits me pretty well right now.
Sustain Me in the Coming Then
O God, empty me of angry judgments,and aching disappointments,
and anxious trying,
and breathe into me
something like quietness
and confidence,
that the lion and the lamb in me
may lie down together
and be led by a trust
as straightforward as a little child.
Catch my pride and doubt off guard
that, at least for the moment,
I may sense your presence
and your caring,
and be surprised
by a sudden joy
rising in me now
to sustain me in the sudden then.
from Guerrillas of Grace by Ted Loder
Monday, April 6, 2015
The Light at the End of the Tunnel is NOT an Exit
Events occur that most wouldn't understand how that seemingly unrelated thing would have any effect on me. It's complicated to explain and when pushed to do so, even though it's also said that I don't have to explain, I feel compelled to explain if it's someone that I think I might be able to trust in some smallish way. So I explain, a little. A testing of the waters. A testing of the light. It could be another instance of setting myself up to be devoured by following the light of apparent friendship with the bait of a much-needed hug. I just might have some trust issues, but not without cause. ;)
I get entranced by the "light at the end of the tunnel" and continue moving towards the light, all the while I'm actually moving deeper into darkness. I discover I'm not in a tunnel but rather my whole existence is surrounded by darkness, punctuated by flashes of light whereby I barely escape alive, but certainly not unscathed. The light moves where ever it needs to in order so that even when I move towards the light I descend farther into darkness. I retreat from it and too late realize it now is between me and the true light. No matter what I do nothing makes a difference for long.
For an all too brief period of time I moved out of the darkness I have been surrounded by for most of my life. I believed I had escaped the darkness. For a time I was free of it, but a vortex from the depths pulls me back. I see a light above me but its not the light of freedom, its the light of that ever present trap moving closer to me as I sink deeper into the darkness I'm well accustomed to. Between me and the true light of the freedom I have tasted is the light of the false hope of healing from PTSD and all that goes with it. The darkness and coldness of a life numbed to emotions is safer. And today all I want is to be safe and for this anguish to be over.
I get entranced by the "light at the end of the tunnel" and continue moving towards the light, all the while I'm actually moving deeper into darkness. I discover I'm not in a tunnel but rather my whole existence is surrounded by darkness, punctuated by flashes of light whereby I barely escape alive, but certainly not unscathed. The light moves where ever it needs to in order so that even when I move towards the light I descend farther into darkness. I retreat from it and too late realize it now is between me and the true light. No matter what I do nothing makes a difference for long.
For an all too brief period of time I moved out of the darkness I have been surrounded by for most of my life. I believed I had escaped the darkness. For a time I was free of it, but a vortex from the depths pulls me back. I see a light above me but its not the light of freedom, its the light of that ever present trap moving closer to me as I sink deeper into the darkness I'm well accustomed to. Between me and the true light of the freedom I have tasted is the light of the false hope of healing from PTSD and all that goes with it. The darkness and coldness of a life numbed to emotions is safer. And today all I want is to be safe and for this anguish to be over.
Sunday, April 5, 2015
A Perfect Easter Sunday...except
Easter Sunday... It's supposed to be a day of hope remembering Christ's resurrection. In some ways I am participating in Easter, but I feel more like an outside observer this time. Not belonging, but this time of my own choosing. I made sure everything ran smoothly this morning and the whole family made it to the sunrise service on time and even a little early and then on to the breakfast at church and then the worship service. Dinner is in the oven the potatoes are cooking and the gravy is standing by ready to be made at the last minute. The boys are all down and actually sleeping for naptime. It's been a perfect day thus far. After naps then everyone will get their Easter baskets and then we will have our Easter dinner.
Sounds great and it is except... I dissociated through most of the service which made me rather fuzzy headed afterwards. Someone asked me if I was sick because it seemed I was walking like I didn't feel well and seemed off. I thought I was hiding it well. Evidently not. I am out of practice in hiding how I feel. People are used to seeing me fully engaged and not in shut down mode. She also kept asking and guessing what was wrong until I told her the short version of the story, which was the PTSD is back and I thought I was over it because everything was so different this time. I also told her about the two local counselors who couldn't handle my "multiple traumas" and one of them has been counseling for 30 years and has PTSD with trauma as a specialty. Somewhere in the conversation I said a few times, "I'm done." She asked what I was done with. I couldn't give her a good answer. I didn't want to. Church? was one of her guesses. I wasn't sure how to answer that question since that is something I've been thinking about. She and another lady who came back into the conversation a bit later both hugged me and said they would pray for me and some other comforting type statements.
Another conversation in the parking lot with someone else, more hugs and encouragement to not blame myself or carry guilt for considering or deciding to not adopt the boys. The only people who know at this point in my face to face life are the pastors and elders at church, and at least one of their wives.
So, it's a perfect Easter Sunday. We have the pictures to prove it. I wish I didn't have a different narrative running underneath it all. The one that says, "This is the one and only Easter you'll have with these boys. The last holiday. They will leave with their Easter outfit, but maybe will never want to wear it again because of the association of the last happy holiday with us. Everyone sees how well they are doing and the improvement in behavior. No one will understand why I can't do the mom thing, why I can't pull it together, why I have an inability to parent them all, why all of a sudden I can't handle the improved version of these boys or what my problem really is. God is sovereign but why so much pain? Am I supposed to tough it out and somehow stop leaning on my older children for help? The more times a day goes well and I survive it, the more I doubt myself."
Then again, with the almost constant dissociation during church, dizziness, blurry vision and the lingering headache and evidently odd way of walking around afterwards, can that be called a successful day? I am surviving it, but that's it. And this day is going so well compared to others! I just want to sleep it off, but if I dare go to sleep I will easily be out for the next 4-5 hours which would ruin the day for everyone else. So I inflict upon a few people another rambling blog post chronicling my journey through life.
Sounds great and it is except... I dissociated through most of the service which made me rather fuzzy headed afterwards. Someone asked me if I was sick because it seemed I was walking like I didn't feel well and seemed off. I thought I was hiding it well. Evidently not. I am out of practice in hiding how I feel. People are used to seeing me fully engaged and not in shut down mode. She also kept asking and guessing what was wrong until I told her the short version of the story, which was the PTSD is back and I thought I was over it because everything was so different this time. I also told her about the two local counselors who couldn't handle my "multiple traumas" and one of them has been counseling for 30 years and has PTSD with trauma as a specialty. Somewhere in the conversation I said a few times, "I'm done." She asked what I was done with. I couldn't give her a good answer. I didn't want to. Church? was one of her guesses. I wasn't sure how to answer that question since that is something I've been thinking about. She and another lady who came back into the conversation a bit later both hugged me and said they would pray for me and some other comforting type statements.
Another conversation in the parking lot with someone else, more hugs and encouragement to not blame myself or carry guilt for considering or deciding to not adopt the boys. The only people who know at this point in my face to face life are the pastors and elders at church, and at least one of their wives.
So, it's a perfect Easter Sunday. We have the pictures to prove it. I wish I didn't have a different narrative running underneath it all. The one that says, "This is the one and only Easter you'll have with these boys. The last holiday. They will leave with their Easter outfit, but maybe will never want to wear it again because of the association of the last happy holiday with us. Everyone sees how well they are doing and the improvement in behavior. No one will understand why I can't do the mom thing, why I can't pull it together, why I have an inability to parent them all, why all of a sudden I can't handle the improved version of these boys or what my problem really is. God is sovereign but why so much pain? Am I supposed to tough it out and somehow stop leaning on my older children for help? The more times a day goes well and I survive it, the more I doubt myself."
Then again, with the almost constant dissociation during church, dizziness, blurry vision and the lingering headache and evidently odd way of walking around afterwards, can that be called a successful day? I am surviving it, but that's it. And this day is going so well compared to others! I just want to sleep it off, but if I dare go to sleep I will easily be out for the next 4-5 hours which would ruin the day for everyone else. So I inflict upon a few people another rambling blog post chronicling my journey through life.
I'm Too Young to Lose My Car in the Parking Lot: except I did. Too bad my hyper-alertness didn't remember where I parked.
Today the lights were too bright. The noise was too harsh. I couldn't put together one of my child's toys by following the picture directions. The ability to concentrate and hold on to thoughts was diminished. It was all about being overloaded. I went shopping today. By the time I finished at the third store I was finished. Too many people. Too much everything. The cashier said something to me three times and I couldn't understand what he meant. Another customer repeated it to me in a simpler way and used fewer words. I replied with some sort of response back that I hope made sense. I'm not sure if it did. The cashier looked at me oddly, but still tried to carry on a conversation. I think I had one semi intelligent sentence. He kept looking at me strangely. I wonder if he knows me from somewhere, or if maybe he thought I was high or drunk.
I left the store and looked for my vehicle. I couldn't find it for quite a while. I think I went up and down half of the aisles at Wal-mart looking for it.
Today was a mix of dissociation and being hyper-alert. Hence my inability to find where I parked. The headache and tiredness came from just being alive today. It's a different kind of tired. It's being wore out from the inside out. I may be doing a decent job numbing my pain, but I haven't been able to turn off everything else yet. I'm still dissociating and having PTSD symptoms. It's hard to get all areas shut down at the same time. Like right now as I'm typing my eyes are doing funny things and going all blurry and not letting me focus.
I left the store and looked for my vehicle. I couldn't find it for quite a while. I think I went up and down half of the aisles at Wal-mart looking for it.
Today was a mix of dissociation and being hyper-alert. Hence my inability to find where I parked. The headache and tiredness came from just being alive today. It's a different kind of tired. It's being wore out from the inside out. I may be doing a decent job numbing my pain, but I haven't been able to turn off everything else yet. I'm still dissociating and having PTSD symptoms. It's hard to get all areas shut down at the same time. Like right now as I'm typing my eyes are doing funny things and going all blurry and not letting me focus.
Friday, April 3, 2015
Turning Off Emotion: it's what I'm good at
There is no grace, no redemption, no hope in this post. If you are having a bad time of it right now then this isn't what you should be reading.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Maybe there is a chance that things will change for the better someday, but I can't see it right now. Truthfully, I don't want to see it either. I'm out of hope and my pain meter is maxed out. I just want a way for it all to stop. I only know one way to stop it and to stay alive, nothing else has worked long term.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sadness
Regret
Hollow
emotion and tears well up...I flatten
them down and refuse to feel
and then nothingness
Everything I do is on my list.
My secret “how to live life so no one knows you aren't really here”
list. I haven't used that list for two years now. For two years,
plus another four months if I count my inadvertent thawing, I have
been waking up to my own emotions, feelings and pain. Lots of pain.
I've dealt with it and had much needed help doing so. I spent
several weeks feeling and a few being suicidal. I think I was in that dark place again for about five weeks . I thought it would be
a long time, maybe 3-5 years before I would cycle back around to
being that bad off again. I was wrong.
I got to the point I could be in church
and the triggers and dissociation didn't necessarily happen every
service and when they did it was manageable. It took the better part
of two years to get to that place. Even then there were plenty of
days where I didn't function well and was checked out and not able to
do the mom thing.
NO. MORE.
I'm done.
I'm done working so hard to be okay and
honestly thinking that this time it will work. This time, because
the message is so different and I'm believed and and and... There is
just no fixing me. Not a real fix, not real healing, no truly
getting past the PTSD and dissociation and the failure of being a
good mom, who is truly and always here for my kids. I can't give
them these two years back or all the other years where I was trying
to find help, but I can give them a well programmed mom who does the
right things at the right times(with just a little bit of lag). This
I can do. This is what I'm good at. I've done this my whole life
except for those times when I longed for something more, something
real and for the experience of having real emotions besides anger.
I've done the emotion thing now for the
last year or so and it's just not worth it. I've experienced the
good emotions in what I think are genuine feelings. It was amazing to
feel, really feel happiness and to laugh spontaneously without
thinking about it and cuing myself to laugh. As great as all that
was I can't keep those good emotions without also keeping myself
open to their opposites. The price is too high and I can't keep
paying it.
Tears are turned off
feelings are being dampened
I'm starting to look ok again.
The true test will be when we tell the boys and we send them away. Until then, I practice for the big day. The day when I rip my heart to shreds and pretend it doesn't hurt.
Monday, March 30, 2015
My Regression in Healing After BJU's Response to The GRACE Report: What does this mean for our family?
I haven't mentioned on this blog anything about our adoption process or that we have four boys that are placed with us and waiting for us to sign the paperwork. My little guy just turned four and fits right in the middle of the three younger ones. They have an older brother with autism who is 11 that we also have with us.
I am so torn up about adopting these boys. I have spent far too much time trying and not doing so well in being okay enough to do the mom thing. It works to a point because of my older children, but they aren't the ones doing the adopting. Its not fair to them or to these four boys or to my little bio guy. Just last night my husband asked about signing the paperwork, and I stalled. I can't say yes. I can't say no. I say it depends on the day as to whether or not I think we can adopt them, but its been a long time since I had a yes day. I know it's not just about how I feel, but I don't really know what to do with these things called feelings. How do they relate to life? I just know that most days I want out of this adoption process. I want my little guy to go back to the way he was before they came. I want his smile and laughter to be his default, not a treat for me to treasure. I want his dreams to be full of laughter and giggles again and not crying out "NO!"
It took me almost two years to get back to a fairly stable place after I interviewed with G.R.A.C.E. and now after the official report and then BJU's response to it is out, I find myself almost back to how bad it was right after filling out the questionnaire and then interviewing. I can't deal with four boys who need me to be okay in order to be the mom they need. I haven't allowed myself to think about this, so I haven't even written of it until today. I can't do this. I can't keep these boys. We've had them since August 2014. I don't know whether I'd be ruining their lives more by adopting them or by not adopting them. And my little guy...What do I tell him? My older ones who I have woefully neglected during this time, what about them?
I was doing okay and thought I was healed enough to manage adopting. It's been something I've wanted to do since I was a child. I don't know how long it will be before I get back to that good place again. In some ways I am affected differently, but still badly by BJU's response to the G.R.A.C.E. report. I need to get stable again, and I can't do that and add in adopting this sibling group. It's too much. My life is full of "if only".
I am so torn up about adopting these boys. I have spent far too much time trying and not doing so well in being okay enough to do the mom thing. It works to a point because of my older children, but they aren't the ones doing the adopting. Its not fair to them or to these four boys or to my little bio guy. Just last night my husband asked about signing the paperwork, and I stalled. I can't say yes. I can't say no. I say it depends on the day as to whether or not I think we can adopt them, but its been a long time since I had a yes day. I know it's not just about how I feel, but I don't really know what to do with these things called feelings. How do they relate to life? I just know that most days I want out of this adoption process. I want my little guy to go back to the way he was before they came. I want his smile and laughter to be his default, not a treat for me to treasure. I want his dreams to be full of laughter and giggles again and not crying out "NO!"
It took me almost two years to get back to a fairly stable place after I interviewed with G.R.A.C.E. and now after the official report and then BJU's response to it is out, I find myself almost back to how bad it was right after filling out the questionnaire and then interviewing. I can't deal with four boys who need me to be okay in order to be the mom they need. I haven't allowed myself to think about this, so I haven't even written of it until today. I can't do this. I can't keep these boys. We've had them since August 2014. I don't know whether I'd be ruining their lives more by adopting them or by not adopting them. And my little guy...What do I tell him? My older ones who I have woefully neglected during this time, what about them?
I was doing okay and thought I was healed enough to manage adopting. It's been something I've wanted to do since I was a child. I don't know how long it will be before I get back to that good place again. In some ways I am affected differently, but still badly by BJU's response to the G.R.A.C.E. report. I need to get stable again, and I can't do that and add in adopting this sibling group. It's too much. My life is full of "if only".
Friday, March 13, 2015
Bob Jones University Responds to G.R.A.C.E. and I Fall Apart
Today I'm a horrible mom. I've stayed locked in my room for most of the day curled up under the blankets, shaking. My older children, young adults really, have fixed meals and boo boos for the little ones.
All I've done is stay alive. Barely.
It would be nice to point to just one thing that I can fix and then solve the problem. I can't. I don't know how to fix it. If Bob Jones University had admitted their wrong doing and made real changes instead of saying they are right about how they counsel; would that have made a difference in my today? I know that the CYA apology Pettit gave sure hasn't helped me today. It is more like I've been at the edge of the cliff with a few steps to spare and I just got shoved and I'm flailing my arms on the edge wondering why I don't just go with it and fall.
Then I hear my little ones voices. They bring me pictures they colored. An older one comes to tell me a funny story. I talk with friends who know and care. And I keep on flailing my arms, trying not to fall.
All I've done is stay alive. Barely.
It would be nice to point to just one thing that I can fix and then solve the problem. I can't. I don't know how to fix it. If Bob Jones University had admitted their wrong doing and made real changes instead of saying they are right about how they counsel; would that have made a difference in my today? I know that the CYA apology Pettit gave sure hasn't helped me today. It is more like I've been at the edge of the cliff with a few steps to spare and I just got shoved and I'm flailing my arms on the edge wondering why I don't just go with it and fall.
Then I hear my little ones voices. They bring me pictures they colored. An older one comes to tell me a funny story. I talk with friends who know and care. And I keep on flailing my arms, trying not to fall.
Tuesday, February 24, 2015
Prayer for when I don't have the words. Psalm 130 --New Living Translation--
Psalm 130
From the depths of despair, O LORD,
I will call for your help.
Hear my cry, O Lord.
Pay attention to my prayer.
LORD, if you kept a record of our sins,
who, O Lord, could ever survive?
But you offer forgiveness,
that we might learn to fear you.
I am counting on the LORD,
yes, I am counting on him.
I have put my hope in his word.
I long for the Lord
more than sentries long for the dawn,
yes, more than sentries long for the dawn.
O Israel, hope in the LORD;
for with the LORD there is unfailing love.
His redemption overflows.
He himself will redeem Israel
from every kind of sin.
Monday, February 23, 2015
An Odd Collection of Friends
It was a decade or so ago and I was in desperate need of help.
In search for tangible and lasting help that brought healing and not more pain I kept trying to find some one or some thing to help. It's all a blur, unless I slow down and think about it, the stream of people I looked to for comfort and ministration and found that their capacity to simply hear my story was so small. The few who could hear some parts of it and remain my friend and not turn me into a dreaded sympathy project were those who themselves were so wounded. We gathered together at all night restaurants and talked till dawn. Just friends talking, no projects allowed.
After a time, and so many hours drinking sweet tea, coffee and cappuccino and splitting hash browns at three in the morning, the gatherings eventually had more reasonable hours and we met at my house for popcorn, hot chocolate with butter schnapps, white zinfandel and talking and board games. We felt like normal people, with friends.
Our conversations were different than any other gathering of friends or church people I'd ever experienced. We spoke of cutting; head banging; sleeping the darkness away; the need to check on a friend who might be suicidal, again; and abuse, all kinds. We spoke of God and Bible verses that helped, but mostly we were the hands of Jesus to each other because everyone else hurt us more.
I'd like to say that I was strong and a source of comfort and was full of empathy for these dear ladies. In reality we were all barely functioning and from day to day what kept us together was the knowledge that we were all we had. We were all in different churches, and each of our churches were actively "helping" in our lives in some way. We needed each other.
In search for tangible and lasting help that brought healing and not more pain I kept trying to find some one or some thing to help. It's all a blur, unless I slow down and think about it, the stream of people I looked to for comfort and ministration and found that their capacity to simply hear my story was so small. The few who could hear some parts of it and remain my friend and not turn me into a dreaded sympathy project were those who themselves were so wounded. We gathered together at all night restaurants and talked till dawn. Just friends talking, no projects allowed.
After a time, and so many hours drinking sweet tea, coffee and cappuccino and splitting hash browns at three in the morning, the gatherings eventually had more reasonable hours and we met at my house for popcorn, hot chocolate with butter schnapps, white zinfandel and talking and board games. We felt like normal people, with friends.
Our conversations were different than any other gathering of friends or church people I'd ever experienced. We spoke of cutting; head banging; sleeping the darkness away; the need to check on a friend who might be suicidal, again; and abuse, all kinds. We spoke of God and Bible verses that helped, but mostly we were the hands of Jesus to each other because everyone else hurt us more.
I'd like to say that I was strong and a source of comfort and was full of empathy for these dear ladies. In reality we were all barely functioning and from day to day what kept us together was the knowledge that we were all we had. We were all in different churches, and each of our churches were actively "helping" in our lives in some way. We needed each other.
Friday, February 20, 2015
New Experiences in Dissociation and Friendship
Some more on dissociation. I haven't been having much of a problem with it for the last few months even though I've been in church and fully engaged in listening and participating in the services. A few blips here and there at church, but nothing I wasn't able to hide due to how the service is structured. I may sit down or get up a bit later than everyone else or blank out for most of a song but it has been manageable.
One thing I've never done, up until last Monday, is to purposefully fight the entire time to not dissociate without my fighting it off method to be loudly arguing and slamming doors. I was at a friends house, a very good friend who didn't freak out that I was shaking with cold in front of a fire and had strange things going on with my eyes. She got me a blanket and a shawl and kept talking to help keep me in the here instead of drifting off to safety. I think I fought so much to stay "here" because I knew I was completely safe, and that's my guess as to why I didn't just drift off. I actually had blurred vision and could barely see and my eyes felt stretchy and like I needed to shove them back into my eye sockets. I don't know how long I shivered in front of her fire wrapped up in blankets listening to her talk and talking some myself too. My speech was also messed up.
That was another first time event; talking while in the warp speed mode of dissociation. If you have watched much Star Trek then you will have likely seen the Enterprise going into warp speed. Somewhere along the way I saw an episode where time was distorted and someone got stuck in an alternate time. Just imagine the effect on yourself if part of you is at warp speed and the rest of you is at half impulse. It's a major disconnect and communication between the two parts of you is greatly distorted.
I'm not positive that my default to dissociate under stress is something that will go away, but the longer I am in a place of safety and have close friends that I could see myself wrapped up in their living room fighting to stay in the moment, the less I actually do dissociate. Of course the exceptions are when something new gets opened up that has been buried for most of my life. It was such a topic that spiraled me almost back to how I was coping about a year and a half ago.
Friends are of all different sorts. I am blessed with growing, face to face, local friends that in some small ways know my story. I also have some friends from my childhood that remember who the 6th grade teacher was. They are still my friends and even though we don't see each other, we maintain some connection. Thank God for facebook and phones! Other friends are no longer local to me; I moved or they moved, yet I can call and we are instantly reconnected. Strangest of all are the friendships which came through facebook and turned into something real. These last couple of weeks have been like friendship growth on overload. What is completely amazing to me is that these are friends who have been able to hear my story and more categories of it than anyone else; they even beat out my incredible pastor who in the last two years has brought me from an incoherent mess to a point of beginning to thrive.
I've been a good friend to many people, but I am in awe of these two ladies who are able to be good friends to me even though they know so much of my story. It is an unexpected gift at a time when I really am in need of it.
Friday, October 10, 2014
Dissociating Doesn't Have to be Forever. Hope is Real.
I have some goals I'd like to meet, and counseling is helping me move towards those goals. One fairly simple sounding one is to be able to read the Bible without being triggered, having flashbacks or dissociating. That's not an easy thing for me. I can't just turn all that off. The ways I have to turn it off are to shut emotions down again and go into robot mode, or to not read the Bible. I can listen to it being read in church, and it's now only occasionally a problem. When I read it or someone reads it to me personally then it becomes some sort of a weapon aimed at me. (And it's not the sword of the spirit bringing much needed conviction to my life.)
My pastor read Matthew 15:10-20 to me in our last counseling session. He thought it would be a comfort to me; instead it was a major trigger and I zoned in and out and had flashbacks too. It was really weird to have so much going on in my mind and yet a kind of nothingness going on at the same time. I was able to listen and hear what he was saying pretty well, considering. I learned something surprising, the flashbacks and all the other involuntary things are not "my" evil coming out of me or a lack of applying Philippians 4:8 properly(think on those things that are lovely etc). It is a result of evil done TO me. Along with this idea that I think has finally sunk in, came the statement. "You can't separate your body from the rest of yourself." That surprised me. For the last two years I have been reconnecting and it has been a rough transition. I have kept separated for most of my life, but I know it's not a good long term solution.
From the time I was young I would go into a dark little room in the corner of my mind until it was safe to come out. Most of the time the room was dark and my "inside me" would just curl up there for a while. Other times it was a whole nother beautiful world where I was the hero and I was surrounded by friends who were family to me. I didn't dare go there too often because I think it made me smile or something that made things worse for the "outside me", and when that happened I would be jolted back to the outside.
As a child, Spock was my favorite Star Trek character. I studied him nightly with every episode. I practiced in the mirror complete facial control of emotions and ultimately successfully suppressed involuntary emotional responses. It took practice, but I was motivated. This complete emotion control was necessary to shorten the beatings and lectures at home. A lecture doesn't sound bad, but it is when you have to stand perfectly still, but not too still, and have the correct facial expression at all times for 45 minutes or more. If my stance shifted or my expression wasn't correct; then I would get another spanking for the "offence" I was being lectured for. If I was lucky I would only get three sets of "spankings". You would think I would be quite good at standing still by the end of 6th grade, since that was one of his favorite tortures. Making me stand facing the wall for the 45 minute recess while he told me what I had to do to get off the wall. Talk about controlling my facial expressions and just leaving my body. I was good at it.
As a teen I added in Data from The Next Generation to my studies. I didn't do so well with modeling Data. He wasn't inconsistent enough, but it was still helpful. For most of my life I've done this thing called dissociation, but didn't know the name for it until this past year. Dissociating is what allowed me to stay sane and function. This separation is my default and that's why I dissociate so easily, it removes me from what causes me pain. It separates "me" from my body and mind. At this point it is no longer a help. It has become a hindrance and gets in the way of comprehending truth, dealing with current events in life, or being able to read the Bible. Increasingly I am gaining hope that I can relearn everything, and be whole again. Someday the old tapes will be completely destroyed and new ones in place. Right now the old ones are being overwritten, but they still leak through pretty strongly. What's awesome is that I recognize when garbage leaks through, or someone else recognizes it; and I am in a place where God is busy writing over the old tapes through friends, sacraments at church, Psalm singing and my pastors.
Psalm 121:1
I lift up my eyes to the hills.
From where does my help come from?
My help comes from the Lord, who made heaven and earth.
Saturday, October 4, 2014
Where are you in regards to _____ on a scale of 1 to 10 with one being ______and 10 being ______?
The scale question comes in many forms, but it always confuses me. Am I being asked based on my personal scale of pain for example? Right now I have spasms in my back that hurt quite a bit. So when I do make it in to the chiropractor and massage therapist I'm sure I will be asked the scale question. Do I compare pain in general or this type of muscle pain? Because if its just pain, then I've felt a lot worse. I'm walking crooked, but I can still walk. It's less pain than burns I've had. More pain than having my knee out of socket, a whole lot less than having wisdom teeth removed, but then again childbirth hurt less than that.
The idea of putting triggers, flashbacks, dissociation, depression, anxiety or how I relate to God on a scale of 1 to 10 totally befuddles me. What do I compare everything to? What is the baseline? Lets say 1 is the bad end and 10 is the completely awesome end. If 1 is the point just before a suicide attempt and 10 is a joyful and peaceful life where you deal with all problems in a perfect manner; then the jumps between numbers is too great. A different scale is needed.
I'm not volunteering to come up with one. I don't think mine would be much better, but at least it would work for me, even if for no one else ;)
Overall, I'd vote for no scale. My scale would be warped my way, like so. Just pick a common pain or experience that people have and say whether it is greater or lesser than that pain or experience. Here are some common pains or experiences that could be used. Childbirth(medicated or natural), oven burn, hammering your finger, suicide of a friend, death of a close family member, sunburn up to sun poisoning, stubbed toe, cuts requiring stitches or crutches...See what I mean about my scale being weird for most people? Surely there's some grant money floating around out there and someone can come up with a decent scale for this oft asked question? Keep in mind, numbers just don't cut it.
The scale question comes in many forms, but it always confuses me. Am I being asked based on my personal scale of pain for example? Right now I have spasms in my back that hurt quite a bit. So when I do make it in to the chiropractor and massage therapist I'm sure I will be asked the scale question. Do I compare pain in general or this type of muscle pain? Because if its just pain, then I've felt a lot worse. I'm walking crooked, but I can still walk. It's less pain than burns I've had. More pain than having my knee out of socket, a whole lot less than having wisdom teeth removed, but then again childbirth hurt less than that.
The idea of putting triggers, flashbacks, dissociation, depression, anxiety or how I relate to God on a scale of 1 to 10 totally befuddles me. What do I compare everything to? What is the baseline? Lets say 1 is the bad end and 10 is the completely awesome end. If 1 is the point just before a suicide attempt and 10 is a joyful and peaceful life where you deal with all problems in a perfect manner; then the jumps between numbers is too great. A different scale is needed.
Overall, I'd vote for no scale. My scale would be warped my way, like so. Just pick a common pain or experience that people have and say whether it is greater or lesser than that pain or experience. Here are some common pains or experiences that could be used. Childbirth(medicated or natural), oven burn, hammering your finger, suicide of a friend, death of a close family member, sunburn up to sun poisoning, stubbed toe, cuts requiring stitches or crutches...See what I mean about my scale being weird for most people? Surely there's some grant money floating around out there and someone can come up with a decent scale for this oft asked question? Keep in mind, numbers just don't cut it.
Thursday, September 18, 2014
How God is Becoming More Real to Me
How is God real to me? It sounds like an odd question to ask, maybe *gasp* like something a seeker friendly church would have a little pamphlet on. I can't help any similarities there may be. I must remind myself that God cares and look for those ways He shows himself to be real, not just a far off God who doesn't hear. I can't reconcile my pleading prayers when I was being abused and His apparent deafness, to the teaching that God is present and hears our prayers and loves us. When I try to think through both things I get trapped in a loop of flashbacks. It's not a good place to be.
What I can do is to look for God's hands in my life today and then in the more recent past. If I go back too much farther; I run into problems, big ones like: does God love me, did he love me back then, what about protection, is God really good, how sovereign is he anyway, and God was present but did nothing. The way I can skip over those type of questions is for me to look at all the evil in the world being done to people of all ages and then remind myself that I'm nothing special to rate some divine protection. There are Christians being murdered and abused for their faith. I had it pretty easy in comparison. Somehow I'm not sure this is the way to handle it. It ends up with me viewing God as a distant and uncaring God who is big into consequences. So then I'm back to completely ignoring my own past, beyond the last few years, and disregarding today's present persecution of Christians unless I put it into a "suffering for Christ" category.
Today I look for God's caring in my life. I see it in the meals brought to us by families in our church; in the freshly mowed grass because all of our mowers are broken and my husband now works out of town; in the concern being shown to us as one of our children is suffering from head trauma; texts, phone calls, getting together to just talk; in so many kindnesses big and small; and the fact that I can't disappear from church or blend into the background because I have become a part of this body. All this and so much more are evidences to me that God cares. I see it through the tangible touch and actions of Christians who are God's arms around me in difficult times, in times of change and in the mundane of everyday life.
Another aspect of God that I see is that of Him working in me to change in a myriad of ways. Something is said repeatedly over a long period of time in many different ways and places until one day I hear it again but now it is accompanied by that uneasy feeling of guilt. It's a different sort of guilt than the one that goes along with being abused. It's one that causes you to realize this is talking about me and this is my sin. To avoid dealing with this sin guilt is not a good thing. Slowly my eyes and ears are being opened. I'm sure this is God at work showing me what needs to be confessed and repented of. Easier said than done, though.
God is becoming more real to me through His church, specifically and mainly the church I'm a member of. I'm thankful for mp3 players, blogs, facebook posts, email, texting, and twitter. All this tech provides more ways for me to hear again what God is trying to tell me. It doesn't sink in the first time around I hear it in a worship service or in counseling. God is patient with me and I've seen His gentleness towards me in the last two years. I can be in church now and rarely dissociate anymore, and the triggers are seldom a problem. A lot has changed in the last six months from what my church experiences were two years ago or one year ago. May God continue His work.
What I can do is to look for God's hands in my life today and then in the more recent past. If I go back too much farther; I run into problems, big ones like: does God love me, did he love me back then, what about protection, is God really good, how sovereign is he anyway, and God was present but did nothing. The way I can skip over those type of questions is for me to look at all the evil in the world being done to people of all ages and then remind myself that I'm nothing special to rate some divine protection. There are Christians being murdered and abused for their faith. I had it pretty easy in comparison. Somehow I'm not sure this is the way to handle it. It ends up with me viewing God as a distant and uncaring God who is big into consequences. So then I'm back to completely ignoring my own past, beyond the last few years, and disregarding today's present persecution of Christians unless I put it into a "suffering for Christ" category.
Today I look for God's caring in my life. I see it in the meals brought to us by families in our church; in the freshly mowed grass because all of our mowers are broken and my husband now works out of town; in the concern being shown to us as one of our children is suffering from head trauma; texts, phone calls, getting together to just talk; in so many kindnesses big and small; and the fact that I can't disappear from church or blend into the background because I have become a part of this body. All this and so much more are evidences to me that God cares. I see it through the tangible touch and actions of Christians who are God's arms around me in difficult times, in times of change and in the mundane of everyday life.
Another aspect of God that I see is that of Him working in me to change in a myriad of ways. Something is said repeatedly over a long period of time in many different ways and places until one day I hear it again but now it is accompanied by that uneasy feeling of guilt. It's a different sort of guilt than the one that goes along with being abused. It's one that causes you to realize this is talking about me and this is my sin. To avoid dealing with this sin guilt is not a good thing. Slowly my eyes and ears are being opened. I'm sure this is God at work showing me what needs to be confessed and repented of. Easier said than done, though.
God is becoming more real to me through His church, specifically and mainly the church I'm a member of. I'm thankful for mp3 players, blogs, facebook posts, email, texting, and twitter. All this tech provides more ways for me to hear again what God is trying to tell me. It doesn't sink in the first time around I hear it in a worship service or in counseling. God is patient with me and I've seen His gentleness towards me in the last two years. I can be in church now and rarely dissociate anymore, and the triggers are seldom a problem. A lot has changed in the last six months from what my church experiences were two years ago or one year ago. May God continue His work.
Wednesday, September 17, 2014
Can I Tell My Story, Uncensored? Should I?
What is the importance of telling your story? I mean really telling it, from beginning to end. The last time I attempted to do that was in the last couple of years and it was only the highlights, if you will, of a life time of smaller hurts and also of ongoing effects of childhood sexual abuse which still affect me today. The statement that counselor made to me was that any one of these events would be enough to cause PTSD in someone. For two or three, one hour sessions I briefly ran down the list without too much detail. From the confident woman I first met, this counselor changed before my eyes into someone who seemed to be afraid to hear the next thing that would come from my mouth. My trauma was causing her pain in some way. I didn't understand how she could feel my pain. All I knew was that she was having serious problems with hearing my bare bones story. I felt bad to be hurting her, so I didn't go back. My story remained untold.
Lately I've been googling, trying to find out if telling it in story form is a good thing, necessary or just a nice sounding way of wallowing in the past. When I think of NOT telling my story as a whole, instead of in disconnected pieces; then a whole host of statements made to me by my abuser start playing in a continuous loop, joined by all the other not-helpful things people("friends", counselors, pastors, police officers and lawyers and toss in one ignorant doctor) have said to me over the years. I often feel as disconnected as the way in which I've told my story to my pastor/counselor. In the beginning he told me I didn't have to tell him everything about the actual abuse, so I didn't. Along the way I disclosed small snapshots of what happened when I was abused. I tested him at every turn, waiting for the words, "I can't help you. You need to find another counselor." Instead he keeps on telling me that he's in it for the long haul. I believe him now.
In spite of a non linear telling of events and staying focused, more on the effects of the abuse in my life today than a upfront factual retelling of the abuse, my pastor/counselor has the basic gist of what happened. There is a bit of a problem with adequately addressing guilt and shame, since I've only barely brushed on those immensely shaming aspects of the abuse, in all the many hours of counseling over the last 18 months. I don't know how to go there, or if I should go there. It's pretty explicit because that's part of the story, and to sanitize what happened so its a little more palatable seems like its minimizing what really happened. I lived through it. No one sanitized it for me. No one dimmed the horror by skipping what I couldn't handle. Not one person has heard it all. In order to cushion the blows my words have become to my hearer, I always skip around as I speak of the sexual abuse in counseling. Past counselors have either been deeply affected to the point that they can't help me or have done other odd things that moved the focus from my abuser like: attempting to convince me it was a different person who abused me; or that my "real" problem was something besides the sexual abuse. To a point, it has been a necessary cushioning of it for me too, yet I'm also acutely aware of my edits and deliberate minimizing of the abuse in order to talk about it and not harm or scare off another counselor. There are times I don't say things because I'm sitting there contemplating whether or not bringing up certain aspects of events would be too explicit; and therefore would bring down some sort of rebuke for a gratuitous recounting of things about the abuse or its long term effects that didn't need to be said.
This fear of rejection runs in me so strongly that I can't think reasonably about the chances of such a rebuke occurring. Technically, rejection of me as a person, and not listening to the details of my story are not the same thing. In my mind I know this, but the part of me which fear controls can't make that distinction. Crawling under a rock and face hiding shame dominates my thinking and instinctive self protective behaviour. I would contaminate another person by going into the shame filled details. Why wouldn't anyone not look at me with disgust if they knew everything? It's not like I want to put out all the details, or even any of them, to everyone who knows me. I just want one person on earth to know everything and not turn away from me. That hasn't happened yet. No one yet knows everything. I don't blame them for not being able to handle hearing it, but still, I had to live it. Isn't there anyone who can listen to me say everything; from the sound of the stairs, the creaking open of the door, the smell of concrete, the taste of fear and helplessness, to the things I did to provoke him so he would just get it over with? Or is it just too much to put on someone else? When it's all put together it is horrendous and explicit in all the details of what he did to me and what I did, felt, saw, and thought at the time. Is is wrong for me to tell my story, uncensored?
Lately I've been googling, trying to find out if telling it in story form is a good thing, necessary or just a nice sounding way of wallowing in the past. When I think of NOT telling my story as a whole, instead of in disconnected pieces; then a whole host of statements made to me by my abuser start playing in a continuous loop, joined by all the other not-helpful things people("friends", counselors, pastors, police officers and lawyers and toss in one ignorant doctor) have said to me over the years. I often feel as disconnected as the way in which I've told my story to my pastor/counselor. In the beginning he told me I didn't have to tell him everything about the actual abuse, so I didn't. Along the way I disclosed small snapshots of what happened when I was abused. I tested him at every turn, waiting for the words, "I can't help you. You need to find another counselor." Instead he keeps on telling me that he's in it for the long haul. I believe him now.
In spite of a non linear telling of events and staying focused, more on the effects of the abuse in my life today than a upfront factual retelling of the abuse, my pastor/counselor has the basic gist of what happened. There is a bit of a problem with adequately addressing guilt and shame, since I've only barely brushed on those immensely shaming aspects of the abuse, in all the many hours of counseling over the last 18 months. I don't know how to go there, or if I should go there. It's pretty explicit because that's part of the story, and to sanitize what happened so its a little more palatable seems like its minimizing what really happened. I lived through it. No one sanitized it for me. No one dimmed the horror by skipping what I couldn't handle. Not one person has heard it all. In order to cushion the blows my words have become to my hearer, I always skip around as I speak of the sexual abuse in counseling. Past counselors have either been deeply affected to the point that they can't help me or have done other odd things that moved the focus from my abuser like: attempting to convince me it was a different person who abused me; or that my "real" problem was something besides the sexual abuse. To a point, it has been a necessary cushioning of it for me too, yet I'm also acutely aware of my edits and deliberate minimizing of the abuse in order to talk about it and not harm or scare off another counselor. There are times I don't say things because I'm sitting there contemplating whether or not bringing up certain aspects of events would be too explicit; and therefore would bring down some sort of rebuke for a gratuitous recounting of things about the abuse or its long term effects that didn't need to be said.
This fear of rejection runs in me so strongly that I can't think reasonably about the chances of such a rebuke occurring. Technically, rejection of me as a person, and not listening to the details of my story are not the same thing. In my mind I know this, but the part of me which fear controls can't make that distinction. Crawling under a rock and face hiding shame dominates my thinking and instinctive self protective behaviour. I would contaminate another person by going into the shame filled details. Why wouldn't anyone not look at me with disgust if they knew everything? It's not like I want to put out all the details, or even any of them, to everyone who knows me. I just want one person on earth to know everything and not turn away from me. That hasn't happened yet. No one yet knows everything. I don't blame them for not being able to handle hearing it, but still, I had to live it. Isn't there anyone who can listen to me say everything; from the sound of the stairs, the creaking open of the door, the smell of concrete, the taste of fear and helplessness, to the things I did to provoke him so he would just get it over with? Or is it just too much to put on someone else? When it's all put together it is horrendous and explicit in all the details of what he did to me and what I did, felt, saw, and thought at the time. Is is wrong for me to tell my story, uncensored?
Saturday, September 13, 2014
Writing In Order To Do Battle
I can't find the answer to this, but I've been wondering about it for the last several days. Wondering to the point of almost panicly worrying. Does PTSD come and go? For me that has been my experience, but I can't find anyone else saying the same thing. I've wondered about this for years now, ever since a doctor gave me a word for what was happening to me. I'm a bit funny with the way I describe things not realizing its something "real" and enough other people have had the same thing going on that they gave it a name. Just this past year I discovered the word dissociate and what it was, and lo and behold it's what I've been calling "zoning", "being gone somewhere" or "losing time". I have a great fear of re-entering the battle and once again ending up in those dark places where I lose my way. I stopped writing when I got to a comfortable place. God is held at arms length, but I can catch glimpses of Him in church on Sunday and through the overwhelming kindness of my church family. It's a safe place in my journey, but I'm being nudged along to go farther.
I haven't been writing, anywhere, and that concerns me a bit, in the sense that it should concern me, but it doesn't--not really. I write when I'm actively dealing with things and I haven't written in months. I've been asked to make a list of fears and concerns to work through in counselling.
I would say "challenged", but that just sounds too baptist to me. Of course to me it's not just a list, it's the contents of the boxes I've been dragging around all these years. In some ways its the monsters in my closets that have come so close to destroying me in the past. I use the word past in a way that includes not only my personal ancient past, but my recent past too. Just yesterday I read two bloggers who posted on the topic of writing either directly or indirectly. One of them sounds like he is fairly close to where I am in my own journey while the other one is in a place that often seems unattainable to me. Both of them are writers that speak to me in the deep places of my soul. http://redemptionpictures.com/2014/09/12/when-writing-is-an-act-of-hope/
http://messytheology.wordpress.com/2014/09/10/when-there-are-no-words/
Writing for me has always been cathartic. I started my first little diary in third grade. I still had it, up until almost four years ago when our house burned down. As an adult, reading that first diary I ever kept, brought back memories, good and bad. Almost all the good things in there involved going to my grandma's house, the food she made, the stories she told and helping her hang out laundry, pick apples and watch her work in her garden. When I was old enough to not pull plants instead of weeds, I was actually allowed to go in the garden. Other events I wrote about I remember writing carefully in case my diary was ever stolen and read. My careful writing at age 9 wasn't careful enough and I got in trouble for what I wrote. I didn't keep a diary again until 5th grade. I learned my lesson and wrote carefully and left out the most ugly parts. Yet years later reading my diary from elementary I again saw those events I so carefully edited in my writing, and the memories invoked were not edited.
The power of the written word is incredible. And those were just my own childish writings, yet they held the key to my memory, to my own story.
By 7th grade I was writing furiously and unedited, except for the terrible secret I carried that I couldn't write about even in my own journal. The raw anger flowed from my pen and filled spiral notebooks. Anger, hurt, and betrayal, along with the pettiness of junior high drama, were my themes. I wrote for me and only me. I wrote to keep my sanity and a place to siphon off the anger and rage that threatened to tear me apart. My anger grew as my understanding of what had happened to me grew. I never gave it a word until 2003. I couldn't name it. I was too afraid. The anger was too powerful and I barely kept it in check through my writing. By 9th grade I was learning to control the anger through other means and harness it. I made good use of it and the abuse at home finally stopped, for me. Still I wrote. My survival depended upon it.
I wrote all through high school and into college at Bob Jones University, where I again looked for help and thought I found it. I would have been better off to have kept writing and skipped the counselling. The times I stopped writing were the times I was being successful at locking down all my boxes and shutting off emotions. But of course anger was a main component of all the boxes and anger can only be contained for so long. Thus the cycle of writing while depressed, angry and trying to close back the boxes that another counseling attempt had opened began. I haven't written anywhere for a few months. It's been different this time though. At least one of my monsters has been destroyed and not all emotion has been cut off. I think I've been experiencing life the way that other people do, to a point. Real emotions have still been in play. I've cried and didn't shut it off with anger. I can't remember doing that before. It's been incredible to smile and cry and not have to do my usual routine in order to "be normal". I like it. The problem is that this is only a plateau and there is a long journey still ahead. I've been content here for long enough. It was a nice break from the battle, but it's time to re-engage. Once again, I write.
I haven't been writing, anywhere, and that concerns me a bit, in the sense that it should concern me, but it doesn't--not really. I write when I'm actively dealing with things and I haven't written in months. I've been asked to make a list of fears and concerns to work through in counselling.
I would say "challenged", but that just sounds too baptist to me. Of course to me it's not just a list, it's the contents of the boxes I've been dragging around all these years. In some ways its the monsters in my closets that have come so close to destroying me in the past. I use the word past in a way that includes not only my personal ancient past, but my recent past too. Just yesterday I read two bloggers who posted on the topic of writing either directly or indirectly. One of them sounds like he is fairly close to where I am in my own journey while the other one is in a place that often seems unattainable to me. Both of them are writers that speak to me in the deep places of my soul. http://redemptionpictures.com/2014/09/12/when-writing-is-an-act-of-hope/
http://messytheology.wordpress.com/2014/09/10/when-there-are-no-words/
Writing for me has always been cathartic. I started my first little diary in third grade. I still had it, up until almost four years ago when our house burned down. As an adult, reading that first diary I ever kept, brought back memories, good and bad. Almost all the good things in there involved going to my grandma's house, the food she made, the stories she told and helping her hang out laundry, pick apples and watch her work in her garden. When I was old enough to not pull plants instead of weeds, I was actually allowed to go in the garden. Other events I wrote about I remember writing carefully in case my diary was ever stolen and read. My careful writing at age 9 wasn't careful enough and I got in trouble for what I wrote. I didn't keep a diary again until 5th grade. I learned my lesson and wrote carefully and left out the most ugly parts. Yet years later reading my diary from elementary I again saw those events I so carefully edited in my writing, and the memories invoked were not edited.
The power of the written word is incredible. And those were just my own childish writings, yet they held the key to my memory, to my own story.
By 7th grade I was writing furiously and unedited, except for the terrible secret I carried that I couldn't write about even in my own journal. The raw anger flowed from my pen and filled spiral notebooks. Anger, hurt, and betrayal, along with the pettiness of junior high drama, were my themes. I wrote for me and only me. I wrote to keep my sanity and a place to siphon off the anger and rage that threatened to tear me apart. My anger grew as my understanding of what had happened to me grew. I never gave it a word until 2003. I couldn't name it. I was too afraid. The anger was too powerful and I barely kept it in check through my writing. By 9th grade I was learning to control the anger through other means and harness it. I made good use of it and the abuse at home finally stopped, for me. Still I wrote. My survival depended upon it.
I wrote all through high school and into college at Bob Jones University, where I again looked for help and thought I found it. I would have been better off to have kept writing and skipped the counselling. The times I stopped writing were the times I was being successful at locking down all my boxes and shutting off emotions. But of course anger was a main component of all the boxes and anger can only be contained for so long. Thus the cycle of writing while depressed, angry and trying to close back the boxes that another counseling attempt had opened began. I haven't written anywhere for a few months. It's been different this time though. At least one of my monsters has been destroyed and not all emotion has been cut off. I think I've been experiencing life the way that other people do, to a point. Real emotions have still been in play. I've cried and didn't shut it off with anger. I can't remember doing that before. It's been incredible to smile and cry and not have to do my usual routine in order to "be normal". I like it. The problem is that this is only a plateau and there is a long journey still ahead. I've been content here for long enough. It was a nice break from the battle, but it's time to re-engage. Once again, I write.
Thursday, June 26, 2014
Forgiveness Without Coercion: What does it look like?
If anyone would have told me 6 months ago that I would be in contact with a former counselor and forgiveness would be brought up, and the end result would be a good one; I never would have believed it. For the first time in my life someone asked for my forgiveness and didn't try to avoid responsibility or turn it back on me and make it out to be my fault in any way. I am still in shock. I've never experienced anything like this in my life. (There has been one other person, but that happened outside of the IFB/BJU world and the whole process was much simpler.)
Forgive It's one of those major trigger words that can easily lead to full blown flashbacks. Except this time it didn't. I'm not say it wasn't triggering and that I didn't have flashbacks, but because of the other persons response to me the flashbacks didn't become debilitating. I did lose some time( the name I've used to describe dissociation for 20 years, before I knew there was a name for it) but overall it was just a beautiful demonstration of what the process of forgiveness and reconciliation can look like. This may not sound like a positive experience, but it was and is. It was hard work and took the better part of three days. At the beginning of this renewed contact I had no inkling where it would go. At first I received a somewhat generic request for my forgiveness without the other person really comprehending what it was they were asking my forgiveness for. Back and forth we went until I was concise and specific enough that the only option left would be to dodge it, turn it back on me, or accept responsibility. Amazingly, the responsibility was accepted and forgiveness still asked for and then granted. By the end, I actually wanted to forgive and I wasn't guilted into it.
Wow! If this were to happen for everyone; what a different world we would be in. Granted, this is only one person and not even my original abuser, but the effect this persons counsel had on me was far reaching and life threatening. For this person to acknowledge the harm, is such a huge deal for me. I never thought it possible. Maybe, just maybe, others will follow suit for me and for others. And maybe the hurt, and the fear, and the never ending guilt can begin to be assuaged, for all of us. As to the teacher that abused me in elementary school, I doubt he would know genuine repentance if it ran over him, but that is a topic for another post.
Maybe someday I will be at a point where I can read the Bible without being severely triggered and spiraling into either dissociation or flashbacks. For now I'm ok with enjoying the good things in life and being thankful to God for the beauty I see. The GRACE investigation set off a chain of events in my life that is truly life changing. I have to face the past or be crushed by it. It's a slow road to healing and agonizing at times, but I think I have hope that it is possible.
Forgive It's one of those major trigger words that can easily lead to full blown flashbacks. Except this time it didn't. I'm not say it wasn't triggering and that I didn't have flashbacks, but because of the other persons response to me the flashbacks didn't become debilitating. I did lose some time( the name I've used to describe dissociation for 20 years, before I knew there was a name for it) but overall it was just a beautiful demonstration of what the process of forgiveness and reconciliation can look like. This may not sound like a positive experience, but it was and is. It was hard work and took the better part of three days. At the beginning of this renewed contact I had no inkling where it would go. At first I received a somewhat generic request for my forgiveness without the other person really comprehending what it was they were asking my forgiveness for. Back and forth we went until I was concise and specific enough that the only option left would be to dodge it, turn it back on me, or accept responsibility. Amazingly, the responsibility was accepted and forgiveness still asked for and then granted. By the end, I actually wanted to forgive and I wasn't guilted into it.
Wow! If this were to happen for everyone; what a different world we would be in. Granted, this is only one person and not even my original abuser, but the effect this persons counsel had on me was far reaching and life threatening. For this person to acknowledge the harm, is such a huge deal for me. I never thought it possible. Maybe, just maybe, others will follow suit for me and for others. And maybe the hurt, and the fear, and the never ending guilt can begin to be assuaged, for all of us. As to the teacher that abused me in elementary school, I doubt he would know genuine repentance if it ran over him, but that is a topic for another post.
Maybe someday I will be at a point where I can read the Bible without being severely triggered and spiraling into either dissociation or flashbacks. For now I'm ok with enjoying the good things in life and being thankful to God for the beauty I see. The GRACE investigation set off a chain of events in my life that is truly life changing. I have to face the past or be crushed by it. It's a slow road to healing and agonizing at times, but I think I have hope that it is possible.
Tuesday, March 4, 2014
Mondays Irritating Question
Sundays question is, "How are you doing?" For most people I give some version of normal like: "Fine", "Doing all right.", "Been busy" or list some activity we did or might think about doing. Then along comes Monday and the question changes to, "So, how was your weekend?" Really? What is with the small talk? I hate small talk. I don't even like the phrase "small talk". Why does the fact that I am trapped in a chiropractors office mean that I have any desire to have the same conversation starter that I don't want to start, started over and over. This chiropractor has several therapies going on in series so I endured this question more than normal in a short span of time. By the time I was at the massage therapists station I was so done dancing around the question of my weekend.
We somehow ended up having a real conversation. I steered it by commenting on why my neck and shoulders were so tense and knotted up. I simply said I've been really stressed for the last couple of weeks. In turn she asked about why or what has been the stress. We ended up with a genuine conversation about Bob Jones University and the GRACE investigation and also another Christian college she was much more familiar with. I think she was a bit more free than she planned on being and seemed worried that I would be offended; and stressed that I did ask and it was only her opinion. Hopefully I put her at ease on that point, but I doubt it. I did enjoy a real conversation not based on polite small talk. I didn't say much; it only took a decent comment on my part and she was off and running. After the massage station I only had to endure one more person asking me about my weekend. :D
In case you were wondering, but certainly wouldn't dare to ask me now; my weekend was a mixed bag. Friday was a major trigger type day. I thought I could read a Psalm without ill effects. NOPE, crash and burn. Friday night was a big church get together at somebodies house. That was good, but still triggering and I stayed more on the outer edges of things. I love a good party and the wine was great and quite helpful. Saturday we had a picnic and walked around downtown and enjoyed the day. We hit all the little shops that we never stop in, and I found two Louis L'Amour books I haven't read yet. Sunday at church was mildly difficult on my scale. I was able to stay here even when triggered, and only had a few flashbacks. In the afternoon I went out for dessert with a friend for my birthday, and I enjoyed it. So that was my weekend.
Writing it out doesn't sound so bad, but when I was asked about my weekend the only things I could remember were the intense triggers on Friday because I read a Psalm and the triggers and flashbacks on Sunday that stayed in the manageable range. I only needed to use a handful of methods to keep me here and didn't have to use them the whole time. I wish my first thoughts were of the nice picnic and the shops and going out with my friend. I didn't think of any of those things the whole time I was at the chiropractors office being asked constantly about my weekend. I don't know why
We somehow ended up having a real conversation. I steered it by commenting on why my neck and shoulders were so tense and knotted up. I simply said I've been really stressed for the last couple of weeks. In turn she asked about why or what has been the stress. We ended up with a genuine conversation about Bob Jones University and the GRACE investigation and also another Christian college she was much more familiar with. I think she was a bit more free than she planned on being and seemed worried that I would be offended; and stressed that I did ask and it was only her opinion. Hopefully I put her at ease on that point, but I doubt it. I did enjoy a real conversation not based on polite small talk. I didn't say much; it only took a decent comment on my part and she was off and running. After the massage station I only had to endure one more person asking me about my weekend. :D
In case you were wondering, but certainly wouldn't dare to ask me now; my weekend was a mixed bag. Friday was a major trigger type day. I thought I could read a Psalm without ill effects. NOPE, crash and burn. Friday night was a big church get together at somebodies house. That was good, but still triggering and I stayed more on the outer edges of things. I love a good party and the wine was great and quite helpful. Saturday we had a picnic and walked around downtown and enjoyed the day. We hit all the little shops that we never stop in, and I found two Louis L'Amour books I haven't read yet. Sunday at church was mildly difficult on my scale. I was able to stay here even when triggered, and only had a few flashbacks. In the afternoon I went out for dessert with a friend for my birthday, and I enjoyed it. So that was my weekend.
Writing it out doesn't sound so bad, but when I was asked about my weekend the only things I could remember were the intense triggers on Friday because I read a Psalm and the triggers and flashbacks on Sunday that stayed in the manageable range. I only needed to use a handful of methods to keep me here and didn't have to use them the whole time. I wish my first thoughts were of the nice picnic and the shops and going out with my friend. I didn't think of any of those things the whole time I was at the chiropractors office being asked constantly about my weekend. I don't know why
Wednesday, February 26, 2014
Bob Jones University Can't Rewrite History
Yesterday
was such an emotionally charged day with the news that BJU had
re-hired GRACE that
I had a hard time processing it enough to write.
I already had a counseling meeting scheduled with
my pastor, and of
course that was one of the topics we discussed.
As
soon as I found out I felt a huge weight lift and a lot of tension in
my body released. Rejoicing and
skepticism fought for dominance in
my thinking and emotions all day. I'm still not sure where the
pendulum is going to settle. I do know, in a practical sort of way,
that Bob Jones University is only
going to do what they are forced
to, and if they had been able to find any other way around this
backpedaling and re-hiring of GRACE without any changes to the
original contract, they certainly
would have done so. This is good
news, yet it should never have even been an issue. BJU should
never
have terminated GRACE. They didn't suspend them or the investigation
no matter how they
try to lie about it and change the wording now,
after the fact. I won't forget. We won't forget. They
can't rewrite
this bit of history. Survivors have been silenced and told what the
“truth” is no matter
what is remembered for many years. There
are now too many writing the truth for a successful BJU
history
re-write to occur. I know in my own life it's all been rewritten and
how things were, is ignored
or forgotten. I'm not a child anymore
and I am far enough removed in time that I can stand my
ground on
what is true regarding my past. Therefore there is no way that BJU
can wield that
institutional amnesia over me and other survivors, and
have us succumb to their version of the events
by trying to alter the
facts of their wording. No, they really did say
And
here is the link for the termination letter
If the link ever goes bad or gets deleted for some reason, I have a
copy of the letter as a PDF on my
computer that I will put here in
place of the link.
Last
night a former high school classmate and fellow BJU grad asked me to
briefly explain what the
BJU and GRACE thing was all about that she
has been seeing and hearing about everywhere. I was
more than happy
to fill her in, knowing that my explanation of recent events and the
GRACE
investigation in general will spread farther. I can't fix what
is wrong, but I can help carry the load; I
can give that hug and weep
with those that weep and even rejoice with those who rejoice. I hope
for
justice someday, but for now I can only do the things I am able
in order to make my sphere of
influence a little brighter and a
better reflection of how things will look when the world is set right
once again.
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