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.
Friday, March 13, 2015
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.
Monday, February 24, 2014
How Bob Jones University's Firing of GRACE Has Affected Me as a Survivor and Interviewee
Up until now I have never mentioned where I went to college or anything about that time in my life. That's an impossible task to cover adequately in one post, but I do want to in a brief way discuss my infamous alma mater, Bob Jones University. I grew up in a "Bob Jones" church, although in the early days it was more a Gothard church and I remember loading up in buses at church and riding downtown to the Basic Youth Conflicts meeting. Brother Roloff was a regular preacher at our church, but I digress. My college choices were Bob Jones University or Your on Your Own- Good Luck U. The whole concept of scholarships and the evil government student loans was abhorred. So off I went to Greenville, South Carolina and the Mecca of the Fundamentalist world, Bob Jones University. I wasn't unhappy about it. I had visited there a few times and knew how to dress like the college girls and not look like a high schooler. I was quite pleased when my clothing was looked over by a girl that used to be in my youth group, but was now that most envied of positions, a GA(graduate assistant). I thought I was hot stuff, with connections in the right places and coming from a well known and respected church and Christian school. MY pastor was asked to speak at Bob Jones and so on. I was such a self righteous, proud little brat, but I was never a Boje(that's BJ slang for tattletale). My freshman year was an odd mix. My APC(assistant prayer captain) was a 5th year senior who only had one semester left. She introduced me to the wild crowd and told them I was cool and wouldn't get a conscience. It's funny how she had me pegged. I was very good at keeping quiet and self preservation. I never did turn anyone in for anything my whole time at Bob Jones University, even when undergoing grilling by the Dean of Women (I always get Baker and Barker mixed up) or the Dean of Students, Mr. Berg.
One of my teachers my freshman year was similar in mannerisms and size as my teacher in elementary that molested and raped me during that whole school year. I didn't have the right words for what was happening to me. I genuinely liked Mr. Berg and went to him for help. I described what was happening and one of the things I was told, was to think on those things that are lovely and to meditate on Philipians 4:8. I tried so hard but things just got worse. I have words now for what was happening: triggers, flashbacks, PTSD and eventually dissociation. I was severely depressed and became suicidal. I thought I was going crazy. I went to the wrong classes for an extended period of time until the teacher pointed out that I wasn't actually IN that class. I would wander around and be vaguely aware that I was supposed to be somewhere. After sessions with Mr. Berg I would walk out of the administration building and "come to" in some out of the way back campus location.
I'm barely touching on my experience with counseling while at Bob Jones, but it was a part of every year of my time there. I interviewed with G.R.A.C.E. last year and have been paying a heavy toll for it. I finally got to a point of relative peace in the last few months. The flashbacks to the original abuse in elementary had become infrequent, I could sing in church again and talking with a Baptist didn't throw me into panic. I still couldn't read the Bible without being triggered, but I could listen to someone else read it, as long as it wasn't the King James version. It was nice to wake up without that instant feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach. I made it past a major depression and time of being suicidal. PTSD symptoms were basically gone for a while. I was still in counseling with my pastor, but it had lost the edge of desperation that began our counseling relationship soon after I filled out the original GRACE questionnaire and then went into full blown longlasting flashbacks. Believe me, that was an interesting call!
But now, BJU has fired GRACE and it's not looking like the report will ever see the light of day, if BJU can get away with it. I've seen various blogs and comments mention how this decision to fire GRACE re-traumatizes victims, but I haven't seen anyone specifically saying how it does. I'm going to tell you how it affects me, and I hope that others will tell in the comments, or elsewhere, how BJU's actions in firing GRACE is affecting them.
1. My hands are sweating like a faucet, and it makes the keyboard slippery to type on.
2. Betrayed
3. Headaches and eye twitches have returned
4. Nightmares are starting back up
5. I am being more easily triggered again
6. Flashbacks are returning
7. Anxiety (and DON'T tell me to be anxious for nothing!)
8. General nervousness
9. Difficulty staying in the present while singing in church (fighting to not dissociate too badly)
10. Nausea
11. Difficulty sleeping(I haven't slept well for a couple of weeks now and I was up the whole night this past Saturday.)
12. Loss of appetite (I could stand to lose a bunch of weight, so that's almost ok with me)
13. I know I'm depressed, although I can't say to what degree, but not currently suicidal.
14. I am physically tense all over to the point of pain
15. You really don't want to know about the connection all this has with my bowels ;)
16. Church is again full of triggers for me and has been increasing each week since GRACE was fired
17. I have been irritable and hard to live with(I'm working on it!)
18. Loss of hope(but then I got really ticked and that helps because I am doing what I can)
19. Crying and not able to control emotions well, so I use anger to keep the tears in check
20. Really and truly beginning to grasp the depth and beauty of the imprecatory Psalms and praying in a very specific way towards Bob Jones University---Lord, hear my prayer.
One of my teachers my freshman year was similar in mannerisms and size as my teacher in elementary that molested and raped me during that whole school year. I didn't have the right words for what was happening to me. I genuinely liked Mr. Berg and went to him for help. I described what was happening and one of the things I was told, was to think on those things that are lovely and to meditate on Philipians 4:8. I tried so hard but things just got worse. I have words now for what was happening: triggers, flashbacks, PTSD and eventually dissociation. I was severely depressed and became suicidal. I thought I was going crazy. I went to the wrong classes for an extended period of time until the teacher pointed out that I wasn't actually IN that class. I would wander around and be vaguely aware that I was supposed to be somewhere. After sessions with Mr. Berg I would walk out of the administration building and "come to" in some out of the way back campus location.
I'm barely touching on my experience with counseling while at Bob Jones, but it was a part of every year of my time there. I interviewed with G.R.A.C.E. last year and have been paying a heavy toll for it. I finally got to a point of relative peace in the last few months. The flashbacks to the original abuse in elementary had become infrequent, I could sing in church again and talking with a Baptist didn't throw me into panic. I still couldn't read the Bible without being triggered, but I could listen to someone else read it, as long as it wasn't the King James version. It was nice to wake up without that instant feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach. I made it past a major depression and time of being suicidal. PTSD symptoms were basically gone for a while. I was still in counseling with my pastor, but it had lost the edge of desperation that began our counseling relationship soon after I filled out the original GRACE questionnaire and then went into full blown longlasting flashbacks. Believe me, that was an interesting call!
But now, BJU has fired GRACE and it's not looking like the report will ever see the light of day, if BJU can get away with it. I've seen various blogs and comments mention how this decision to fire GRACE re-traumatizes victims, but I haven't seen anyone specifically saying how it does. I'm going to tell you how it affects me, and I hope that others will tell in the comments, or elsewhere, how BJU's actions in firing GRACE is affecting them.
1. My hands are sweating like a faucet, and it makes the keyboard slippery to type on.
2. Betrayed
3. Headaches and eye twitches have returned
4. Nightmares are starting back up
5. I am being more easily triggered again
6. Flashbacks are returning
7. Anxiety (and DON'T tell me to be anxious for nothing!)
8. General nervousness
9. Difficulty staying in the present while singing in church (fighting to not dissociate too badly)
10. Nausea
11. Difficulty sleeping(I haven't slept well for a couple of weeks now and I was up the whole night this past Saturday.)
12. Loss of appetite (I could stand to lose a bunch of weight, so that's almost ok with me)
13. I know I'm depressed, although I can't say to what degree, but not currently suicidal.
14. I am physically tense all over to the point of pain
15. You really don't want to know about the connection all this has with my bowels ;)
16. Church is again full of triggers for me and has been increasing each week since GRACE was fired
17. I have been irritable and hard to live with(I'm working on it!)
18. Loss of hope(but then I got really ticked and that helps because I am doing what I can)
19. Crying and not able to control emotions well, so I use anger to keep the tears in check
20. Really and truly beginning to grasp the depth and beauty of the imprecatory Psalms and praying in a very specific way towards Bob Jones University---Lord, hear my prayer.
Sunday, February 23, 2014
S is for Suicidal in September
Between October and now almost to the end of February I have had no postings. Well in September I had a several days run of extreme depression. I couldn't sleep for well over 60 hours. I was, to put it quite bluntly, extremely suicidal. I went as far as making a plan and taking steps to ensure I would be able to carry it out. Once everything was in place I was so happy and lighthearted, and just felt such relief as though a great burden had been lifted. I hadn't felt so good and free since high school, which was also the last time I actually tried to kill myself. I drove around town for a little while reveling in how relaxed and happy I felt. I wondered if this was how normal people felt sometimes. I didn't want to wait for a better time. NOW was feeling so wonderful, I was ready to be done with hurting; with curling up trying to hang on and riding the next wave of depression so deep that it hurt to just, be. I drove around thinking about things and feeling good and truly alive.
Eventually I thought about my children and especially what my little guy had just recently started saying to me when I came home, "I missed you, Mommy." He was so little, how could he voice that? I heard his little voice in my mind and I couldn't die, but I wanted to so badly. The pain was so intense for so long I couldn't bear to give up this relief and joy I felt. I found myself driving to someone I trusted and giving them a note and a bottle of sleeping pills for them to keep. I couldn't throw them out the window or drop them in the trash and once at their house I resisted their efforts to dispose of the pills. I think I needed to feel I still had an out. I'm not sure, it's strange to think it out loud like this. For me depression is like the ebb and flow of the tides. It always returns. Sometimes I get hit with a tsunami, same waves, but totally out of control.
Eventually I thought about my children and especially what my little guy had just recently started saying to me when I came home, "I missed you, Mommy." He was so little, how could he voice that? I heard his little voice in my mind and I couldn't die, but I wanted to so badly. The pain was so intense for so long I couldn't bear to give up this relief and joy I felt. I found myself driving to someone I trusted and giving them a note and a bottle of sleeping pills for them to keep. I couldn't throw them out the window or drop them in the trash and once at their house I resisted their efforts to dispose of the pills. I think I needed to feel I still had an out. I'm not sure, it's strange to think it out loud like this. For me depression is like the ebb and flow of the tides. It always returns. Sometimes I get hit with a tsunami, same waves, but totally out of control.
Wednesday, October 30, 2013
Words I Wonder About
For Wondering Wednesday...
I have a list of words I wonder about. Words like:
protection
safety
sovereign
God's will
care
watch
guard
redeem
redemption
grace
prayer
joy
resurrection
bitter
These are all fairly straightforward words to one raised in church, right? Well, yes and no. These were all words and concepts that were twisted in their meaning in my theological past. You may well ask how I know this and am I certain that it's not my present that is twisting these words. Every move away from the IFB(Independent Fundamental Baptist) world I grew up in and birthed most of my children in, has been slowly untwisting the doctrinal tangle I was bound in. I can follow the road and see where many of the turns were that led me closer to where I am now. It's progressively improved so much so that I could almost have a post millenial like view on my theological journey.
I have a list of words I wonder about. Words like:
protection
safety
sovereign
God's will
forgivenesslove
care
watch
guard
redeem
redemption
grace
prayer
joy
resurrection
bitter
These are all fairly straightforward words to one raised in church, right? Well, yes and no. These were all words and concepts that were twisted in their meaning in my theological past. You may well ask how I know this and am I certain that it's not my present that is twisting these words. Every move away from the IFB(Independent Fundamental Baptist) world I grew up in and birthed most of my children in, has been slowly untwisting the doctrinal tangle I was bound in. I can follow the road and see where many of the turns were that led me closer to where I am now. It's progressively improved so much so that I could almost have a post millenial like view on my theological journey.
Tuesday, October 29, 2013
My Friend, Dean
We moved to a new house in January of my third grade year. It was a brand new house on a brand new street. I made new friends in the neighborhood and school was okay. My teacher was pregnant and spent most of the day sitting at the back of the classroom with her head on the desk. We got to play on the good playground for one recess but had to play on the blacktop parking lot for the other recess.
I met Dean in the neighborhood, he was a few years older than me. He taught me how to jump my bike and land level with both tires on the dirt course kids made out of the piles of dirt around the poured basements on the street. I got pretty good. He even let me ride his dirt bike, the motorized kind. I knew I was hot stuff and special because he didn't let anyone else ride his motor bike. He also taught me karate moves and how to defend myself and fight. (Yes, I know it doesn't sound like girl stuff, but I liked the guy's kind of fun. Barbies and board games get old real quick.) His garage door was always open(if his parents weren't home) and that was the neighborhood source for all things illegal. He never let any of the other guys there give me the hard stuff they were offering. I could hang out there and smoke, but he wouldn't let me try anything with needles. Sometimes he would shoo me out of the basement side of the garage(raised ranch style house) and it wasn't until my teacher at school molested and raped me all through the school year that I realized what all was going on in the basement side of his garage. He was a good guy and I was safe with him. Some days he told me I needed to leave, usually this was when his friends wanted me to go in the basement and hang out with them. Later I realized what he was keeping me safe from. I wish I knew his last name and could find him and say thank you. He was kinda like an onery, getting in trouble older brother. He was my friend, Dean.
I met Dean in the neighborhood, he was a few years older than me. He taught me how to jump my bike and land level with both tires on the dirt course kids made out of the piles of dirt around the poured basements on the street. I got pretty good. He even let me ride his dirt bike, the motorized kind. I knew I was hot stuff and special because he didn't let anyone else ride his motor bike. He also taught me karate moves and how to defend myself and fight. (Yes, I know it doesn't sound like girl stuff, but I liked the guy's kind of fun. Barbies and board games get old real quick.) His garage door was always open(if his parents weren't home) and that was the neighborhood source for all things illegal. He never let any of the other guys there give me the hard stuff they were offering. I could hang out there and smoke, but he wouldn't let me try anything with needles. Sometimes he would shoo me out of the basement side of the garage(raised ranch style house) and it wasn't until my teacher at school molested and raped me all through the school year that I realized what all was going on in the basement side of his garage. He was a good guy and I was safe with him. Some days he told me I needed to leave, usually this was when his friends wanted me to go in the basement and hang out with them. Later I realized what he was keeping me safe from. I wish I knew his last name and could find him and say thank you. He was kinda like an onery, getting in trouble older brother. He was my friend, Dean.
Monday, October 28, 2013
Life Together with Christians in my New World
I haven't written a blog post in a while, although I've been writing a lot for my own sanity elsewhere. I've started reading another book, just a short little one, but it is packed with a whole lot of things new to me in some ways. It's really not new, but reflects the cry of my heart that I've done my best over the years to bind and gag and bury it deep so I can't hear it any longer. The book I've begun to read is Life Together by Dietrich Bonhoeffer.
Enter the idea of Christian community and confession. Why in the world would I read such a book? I don't know, I suppose it has something to do with the things I've been wrestling with for the last few months. In good ole IFB language these would be the things I would mention as "unspoken prayer requests" back in the independent fundamental baptist church I grew up in. Thankfully I'm not in that world anymore, but I still don't quite know how to safely navigate in the world I find myself in today. Life Together is given as an example of how we should live life together in our Christian community. Therefore I find myself reading it to see just what that entails.
There is a great amount of tension between confession and daily community life that I see lived out before me. How much of your story should be known? What sort of things do you confess and to whom? Who can handle the really big stuff, you know, the type of things that you do need help with in overcoming, the struggles that are too hard to carry on your own? Not too many people fit that description. And the incredible risks involved are enough to drive you back to isolation and denial. That's a lonely and emotionally frozen way to live. I want to be thawed out, but I'm afraid I may be "freezer burnt" and never be able to function as a normal person in the community I am now in. The big things like major depression that cycles around to various degrees of suicidal thoughts all the way up to the point of deciding to attempt it or not is not something most people can deal with.
Of course the ones who are "trained" to deal with it are the ones who have no answers. What kind of help is that? Listening to the Godless drivel that comes out and yet is called help, is enough to drive me to really go through with it. Talk about truly depressing! Yet these are the people that I would be referred to in the throes of being suicidal because evidently pastors, who are thoroughly trained in the scriptures and theology, don't have the answers I am in desparate need of during the times I am suicidal. (Did you notice the sarcasm here?)
QUOTES from Life Together:
"The physical presence of other Christians is a source of incomparable joy and strength to the believer." p19
"The believer feels no shame, as though he were still living too much in the flesh, when he yearns for the physical presence of other Christians." p19
"The prisoner, the sick person, the Christian in exile sees in the companionship of a fellow Christian a physical sign of the gracious presence of the triune God." p20
"He knows that God's Word in Jesus Christ pronounces him guilty, even when he does not feel his guilt, and God's Word in Jesus Christ pronounces him not guilty and righteous, even when he does not feel that he is righteous at all. The Christian no longer lives of himself, by his own claims and his own justification, but by God's claims and God's justification." p22
"God has willed that we should seek and find His living Word in the witness of a brother, in the mouth of man. Therefore, the Christian needs another Christian who speaks God's Word to him. He needs him again and again when he becomes uncertain and discouraged, for by himself he cannot help himself without belying the truth. He needs his brother man as a bearer and proclaimer of the divine word of salvation." p23
Enter the idea of Christian community and confession. Why in the world would I read such a book? I don't know, I suppose it has something to do with the things I've been wrestling with for the last few months. In good ole IFB language these would be the things I would mention as "unspoken prayer requests" back in the independent fundamental baptist church I grew up in. Thankfully I'm not in that world anymore, but I still don't quite know how to safely navigate in the world I find myself in today. Life Together is given as an example of how we should live life together in our Christian community. Therefore I find myself reading it to see just what that entails.
There is a great amount of tension between confession and daily community life that I see lived out before me. How much of your story should be known? What sort of things do you confess and to whom? Who can handle the really big stuff, you know, the type of things that you do need help with in overcoming, the struggles that are too hard to carry on your own? Not too many people fit that description. And the incredible risks involved are enough to drive you back to isolation and denial. That's a lonely and emotionally frozen way to live. I want to be thawed out, but I'm afraid I may be "freezer burnt" and never be able to function as a normal person in the community I am now in. The big things like major depression that cycles around to various degrees of suicidal thoughts all the way up to the point of deciding to attempt it or not is not something most people can deal with.
Of course the ones who are "trained" to deal with it are the ones who have no answers. What kind of help is that? Listening to the Godless drivel that comes out and yet is called help, is enough to drive me to really go through with it. Talk about truly depressing! Yet these are the people that I would be referred to in the throes of being suicidal because evidently pastors, who are thoroughly trained in the scriptures and theology, don't have the answers I am in desparate need of during the times I am suicidal. (Did you notice the sarcasm here?)
QUOTES from Life Together:
"The physical presence of other Christians is a source of incomparable joy and strength to the believer." p19
"The believer feels no shame, as though he were still living too much in the flesh, when he yearns for the physical presence of other Christians." p19
"The prisoner, the sick person, the Christian in exile sees in the companionship of a fellow Christian a physical sign of the gracious presence of the triune God." p20
"He knows that God's Word in Jesus Christ pronounces him guilty, even when he does not feel his guilt, and God's Word in Jesus Christ pronounces him not guilty and righteous, even when he does not feel that he is righteous at all. The Christian no longer lives of himself, by his own claims and his own justification, but by God's claims and God's justification." p22
"God has willed that we should seek and find His living Word in the witness of a brother, in the mouth of man. Therefore, the Christian needs another Christian who speaks God's Word to him. He needs him again and again when he becomes uncertain and discouraged, for by himself he cannot help himself without belying the truth. He needs his brother man as a bearer and proclaimer of the divine word of salvation." p23
Thursday, July 25, 2013
Theology Thursday--What the heck is joy?
All my life I've heard that Christians are supposed to be joyful. I've even heard that joy isn't the same as happiness. For the first time though I'm told at my church's ladies book study that joy is something the Holy Spirit does. Now I have been taught that joy is a fruit of the Spirit, but anyone who reads Galations 5 can see it listed out plainly as one of the fruits of the Spirit, so that's an easy one. A few times I've heard that joy is something that naturally comes out or shows clearly in a Christian. See that's what I have a problem with. I know how I feel a lot of the time and joy isn't it. I'm not exactly sure what joy looks like.
I've seen people I know to be Christians walking around and they seem lighthearted and untouched by unusual tragedy. Other Christians I've noticed seem to be dialed down a notch, but still have that something I can't identify, in common. Then there are those whom I know that have incredible pain in their life that ebbs and flows like the tides. I see the pain in their eyes, hear it in their voice, feel it in their writing and all the while, others say how strong they are, what a testimony they are, and all the platitudes that come with the comfort of others. What they say is true, but the pain is still there. Behind the brave smiles, and speech is pain; and the more other people tell you how strong you are and what a testimony the more constrained you become to hide the pain. The days get better, sometimes you forget and then you remember again. What makes the difference between daily agony, numbness, forced forgetfulness and joy?
There is an enormous gap between forced forgetfulness and joy. How in the world does one get to joy?
So that brings me back to joy being a fruit of the Spirit and what that fruit looks like, especially in the lives of Christians who have had tragedy of various sorts. Is joy possible with just the passage of time? I say no. Time doesn't heal squat; time gives you a chance to improve on your inner Spock.
Another thing said at the ladies book study is that we don't have to act joyful. Well that's a relief! From what I understand the Spirit gives joy. But I have several questions related to that: to whom, how, why, will He give it to me, and what do I have to do or be in order for the Spirit to give me joy?
A constant refrain I hear is that this is the middle of the story, this isn't all there is, God is still writing my story and He will finish it on time. That's good to know and is actually a comfort; and for me there isn't much said that is intended to comfort which does in reality, it usually causes additional pain.
We are going through Ecclesiates and the book Joy at the End of the Tether by Douglas Wilson. Perhaps I will have a better answer to what joy actually is and how it looks in Christians who have much pain by the time we finish this study. At the same time my pastor just began preaching through Philipians, another joy topic. Hopefully I'll learn something. What I'm not looking forward to is hearing Phil 4:8 read and preached on. That's a major trigger for me. I think I'll stay home from church and bury my head on that day.
I've seen people I know to be Christians walking around and they seem lighthearted and untouched by unusual tragedy. Other Christians I've noticed seem to be dialed down a notch, but still have that something I can't identify, in common. Then there are those whom I know that have incredible pain in their life that ebbs and flows like the tides. I see the pain in their eyes, hear it in their voice, feel it in their writing and all the while, others say how strong they are, what a testimony they are, and all the platitudes that come with the comfort of others. What they say is true, but the pain is still there. Behind the brave smiles, and speech is pain; and the more other people tell you how strong you are and what a testimony the more constrained you become to hide the pain. The days get better, sometimes you forget and then you remember again. What makes the difference between daily agony, numbness, forced forgetfulness and joy?
There is an enormous gap between forced forgetfulness and joy. How in the world does one get to joy?
So that brings me back to joy being a fruit of the Spirit and what that fruit looks like, especially in the lives of Christians who have had tragedy of various sorts. Is joy possible with just the passage of time? I say no. Time doesn't heal squat; time gives you a chance to improve on your inner Spock.
Another thing said at the ladies book study is that we don't have to act joyful. Well that's a relief! From what I understand the Spirit gives joy. But I have several questions related to that: to whom, how, why, will He give it to me, and what do I have to do or be in order for the Spirit to give me joy?
A constant refrain I hear is that this is the middle of the story, this isn't all there is, God is still writing my story and He will finish it on time. That's good to know and is actually a comfort; and for me there isn't much said that is intended to comfort which does in reality, it usually causes additional pain.
We are going through Ecclesiates and the book Joy at the End of the Tether by Douglas Wilson. Perhaps I will have a better answer to what joy actually is and how it looks in Christians who have much pain by the time we finish this study. At the same time my pastor just began preaching through Philipians, another joy topic. Hopefully I'll learn something. What I'm not looking forward to is hearing Phil 4:8 read and preached on. That's a major trigger for me. I think I'll stay home from church and bury my head on that day.
Tuesday, July 9, 2013
Themed Blogging Days
Thinking about ways of being more intentional with this blog and I'm going to try themed blogging days. Something like:
Marvelous Monday, Mad Monday or Morbid Monday or maybe just to be a little more "normal" I'll do Monday Munchies.
Truthful Tuesday, Tuesday Triggers, Troubled Tuesday, or Torturous Tuesdays: a walk down memory lane
Wednesday Wonders, Wordless Wednesday(I like pictures and occasionally I take a good one)
Theology Thursday (I could probably write on this, pose questions, post about the crappy "answers" I've received over the years)
Fearful Friday or Fabulous Friday (That's really polar opposites, maybe I'll just skip Fridays)
Searching Saturdays (open ended theme that can work for a lot of things, even normal living life stuff)
Marvelous Monday, Mad Monday or Morbid Monday or maybe just to be a little more "normal" I'll do Monday Munchies.
Truthful Tuesday, Tuesday Triggers, Troubled Tuesday, or Torturous Tuesdays: a walk down memory lane
Wednesday Wonders, Wordless Wednesday(I like pictures and occasionally I take a good one)
Theology Thursday (I could probably write on this, pose questions, post about the crappy "answers" I've received over the years)
Fearful Friday or Fabulous Friday (That's really polar opposites, maybe I'll just skip Fridays)
Searching Saturdays (open ended theme that can work for a lot of things, even normal living life stuff)
Saturday, July 6, 2013
My Lousy Balancing Act...
I've been trying out, in great seriousness and effort, another go round of counseling with a pastor and not just some pastor that I drive to go see that doesn't see me on Sunday or other times, but my pastor, the one who is charged with shepherding the sheep in his flock, of which I am one. I'm not sure how well it's going. Rather, I'm not so sure how well I am doing. I don't know how to balance honesty, openness, anger and being nice. I don't think I can be fully honest and nice at the same time. I can be honest in a limited scope and be nice which is how you act with everyone else when you know they have neither the time, nor inclination to hear your deepest darkest. And that's ok, that's life. I sure don't want everyone I know to know all about me. Hence the somewhat anonymous blog. hehe But as far as maintaining civility and avoiding the appearance of anger while being fully honest and open, well I've never done that before. Never is a strong word, but it might just fit this time.
I keep coming back to the difficulty I have in balancing emotions and behavior. Being able to handle church, preaching, Bible reading, singing and physical touch without the necessity of retreating physically and/or emotionally in order to maintain a facade of normalcy is where I would like to be some day. I'm tired of the facade. When I let up and am fully, or nearly fully, open and honest then I am always the loser. When I restrain myself and limit what I say or try to act like all is okay when I am falling apart on the inside; then I still lose because I think people notice and pull away. I'm not sure if it's because they are bothered that I don't trust them enough to be real with them or if they are retreating to avoid any possibility of getting too close to my screwed up self.
I've been scarily honest in some emails with my pastor after counseling times, and didn't try to hide my anger. Is that keeping it real or is it being a jerk? Having to ask such a question reflects my lousy balancing skills. Anyway, this has been a hell of a week. DH and I had a medium sized fight last Sunday night, and of course he brought it up in counseling on Monday afternoon. I wasn't nice. I was sarcastic, rude, angry, hurt and scared, but didn't show I was hurt and scared, just used all the ugly ways of protecting myself from being known. That was a dud of a counseling session, I was actually asked to leave so the pastor could talk to just my DH. It was just supposed to be for 10 minutes and then I thought I was coming back in, but that actually ended the session.
I've been in a funk, depressed, planning how to win the war with my husband, ended up being really sorry for some emails I sent and I've cried a lot this week. And to top it off, tonight I was quite triggered by reading I John in preparation for the upcoming Sunday school series. And I didn't even read it, I listened to it on my iphone from a link for this weeks church news. Like I said, this has been a rough week. No let up.
I keep coming back to the difficulty I have in balancing emotions and behavior. Being able to handle church, preaching, Bible reading, singing and physical touch without the necessity of retreating physically and/or emotionally in order to maintain a facade of normalcy is where I would like to be some day. I'm tired of the facade. When I let up and am fully, or nearly fully, open and honest then I am always the loser. When I restrain myself and limit what I say or try to act like all is okay when I am falling apart on the inside; then I still lose because I think people notice and pull away. I'm not sure if it's because they are bothered that I don't trust them enough to be real with them or if they are retreating to avoid any possibility of getting too close to my screwed up self.
I've been scarily honest in some emails with my pastor after counseling times, and didn't try to hide my anger. Is that keeping it real or is it being a jerk? Having to ask such a question reflects my lousy balancing skills. Anyway, this has been a hell of a week. DH and I had a medium sized fight last Sunday night, and of course he brought it up in counseling on Monday afternoon. I wasn't nice. I was sarcastic, rude, angry, hurt and scared, but didn't show I was hurt and scared, just used all the ugly ways of protecting myself from being known. That was a dud of a counseling session, I was actually asked to leave so the pastor could talk to just my DH. It was just supposed to be for 10 minutes and then I thought I was coming back in, but that actually ended the session.
I've been in a funk, depressed, planning how to win the war with my husband, ended up being really sorry for some emails I sent and I've cried a lot this week. And to top it off, tonight I was quite triggered by reading I John in preparation for the upcoming Sunday school series. And I didn't even read it, I listened to it on my iphone from a link for this weeks church news. Like I said, this has been a rough week. No let up.
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