"To be nobody but yourself in a world that's doing its best to make you somebody else, is to fight the hardest battle you are ever going to fight. Never stop fighting.” | ||||||||||||||
e.e. cummings Most of my life I feel like I've been hiding under a bed, underneath a blanket, scared to come out~comfortable with the darkness and solitude. Life is often a tug of war; a tug of war of the soul~what you will do, what you want to do, and what you should do. For some of us, this is a daily battle that begins with something just as simple as getting out of bed in the morning... Having grown up without a "father", in the true sense of the word, I have always felt a void in my life. More like a gaping chasm, if we're being honest. I've also often wondered if actually not ever having a figure head of that name present in my life would actually have been better than the one I was given who filled me with "all kinds of crazy". Over the years, I have learned to take what I can from that hell~and have found true peace. A peace only found through the loving hands of a perfect Father~our heavenly one~and my life has come to take on the literal interpretation of the potter's hand to his vessel. Continually being molded and shaped, broken and then remade. Complete surrender... It has taken me my entire life to get to this point. I can talk about it completely and openly. I am not ashamed, I am not embarrassed. I can cry about it and accept that I need to sometimes. And moreover, I can MOVE ON. Seems so easy, really, in theory. But I had been stuck in bitterness and anger for so long. It has taken me this long to forgive~I had to~either that or stagnate in a prison of hate and rage. The person who hurt me has no regrets, doesn't care, and frankly thinks he did nothing wrong (how can one argue with the voice of God in your head speaking directly to you?). I wasn't ever going to get an apology. Yet, I HAD to forgive. A tricky business. But necessary for my salvation--and by that, I mean in a very real sense--spiritually and the taking one more breath in and out kind. I now realize that forgiving is not saying it was okay--but it IS allowing yourself to let go and placing it all in God's hands. He's got this one now completely. Thank you, Jesus! I still can't watch father and daughter dances at weddings without falling apart. I usually have to leave and walk the halls crying to myself and just brushing it off as the emotionality of the wedding itself to passers by--quite easy and believable. The reasons I always cry at weddings is for very different reasons than most people, but that's okay. It's me... The dance, the father walking his precious daughter down the isle, beaming with pride, yet with tears in his eyes at the thought of giving her away and "losing" her just brings me there--to THAT place--that place of questions--of what ifs and what would that be likes? What would it be like to have a father that loved you so much he thought you were the most precious angel and gift that God had ever bestowed on him and that it was an honor in itself to be given this gift? What would it be like to have a father that loved you, respected you, valued you, or appreciated you at all? That cared your heart was beating, that didn't use you as a wet rag to wipe up his needs? That saw you as a beautiful creation of the Most High God, and not an abomination of sin breathing his clean air? What kind of person would that make you? I used to play mind games with myself when I was all of 5 and 6. I used to make up stories about myself and my sisters. One day our REAL parents were going to find us and take us away from all of this. I would fantasise about these wonderful people and all of the fabulous things we would do once we were saved. One way of coping. Later I found that reading and writing could take me away from anything and transport me to wherever I wanted to go--if only momentarily--it was something... Then something snapped in me as a kid. By eighth grade I think I had taken all I could physically and mentally and I had the epiphany of all epiphany's (thankfully there were better ones to come from a power higher than myself)~I WAS a worthless piece of garbage and if my parents didn't even love me or like me, there must be something seriously and intrinsically wrong with me. Ironically, it was the person that made me want to die who also, in a sense, made me want to live. Upon finding out that I was so depressed through a teacher who expressed concern from my "depressed" writing, I was told that I would go to hell if I killed myself or thought about killing myself (everything pretty much eventually resulted in hell at our house~even your thoughts were sins, and I wasn't too sure about those as my father interpreted them as well--or if I was even breathing correctly). The only thing scarier to me than my father was hell. Really didn't want to go there. Pretty sure I was going to by the terrible person I was, but didn't want to write my own ticket to the eternal pit of fire. So, I started running. It started as a very real fight or flight mechanism, I believe. Running became my freedom. I could literally and metaphorically run away from all of my problems and experience a high and happiness I had NEVER felt before. I did it alot. I messed up my knees. My life revolved around it. A day was not a good day until I had run at least two hours. Rain, cold, heat--didn't matter. I remember having to see a PT at Mercy after running in a knee brace when I was supposed to stay off of it (think that's when I developed my over tolerance of ibuprofen) and hearing him mutter, "Runners are just crazy." Little did he know ;)... College hit and I got away physically. But it all came crashing in on me when it became glaringly obvious by getting a glimpse of the lives of my fellow class mates, that my home life was~how should I say this~somewhat "abnormal". Who knew? I thought that's what love was all about. The world suddenly became even more absurd and uncomfortable. You're comfortable with what you know, even if it is horrible. So I decided that I wanted to help people and maybe help myself. I studied the crap out of psychology~concentrating mostly on child and behavioral psych. I'll admit I may have been attempting to find answers to questions I didn't even know I had. I also still loved reading and writing and took a stab at English and Philosophy as well with the hopes of maybe teaching it one day--as my English teachers were my inspirations all through high school. I worked for a summer at Westminster Houses I and II (a home, of sorts, for all kinds of people with all kinds of mental illnesses--the day and night shifts--lots of stories there) and wasn't sure that was my life's calling. I did my practicum at the middle school in Indianola and wasn't sure I was cut out for that either. Took the GRE's and applied to several grad schools. What to do? What to do? A restless vessel on the high seas. I honestly just didn't think I was really capable of doing anything "real", but I was really good at "school", and felt I had absolutely no control over my life--because someone had always had complete control over it before... So I controlled the one thing I honestly could~eating. And I just kind of stopped doing it. Continued to run and kept a diligent food diary of everything I ate and the calories in each portion each and every single day (I used to be able to tell you how many laps around Simpson College's track it would take to burn off 25 m and m's). Useful information, no? I got down to 108 pounds and still thought I was fat. After being diagnosed with neurally mediated syncope and undergoing the fun tilt table test (TTT) at Mercy after repeatedly fainting--thanks to Marty for driving me to all of those tests--being put on florinef for that, then having to see an oncologist (and at that time I didn't even know what that word meant) and being told my red blood cells were large, then being sent to a therapist and being put on Buspar and told I was "depressed" and "anxious with OCD tendencies", to just being told by a regular physician "you need to eat", I was a mess. Thanks to Marty for going to some of my therapy sessions too. Wonder if "rapid eye movement therapy" is still used today. We never studied it in college, but my therapist tried it in several of our sessions. The theory was that if you stared at a board of red blinking dots (tiny light bulbs) that ran quickly and repeatedly back and forth in a straight line, that your left and right brain would connect to uncover memories that had been repressed~~always ended in me vomiting so we stopped attempting this form of "uncovering". I still thought it was a sin to openly talk about the truth that was my family. I saw Susan for years and thank her for her patience with me. I was always getting very sick (thanks to my coworkers at my first job after graduation at Meredith Corp. for taking such good care of me repeatedly and for being so understanding). I tried a yoga class. Meditation didn't take me anywhere peaceful. After the magazine I worked for was no longer picked up for production (awesome severance package after only being there two years, thanks again Meredith and Family Money for the eight months of paid "vacation" time with benefits--it was truly a God thing), God put me in the position to have the opportunity to teach preschool and use all those early childhood classes I had taken at SC. I made it up to 115 pounds after finding I needed a little more energy to work with kids. I had been able to keep things up even after the birth of my first son, but after Griffyn and getting some red flags through my health screening at IHS after G was born and weighing in at 116, I had to start getting better. It was very hard. Over 20 pounds later, I look back at all those pictures and wish I could be that "fat" again ;). I haven't weighed this much since I was six months pregnant with my boys, but I know I am healthier. I keep repeating this to myself, anyway =). It is still very difficult for me to be around people who are obsessed and constantly talk about working out and food and calories. I realize they probably don't even know they are doing it. I just can't have real relationships with those people yet. I have gotten to a better place and can not go back there. There are far more important things in my life now that take precedence over how many calories are in every bite I eat, and how hard I work out every day... I lost God a few times, but he never lost me. I still find it hard to go to church. The church never saved me. It only confirmed everything my father ever said about me. I was a sinner. I was going to hell. If I didn't do exactly what God said, I was kindling. God saved me, and I will always cling to the verse in the Bible that explains that WE are the church--the people of God are the church--no building or affiliation--Jesus Christ lives in my heart--not in a building of four walls that serves donuts and coffee in the welcome hall. I'm not saying that churches are bad. Of course not! They are a very important meeting place for the people of God to gather and grow in faith. I'm just saying that a building does not make a church and going to church does not make you a good person (some of the most horrible people I have ever encountered in my life attended church each and every Sunday). Jesus says, "Where two or three people are gathered in my name, there am I also." Church can be with your family in your living room every Sunday, reading the Bible, praying and singing together--that is just as much a church as the 150 people gathered in a congregation across town. I grew up being involved in everything a church had to offer, went to private school (hale Resurrection ;)), and not once did any one of those people ever help my family--they wanted our money, our time, and what we could give and do for them. I do not judge a person by where they go on Sunday morning. It's your heart, your soul, your spirit of servant hood to Christ, and what you do with the other six days of the week as well. So, I applaud those of you who go and refill your souls every Sunday in one particular building--but I choose to have church with my friends and family anywhere we gather together in his name and on any day of the week. Whether it's on the bike path, a park, or a living room. It's all the same in his eyes. The long of it? Life is a mess. I think that's true for all of us. At 35, I still feel like I haven't even begun to sort it all out. And forget about "finding myself". I am whomever God made and intends me to be. I wake up each day, thankful for what he has brought me through, the intensely amazing blessings he has bestowed on me, for saving me in every sense of the word as my life could have gone in several different directions, and for bringing me to this spot right here--right now. I still truly can not believe it (and I don't remember half the ride here). He carried me, truly carried me, and never let me go. If he was willing to spare me and hold onto me for this long, I can't help but think he has a purpose for my life. Even if it's the simplest one of being a mommy to these two incredible boys of mine. I know what a mess I am and am completely aware of my countless imperfections, and I have whole heartily come to accept that about myself. I know I am emotional more than I am rational and my heart speaks before my mind. I know that I constantly doubt myself and have the hardest time making decisions and get overwhelmed by even the simplest of ones. I know I am clingy then may turn around and need so much space you may think I've fallen off the face of the earth. I know that I am very mistrusting. I know I will never be mainstream and will always be a quiet rebel. I know I spoil my children and worry about them and miss them too much when they are away from me. I embrace my oddities and weirdness anymore. =) I'm thoroughly tired of being judged and the only judgement that matters to me is that of the person who created me. He thought I was worth dying for, so that's enough for me. And all along, I truly had a Father. A perfect Father--who was always there for me--telling me to hold on. Telling me I would be something to somebody someday, and moreover, that I was everything to Him. It just took me a long time to figure it out... I thank my friends, my sisters, brother, mom, husband, and even my kids, who have been with me on this journey--not knowing what in the hell was going on most of the time--but being there regardless. I know I'm not an easy person to hold onto (I even want to get away from me sometimes) but know I will always give my best and even when I shut down, I will get up again. It's on ongoing healing. Some days it hits you--hard--but most days are just fine. You own it, you take strength in the knowledge you survived, you throw your hands up to God and count your blessings, and you take another step forward. You love with all your heart, forgive the best you can, and settle into the bones and skin God gave you. You are lucky to be loved by those that love you and blessed to give that love back as best you can in the ways that you know how (and will learn to know how). You will learn to be vunerable by just being you, although it may be the scariest thing you ever do. I can not thank my friends enough who were also my family for so very, very long. God put each and every one of you in my life for a reason. I love you with all my heart. To all of those daily healing, keep on keeping on and keep the faith. It's so much junk to sort through and I've given up making any sense of it other than everything, even the bad stuff, happens for a reason. Love to all of you, and continue to find your light and shine it brightly--us broken vessels are even brighter with all of that light shining through our holes :). Peace and God bless...
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