Don’t Tell Me I’m Not Good Enough…

When you’ve lived for lots of years, you have lots of stories. I believe our stories are meant to be shared for the benefit of others, so I’m sharing a part of mine with you today. 

This memory many years ago while living in Ohio is still vivid. I’m sitting in my pickup truck, parked in the driveway of the apartment I shared with my abusive husband. We rented the upstairs portion of an older home. Wooden steps lead to the 2^nd floor from the outside. I stared at the door with tears in my eyes. I dreaded going in because he was there. What personality waited on the other side? Would he be high and happy or a raging lunatic? My prayer was something like this as tears wet my cheeks. “God, I want you, but I know I’m not good enough. I still smoke cigarettes and I can’t stop.” That was as far as my prayer could go before it hit the wall, that barrier that made me “not good enough.” 

At that time my barrier was cigarettes, but I had other barriers. Unwed pregnancy, divorces, alcohol, drugs, sex; there were many broken rules… I was taught it was all sin, against the rules and would send me to hell. I was raised to believe that breaking the strict rules we were given by churches we attended would cause me to be eternally dammed. If I died while wearing pants or a bathing suit while swimming in a pool with boys, or in a movie theatre or dancing; without having asked God for forgiveness, it would mean burning in hell’s fire. I sang the songs, Jesus loves me, The Old Rugged Cross, and Amazing Grace, but they all lacked meaning. Their words couldn’t penetrate the barriers built by man and held up by me. 

There’s another experience still vivid in my mind. At 14 years old, I was raped behind some apartment garages on my paper route. I had gone behind the garages to smoke a cigarette a friend had given me. I wanted approval and acceptance so badly that I was willing to risk the threats of hell for smoking. I can still see the knife poking in my side… And as I understood it, now I would have the sin of a sex act condemning me to hell, even though it wasn’t my fault. When I came home crying and muddy, my mom asked what was wrong. I was afraid to tell her because I had broken the rules with that cigarette. When her attempts to get me to talk failed, she slapped me in frustration, so I made up a lie which further condemned me. That slap silenced me for years. My secret would stay buried as higher barriers surrounded my heart.

Today, I thank God that the dividing walls have been torn down and I’ve forgiven the hurts of abusers past. But that stinking thinking, “I had to make myself good before God would love or accept me,” was one of the most damaging lies that could be planted in the mind of a little girl. It became so ingrained I couldn’t receive true love from anyone. I didn’t deserve it and I wasn’t worth the effort. 

There were two abusive marriages in my story. I remember how hard it was to break through the negative thinking with the third marriage. We’ve been married for 34 years now. My husband has always been good about constantly telling me he loves me. We could stand face to face, and he’d tell me I was beautiful, or he loved me, and I couldn’t even look him in the eye. I’d turn away, laugh it off or degrade myself somehow. They were just words, like the songs I sang as a kid. It took years before I could hear those words and even begin to receive them with a quiet thank you. 

The biggest way the churches hurt me as a child was by misrepresenting the God I’ve come to know. Frequent church scandals exposed over the years compounded the damage. It’s no secret, so I think it’s time we’re honest to confess. God sees, knows, and still loves… Wow!

God is so much bigger in my eyes now. I can’t point to a specific event that caused a shift in my thinking. Sadly, it wasn’t the church that even played a large role. It was very personal between God and I. Hours alone journaling, spilling my heart out on paper, reading books and scriptures, even still trying to do everything right. I put on my Sunday best and the “church smile,” regardless of what was happening around me. I was careful to check all the boxes for time spent in prayer and reading the Bible. Doing those things did make me feel more accepted, but the truth was, my check boxes just made me proud, arrogant, and critical of others who didn’t act the part or fit the look.  

Yet, God’s work in my heart continued. I was gaining insight, understanding, and becoming more open to seeing the inner workings and the effects of my story. I felt encouraged to dig deeper, but not until I was ready. I wasn’t being forced to believe anything about God and it never felt like religion being shoved down my throat. 

You don’t wake up and your brand new just because you check the boxes or look the part. Transformation is a process. It takes time, and it’s not always pretty. Do you know that when a caterpillar is in the cocoon, it’s not that its body slims down, it grows wings and gets pretty colors. It’s body literally becomes nothing. It’s just goo inside the cocoon. We don’t see how it happens in the lonely darkness, but we know transformation took place when we see the butterfly break free.

I had to work up to being ready to allow the process. I had buried things so deeply; my hard heart needed to be bulldozed. I can pinpoint the day God began the deep healing. I had just come home from a Sunday night church service. I was a mess of emotion. Something had been triggered which caused me to act out in a way that my husband sent me to my room. That enraged me further, but I went. As I lay in the dark bedroom sobbing, God began his surgery. I described it as being filleted alive and left wide open – for years. Looking back, I know why. This process took years. It was a spiritual work between me and God. Others played small roles and I am grateful for those people. Most of this work has been done with material from an organization called Mending the Soul, which I’ve gone on to facilitate support groups through. We walk with others who have suffered from the cruel hands of abuse, working through a 250-page workbook in small groups, for as long as four months. As a facilitator, I revisit my exercises right along with the group. I’m amazed as God continues to show himself to be my faithful healer, increasing the understanding into my own story.

I feel closer to Him. It’s not that he was ever far away. It was those barriers. He truly loved me, so there was nothing forced. There was no abuse involved and he waited, right there with me the whole time.  He never took his eyes off me as he waited for me to see, for me to trust enough that I could see my own worth to him. He waited until I could receive his love and love him in return. 

You may be wondering why God didn’t stop the bad things from happening in the first place. I wondered, too. God gave us freedom to choose. He didn’t want an army of lifeless robots. We get to call the shots. But not everyone chooses well, and we know bad things happen, even to good people. I don’t believe that God causes the bad, but I know he can bring good from the bad. He’s done it in my life.

You may also be questioning as I have. Couldn’t God just instantly heal memories and emotions? Yes, I believe he could, but what good would that have been? I would have been grateful, but I never would have gotten to know myself or know him in the same way. I wouldn’t have the same understanding to be helpful to anyone else. The process is a treasured gift that can keep on giving. 

So, you can’t tell me I’m not good enough anymore. Don’t tell me when I don’t have it all together, God doesn’t accept me. Don’t judge me because I still have a habit or hang up you don’t think is appropriate. Don’t dismiss me because I don’t believe exactly like you. Don’t tell me that I must act and look a certain way and must follow your rules. And don’t you dare tell me that I’m not loved by God!

I know I’m not the only one who lost faith because of the actions of people who bore the name of God. I pulled away from belonging to a congregation for a time, but I’m back. I want to belong. I need to belong to something bigger than myself. I still believe there’s hope for churches to become communities where I can thrive. I believe I’ll find people who are willing to be vulnerable enough to be honest, authentic, and human, imperfections and all. I want to find those willing to express their love of other humans through more than words on a website, but love expressed through action. That’s the place that will accept me as I am, the real “imperfect” me. 

The church I’m attending now has a sign on the wall at the entrance, “No perfect people allowed.” I pray that they let that be true for me and let it be true for you, all of you who have been hurt in a church. Let us come as we are. Love us as we are. Let God be the one who does the cleaning, because there’s no better surgeon. Being filleted alive at his hand, brought me more life than I could have ever imagined. It brought me true life. 

Remember that old hymn I mentioned, Amazing Grace? It’s grace! It’s all grace, not our efforts. You can’t make yourself good enough. You don’t have to earn God’s acceptance, approval, or love, so stop trying so hard. And you don’t have to fear rejection because God’s grace really is amazing!

If you are the victim of any kind of abuse and looking for support, visit https://mendingthesoul.org

To find out if this kind of support group is for you, visit https://avisibledifference.org

If We Were the Sea

If we were the sea where it’s not about me

We would be more than one, we’d be we

We’d all swim together in mercy and grace

We’d share each one’s journey, not just each one’s space

We’d feel the same joy, as well as the pain

We’d see wounds of our suffering and scars just the same

What if it really could be

you and me as one like the sea

What if our bodies would all work as one

What if we acted like we share the same sun

Would the face tell the hand to cut off the nose

Could the hand touch the beautiful scent of a rose

Would some muscles not tolerate the skin that encases 

The way some don’t tolerate religions and races

Could the heart stop beating while judging another

Would the lungs withhold breath in rage at the brother

Could the ears close out sound of words the tongues spoken

Would the hand beat hard on bones already broken

Would the tongue spew hatred at the fruit of the womb

Could our arms love the wounded out of their tomb

Could the mind and the eyes work together in truth

Would we care to go after the runaway youth

Could the love be the deep that drowns out hate 

Is there ever a chance we could live in that state

Would we splash back the fears and the tears of another

Ignorant and uncaring for the pain of our brother

It wouldn’t be easy, as you can see

For you and for me to be us, to be we

Could the mouth taste bitter and sweet in one bite

Like respecting another’s opinions and rights

Could the feet move forward while faced backwards to run

Sharing shoes with another’s feet blistered by sun

Would those in a hurry slow down and wait

Could those who move slowly never be late

Imagine for a moment, you and me as the sea

Imagine for a moment how alive we would be

Joined together as one, Oh hear this plea

We would easily do the work of the sea

Our waves like arms locked together, so strong

Not one appears weak, we move each other along

Gentle waves would spread peace like a brush on the sand

While powerful waves change the lay of the land

Some cause erosion unearthing new beauty

We’d fulfill our purpose and not out of duty

Imagine what could be with us as the sea

We’d move every direction and reach every shore

If we were the sea, you would include me

We’d all have value and a purpose to be

No longer will one of us feel alone

When we share the same sea as our home

We dive deep unafraid of the darkness there’ll be

When we’re gathered together as one with the sea

By the light of the moon together we will shimmer

In stillness reflecting our Maker’s glimmer

The living expression bursting through darkness at dawn 

Bringing light to the world when the “me” is all gone

Our power joined together could heal our land

And love now united to walk hand in hand

I think you get what I’m saying by now 

Am I only dreaming, Oh please tell me how

Telling My Ra Ra Sisters…

I posted a blog last week called, “It’s in the Telling…” I’ve had lots of “telling” practice the past nine years of facilitating support groups. I’ve witnessed the power of being honest and vulnerable enough to share stories and confess secrets. Vulnerability is foundational for breaking the chains of addiction and healing soul wounds. Barriers are broken and unity is created between individuals from diverse backgrounds that may not have otherwise connected. Honesty begets honesty and it’s contagious in a safe group of accepting, compassionate people brought together because of struggle and pain.

In my previous post I used a beach metaphor, how the little grain of sand I am can join with the grain of sand you are, and we can build a whole beach. We can turn something that by itself would just be an irritant in our bathing suit into something beautiful and useful for all to enjoy. 

I’ve been pondering some questions lately. I’m not asking just for the sake of myself and my friend group, but for the world’s sake. Maybe we can all ponder these questions, and all contribute to beach building. 

Honesty begets honesty

What if we could be courageous enough to take the risk and start going beyond our safe, familiar groups in order to expand our beach? What if we could be like a magnet that joins people together for the sake of love, peace and unity? What if I took a step to try and you joined me? 

Call me a dreamer, but I’m not the only one. I can hear the song words playing in my mind now. There was once a man named Jesus who was a dreamer. He prayed for earth’s people before his death, that we would be one as he and his Father were one. He had a dream of unity for you and me. He prayed that we would know a love so strong, the dream would be reality. 

Dream Your Biggest Dream!

Throughout our history, there have been many who dreamed of unity. They tried to raise our awareness and show us our need. While we’ve made a little headway, our progress is far less than what it needs to be. The evidence is seen in the rage, hate and fighting shown in the news each day. I don’t have answers as to how we can do an about face to change direction, but this I do know. It’s going to take the combined effort of individuals coming together around some commonality in order to build this beach. 

The point of my last post was that honesty, authenticity and vulnerability were a step toward unity. Today, I’m taking a risky first step to do some honest telling and confessing beyond the safe support groups I facilitate. Riskier still, I’m doing it publicly. 

I have a group of friends from high school. We affectionately call ourselves, “Ra-Ra Sisters.” I love these ladies, as well as the wild memories we share. They’ve been a network of support through decades and distance. Our contact has varied over the years, sometimes more, sometimes less, but we’ve tried to hold each other in transitions of joy, sorrow, victory and sadly, death. Our face-to-face gatherings have been few, however our connections have grown stronger. While we have things in common, we are all unique. We come from different backgrounds and have differing beliefs on many things, including politics. I recognize emotions run high and beliefs run deep when you even hint at this topic. Neither side understands how the other can believe the way they do. But somehow, I think we can all still be respectful and sensitive.

Honestly, the political thing has been difficult for me. I hate that I’ve seen disagreements over politics, religion and covid vaccines do so much harm. Is it possible for our group to remain united? Something so valuable as decades of long friendship… Can relationships stand with each of us being real and authentic, vulnerable enough to love and accept and still encourage and support one another despite our differences? It sounds simple, but can it be simple in practice? 

My confession, I think I’ve been the quiet minority in our group. I’ve felt I had to stay silent and not cause a stir, which is my familiar pattern of being a peacekeeper rather than a peacemaker. Sometimes what is said stings. I don’t feel a need to even discuss differences of opinions, but neither do I want to hide. Being authentic has a voice.

I would hope true friends will remain true friends.

My hope is that relationships be secure enough that I can “come out” as one who believes differently.

I still want to share our victories, pain, joy and sorrow. My hope goes beyond the Ra Ra Sisters. My hope is that we be an example as we apply this in ever expanding circles. And of course, I intend to stand with, support and encourage all of you through life’s challenges. 

Can we all try for the sake of friendships, families? For the sake of love? For the sake of the dreamers? For all of humanity? For the sake of Jesus’ prayer for us to know that powerful kind of love that can make us one? I hope so! I want that. We’re better together on that beach!

It’s in the Telling…

I’ve always enjoyed journaling. My favorite experiences happen when a jumbled mess of words zipping chaotically between my head and my heart, spill out onto the page in an “ahh-ha” moment. To my surprise, I’ve arrived at a destination that I didn’t even know I was traveling to. Today as I sit to write, I’m inviting you into my jumbled mess. Let’s see where we go.

The past two years with this Covid thing have been downright hard. The uncertainty, isolation, grief, disruption, fighting over masks… I don’t have to say more on what you already know. I’m not comparing our difficulties either. Pain is pain. It affects us and we’ve all lost in many ways. 

My ego likes to believe I’m strong. To be honest, there are days I’ve been anything but, strong. It’s in those weak moments my usually strong faith is challenged. Does God really see me among the multitudes? How can any supreme being know about my specific circumstances? I’m just a tiny speck of dust in a dessert or grain of sand on a beach. 

There is a Bible verse that tells us to cast our cares on God. I think of casting, I envision throwing a fishing net or a ball. When I was taught to throw, I was told to keep my eye on the ball. How can I throw or “cast” a care when the ball and the catcher are unseen? Yet, I’ve attempted to do that a few ways over the years. 

There were times I tried through a conscious choice. I imagined myself holding worries in my hands as if presenting them to God. I’d convince myself he had them while quietly denying that I still felt the weight of the worry. That didn’t silence the guilt feelings that came over my lack of faith. Face down on the floor, begging, trying to drain my turmoil in tears only left me emotionally exhausted. I’ve listed my cares, too. My paper list weighed less than the cares, but the cares still outweighed my faith. 

I don’t believe God wanted to make it complicated for us. Complications come from our lack honesty, communication and community. 

Shot of a happy young couple using a digital tablet together while relaxing on a couch at home

I think it’s this simple. To cast is to tell. It’s in the casting through “telling,” speaking with my voice, that I begin to process those things weighing me down. I gain clarity as I name and say them. I can do this through writing, prayer and talking face to face. Writing is beneficial, but the benefits multiply when you share with a safe friend or better yet, a community of friends. You gain feedback, perspective, support and love from those that help hold your load. 

Telling is not simply “letting go and pretending” to not have a care in the world.

God and my true friends want me to voice difficult or hurtful things.

They want me to be vulnerable and honest. 

It’s in the “telling” my awareness of the bond between friends increases. When the telling is mutual, our relationship, unity and love thrive. I know I’m not alone and be confident we’re in this together. 

It’s what we do in support groups. When we tell our stories we share each other’s load. It’s in the telling of our stories healing begins to come. In that simple act of telling, we begin to sense relief from our wounds. 

Should we read that again?

Casting by telling becomes a way that we can learn to love ourselves in a healthier way. I’ve always been one to bury my feelings, but our bodies do indeed keep score. We pay a price with our physical health, as well as in our relationships when we don’t give voice to issues. Healthy self-love must come before we can love another person well. Does “love one another as we love ourselves,” sound familiar? Telling is a way we love ourselves. Listening is a way we love others. 

It’s in the telling by confessing those secrets that drag us backwards we can also begin to heal. Honesty and vulnerability in telling is freeing for both sides. When we communicate, ego set aside, in mutual sharing we become a little lighter, freer, happier. It’s in the telling, we become more authentic. Vulnerability and authenticity become a gift we give to each other.

It’s in the telling we’re transformed. 

Simply put, it’s in the mutual telling between the tiny grain of sand that I am, to the grain of sand that you are, we’re joined together. It’s in the telling, we can make a whole beach!

You Weren’t It…

My journal is like a treasure chest. It contains gold nuggets, as well as jagged rocks that just need to be cut and polished to reveal their value. My journals hold the stories of my life. I open them randomly at times just to see where my eyes land. It’s amazing how a line or two can become like a runway. I can take off in my mind on a paper time machine to another place in history. Some of the places I land are dark and for that moment have the power to make me tremble or take my breath away. Some places I land are glorious! I close my eyes and live in those moments, breathing in and savoring the beauty and sparkle of the many facets that each memory. reflects.

I’m able to look at all of them as treasure these days. They are part of me. They’re experiences that have cut, polished and shaped me. They’ve made me what I am today. I’m far from being a perfect gem, but none the less, I’m valuable and precious. It’s taken me years to be able to even say that, much less put it out here for the world to see. That I can now do that, in itself is pretty amazing.

You see, I’ve learned that while someone else may look at my journal entries and see a mess, I can see purpose in my pain. The mess becomes a message. I’ve come to know that no area of my life has to be seen as wasted time, wasted energy. I’ve come to experience that the God I believe in can take what was meant to harm me and turn it into something good.

With that said, here is another look inside what once was, but is no more. It’s been made new. I’ve been made new. I found what I was looking for and it couldn’t be found in people. What I needed could only be found in one. That’s the audience I play for now. And I’m loved and valued whether I look like the ugly rock or the precious gem.

This one was written two years ago.

I needed to talk. You had an agenda.

I needed someone to listen. You gave me your pitch.

I needed a friend. You wanted a sale.

I needed acceptance. You gave me terms.

I needed approval. You gave me comparison.

I needed to be valued. You named your price.

I needed honesty. You presented a mask.

I needed truth. You were cloaked in deception.

I needed courage. You made me fear.

I needed comfort. You wanted a body.

I needed to be held. You wrapped me in bondage.

I needed love. You wanted sex.

I needed safety. You made threats.

I needed protection. You chained me down.

I needed peace. You put me in prison.

I needed a Savior. You weren’t it.

Who Inspires You???

“Technology geek” would never be used in a sentence to describe me. As a matter of fact, most apps on my phone get ignored and I get annoyed by them, but I have to tell you about my new favorite app. My husband recently introduced it to me and I’m loving it. I don’t write this to promote an app. I only mention it, as it’s helping me to write more. A daily question serves as a writing prompt. Today’s question was, “Who inspires you?” My answer is worth sharing.

 

People who inspire me are those who bring change. They make a difference to better the lives and livelihoods of others. I hope to be one to do that. Someday, maybe???

 

I watched the documentary on John Lewis this past weekend. It’s called, “Good Trouble.” If you haven’t seen it, do watch this one!

 

Sadly, he passed away last week. What’s even more sad is that I wasn’t aware of all that he did throughout his life and the enormity of his impact. I’ve been like the millions of Americans who walk around oblivious to so many truly important things. I confess that I’ve been oblivious to huge social issues for most of my life. I get so caught up in my own, self-centered life.

 

Watching the documentary on John Lewis made me want to become a politician that night. I may have even made a formal announcement of my candidacy to my husband. Maybe it was the wine talking at the time, though, because I seriously do not want to be a politician! But, I was inspired that night.

 

John Lewis sought justice and he wasn’t willing to wait for a better day to do it; a day when people might be more receptive to his ideas. He knew the time was then. He wasn’t afraid to suffer for what he believed in. He “walked the talk,” literally, as he joined Dr. King in that historic march across the bridge in Selma, Alabama. That was just the beginning of a whole life time of SO much more.

 

There’s a Bible verse that speaks of three things that God requires of us. (Micah 6:8) Do justice. Love mercy. Walk humbly. I actually have that as a sticker on the back of my car. John Lewis didn’t just have a sticker. He was a doer of that word. He lived it.

 

I believe that true inspiration isn’t just to be emotionally stirred by something. True inspiration is when I’m stirred and then moved to act.

 

I’m truly sorry for my ignorance, my silence and my lack of action in the arenas of racism and social injustice. I also believe that to truly be sorry, means I change the behavior I’m sorry for.

 

I don’t think I can afford to wait for a better time; a time when I’m not afraid, or I’m stronger or when I have more knowledge. The time is now! I pray that I do better in all of this, way better. I pray we all do better. I pray that I’m emotionally stirred – “truly” inspired, and I act. I pray we all act. Now is the time. Let’s all do better, because taking action together, we can and we will make change a reality.

And to John Lewis, thank you for your service to humanity.

 

I Wish You Could Have Seen…

I wish you could have seen what I saw last night. I sat among a group of women that I had been in close communication with for the past six months. When we first met, there were many tears, even deep sobs. Their tears were angry, grief laden, heavy with shame, guilt and loss. Through dark stories with deeply buried secrets, the group expressed gut wrenching pain. There had been thousands upon thousands of wishes, even futile attempts to make it stop, but it didn’t.

Many of these precious women have carried this burden for a lifetime, their bodies baring the physical effects of stresses they never asked for. They had been victims. It was so unfair. And so, they cried if they were still able. There were a few who no longer shed tears, their hearts hardened, numb, dead to what’s been held for so long. They all had carried this hideous monster of burden in the dark recesses of their soul.

Last night the scene was much the same as it had been in the beginning, yet the story was different. There were still tears, but now they were sweet, filled with almost overwhelming joy. They were no longer ugly tears. They were beautiful. So beautiful… I wish you could have been there.

I wish you could have heard what I heard last night. They’d shared horrendous stories over the past six months. Those captive secrets were no longer buried in the heap of dust and ash of broken lives. From those who once expressed hopelessness, hope rang loud and clear. From those that had come to us in depressed despair, we now heard laughter. Lots of laughter! From those who once approached our group in anxiousness and fear, words of strength and courage flowed freely. From lips previously sealed in silence, we now heard a voice; a fiery voice!

We’d all become closely bonded in our pain, but not in a “misery loves company” sort of way. What once made this group feel isolated and alone, now brought us together as a powerful force. These women took that first courageous step to reach out for help. They showed up, cautiously allowing themselves to become open and vulnerable. By digging deep, they had moved to a place of confidence, self-worth, strength and freedom. They learned in the safety of the group to accept that they were never intended to have to do life alone, that they needed help. I had the privilege to walk beside them on a journey to wholeness. It was a crooked path with many obstacles. Fear was present, but they did it afraid. Oh, how I wish you could have heard their stories, human beings had literally been transformed. I wish you could have been there!

They say every great story needs a hero and a villain. These women’s stories all had villains, for some there were many. Their stories had heroes, as well, but there was one hero common to every one of these stories. That hero is their Creator, the giver of life. They know him so personally now as their loving and good Father. The Author of Life had penned a twist in their story line. I wish you could have heard their stories, but that’s for them to tell. In time, they will tell it! I hope you’re there to hear it.

#metoo #Ihave

Quite honestly, it makes me sad that I feel fear in sharing this with the world. I’m not the only one who feels that fear. Thankfully, someone was brave enough to open their mouth and be first, giving all of us a platform to join the ranks that will no longer remain silent about this epidemic of violence and sexual harassment that is plaguing our society.

 

#metoo. I was raped at knife point as a teenager while on my paper route. I didn’t tell anyone out of fear of the threats the perpetrator made. The toxic shame and guilt I carried as a result worked like duct tape, silencing me for years. It wasn’t until a friend asked me to take her teenaged daughter to the police station to file a rape report, that I began to deal with my own rape experience. It was too painful for my friend to go and she didn’t want her daughter to be inhibited from sharing the details with the officer, so I agreed to take her. As we sat with a crisis counselor at the station, the counselor began explaining to the young girl how important it was to talk about it and get help in dealing with the ramifications of it. The counselor went on to say that there were women out there who had been raped as teens who never told anyone. They lived years of their lives suffering with their secret and now they are 40 years old. I was stunned! There I sat, frozen in a police station chair with my secret. I was 40 years old at the time. I decided it was time I got help.

 

#metoo. I’ve lived with abusive husbands. Yes, I meant to make that plural. One was abusive to me and the other, more so to the kids, but either way, it wasn’t right. When a man throws knives at your head and sticks them in a wall behind you to terrorize you, or threatens to drive in front of moving trains, or pushes you outside without clothes, or holds you down on a bed with his hands around your neck, or tries to push you down a flight of stairs while you’re pregnant, or to push you out of a second floor window, or spins your vehicle around on a freeway, or a child feels a need to try to protect you, when you have to sleep with a knife on the bed railing to protect yourself, when you live in fear of the next rage and you walk 24 hours a day in fear, on eggshells, or the one who says they love you so much has affairs with other women… that’s abuse. It’s not right. It has to stop.

#metoo, #metoo, #metoo, #metoo, #metoo… Those are just a few, for all of the rest. Those are for the men and even women, who abused their power or authority in a position they held or a role they had in my life story. There were the bosses that made inappropriate moves or propositions, the married men who attempted things, thereby offending not just me, but also their own wives. And of course, there are the disrespectful words spoken many times! Based on the responses of this whole #metoo movement, it seems that every woman knows what I’m talking about here.

 

#metoo is a start, but it’s not quite enough, as far as I’m concerned. I’ve gotten counseling and been a part of many support groups for women dealing with these issues. I’m ok. I don’t need any sympathy as a victim. I don’t need my experience to be validated by anyone. I lived it and I’ve recovered from it. I don’t need revenge. I don’t need to face my perpetrators and hear an apology or get some kind of closure. What I need is for it to stop. What is it going to take for it to stop? What if all of those who posted, #metoo, also started naming names. Would that get those who continually victimize women to think before they do it again?

 

#metoo. This is where my list of perpetrators should be inserted. But instead of naming names, I’ll address you here. You know who you are. I can finally say, I forgive you. This didn’t come easy. I paid a high price because of what you did to me. My kids paid a price because of what you did for me. I’ve lost much because of what you did to me. Years of my life were affected because of what you did to me. How can I forgive you? I can because I’ve been forgiven. #Ihave. She who has been forgiven much, can take the risk to love again. #Ihave

#ihave. I’ve been an abuser. You see, when you don’t use something for it’s intended purpose, it’s abuse. I’ve abused men and women. I’ve done it in the work place. I knew that I could assert power over a man with flirtatious words or actions. I knew that I could intimidate to get what I wanted. I knew that I could use my appearance or my body to get what I wanted and #ihave. It worked for me for a season. Sure, some of it was because I had been broken by past experience, but that’s not an excuse for my inappropriate actions. I take responsibility for my actions. #Ihave and I’m sorry.

 

#metoo. I know my own darkness. I’ve hurt myself. I forgive myself.

#metoo. I know my own darkness. I’ve hurt you. I hope you can forgive #metoo.

#metoo. I know my own darkness. #ihave. That’s how I can forgive you, too.

 

Hagg Lake Tri – I’m Coming For You…

When my husband told me to look at several race choices and pick one, as a way to celebrate my birthday weekend, there was one important piece of criteria the race had to have. It had to be an easy, relatively flat, bike course. I also didn’t feel ready for an ocean swim, so, no ocean, therefore, no sharks to worry about, was number two on my list. Weather was a lesser determining factor. Being from Arizona, cooler temperatures sounded a lot more inviting, than heat and humidity. Races in mosquito infested areas didn’t make the cut, either. Other than that, a beautiful course, nice downtown, shopping areas, good food and wine, hiking or other outdoor activities, all of those would be pluses. After looking at several races in many states and checking all of the bike courses, I settled on the Hagg Lake Triathlon. It appeared to have a few rolling hills with minimal elevation, a lake swim, cool temperatures, a beautiful race venue and it was in Oregon, one of our favorite states to visit. Portland has so many fantastic restaurants, and with wine country close by, it would be a perfect way to celebrate a birthday weekend!

We had our bikes shipped ahead of time so they would be ready for us. Race week, the weather was looking pretty rough from an Arizonan’s perspective, low 50’s and a steady rain. That’s winter in AZ. To the locals in Oregon, our gear bag contents probably looked ridiculous. We had enough layers, we might have been warm enough for snow. Race day, actually ended up being pretty near perfect though. It was in the low 60’s with cloudy skies. It looked like it would rain, but never did, and the sun actually peeked out a few times.

All of our pre-race activity went smoothly. We arrived early. Our bikes were there waiting and ready for us. Athlete’s Lounge was the sponsoring bike shop. They did a wonderful job taking care of our bikes.

Next was body marking. For my non-triathlete friends, body marking is when they write your race numbers on your arms and also your age on your leg. Race day was the actual day of my birthday, so for the first time this year, they wrote my true age on my leg. I remember how appalled I was when I did my first triathlon and they wrote my age on my leg! I soon realized it wasn’t so bad though, when during the race you pass people who are younger than you. It’s no big deal anymore. As they say, “Age is just a number, THEY WRITE ON YOUR LEG.”

My husband and I got our gear all set up in transition. We both noticed a lot of really nice bikes and that the field of athletes looked to be pretty experienced. Not that it was intimidating at all…  🙂

The only thing I didn’t get to do, which may have made a big difference in my race, was a warm up run. I have asthma and being able to run first really helps me with the breathing when I swim. Since we had to be out of the transition area early, that wasn’t going to work. Everyone was already putting on their wetsuits for the swim. We got our wetsuits on and headed down to the lake for the start of the race. We were unaware that we were allowed to do a warm up swim, but we weren’t by the lake early enough for that. At least we got a couple minutes to get in the water, which gave me a chance to be sure my goggles weren’t leaking.

Here’s where the story starts. That swim. I’ll never forget that swim. That swim made me think about not doing triathlon ever again. That swim made me think about never wanting to swim again, period! I had a triangle of three buoys to swim around. I was to do two loops. It started out ok. I choked a little, which I do from time to time. I ran into a couple people. That happens. I swallowed water. That happens, too. But by the time I was around the second buoy, the wind had kicked up the water and there were waves like none I’ve ever had to swim in before. The water was choppy. I’m used to swimming in a lake with high canyon walls, protected from wind, really. There are no boat waves, just kayaks and a few paddleboards. I’m a wuss, is what I’m saying! No matter how I turned my head to breathe, I got a mouthful of water instead of air. I choked several times. I couldn’t breathe. I tried to swim with my head up. I still couldn’t breathe. I stopped to catch my breath. I sat in the water watching  swim capped heads pass by, all seemingly unaffected by the turbulence that was causing me to lose hope that I could finish one loop, let alone, two. I rested a few times, and then tried to propel myself forward. Every time I put my face in the water, within not so many strokes, I was choking and out of breath again. I finally reached the second buoy. A boat was there and the man was yelling for me to turn, which is what I was going to do as soon as I got around the buoy. I wasn’t understanding that the wind had blown the buoy off course and I had swam farther than I needed to and he was trying to tell me I didn’t have to swim around the buoy, but could turn in toward shore sooner. Blame the slowness of understanding on lack of oxygen, maybe… There was another boat guy after the buoy. Winded to the point I felt my wetsuit choking me, I asked if I could hold on for a few minutes. I’m not sure how long I did hold on, but I did a lot of talking. I apologized for having to burp, because burping is what one has to do much of when they drink half a lake. He said he had seen worse. Poor guy. He was a good listener. I talked about quitting, about how I thought I was going to be last and how I had never quit and I didn’t want to quit, but I couldn’t breathe, and I still had another loop to swim. My stomach hurt from swallowing so much water. My wetsuit felt like it was choking me. I wanted that medal! I didn’t want to be last… Finally, he acted like it was time for me to get going. He didn’t try to influence me. He just listened and said he would be there if I needed him. So off I went toward that last buoy. It was so close to shore. I could go in and this whole horrible mess would be over with or I could go back out into the waves one more time…

It’s amazing how much thinking you can do under duress. I have a mug that says, “The Mind is the Athlete.” It’s so true. I had so many reasons not to finish the race. They sounded good to me at the time. Hey, breathing is a big deal! I really wanted that medal, though. When you train hard, you should get something to show for it, right!  How many people wish they had what someone else has, but they aren’t willing to do what it takes to get it? I thought about that in the water. I did NOT want to finish that swim! The only way I was going to get that medal was to stay the course, finish the race and cross that line at the end.

There was another very powerful thought that went through my mind. As I said, it was my birthday. Thanks to Facebook, my friends and family knew we we’re doing the race, so I was getting a lot of support from that. I had briefly scanned some of the posts as we were driving to the event. My mom had posted. In her post she said I was an example of courage and perseverance. Wow, the power of the words we speak! My mom’s words were power that day. No I didn’t feel courage at that moment and finishing that swim was the last thing I wanted to do, but I was going to be what my mom said I was. I rounded the third buoy and I kept swimming. If you think you’re hearing Dory singing, “Just keep swimming. Just keep swimming. Just keep swimming…” It’s me! I sing it all the time now.

The rest of the race, I just had to make the best I could of it. By the time I got back to transition, my bike was the last one, meaning I was the last one to get out on the bike course. The thing I feared the most, being last… I thought it would be like it has been in other races, I’d be able to make up time and pass people, but not so. The bike course that I initially chose for it’s easy rolling hills, well, I must have gotten mixed up with all the courses I had looked at. This one did not have easy rolling hills. I train on mostly flat routes because of issues with my knees, so not only was I not prepared for the hills, my knees were very unhappy with me. I also hadn’t had to use the gearing on my tri bike much, since I ride flat routes. That further complicated my race. We had to do two loops around the lake. The first loop, riders that were finishing their second loop passed me, but once I started my second loop, I was on my own on the course. It felt really lonely after a while out there in the woods. Then there was the stupid fall. It was just stupid! Of course, the support motorcycles show up out of nowhere and catch me on the ground. I did one of those things where you jump up, bush off, say I’m ok, and take off, too embarrassed to acknowledge the blood running down your leg. I was so glad when I finished that bike ride and got back to transition again. SO glad!

Many people had finished the whole race and were walking around with their medals on and packing up their gear to go home. Here I was just getting ready to start my run. I couldn’t believe it. I was really going to be LAST! I had never even come close to doing this badly in a race. Even in my first couple triathlons, at my age, I still came out around the middle of the pack for all ages on my time. Now I knew how it felt for those who do come in last, those who still have to push themselves to keep going to get across that finish line, even when they know they’ll be last. It was a horrible feeling! But I wanted that medal. I still had worked hard. I still had done the best I could with the circumstances at the time. I still had to fight to get to the finish. It was very humbling. The whole thing was, but I think I needed humbling, so that’s ok.

As it turned out, I did catch up to one other lady on the run. I wouldn’t have had to be last, if I didn’t want to be, but it sure didn’t seem worth it to pass one person and make her feel the way I knew I would have felt, so I stuck with her. We enjoyed the rest of the race and crossed the finish line together. We’re all better together, right! I do have to say, even though it was my worst race ever, the race director, the volunteers and the spectators that were left, made the finish line awesome. My husband had mentioned to one of the volunteers that it was my birthday. He told the announcer, who had called everyone back to the finish line as I was coming in. Everyone sang happy birthday to me at the finish line. Yes, I was a little embarrassed, but at the same time, it took some of the sting out of being last. And I got my medal! 

I learned a lot from this race. I hope it’s the bad race experience that’s behind me and I’ll never live through again, but no guarantees on that. I’m glad it’s over, but at the same time. I’m glad I did it. It didn’t kill me. It did make me stronger. And Hagg Lake, I hope you can hear me. I’m coming back for you!

Thank you to Sherri McMillan and staff of Why Racing Events and all of the wonderful volunteers of the Hagg Lake Tri and Du. This is a beautiful race venue, a challenging course, and a very well run race! Everyone was awesome!

Thank you, to Don and Russell from VeloZoom, who took care of the AZ end of the bike shipping process and then Christine and Gary from Athlete’s Lounge who took care of our bike’s in Oregon!

#whyracing #whyracingevents #hagglaketri

A Few Things I Had to Tell My Kids…

I’d been wanting to write a letter to my kids for the last two years or so. I guess the number one subject would be something that most parents deal with. I’m inclined to say every parent, but then I think of some whose kids outwardly appear to have it all together and the parent takes all of the credit. I’ve heard parents brag about how successful their kids were, followed by, “I raised them well,” or “I did everything right.” While those types of comments may make them look good or feel good, for me, they’re like a dagger. They hurt. What I hear is, “Since your kids had some rocky years, you must have screwed up somewhere.” And the pot of failure and guilt gets stirred all over again.

I can’t help but wonder what’s really gone on behind the scenes in those seemingly perfect homes. Had the child rearing years really taken place with an always warm and loving home atmosphere, sounds of love and laughter, sharing and caring, fun and games? Were the years of child rearing really filled with everyone having a good attitude, never any rebellion, anger, yelling or arguing, or no behavior issues? I’m doubtful that any perfect home exists, that any perfect parent or kid exists, but I’m not here today to argue that. My purpose is to be honest, to take responsibility for my actions whether good or bad, and to bring death to my own guilt and shame.

There, I said it and it wasn’t easy, especially in such a public way. Yes, I feel those things. If guilt and shame are present, then I’m also admitting that somewhere along the line, I think I screwed up. Some of you parents can relate. Whenever you spend years in condemnation, living under guilt and shame, no matter how hard you try, you can’t just blow it off. It doesn’t work that way.  So the purpose of my letter was to take some forward steps to address it.

Guilt and shame are cruel to those personally acquainted with them. They latch on to the person who has opened the door and invited them in to be a part of their everyday life. The longer they are allowed to stay, the more they infiltrate your being. At first they don’t seem quite so harmful. Sure they point out every flaw or fault they see, but you see them, as well. As a result, you deserve to be accused. Since you deserve it, you allow guilt and shame to continually bring attention to your faults. Their pointing fingers become poking fingers, prodding the same spots over and over again. Unless they’re stopped, they’re able to work their way deeper, growing roots that eventually infiltrate every area of your life. Your thoughts are affected. Your perception becomes clouded, even murky. Your reactions become altered. Negativity increases. Unhealthy comparisons of yourself to others become owned. False judgements become facts. Relationships become strained, often damaged. You feel rejected, misunderstood. Gratefulness decreases, bitterness sets in and joy is lost. And it can all start with something as small as one flaw, one failure, or one life altering date in your history, one tragedy, or victimization. Or maybe, it was much more, such as living under years of torture and abuse, something that was out of your control and due to no fault of your own.

Guilt and shame don’t appear to be all consuming monsters in the beginning. They sneak in, almost unseen. They start small, tiny even. Like a buried seed that grows a root and sprouts through the soil as a blade of grass, so they grow. With gentle, yet consistent pressure, that seemingly fragile blade is able to break through a concrete slab. That same constant pressure enables these harmful guests to infiltrate your life. That same pressure is all that guilt and shame need to hold you captive as their prisoner. They deal harshly with their captives, shouting constant accusations, constantly abusing those they enslave. They are enemies whose accusations cause addicts to stay addicts, alcoholics to stay alcoholics, undealt with pain to become full blown depression.

The only way to stop them is to first, identify them as an unwanted enemy, which isn’t easy. They like to deceive those they’ve lived with so they are allowed to stay. They remain hidden behind all of the wrong perceptions of their host. Exposing them often takes help from a wise counselor. It requires us to dig deep into the dirt, expose the roots and pull them up, not a trace left behind.

While I had exposed my roots to counselors or in support groups, it was time to expose them to the people that mattered the most to me. You see, guilt and shame don’t go down once and for all when the carrier dies and is buried in the ground. Guilt and shame become hereditary, so to speak. If they have affected years of my own life, they have also effected years of my kids’ lives. I wanted to expose it, hoping to dig it up before it was passed any further in our family line.

You see, the roots of guilt and shame for me stem mostly from victimization at a young, impressionable age. I was a young teenager. I had big dreams. From as young as I can remember, I thought that growing up and being a mommy was the best possible thing I could ever achieve. I loved playing with my dolls, holding them, rocking them and caring for them as I would my own children one day. Being a wife and a mother was my big dream, what I longed for. I wrote my goals down at a young age even. The number one thing at the top of my list was to be the best wife and mother in the whole world. And that was the only thing that was on my list.

I started off pretty well as a kid. My parents loved me, took me to church and disciplined me when I needed it. I think I was a pretty good kid in those early years. There were a few minor events of teasing or being hurt by another kid in some way, pretty typical things for a lot of kids. Those events, even though minor, did cause a seed of shame to sprout in my life. Thus, began the hard work to make myself good enough, to gain approval, to be perfect. I set high standards for myself.

It was during the junior high years that one pivotal event had the most damaging impact on my life. I will just give you the nutshell version here.

A friend had started smoking and she offered me a cigarette to try. I accepted, wanting to please the friend. After school that day, I ducked into a wooded area along my paper route to try out the cigarette. Yes, back in the day we actually went house to house delivering hard copies of the news. I wasn’t aware that someone had been being watching me on my route, nor was I aware that this person had followed me into the woods. While I was smoking, I was approached by a male carrying a knife. With a knife pressed into my side, I became a victim of sexual assault. It wasn’t something that I had heard a lot of talk on at that point in my life. It just wasn’t talked about much and rarely was it reported. I went home crying and muddy, my paper route cards torn. I couldn’t tell my parents what had happened. I wrongly, thought that I was responsible. I was in a place I shouldn’t have been in, doing something I shouldn’t have been doing, therefore, I would be in trouble for the rape. When my mom questioned as to why I was so upset, I made up a story. I kept that event a secret for years, not understanding how to respond properly to what had occurred and not knowing how deeply it would affect me.

The bottom line is guilt and shame became deeply rooted, and yes, what followed for many years was a downward spiral of bad judgment and unhealthy behaviors. Guilt and shame from victimization can cause us to get ourselves into situations where we are repeatedly re-victimized or we live with a victim mentality. Therefore, my kids, too, were indirectly victimized.

My oldest two children had to live in the hell that I took them through. It’s no secret that there were two marriages and divorces, one to an addict and another to an alcoholic, one where I was abused and one where my kids were abused. Those marriages were each followed by the struggling single parent years. My children had to live with a mom who was always at work and when she was around, she was tired, sad, and moody, just totally overwhelmed with life.

There are times that I don’t remember. I think they were too painful. But there are enough painful times that come to the forefront of my mind every now and again, which I am truly ashamed of. Of course I’m ashamed of most of it, but I specifically had to apologize to my children for the things that they probably did remember. I said I was sorry, so sorry, but it still doesn’t feel like enough. How do you make amends for this stuff?

Remember? I just wanted to be the best mom and wife in the world and I had failed. It was hard living with such a failure that I felt that I was.

I married for the third time and had my two younger boys. Even though they didn’t remember much, they also lived with results from my life events. And then came the grandchildren. They’ve lived with results from my bad judgements from years ago. If left undealt with and unexposed, so would my great grandchildren to come, as well as the partners and spouses who have or will join us along the way. They would also be affected in some way.

There were years that I was not emotionally available. Instead of dealing with things that I needed help with, I kept myself occupied. Being busy distracted me from the issues I really needed to look at. It kept me from having to recognize problems. Trying to be perfect in outward things, like keeping my house clean, gave me the false sense that I was in control. It was the only thing I felt I could control, when I learned that life doesn’t play fair. Bad things do happen to everyone and there were times we were just trying to survive until we could get through the storms that raged around us. There were times when it seemed the storms would never end.

I had to apologize to my grandkids in my letter, as well. I’m so sorry that I’ve missed so much of their lives. Not that I had control over all the reasons as to why it’s been that way, mostly due to distance. I really wish I would have gotten the pleasure of being more involved. They’re all beautiful and make me very proud.

You know, parents aren’t given any instruction manuals when they take a baby home from the hospital. We don’t have our children for the purpose of seeing how bad we can screw up. We just do the best we know how, and at times, we just don’t know how. What we do isn’t always the best. Looking back over the years now, I’m sure there were things I would have done differently, had I known what I do now. Unfortunately, there isn’t any way to change the past. It’s all water under the bridge. What I could do was to confess my failure and say, I’m sorry. I promised to continue what I know to do to the best of my ability, and that’s what I’m doing now.

In writing them, I had to expect nothing from them. They could choose to not forgive me or not even acknowledge the letter. This is something I needed to do for myself. And yes, I’m making myself very vulnerable here by posting this. My blog is named what it is for a reason, because that’s how I want to live my life. Being real has to start at home.

Yes, I’m sure there will still be times I fail. You know I’m human, too.  There are a few things that I promised my kids that I would not fail at. I will not fail to pray for each of them by name, every day. I will not fail at believing in them, at loving them and wanting all the best for them. I will never give up hope for wonderful futures for all of them. I’ve entrusted their lives to God and I know that he will be faithful to complete every good work that he started in each of them. He promised that to me.

Counseling, support groups, the letter and this post are all steps I have taken to free myself from the enemies that have caused such destruction. Guilt and shame are no longer welcome here. I choose to live in freedom to be the wife, the mom, the grandma, the great grandma, the mother in law…

Maybe someday, the best in the world…