Help For Me In The Shadows

The lovely thing about the time we are living in now is how Mental Illness is handled. The stigma remains, but overall, the conversation is changing. Social Media is a huge part of that metamorphosis.

In my personal life, PTSD, CPTSD, Anorexia, Suicide, Depression, and Anxiety along with the physical ramifications, Chronic Fatigue, Fibromyalgia, Migraine, etc.  are part of my daily vocabulary. Similar to someone dealing with diabetes or a heart condition. I am aware daily of the ups and downs. I am conscious of the tole it takes on my inner circle. They are not my cure or the source of my self-care. I am. Those of us who manage a chronic physical or mental illness know we are A LOT to handle. We can be draining people to be around. It is a source of shame often for me and can keep me from asking for help.

However, the relationships I had cultivated over the years understood my shortcomings. The Coping Mechanisms I developed and practiced kicked in. Anne and My Old Friend could not win this time.

This is what asking for help looked like for me over the past six months:

The house was purged of the evidence from my former life with the help of an ever-cycling team of people within a week and a half. All of it was lovingly boxed up in the garage to rest. In the bare walls and stark shelves, the trauma anxiety was able to find some calm.

A friend slept with me the first night. Holding my hand and listening to me try and fall asleep between sobs. We reminisced over our 30-year friendship. Other people helped and I tried all the solutions, but after four days of PTSD night terrors and no sleep I asked for help. I gutted the bedroom, put a small mattress on the floor next to a window. Every night Jupiter and the Stars said goodnight.  A group of friends pitched in and bought me a new bed. Slowly peaceful sleep returned.

Anne made eating difficult. With help, I asked friends to help create a nutritious simple food strategy that I could follow. I asked friends to bring me meals. I asked people to watch me eat.

When I couldn’t finish, they would say in a loving parental voice, “Yes. All of it.”

I would eat it all. With all of that nourishing love, slowly I was able to plan and feed myself again. It wasn’t perfect, but I could be consistent on my own without fear.

I asked for help in staying connected to my body. CPTSD, Anxiety, Anorexia and such often come with a side of Dissociation. In the peak of my Anorexia, I didn’t feel anything from my neck down. I never felt hungry or tired or pain, really. I always felt numb. I went to a friend for yoga sessions to work through connecting my trauma brain to my physical body again. To heal and balance the Amygdala (fight or flight gland). In healing and finding balance quickly I would be able to offer my healthiest self to my kids, who were suffering too.

Within this Sacred Circle of friends, I would message them every morning and evening at first. 

Checking in so I knew they made it through the day and I reminded myself I wasn’t alone. I still check in with them regularly.

 I threw myself a Birthday Party.  I asked my treasured people to Art my New Life. I filled my empty spaces with reminders of the people near and far that I cared about and cared about me.

Slowly the Trauma Brain eased up. CPTSD night terrors eased. Flashbacks during the day ebbed away.

I’ve learned that in order to move forward in life,

 I have to stop.

I have to let my brain heal whenever a sudden major life change happens.

I have to allow my psyche find a new equilibrium and orientation.

This is what help looks like for me. If you are struggling, please ask for help. You are not alone. You are worth a vibrant, love filled life.

A Cunning Valley of Shadow

*Trigger warning: Eating Disorder, Suicide*

I heard,  Yadayadayada, find a New Future.

I heard, Good bye.

I heard the door close.

My world went dark.

The future I was promised by Them shattered. All the answers in the Bible. The Magical Marriage Vows. The Purity Redemption promises. The If I, then God will, things. Everything I worked for over 30 years walked out the door.

My core ethic. The Part They all told me I was born to play. Wife, Mother, Partner, Faithful, Woman Who Fears the Lord, Family First, Career and Ambition second.

All the Guarantees of Evangelicalism blew up in my face.

I felt the full weight of Complementarianism. I had prayed. I played by all the rules. It didn’t fix what was wrong with the humans we were.

There was no magic cure for two humans doing their best to make a something work.

I’ve heard it said This is a Cunning and Baffling Disease. However, I had never experienced it. All I knew is he was gone. I had to force my PTSD brain to accept a reality I didn’t want. So I called for help to change the way my environment looked.

I packed away the life that was to let it rest and get used to the vacant space that my life at the moment was. I had to see the space physically in order to somehow get an orientation of how to move forward. While we were packing, that Cunning and Baffling Disease came back.

Little Orphan Anne and MyOld Friend came screaming out of the dark recesses of my soul. Just as loud and strong as they were when I was 14. I was overwhelmed. Others had left to get dinner and a friend stayed behind so I wasn’t alone.

I could barely speak, “Please rub my back.”

I could feel myself loosing my body. I couldn’t leave. I couldn’t break down again and loose time. I couldn’t abandon my Daughter to this.

My friend got up, hearing me say something and I repeated my question.

She gently rubbed my back.

I felt all the pieces of myself magnetically reverse and comeback together. I could feel the chair I was in. I could see the light in the room. I could feel her hand on my back. I could hear her breathing.

Then out of my mouth came the most humiliating question, “K, Why do I need to live?”

She was silent for a moment. Without a sound of scolding or shame in her voice. Not a catch of shock in her breath, she calmly and lovingly said,

“So we can have Coffee.”

A refreshing breeze of Life blew over my broken heart. 

“That’s right! You’d be very disappointed if I wasn’t there to have coffee with you. And….”

I began to list all the people who would be disappointed if I wasn’t around to complete projects, or to see me. After I rattled of my list of Other’s disappointments, K reminded me of my kids.

I laughed. “Yes, you’re right.” 

Now fully in myself, I could see light and color. I could feel the air in the room and the clothes on my skin. I could hear the ducks outside on the lake in the back yard.

I was also terrified.

After managing life with PTSD and I now understood to be CPTSD, it would be months before I was functionally alright. Annie and my Old Friend were in charge of my brain. It would be war to get my brain back  and them into perspective. 

I had to find a new reason for living.

A new source of sunshine for my soul.  

A Respectable Adulthood

*Trigger Warning: PTSD, Sexual Abuse Recovery, Eating Disorder*

Adulting is hard.

I can’t tell you how often I’ve said it to my kids the last few years.

However… it is true.

He graduated at the end of the last Century and we moved to Los Angeles. Adult Careers, Adult Pressures, Adult Problems all began to add up. It began to crowd out the sweet start we had in that College town.

In the course of healing my insides, It came time to let go of an outside solution that no longer worked for me. I actively practiced an eating disorder.

Anorexia. I like to call her Orphan Anne.

She and I became friends when I was 14, shortly after I decided to put Death in the Time Out corner. She helped me manage emotions, stress. Anne helped me when I didn’t want to feel my body during unwanted sexual encounters. Her friendship was vital in surviving life growing up at home.

Here I was though. Healing, learning about a Loving God. Wanting to attach to my body and feel its needs. To learn how to take care of it.

Annie, like all addictions, did not like the idea of giving up her control.

For many years we fought. I would eat “normally” for a while. Then step on a scale or catch myself just right in a mirror and loose my appetite for days. I would rationalize that I wasn’t really that bad because my spine didn’t stick out of my skin. Just a respectable amount of pelvic bone, like the models in the magazines. As long as my stomach was flat, life was sane. Or so Anne believed.

Now here I was. An Adult in Recovery and constantly at war with food, myself, the scale, the mirror, wash, rinse, and repeat.

My Loving Higher Power has perfect timing and brought the right person at the right time. It was suggested I try Overeaters Anonymous. It was the same 12 Step formula program as Alcoholics Anonymous, but for people dealing with compulsive food issues.   

January 6, 1991, I committed to the program. I began working the steps. Worked with a Sponsor. Slowly I discovered a life worth living. I developed habits and protocols for myself.

I was responsible for my own happiness.

I was responsible for my own respectability.

I was responsible for my own healing.

I was responsible for my own dignity.

I was responsible for my own truth.

100% Beachy nakedface

Through working the Steps I practiced ownership for my own mistakes and promptly admitted them. I did my best to allow others to solve their own problems with dignity. I gained the strength and courage to be the person I always dreamed about becoming.

I found the Jesus I read about in the Bible. Yes. It did lead to me walking away from Organized Religion, particularly in today’s culture. I was able to walk away from a family that was not healthy for me. I developed the strength to speak my truth and let go of the result.

Because of this dearest Him, I had adventures. I birthed three amazing kids. I discovered a Wild Oat kid that I adore and shares his kids with me. This amazing Him achieved many hopes and dreams. We cried, laughed, grieved, and lived well.

I am abundantly grateful for the 30 years I had with Him.

Adulting is hard.

In July, our paths divided. I now find myself in a position to invent a new future in a life that continues to defy the convention I was raised with. I will use all the tools I’ve gathered over the years. I will hold the hands of friendship and faith. I will continue to share my Experience, Strength and Hope that I discover along the way.  

Healing and Honeymoons Take Time

*Trigger warning: PTSD, Sexual Abuse Recovery*

The Honeymoon was rough. I was diagnosed with PTSD, but no one explained to me about triggers. I  couldn't understand the dreams I was having. Or how my skin crawled. 

Or how the bloodless sheets shook awake the suicidal thoughts.

I needed it all to stop. I wanted to feel safe like I did before. I knew the only person who could do that was me. He was patient as I worked through the little I understood about myself. 

I became obsessive about things. I drove myself into physical pain attempting to be the perfect everything. Finally in frustration, he went for a walk. I sat in a warm bath and sobbed. convinced I ruined our Honeymoon. I jeopardized our marriage and didn’t understand what was wrong with me.

He came back from the walk to find me dressed and sobbing on the bed. He held me and said it was going to be ok. We would work it all out. He understood. I couldn't help it. It wasn't personal. We packed up and headed home. 

Weeks later we cuddled up to watch the video of the Wedding. Still struggling with confusion and guilg, a thrill of hope washed through my soul. Maybe if I could hear what he said. I could get back some of the magic of that day. Maybe then I could get back on track.

The organ crescendo…

He leans over…

“Welp, no backing out now.”

I was crushed. All my hopes and dreams I placed on him shattered.

He became defensive, “It was only a joke! I had no idea the mike was there!...” and the argument was on.

One that never honestly was settled.

In my insecurity I placed all of my hopes of purity redemption on him. I saw him as respectable instead of deciding I was respectable. I put an unfair burden of perfection on him at that time.

I fell back into feeling lost. This time I had a quiet life to figure it out. I was working. He was attending classes. Where we lived had groups for people healing from Sexual Assault. I began learning true boundaries. Through being honest about my Experience, listening to others’ Strength and Hope, I discovered what issues were mine to solve. 

I began to focus on those.

Faith and prayer would be part of the process, but it was not magic. God was not a Grand Wizard who would POOOF wounds away. Honest healing would take time and unlearning. I had to focus on what I wanted to become.

I learned to love my body as it was. I accepted myself with worth. I understood He was equally as human as I was. This Knight in Shining Armor perception was still etched in my head, however I slowly began to see that we stood in equality before a Loving Creator.

Those few months in that College Town were beautiful. The focus was learning about each other and ourselves. Growing and preparing for a future. It became our true Honeymoon.

The Magical Marriage Day

*Trigger Warning: PTSD, Sexual Assault Recovery*

Time flew, Two years found me graduated with a partial degree. He was living in another town finishing his undergrad. I moved to the town and our engagement plan was in full swing. That is until I was laid off from my job and he needed an extra semester.

So we moved up the date for the wedding. I didn’t realize the Math of it all was 9 months until much later. I was caught up in the Serendipity and Romance of the moment. The venue and dates aligned. Some family was supportive. Others objected.

We moved forward lost in the effervescence of Hopes and Dreams.

I truly believed I was whole. That everything would be ok. Yes, I had some quirks to work through, but we had grown so much together. Love conquers all! I had found the love of my life. Not the best that I could get, but better than I deserved. We were both dedicated to a better life.

Yes, there were flaws, but we all have flaws. I’m not one to judge. I have massive flaws I am growing through. I want the Jesus who challenges “those without sin to cast the first stone.”

I had put down all my stones.

I bought the White Dress. Yes, it still made my skin crawl. Yes, I still felt like I was lying. However, I worked hard to earn it thus far. He said I deserved it.

The weeks leading up to the wedding were challenging. Something was off with the Parentals, but I couldn’t quite figure it out. We had lots of disagreements which would end in silence.

He would patiently listen to my frustration and remind me that We were making a new family.

Soon I would be safe in a quiet, home of our own making. We would continue to grow together and it would be an adventure.

The day came.

I did my best to set all the nerves aside. To ignore all the Parental confusing words. To just focus on this day.

The day THEY said would be the best day of my life. I would be the most beautiful of my whole life. I would be so beautiful I would take his breath away. The day would be magical and special and glittery and fairy dust would shimmer everywhere. I believed everything They said. I desperately, in my insecurity and wounds needed it to be true. As much as I tried to remind myself that I was more than my Vaginal Purity…

I still to my core didn’t feel it. I didn’t feel like my body was mine to give to anyone. It felt like a black hole filled with everything rotten and ugly.

I placed all my hopes, and redemption in this ceremony. The White Dress, the Song, the Sermon, the Communion, the Unity Candle. The Traditions. The People around me.

All of these Things would somehow make right the years of wrong that saturated every cell of my body.

30 years ago today, I stood at the end of an aisle. Dressed in Glorious White and filled with dread because I was a fraud. I faced that church clothed in the color of purity. I was not pure.

At the end of that Aisle I saw the man I loved. We held dreams to build a life of love and health. I reminded myself that to him I was pure. We were unknown to each other. That’s what the color meant to us.

He beamed a smile at me, then leaned over to his Best Man. The Best Man laughed. A crackle of courage rippled up my spine. Maybe he thought I was breathtakingly beautiful. Maybe he said he was the luckiest man in the world. I suddenly had the strength in my legs to walk down that aisle to the man who saw the best in me.

I walked toward him and away from The Parentals. Their control over me. Maybe he would unconditionally love me as I am. Maybe he would give me the freedom to be me. Maybe he believed in me.

I walked that aisle and chose him above all others. Unconditionally.

A Respectable Fresh Start

*Trigger Warning: PTSD, Sexual Abuse*

Friday, September 18, 1987, I met him. 

We walked to my car after class. Phone numbers exchanged. I did not know his name; didn't matter anyway. No respectable guy would ever want me. Why not just try the meaningless sex with a stranger. Who knows? I might walk away with a piece of myself?  Maybe the Parentals and the crackly radio preachers were wrong. I had tried it their way. It was time for something different.

The phone rang. I answered and all he said in reply was, "Hello." 

I slightly panicked; he didn’t identify himself. I realized The Parentals would never let me go out with Nameless.

I awkwardly asked, “I’m sorry to ask, what’s your name?”

He laughed, “I think I’ll tell you when the date is over.”

I attempted the flirtatious whine, “Oh, come on, don't torture me like that…”

A chuckle answered my question, He told me his name.

He picked me up on time. We went to dinner with his friend who was rude. If this guy was anything like his friend, the night was progressing nicely. 

In the car, he apologized for his friend’s behavior. I wasn’t impressed. Birds of a feather flock together. He was just trying to get the date back on track and I let him.

A song came on the radio and we began singing. Our voices blended  I felt alive for a minute. Almost happy. What did that mean? 

The song ended as we parked.  He chose a movie and killed a bit of time in a yogurt shop talking. I asked Him questions. He had big answers. He wove a future of endless possibilities. Visions of a great adventure. I wanted to be there with Him. To see if He could do those things. He was starting to sound like a Nice Guy. I resigned myself to my Perception; I could never deserve him.

The movie was a less than stellar. The theater began to clear, he touched my forearm. I turned as he glided in for a kiss. It was quick, sweet and unexpected. Quietly we walked to his car. He opened the door for me. We drove and mindlessly chitchatted.

Suddenly we were in front of my house. I looked at him. He looked at me and leaned in. I took a deep breath. It was a good kiss.  He pulled back a little. Looked deep into my eyes and softly said, "Good Night."

With head spinning I got out of the car and walked into the house. By the time the door closed, I was fuming! He treated me like Sandra Dee. Like I was a Good Girl. Like I was Respectable.

I wasn’t.

I wasn’t ready for any of this. He would call. He would want to see me.  This was a nightmare!  Not NOW!  I didn't need a new person in my life.  I was a mess. I would only disappoint him. I would only hurt Him.

Yet, with Him, in those moments, I really wanted to be those things. I wanted to be good and pure. He seemed to be someone who thirsted for life the way I did.  

Over the course of the next few months, we dated.  Our friendship grew. We fought, compromised and began to fall in love.  I had boundaries. He understood my past. He seemed to respect me despite it. When He looked at Me, He saw a Radiant, Beautiful, Virtuous, Respectable Good Girl.  He seemed to hold similar value about sex and marriage.

We would be new to each other. We could wait for each other. For this reason alone I should wear White. I would be pure to him.

Was it possible The Parentals were wrong?  I learned to accept what he saw. I began to heal. I saw myself as more than my vagina. I learned to see myself as a person. 

This young man with big dreams. Wanted similar things as I. A life filled with love and adventure. Support each other’s dreams. Have kids. He liked the idea that I would stay at home and raise them. We would both work diligently at being the parents they needed.  

We would build a Good Life. 

Redefining the White Dress

*Trigger Warning: PTSD, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Purity*

School supplies were the least of my worries as I prepared for the second year of college. At some point, I would see the love of my life on campus. Insides would heave. That tragedy of errors which was thelast six months of our relationship left irreparable damage. I had no idea how to move forward.

Before Purity Culture existed, were my Parentals.

Birds and the Bees covered the usual. Along with in depth lectures about my worth as a woman depended upon my purity. Oh, sure, there were the clichés,

 “A guy won’t buy the cow if he can get the milk for free.”

The one I heard the most was:

“No respectable man will ever marry a woman who isn’t a virgin.”

“No respectable man wants what another man has thrown away.”

Now add in a splash of spirituality.

All growing up, the crackling radio preachers in the morning talked about Sexual Sin. Soul Ties, how if even through passionate kissing, one was bonding a piece of their soul to another person. Never to get it back. Only through Prayer, Tongues, Fasting, Intercession, Anointing, and communing with the Like Minded in Faith, could one MAYBE receive healing.

My child brain absorbed from their teaching that the sanctity of my vagina was equal to the sanctity of my spiritual life.

So here I was. 19 and no longer a virgin. No boyfriend. Thrown in the mix was a childhood sexual assault.

What did it mean for the whole Soul Ties, No Respectable Man would want… thing. If a child is “spoiled” before they even… well. Where does that fit in the Parental Logic?  

With no idea how to go forward. They said all the answers would be in the Bible. So I searched the Bible.

The holy and perfect checklist of how to be a Godly Woman was laid out in Proverbs 31.

Beauty was vain- so don’t spend too much time on my looks.

Flattery is deceptive- so don’t believe compliments

Other verses filled in the gaps.

.

The Heart is wicked- so don’t trust your inner voice.

Honor your parents- they’re the ones who really love you.

The World is Lost- Faith and the Bible is every answer I’ll ever need.

Fear is the beginning of Wisdom- Don’t trust in my intellect or logic.

Eve was deceived- always trust Men, they always know best.

But,  I was, ruined like Dinah, with no brothers to slaughter a city for my virtue.

I was Tamar, and no brother Absalom to take care me and my spoiled virtue for the rest of my life.

According to what I understood, all that was available to me was an unrespectable man. One who would accept a used cast off. The most confusing, in the scriptures, when a girl was a victim of sexual assault. It didn’t matter the age, she was ruined.

No redemption was available to her. No hope was offered to her.

She was alone.

Left to visit wells in the middle of the day for water so as not to interact with other women. Or she was thrown about to be stoned.

These were the answers the Bible offered.

What was I going to do? I wanted to throw the whole perception out because I no longer fit within it. I wanted to sit in some safe quiet and figure out who I was supposed to be now.

I wanted to find the Jesus who comforted the Women at the Well.

The Jesus lifted the Woman about to be stoned out of the dirt.

The Jesus who was always kind to the sinners. 

Why wasn’t that Jesus in my church and family growing up? He was in the Bible they told me to read. Was he even real?

I wanted to know that Jesus.

I explained my conclusions to the Parentals. I told them about the times that were my choice. I couldn’t wear white at my wedding. I would be lying. I would be lying to those people in front of God. I wasn’t pure. I was ruined.

The Parentals countered, I wasn’t ruined. I was being Dramatic. I didn’t have a “choice” in the former relationship, or with the family member when I was small. It didn’t really count. My soul was intact. I was still virtuous.

“You didn’t have sex” was the statement, “You were raped. That’s different. You deserve to wear White.” I deserved to stand in a church and proudly wear that White Dress.

I defended my logic. I wasn’t pure. I made choices too.

I was dismissed. They explained, I was deceived. It was my Low Self Esteem talking. I needed to forgive myself and let God Redeem me. All I needed to do was truly Repent and it would all magically go away.

  

I did the best I could with what I had at the moment. I repented for my part. I decided to work diligently at healing. Working to discover a God I read about in the Bible and someday spiritually  awaken in the arms of that Loving Higher Power.

The Rabbit Hole

Trigger warning: Sexual Abuse, PTSD, Flashbacks

PTSD Flashbacks are ugly little beasties. They grab the softest part of your memories and hop down the nastiest Rabbit Hole. We've taken many such journeys over the years and we've come to peace with one other. I respect their need to process. If I'm patient, when they are done, I am a little more whole. My memories fall into a peaceful order. The fresh terrors find their place in the proper old memory storage and finally find a place to rest. After 35 years in this process I have learned to be grateful.

My first Flashback was December 1, 1985. It began a spiral that ended sometime in September 1987.

December 1985, a friend from grade school committed suicide. Two months later, February 1986, a friend from church committed suicide.  In May, a classmate accidentally drowned while helping a family with their boat. Another friend from church crashed a motorcycle into a parked van in June. He was in critical condition for weeks. The final straw arrived in November 1986, a mentor and brilliant musician from church committed suicide.

Fall of 1986 found me in the first year of college. Struggling through sociology class, I chose to write a paper about suicide for extra credit. As I delved into the whys and wherefores of the choices my friends made, a tragic chain of events loomed.  I met a boy as I researched. The acquaintance turned into harassment that bordered on stalking. I in my own oblivion, did not recognize the danger.

One night under a beautiful December sky, my boyfriend at the time wanted to defend me. I would not allow it. He demanded, “When are you going to stop letting people walk all over you?”

A switch flipped in my head and I crumbled into his lap. A childhood memory flooded my consciousness with overwhelming sensations. An uncle crossed the line of innocence. My body no longer belonged to me. I lived in it, but my uncle owned it. As I relived that moment, my reality was challenged. I did not have the tools to navigate any of it. Home life had its own reality and often my inner self was not my own. Within this Wonderland reality and truth did not always coexist.  Sanity held together by thin threads frayed to reveal a gaping black hole.

To say that I was a mess was an understatement. At 19, attempting to be an adult is challenging enough; introduce life altering incidents with a dash of questionable reality. This perfect recipe of disaster turned me into a mental Chernobyl.

The next thing I remember is February 1987. My boyfriend and I had a fun date planned. We stopped by for a quick lunch and the usual make out session before our adventure.

I remember eating lunch.

The next thing I remember we were in his room and to use baseball metaphor, Home plate was in sight. I froze. I couldn't move. I could barely breath. I whispered, "No."

The Home Run was made.

I experienced my Second Flashback. This time I was younger and the innocence exposed was different and more painful. Like the one my 18 year old body was experiencing. I felt the fabric of my mind shatter into a million pieces. I tried to move. No matter how much I willed it in my mind neither body in the flashback or in the real could move. When he was finished, we dressed and went on with our day.

Neither of us actually sure of what the other experienced. I know we have opposing memories of the day.

In the months that followed my sanity continued to slip away. I remember nothing of my second semester of college or most of that summer.

A confrontation transpired with The Parentals in Wonderland about my boyfriend. They spoke their judgment. I knew how I felt, what I thought was true. Their point of view and mine didn't exactly match, but I knew something was very wrong. The more I fought, the more my grip on reality slipped. I had to survive. I had to live. I would figure out what the truth might be at another time.

I was at the bottom of this rabbit hole. I found a truth I could admit.. I would never be the person he needed. I didn't even know if I would survive. We both wanted to make healthier relationship choices than our parents. In my attempt to recover and heal, I was destroying him. I was destroying myself. An amicable or gracious exit was impossible.   

I had to let him go. I allowed Insanity to reason out the break up. I said some  horrible things about him. My private meltdown became public and there were many casualties.   

Over the years, my thoughts wander to that boy left behind. I wish him all the happiness our loving Creator has for him. I will hang onto this truth: In order for he and I to become the people we wanted to become, we needed to walk different paths.

Travel well my friend, wherever you are.  

My Old Friend

One Sunday when I was five, dressed in my best, I waited for the grown-ups to be ready. The usual hustle and bustle to leave for church on time was in full swing. I sat on the floor in the kitchen playing with the dogs. A Parental came in, swooped me up. He laid me over his knee and began spanking my bum.

Of course I began to make noise.

A GrandParental came in and scolded the Parental. The Parental put me down, straightened my dress and they went on with their hustle and bustle. Dazed and sore, I sat down with the dogs and solemnly waited.

That night the Parentals and I arrived at our home. I went to my room and readied myself for bed. The Parental came in and gently began to explain how my punishment was interrupted. Authority had been usurped and we had unfinished business. I had been on the floor in my Sunday Best with the dogs and that was unacceptable.

So They said, “Let us resume.”

I was picked up and placed back on that knee. The “spanking” commenced. However, it was different. It hurt. I began to wriggle, say NO and try to get away. I began to kick and squirm. The spanking turned to hitting. I heard a metal watch snap. My body stopped fighting because the pain was too great, and I just sobbed.

Parental gently and compassionately lifted me from the lap, looked me deep in the eyes and said, “Now, honey. I’m sorry I lost control. I’m so sorry I hurt you. BUT you broke my watch and that really hurt me. You need to learn how to accept consequences when you are wrong. When I get that angry I just can’t control myself, you can’t let me get that angry. I’m simply not responsible for what I do.”

My Five Year Old logic heard, “I cannot ever say No. I cannot ever fight back. If I fight back it will always be worse. That worse will always be my fault because I asked for it. If something unpleasant happens, I need to accept it and never fight it. My body doesn’t belong to me”

A little over a year later the Parentals and I went on a Christmas trip to meet family. I stayed the night with a part of the family I had never met and something mysterious happened. When I came home, sleeping was never again the same.

The terrors first tickled my feet in the middle of the night when I was around 6. They would reach up from under my bed, grab my ankles and drag me down to a dark, hot flaming place filled with screaming and pain. I could hear a laughter that made my skin peal from my muscles. I would get out of bed and run to my parents. They would pat me on the head and arm me with verses like:

“Jesus came to conquer death and heal, so we have nothing to fear.”

“God is greater than he who is in the world.”

They would instruct me to go back to bed and fight these spirits myself because Jesus gave me the power to conquer all of this myself. I was fine. I was silly to be afraid.

My little girl logic heard, I had little faith. Jesus shamed the disciples for having Little Faith. Jesus didn’t have any power to do things if I had Little Faith. So, I had to have Big Faith all the time.

So I prayed, and cried and worked my Big Faith until I fell asleep. Perfectly in the middle of that bed, wrapped in the sheets and blankets. That way I was maybe protected from anything that might try and reach up from underneath.

We first became friends when I was very small. He was known by a different name at that time. I was told stories about the place he lived. How it was a wonderful place, filled with glory and grace. There were no tears or torment. No fear. He prepared a place for me. God was there. Jesus was there.

The Bible said the Days were Evil. We were to Watch for the Signs. Jesus was coming and would catch us all up in The Rapture. Jesus was going to rescue us from all of this pain and torment. Jesus was going to wipe away our tears forever.

That sounded wonderful to me.

When I felt insecure and I asked Parentals about that Thief in the Night. About my dreams of having a family and a future, I was told that it wasn’t to me. I shouldn’t plan for vain things like that. God was in charge of that. I was to look forward to being caught up in the clouds. To that wonderful place of no more suffering. Then the chastisement of my rebellious and sinful heart wanting selfish things like a future would inevitably follow.

My Childlike Faith honored, just like the Bible told me to do, my Parentals. I began to focus on that Wonderful Place.

That meant I would have no more nightmares. I would be able to sleep the whole night through and feel rested. I would never walk through a door and tremble wondering what was waiting for me on the other side. I could wake up every morning and not worry if I would have a house to live in at the end of the day. No longer would I worry about if there would be enough food for my sisters and I.

I would be free to tell the truth all the time. If I felt sad, I could say I felt sad and I would be comforted. If I felt afraid, I would be heard. If something was wrong, I could ask and help would be given. No longer would I have to say things were fine when they weren’t. No longer would I have to “protect” the Parentals so God’s power could work in the church. I would be free from the daily suffering of an ever-shifting reality and unpredictable abuse.

I really like the sound of that.

Then at 14, he took on a different name. He offered the same comfort. The same release. The same secrets. Only I didn’t have to wait for it to happen.

Really, what was the concept of Heaven and the Second Coming/Rapture really at it’s core?

Death.

Why did I have to wait?

I see through another day of pain. By this time, I was invisible to most people anyway. From my perspective, being unseen made everyone the happiest. My opinion didn’t matter to the Parentals at this point. They told me often I was rebellious, awful, lazy, selfish, nagging, self-absorbed, proud, etc. The only time I achieved approval was when I was silent and fulfilling duties. I focused all of my energies on doing as well as I could in school and making life as loving as possible for my sisters.
I stood in the kitchen at 14 with a serrated stake knife at my wrist. I could hear my sisters playing outside. I felt Death’s warm comforting arms wrap around me. The numbing silence absorbing the pain that filled me. Then a small shaft of logic light played out all that would happen next: who would find me. Could I be at peace with that being their las t memory of me? How could I guarantee I would be gone? No mistakes. This wasn’t an attempt. This was a guarantee.

My sisters were in enough pain. I couldn’t contribute to their burden. I put the knife back. Death warmly hugged me and said it was ok. We’d work it out some other time. The Light of Logic said it was Ok. This pain was unbearable.

So, I focused on choosing to live every day. Reminding myself of those I would disappoint if I didn’t.
Heaven and the Second Coming/Rapture however no longer held hope for me. They made my heart sick with longing. I got to the point where I had to stop listening. I made myself stop believing. It got in the way of my ability to live and grow through all the pain that came next.

In college I met someone. He wanted the same future I did. A family who laughed and love. To work together. Go on adventures together. Love fearlessly and simply. He wanted a simple life too, at the time. A family, memories, grandkids, happy holidays, gatherings, adventures, warm quiet nights, etc.
That was the only future I ever wanted. That was the life I chose to stay alive every day for. To build, work through pain. Walk away from unhealthy practices. End toxic relationships. It was a simple, quiet, stable future.

This summer, after almost 30 years, that future told me I needed to find a new future and it walk out the door.

For the last six months I have found myself back in that 14 year old’s shoes. Standing in the kitchen staring at the serrated steak knife wondering what now.

 Slowly, with lots of help, I choose to live each day. I say good morning to Death and we make a list of things to accomplish. I have a list of people who would miss me. Logic Light reminds me that they really would, they aren’t just pandering. I no longer have a conventional family. My future is a huge unknown. People try and encourage me with “do whatever you want.”

Logic Light says, I’m 51.

I had what I wanted.

The best I can do is take the pieces of what is left and be content with making it all good enough. To create a space of light and peace where I am.

All of it in hopes that when Death naturally comes and gently takes my hand,

I am not leaving anyone disappointed.