Finding Sunshine Through Fog

The last life battle happened a few weeks ago. It really was more like a brain cramp than a real suicidal episode. I was super annoyed as I ran through my protocols for the night:

Messaged what meds I was taking to sleep, how much and where I put them.

Messaged when I woke up.

I was getting really exasperated with constantly tattling on myself.

Then I looked at the corner of my room. I realized what happened. The day before I was working through Divorce things. I felt peaceful about it all day. No issues of attachment or wishful thinking. Simply working through the business of conscious uncoupling.

In the corner was a picture. A view I once looked at with inspiration. A cat in a garden with a tree. It reminded me that if I would be okay alone. There was plenty around me to fill me with beauty, love and meaning. To chase things that did not reciprocate was an unhealthy practice. It was healthier for me to sit alone, in a peaceful garden surrounded by beautiful flowers and a tree.

But now.

I needed a new source of sunshine. I needed something to look forward to each day. I hadn’t really taken time to create what that image could be for myself yet. Being a very visual person, I realized I was ready.

Ready to take my “What do You Want To Be” idea and first apply it to me.

Aside from my reason for living, was what I could do for a living. I was exactly what I wanted to be. 

A Wife and Mom. The last kid theoretically off to college, the nest would be empty. I would be able to contribute financially to retirement and travel. Having a job is challenging with Chronic Health issues, so it was going to take some time to figure out what I could do. I never finished my Undergrad. Somehow it ended up being on the “Later” list.

Now the constant question from Well-Meaning friends was, Well NOW you get to do what you’ve always wanted! What do YOU want to do.

I had no answer for them. Many of them struggled with my reply.

My ideas at the moment are, writhing, art, teaching, tutoring, life coaching, social media, a handful of online things. Possibly finding a way to fast-track finish my degree. However, I know the most important rule about change.

That is, that it MUST begin with me.

I found my sunshine.

So, I Arted for myself.

This is now the corner I wake up to every morning.

From this fresh corner flows, a growing inventory in my Frog In Paris Etsy shop.

The ability to write my journey.

The ability to sit and art or write a little every day.

I can hear my own voice. 

I can share it without fear. 

I am able to let mistakes in what I make go and allow them to be part of the work. 

My hope is, as I heal and move forward, I can contribute to the conversation about normalizing Mental Health issues. To help build a bridge of communication between those who struggle and the people who love them.

To continue and share my Experience, Strength and Hope. I look forward to continue learning in this adventure we call life.

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.

To Walk Bravely

In 2002, I began a journey. When it became apparent Mutant and I would have to move from the glorious mountaintop into this wilderness valley, we were overwhelmed. Life hadn’t worked out the way we planned; Ase 7, Zany 6, and Girly a bubbly 2 years old. After 11 years of transitions and seven moves, we were exhausted.

We all needed to slow down and heal our wounds. Mutant and I decided to school the kids at home to give them that chance.

To let them breathe.

To figure out who they were.

To let them learn the way their brains were wired.

It was a year by year decision. Some years we thought about sending them back to public school for my sanity. Other years, we were excited to keep them home. Through it all the boys had the freedom to play sports and fall in love with dance. They were able to fall in love with it and deal with the bullying and judgment that came their way.

Because they had the space to heal. The freedom to walk away permanently from people who ridiculed them. 

When Girly began to explore science and fall in love with math. As Fluffy-the dead cat- was brought home, skulls, owl pellets, Mutant’s hunting prizes and Aunt’s dead dolphin treasures and more collected on her bookshelf. She could do math to relax herself. Her love of reading developed organically, instead of forced.  Brothers taught her about discretion;  how to resist pressure of sacrificing self to fit in.

What started out as a season of healing, homeschooling became a place for discovery and finding their personal integrity. This wild adventure of non-sequiturs, faith, emotional meltdowns over assignments, testing limits and falling in love with learning was nothing we expected.

When the boys graduated 8th grade, they attended public high school. We chose the one best suited for them. To experience people from different walks of life. Learn through different methods. Greatest of all, to become who they were meant to be. They graduated in 2013 and 2014.

So here we are.

Today…

Girly begins her journey in the school of her choice. Walking in compassion with people from different places. To be academically challenged. Taking all of her discoveries and curiosities along for the adventure. Taking pieces of her brothers with her, she bravely faced the day.

And me. Saying goodbye to a 12 year career, feeling satisfied with a job well done.

An Era of Threads Part 6

On January 16th, Grandma Edna passed away. According to Dad, over the last few weeks she communicated her readiness to go Home. Without much fanfare her soul left this mortal coil in the middle of January. At peace with those close to her. Dad said it was beautiful.

I went to the funeral.

It was the end of an era.

A season of family and fallout. Wounds and healings. A permanent parting of ways for the two branches of this family.

The sky was a thick gray as I stood on the outskirts of the grave side ceremony. The tule fog simply waiting to be unfurled and blanket the little town once the sun set.  I watched her family and friends laugh, wipe tears and shared knowing looks. Grandma was a woman well loved by those around her and I was glad. I felt for my Dad who shared stories and scripture verses. Caught between a family that was and a family that is cannot be easy for him. Grief is just different in that situation.

\

The service ended and I walked to the quiet end of her casket. I thanked her for the example of strength-the way she defended her own ethic without compromise. I admired how she could communicate what she thought of people. I loved how she liked everyone she met, then decided whether to dislike them later. Her sense of style was impeccable. With a steely grace she would walk into a room. Her daily crossword puzzles and Yahtzee kept her mind sharp until the end.  I honored her as my Grandmother. 

Then I said goodbye for the last time.

Turning around I met Aunt2 and Uncle2. They live out of state now. With a warm hug we caught up on their new life. The task at hand and the gloomy cold that is Central Valley fog.

Then I set my gaze to the other side of Grandma’s casket. The family she loved deeply stood together. It would be the last time I would ever see them. I walked over and waited for conversations to ebb. Uncle looked at me with no hint of recognition. I reminded him of who I was and in surprise he said hello. It was good to see him again. I gave him a quick hug and he turned to address those standing behind me.

Aunt was next. My heart brimming with love for her, I hugged her. We looked into each other’s eyes for a moment and I said,

“Sorry for your loss.”

Her soft reply was, “Sorry for yours.”

My heart broke for Aunt. Grandma was her best friend. They had a very close Mother/Daughter relationship. I waited for the right words, “But you two had something special.”

Aunt’s eyes welled up. Her arms reached and I melted into them. For a moment I was a little unscathed girl being held by an aunt who loved deeply. We savored that moment then parted.

“Goodbye.” I simply said. She nodded.

The quiet ride home I watched groves of orange trees blur for acres. My eye followed the power line as it seamlessly flowed alongside the road. Never again would I have to travel there again. I could leave the pain and take the lessons with me. Let the bad leave its’ scar and walk forward in strength.

It was finished. 

An Era of Threads Part 5

Grandma Edna married again. In a new house with a new husband she thrived. A wedding reception at her house contained everyone. All within a safe distance of each other. After she again voiced displeasure to Dad about the boundary that existed.

She wanted her family around her on her terms.

Months later she turned her plea to a Sister. During her usual brag about Aunt and Uncle’s accomplishments. Her pride in their kids overflowed. She turned to Sister3 and asked again:

“Why can’t you just get over it?”

Upon hearing that, my resolve was set. I would not go up to visit her. I could not trust myself if Grandma ever asked me that question. My response would not be an honoring one. Grandma taught me well of independence and fierceness.

After a few years on their own, it was time for Grandma Edna and her husband to move into an Assisted Living situation. It worked for them well. Game nights, dining halls, and constantly surrounded by people to talk to made her happy. Still the person in the middle of a party.

Dad helped in her process of downsizing. He asked if I would like to go. After much thought I went. It was time not only to forgive, but reclaim a bit of myself. To move beyond the fear and begin to bravely exist.

We spent the day with her. My mind ready for the uncomfortable topic. I prayed for grace in my answers. Grandma Edna gave me the usual updates about Uncle, Aunt, Cousins and their kids. Accomplishments and accolades liberally described. I, my usual quiet self, listened. The anxiety ever present about the situation, I felt at peace with her. My heart resolved that this would be our Goodbye. It was a good day.

The curve all came when Grandma Edna then suggested go to Uncle and Aunt’s house to collect things meant for my sisters and their kids. 

My heart braced.

I began to think about it.

Not only did I come to her town and know that I existed in peace. Not only did I need to have a day where our strength met dignity and respect.

 I needed to allow my brain to heal as well.

 I sat in Uncle’s house still on the outside while my PTSD rattled brain ran through scenarios.   My breath measured but shallow. The knot in the pit of stomach settled. I listened as Uncle and Aunt talked about life and their transitions. Dad shared a few stories and laughter happened. I talked about my kids a bit. While I carefully controlled my exterior, my interior continued its’ inventory.

Uncle wasn’t a very big man.

Aunt looked just like Grandma.

I was an adult just like them.

Then a blanket of security wrapped around my heart. He will never be able to hurt me again. I am safe. I can leave all of the memories, feelings and hurt right there on the couch. It didn’t need to come home with me. I had permission to be done with all.

My thoughts calmed. The ball in my stomach relaxed. I was able to breathe deep.

The drive home with Dad was pleasant. We discussed the miracles of the day. What our family was like before the Big Thing. How much we laughed then. I told him about my boundaries. I felt at peace with all of them. It would be my last trip there. My gratitude expressed, we spoke our goodnights as he dropped me off.

An Era of Threads Part 4

As the case against Uncle dragged on, laws changed within the molestation epidemic. By the time it came to trial, the cousins’ and my testimony was no longer admissible. Statute of limitations had passed. Two Sisters would face the trial. The case continued to drag until the last moment when Uncle plead No Contest. His sentence was Community Service.

Legalities settled, Grandma Edna renewed her vigilant pressure of bringing the family together. Birthdays. Holidays. Anniversaries. All of us in different places of healing.

I found myself not caring about what she thought. Her discomfort did not bother me.

This resolve was something I learned from her.

What I did dread however were the funerals. Only three important ones remained. My Great-Grandmother.

Grandpa Johnny

And Grandma Edna’s.

Each I would need to attend and pay my last respects. Honor their lives and support my Dad as he grieved the loss.

Great-Grandmother went first. She was an immigrant from Switzerland. I spent a few nights with her when I was little. Within her was a sweet resolve. A similar fierceness to Grandma Edna, but a gentleness and grace. I greatly admired that quiet dignity. With only a few years of, I attended her service and wake. It was the first time I had seen Uncle. I felt a little sick, but not falling apart. He stayed on one side of the room and we the other.

By the time Grandpa Johnny passed away, I understood a little about forgiveness. Giving up my right to get even, be vindicated or even see justice was a start. The longer I wished him ill. I understood the verse, “Vengeance is mine, says the LORD.”

It was God’s job to judge. I don’t know what wounds Uncle carried which influenced his choices. Who knows, maybe Uncle simply paid forward a violation he received.

I needed to stop being afraid.

I needed to get out of God’s way as judge.

For my own healing, I needed to forgive

So, at Grandpa Johnny’s graveside, I approached Uncle.

With shaking hands and a trembling heart, I looked into his eyes. I said, “I forgive you.” Then hugged him. A peace flooded my soul. The words, “It is finished” breathed within me. Then I walked away.

Forgiveness doesn’t mean a Do Over. It doesn’t mean access to my life. It simply means I accept the same God that judges me, will judge him. The same sun that warms me, warms him. The same air I breathe, he breathes.

That’s all.

An Era of Threads Part 3

When I started high school, something changed within me. I so subtle it couldn’t be defined, but at the core was a fierceness. My Parents announced they needed a trip away. I asked if we could stay home. They hesitated and that subtle fierceness grew.  I was babysitting the sisters on a regular basis. I knew how to cook, clean and keep a schedule. Dad’s brother, Uncle2 and Aunt2 lived five minutes away. If something happened, they were only a phone call away.

I was 14.

I considered myself responsible.

And it whispered to me, “Keep Sisters away from them.”

It bothered me that the voice made no sense. Grandparents, Aunt and Uncle were kind. They loved us…But… I lobbied that logic with my feelings.

Feelings said we weren’t safe. Feelings said to protect Sisters.

Feelings won and never again did we spend a weekend with Them.

Then my Senior year.

A string of suicides.

An extra credit paper for Sociology opened a rabbit hole that rivaled Pandora’s Box.

The flood of memories explained why I became so fiercely protective of Sisters. Uncle had been a little too friendly. Compelled to do the “right thing,” I sat my Parents down and told them what I remembered. It was 1986 and Incest was the hot topic. Parents sat Sisters down and asked them the questions.

I had failed.

Uncle acquainted himself with two Sisters, the Third and youngest of us was unscathed. Dad approached Uncle2 and informed him of what was going on. Uncle2 already knew about it. Their family dealt with it years before.

Dad and Mom were left with a decision. Cousins and I sat down to discuss what the options were. We voted to report it and let the law take its’ course. Dad made the arrangements. We all made our reports to the Sheriff.

Then Dad had to sit down with Grandma Edna and explain what was going on. Why our family along with Uncle and Aunt2’s family would not be attending Holiday gatherings.

Grandma Edna didn’t take it well.

Her system of things was violated. This was her family and she needed them around her. Stuff like this happened all the time. She explained to Dad that growing up Uncle Blah and Uncle Pfft did such and such to girl cousins. It was just what our family did. What’s the big deal?

She then said to my Dad, “Well… why can’t you guys just get over it so we can get together as a family. I was raped at 14 and I got over it.”

An Era of Threads Part 2

My admiration of Edna grew as I got older.  Any time Edna included me in was an adventure an uncomfortable feeling was always present. When the aerobics craze exploded in the 80s, she committed completely. With the legs of Tina Turner, Edna would walk into a conversation. Then tell everyone how great going to the gym was and they needed to go too.

Her car was a beige Buick. When Edna pushed the gas pedal you could hear fuel pouring into the engine by the gallon. Often if a driver offended her, the window would be rolled down. Her fist shook out with a string of obscenities following behind it. Edna could never understand why someone would get in her way.

As former produce ranchers, Grandma Edna and Grandpa Johnny employed migrant workers during harvest seasons. They believed their workers were treated well and fairly. However, when Caesar Chavez began to unionize the labor force. They felt betrayed. Many a holiday table was filled with this topic. The turning point for them was during the grape boycott. 

My Grandmother with great pride told the story over a dry turkey. Driving by a market In her gas guzzling Buick , she saw protesters out front.

She turned a tight corner.

Parked.

Stormed into the store.

Purchased a bag of grapes.

Then strolled through the protesters, slowly eating the grapes in front of them.

I thought Grandma Edna was fierce.

Even though I didn't agree with her-and THAT car ride home was filled with my parents discussing how wrong that was. I admired her fearlessness. The way she could walk through life, not carrying about what people thought. It didn’t matter if it wasn’t popular. It was the way Edna thought things should be, so the world just better keep up.

I wanted to be as strong.

Parents tried to protect us from Grandma Edna and Grandpa Johnny’s opinions. We never heard all of them, but I heard enough to understand what prejudice and bigotry was. The hour ride home after a gathering at their house was filled with conversation about people. How we shouldn’t judge people by the color of their skin, but by their character. That Grandma Edna could have her opinions but to keep the secret that those opinions were wrong.

When we stayed for the weekend while Parents were away, it was quiet. If I spoke to Grandma Edna, my words were weighed carefully. Conversation was weighed and measured within my mind. It was always careful.

The rhythm went like this: one night with the Grandparents. One night with the Aunt and Uncle. Aunt had a bubbly laugh and made me feel sparkly and special. Uncle was friendly and busy. The houses were like dark and light. Careful and carefree.

Then something mysterious happened.

An Era of Threads Part 1

Edna, the oldest of five children, grew up through the Great Depression. Her belief as the eldest was to keep everything running. It was her job to help raise he siblings. As a young adult in movie theater, during a news reel saw a friend die while storming the beach at Normandy. Did her part to support the cause of World War II.

Edna married Johnny and they had three kids. When Johnny’s Step Mother asked him to help run an Orange and Olive ranch, the family moved. All three kids have stories to tell about squirrel shooting, burning tires on frosty nights to save the oranges and working together.

Photo by Sgarton 

When Edna and Johnny retired, they moved back to the Central Valley small town. Edna went to work at a doctor’s office. Johnny worked in an appliance store. If there was something in their community to be involved in, Edna was there. Somehow she held command of a room filled with people.

I met Edna in the late 1970s. We moved from Utah to California. My Dad, fresh from the military, looked diligently for employment. My Mom early in pregnancy, a little sister who was three and I in third grade lived together in the spare room. It was an adjustment for all of us. She and my Grandpa Johnny had strong opinions about everything. Often exchanged views in the kitchen. Edna made it very clear to me what rooms I was allowed into and where I was not. What could be touched and what was to be left alone.

Both of my parents were visibly uncomfortable when they left for their weekly card games and bowling league. Often they smelled strangely when they came home. Parents reluctantly explained to me about cigarettes and alcohol.

As much as Grandma Edna and Grandpa Johnny scared me, I was also intrigued by them. In the quiet my parents discussed their need for salvation, but we all attended church together. I liked their pastor. The Congregational Church seemed to have air within its walls, music and we could all sit together.  Children were welcome in service. After a time of worship, the pastor would call all the kids up for a story. Then we would run to our classes. It felt like an honest, whole body.

The Aunt and Uncle who lived in town seemed nice. Aunt was Grandma Edna’s daughter. Their relationship seemed filled with love and laughter. Aunt and Uncle had two teenage kids. Grandma Edna and Grandpa Johnny doted on them.

My Dad found a job and we moved into a neighboring town. Sister Three was born, Sister Two toddled around and I landed into my Third school of the year.  Three schools in Third Grade is a story for another time. Two years later Sister Four entered the world

Once in our own rhythm, the visits with Grandma Edna and Grandpa Johnny were limited to holidays and an occasional weekend when Parents needed to go out of town. The relationship, however, never changed. It was cordial always but what Grandma said went. No one disagreed with her. We watched golf and played Yatzee for fun. Otherwise we were expected to be quiet and play with our own toys.

That Thing in the Room

They are very timid animals you know.

They are quiet, lumbering and often awkward. Out in the wide open world, they are easy to manage. Fresh air, weather or even a simple distraction make them seem manageable.

But in a room of people.

With a mountain of food.

And a holiday.

This beautiful, great big creature cannot function well. THEN we who bring the lumbering beastie with us, make it sit in a corner and be quiet.

The poor elephant.

Photo by David Blackwell.

Not able to talk to anyone, the pachyderm is in a precarious position. It must pretend to not exist. With a trunk, four legs the size of tables and a broom tail. The unfortunate thing is thinks itself invisible.

However, toes are stepped on.
Words are misunderstood.
Feelings well up into knots of yuck.

The pitiable delicate beasty can do nothing right.

Truth is, as we gather together for holidays, these gentle creatures join us. We need to be gentle. If it isn’t possible to talk to the elephant, just a nod will do. A small recognition of grace is what they deserve.

If we are gentle with them, possibly a few toes will be saved.
Words might be heard clearly if spoken with a sprinkle of love.
Feelings could unravel and begin to heal.

I say we should dress that elephant in a pink tutu. Adorn it’s head with a crown. Pull out a chair and offer it a seat.

Pretending like they are not there is not working. So,  remember this holiday season:

Please be kind to elephants.

A Nest With A Revolving Door

I was not prepared for this.

I did what they told me to. Those older wise women in ministry as they reflected reverent behavior. They told us not to slander. Not to drink-if you do, not too much. We were admonished to love our husbands and children. To be discreet in our actions, make sure all of our flirtations and obedience was towards our husbands and NOT make friends with other men. Don’t act like Jezebel. Defer all final decisions to the husband. It’s ok to make suggestions, but in the end his word is law.

It was our job, to make sure God wasn’t blasphemed.

Over the last 20ish years of marriage and kids, I’ve watched my friends feel shame when the economy soured and they went back to work. Those who chose to send their kids to school defending it with, “My husband…” Those who did homeschool explain why their kids needed to go to school. I had friends who wouldn’t invite people over because she wasn’t a good housekeeper.

The cycle continues with the younger moms today. They carry a heavy millstone of obligation to everyone else.

And here I sit.

Two kids in college and yesterday I dropped Girly off for classes that we’ve added to the homeschool schedule. This season is coming to a close.

The season of children.
The season of being that hot wife.
The season of running the home.
The season of everyone else’s agenda.

I’ve spent the last year looking forward to this and also dreading it because it exposes a nasty, uncomfortable question:

What about me?

Friendships were directly tied to who the kids were friends with. Now that most of the boys’ friends are off to college, those moms are off on adventure of discovery. Their nest is completely empty while mine still has a fledglings and a rotating door.

I feel lost.

What about me?

Somehow I got the idea through the women’s ministry to not ask that question. It’s about Jesus. It’s about being God’s representative. It’s about the husband. It’s about the kids.

I feel confused. I’m not the kind of mom who wishes the kids were small again. I’ve loved every stage. Every moment that we passed through was savored. I like being their friend and mentor now. I like watching them make decisions and mistakes themselves. The question haunts:

What about me?

I become irritated with myself. The question sounds pathetic.

So…

In my struggle to find an answer I reflect on all of the women’s retreats, bible studies, groups, sermons and mentoring for an answer. It eludes me. I’m not an older woman who could mentor. I am not a younger woman eager to learn home management, child rearing and husband happiness techniques.

I am in a middle and feel a bit abandoned. I have no clear answer. My thoughts fall to my youth, when the focus simply was loving God and serving others. I wonder if that should have been the message all along.