When we are wrong

Frequently, when driving, I remind myself to check my mirrors - and I use my rear view mirror twice as much (at least) as I do the side mirrors.  Looking back once in a while lets me know where I am on the road in relation to the other drivers, and alerts me to potential problems of which I might not be aware otherwise.  Knowing where I am helps me make adjustments to compensate for errors - either my own or others' errors - that happen because of inattention or unexpected events. 

It's important to know where we are, if there's anything wrong, or that could go wrong.  And it's important to correct mistakes as soon as possible in order to avoid perpetuating them or making them continue and get worse. 

So it is in life.  

I lived most of my life trying to avoid admitting that I was in the wrong about anything.  I spent a lot of my time trying to protect myself instead of facing my fears and admitting my mistakes.  I never truly apologized for anything, because I'd been taught through example that forgiveness was making excuses for the other person, so I firmly believed that apologizing was giving other people the excuses they would need in order to make what I did "not wrong." 

Likewise, I never truly forgave anyone because either I denied that what they did was wrong ("they had their reasons" and all that) or I refused to forgive, believing that by "forgiving" them, it would be like saying that what they did wasn't hurtful...when it was.

But the last three and a half years has been a learning experience for me.  I discovered that what I had been taught about forgiveness was not correct; in fact, it was the opposite of the truth.  And I learned - by trial and error - how to take responsibility for my own actions.  This was huge for me.  One of the tenets of my new lifestyle since that time is to occasionally check my rear view mirror - and when I am wrong, to promptly admit it.  No excuses, no justifications.  No trying to put a positive spin on it.  Just admit, "Yeah.  I messed up.  I am sorry.  I'll try not to do that again."  

Notice I said "when" I am wrong.  Not "if."  I mess up.  A LOT.  Admitting it does a few things.  First, it forces me to take responsibility for my own actions, and opens me to the possibility of changing how I interact with this or that person. Second, it acknowledges that the other person is hurt.  Sometimes all anyone needs is to know that he or she has been heard, understood, validated.  Third, it paves the way for me to be able more easily to forgive myself (often the hardest one to forgive!) and to move on.  (It could be argued that nobody deserves a second chance, but everybody needs one. Including the person who has erred.)

Also notice another application of the word "when."  What I mean is "as soon as."  When we are in the wrong, even if there is fault on both sides, as soon as we realize that someone else has been injured, that's the time to make it right.  Even if they don't take it well. Even if they don't forgive right away. 

Source of this image

Leaving it alone for a short while might possibly allow someone to stop being angry and be more receptive to an apology.  But leaving it too long (that is, longer than a couple of days) will definitely cause the resentment to fester and make it even harder to reconcile with the person ... perhaps even impossible.  Promptly admitting my error - not only to myself but to the person or people I have wronged - is hard, but it is necessary.  

There is rarely an argument in which only one person is at fault.  But admitting my mistake is not the time to be bringing up the other person's mistake. It's a time to clean up my side of the street, to pick up the mess I made.  It's not about me and my pain; it's about the other person and his or her pain.  "If you are about to make your offering to God," Jesus said, "and you remember that your brother (friend) has something against YOU, leave your gift at the altar. YOU go to him first and be reconciled to him, and THEN come and present your gift."  (Matthew 5:23, 24 - emphasis mine)  That not only clears my conscience, but it just makes good sense in relationships.

It's possible to learn to accept responsibility without wriggling out of it.  It takes guts of course - but it is possible. And truth be told, it's absolutely essential.

Owning up

I was talking to a dear friend this evening who, nearly six months ago, was badly hurt by someone he trusted lying to him, concealing the truth from him about something.  The person never apologized when it happened, and for the last five months has been justifying his behavior, saying he didn't do anything wrong.  

Suddenly, a few days ago, he decided to apologize.  But his apology was way more about explaining why he did what he did, than in taking any responsibility for hurting my friend.  He said, in essence, the same old thing: that he didn't feel like he'd done anything wrong - and he implied that my friend was too sensitive and over-reacting.  

That's not an apology.  That's just more of the same self-justification that has been going on for months.  

An apology goes like this:  "What I did hurt you.  I am sorry.  I was wrong."  

Period. 

Source of this photo

Whether the hurt was intentional or not is immaterial.  The phrase, "I didn't mean to hurt you" is the wrong thing to say when apologizing; it just is, no matter what a person is used to.  

Think of it this way - an example "off the top of my head."  Imagine (for the sake of the exercise) that I ask you to put your hand on a table, with your fingers spread.  You do so.  Then I start taking the butt end of a cutlery knife and hitting the table with it, aiming for the space between your fingers, first between the first and second, then the second and third, and so forth, and then back again. Faster and faster, back and forth.  In doing that, I miss and I hit the top of your finger with the heavy steel butt of the knife.  It hurts.  You draw your hand back and say ouch.  

Now - when I immediately say that I didn't mean to hurt you, does that make you feel better?

No.  You've still been hurt. And I'm the one who did it! Whether I meant to do it or not is not important. The fact that I did it IS.  The appropriate thing for me to say is "Oh - I'm terribly sorry! I shouldn't have even tried that!"  No justification, no excuse, no rationalization.  Just "I was wrong.  I'm sorry!" 

Now let's say I don't apologize and wait until two weeks later to do it, and then when I do, I tell you why I was doing such a dangerous stunt in the first place instead of just telling you that I'm sorry that I hurt you. Does that apology hold water? 

No way!!

Taking responsibility takes guts.  It really requires courage to own up and not try to protect ourselves when admitting that we wronged someone.  Justifying ourselves gives the message that the other person's pain doesn't matter, that we're more concerned about ourselves than we are about the other person. Besides, you can't do very much good if you're covering your butt all the time.  

Did my friend take the "apology" he received seriously?  
Of course not.  He's not stupid.

Someday I hope that this person "gets it" and is truly repentant for the hurt he caused - and that he owns up and says that he's sorry.  But by then, I just wonder if it might be too little, too late. 

Under Construction

The past few months have been marked by transition.  Our oldest daughter, now making her own money and able to pay her own bills, decided to have her room renovated.  She picked out new flooring, new furniture, new paint.  

Her room has been undergoing a slow transformation in the last two months. Dark paint replaced by a much lighter shade.  Carpet - two layers as we found out (and the one underneath was um, psychedelic seventies pink paisley!) - removed. Floor squeaks repaired with screws. Dressers removed, one temporarily, one permanently, and clothes weeded out.  There have been multiple trips to the dump or to the place to which we donate gently worn clothing. All this time she has been sleeping on the sofa!

The process is taking a lot longer than we envisioned.  I've heard that this is always the case when doing anything that involves building or creating something (rather than demolishing or tearing down.)  There is always the unexpected turn of events.  Things rarely go according to plan. Like the flooring that was supposed to be installed today.  The installer got here but there was a problem with the flooring.  So ... it's back to the store later today to pick out the right kind, and set up another date to install.  More delays.   

There's something about living in a state of flux that is a little unsettling for someone (like me) who likes stability, security, in the physical/ material as well as in the spiritual or emotional realm. I think that this is probably the hardest thing to get used to, in my new lifestyle. Things are constantly changing - needing to be readjusted, rethought, approached differently than the way I used to approach them.

Waiting for the right stuff...

Being "a work in progress" is not a comfortable or secure feeling for me.  Yet I have been assured that the process of recovery / healing is never truly "finished."  I've been known to comment that it would be nice to be able to point at something specific and say, "There! That's fixed!" What I'm learning, however, is that different things get better at different rates, and often healing of one thing I REALLY want to be better, has to wait until I deal with something else more foundational - just like our renovations have to wait until we get the right materials. 

One thing's certain.  We learn from our mistakes.  The down side of that is that there are SO many to make!  For someone who's always aimed at perfection, that's difficult to handle.  Things aren't going to change and I can't make them change; I need to be the one who changes.  I love the "codependent's Serenity Prayer" which goes, "God, grant me the Serenity to accept the people I can't change, Courage to change the person I can, and Wisdom to know it's me."

When I don't expect myself to be perfect but just to become better than I was before, that's when I can make peace with being "under construction."

Start SOMEwhere

For the last year or so I have been toying around with the idea of reducing the clutter in my life, but have been putting it off because the task seemed (seems) so daunting.  

I'm a packrat.  There.  I've said it.  

I'm the sentimental kind of packrat.  Letters, cards people wrote to me, notebooks I wrote in years ago, articles of clothing I liked when I was um, a few sizes smaller and then couldn't bear to part with after I "grew out of" them, even some of my kids' baby clothes - outfits I remember them wearing ... these accumulate over time.  The result was that the stuff I could use in the now, I couldn't find because it was buried in other stuff I couldn't use.  

I'm also a bit of a slob.  That's no secret to those who know me well.  But combine packrat with slob and you get a borderline hoarder!  And one of the side-effects of that ... is how unhealthy it is - the dust accumulates, and we're all allergic to dust here - and the frustration level at not being able to find something when we want it mounts to colossal proportions.  For everyone.  After a while it all gets to be just too much. 

If the last 3 years has taught me anything, it's that baggage from the past can weigh you down in the present.  The baggage can't be thrown out in one fell swoop.  That would be kind of like throwing out the baby with the bathwater! No, it has to be unpacked, processed, and put where it belongs.  Whether that's in the "keep" pile or in the "trash" pile, the concept is the same in the emotional or spiritual as in the physical realm. It's a LOT of work, and the process can be overwhelming.  

Anyway, this morning, to start off a few days of vacation, I decided to join my husband in a little project he's doing - preparing our bedroom to be re-floored.  (That would involve FINDING the floor...) So the de-cluttering project I've been putting off for "another time" got moved forward.  The whole house needs it - but any time I thought about doing the whole house, I was so discouraged that I didn't do anything at all.  Yet this morning, a new thought came to me.

"Start SOMEwhere."  And the bedroom was just as good a spot as any.  

Here's a before and after photo I got HERE

In the short space of 90 minutes or so, working alongside my husband (who was doing the larger projects involving brute strength), I was able to sort through eight years' worth of papers on a desk we were getting rid of (and which had to be demolished to get it out of the room, hence the presence of "my hero"), and turn my attention to the clothing monster. It was amazing how quickly I was able to see more and more of the floor AND the tops of the dressers. I had thought it would take all day!  It was also pretty impressive to see just how much dust had accumulated on some of the areas we'd not been able to reach because of the desk.  Downright scary in some spots. It reminded me of the little joke I heard where the kid asks the mom if it was true that God made Adam out of the dust of the earth, (yes He did, dear) and that when we die our bodies return to the dust (yes, that's true dear) ... so the kid says, "Well you better come quick Mom, 'cause there's someone either coming or going under the bed!"  ;)  


Doing the de-cluttering project WITH someone really helped me too.  One of the things I have always hated about cleaning is that it's lonely work.  Having someone to share it with makes it not seem like such a drudgery.  And there's the satisfaction of the work going faster, and the back-and-forth banter of shared experience and pooled ideas.  

It was almost fun.  

Mind you, it's a long way from being done.  And there will be a lot more dust before it's over.  But before too long, the room will be a refuge, and not a repository of junk - and it won't take THAT much work to keep it that way.  

It's kind of a metaphor for how my emotional life is being transformed over the last few years.

That's the thing about works in progress.  They're never completely done, and they're a lot of work - but you can tell when you're making progress.

Cone of Silence

It was the way things were.  Nobody thought anything of it.  Nobody talked about it, least of all the ones who were the most affected.  And everyone thought that their situation was the same as everyone else's.  We all used the same language when we talked about (or was it around) it - each knew his or her own reality but sadly, nobody else's.  If we'd known, maybe we'd have figured out that something was wrong.  But nobody said a word.  There was a cone of silence around the topic.  We got together, we played catch, we skated on the pond - and we each assumed that the others' lives were just the same as ours.

That's how it went on for so long before the truth came out.

The truth was, someone (and maybe a lot of someones) in our number was a victim of child abuse.  Someone's parent was unable to control his or her anger, and took it out on his or her child.  Often.  And not just physically, but verbally, emotionally. Maybe there was even sexual abuse happening.  The home - supposedly a haven of rest and safety in a scary, mixed-up world - was in fact a war zone.  Except that the enemy lived under the same roof.  And the victim never knew when he or she would be targeted again.  Every time, he or she vowed to him or herself (whether consciously or subconsciously) that once free of this place, nobody would ever be able to push him or her around again. That things would be different. 


Ruled by fear - or anger - or both - the child became an adult and moved out. But the pain, the fear, the anger - these reactions were constantly in the driver's seat.  They controlled the person's behavior so he or she pushed people away or smothered them with either need or caretaking, whichever the case, and the misery never ended.  Like soldiers with PTSD, this child (now an adult) was always on "red alert." The danger was past - but not on the inside.  Relationships were not a safe place.  There was no "off" switch.

Here's the link for this photo

Abuse.  It's an ugly subject, made all the more subjective because of the pain and the stigma associated with it.  Fingers point - more point back.  Children live in denial all their lives and honestly believe they deserved it.  

Nobody deserves it.

And the pain can stop.  But it takes honesty.  Brutal honesty with one's self.  Not just about the self but about the past.  The truth really does set free.  The trick is in untangling the lies and separating their roots, untangling those tendrils of shame from things as they really were.  The cone of silence MUST come off.  Healing can't happen until we start talking about it, exposing it to the light.  If it stays in the dark, it thrives like the monster it is, and gets bigger.  Buried perhaps, but stronger and stronger. The light of truth does dispel the darkness of that network of lies.

That takes time. A LOT of time.  And a lot of help from someone else, someone who's been through it before, someone flesh and blood who can walk alongside as the one who's recovering works through those things.  More importantly, it takes a lot of help from a Power far greater than any human can give.  

I know.  I was one of those kids who played ball and thought everyone's life sucked just like mine.  

And I got help.

Bouncing back

The past while, I've been struggling with a few physical symptoms (sore throat, coughing, sniffles) that have sapped my physical strength and left me running on empty, especially near the middle of the afternoon and the end of the day. 

I'm not really sure if it's just overuse of the vocal cords (lots more singing last Sunday than I've been used to) or if there was a bacterial thing going on, or if it was a virus.  But I've been fighting it for almost a week.  Hm. Sounds viral.  Anyway, I've been looking after myself as much as possible and the symptoms seem to be improving (more or less). In the meantime I wait. Get enough sleep. Take vitamins.  Drink liquids.  Eat soup.  Sighhhh.

It probably shouldn't surprise me that it takes as long as it does to "bounce back" from something as small as a virus.  I've been "bouncing back" from all kinds of things (big and small) in the last few years and every time, it amazes me that the simplest things can sometimes be the hardest to experience.  Real emotions for example.  It took me a long while to admit to myself that I even had them. Then even longer to experience them and not hold back just to be "nice."  I'd been "nicing" myself to an early grave, clamping down on them and not letting them out when they so desperately needed to be let out!!

When my life gets out of balance, when I am letting people walk over me or I am trying to run their lives, that's when I get worn out, super-tired, and extremely irritable.  It's very stressful to be on either end of that spectrum.  If I'm letting people walk all over me, the stress is from resenting the fact that they don't even take me seriously, they don't care how I feel, like that.  If I'm trying to manipulate the situation and control the outcome, then I have assumed a burden that is not mine to bear: that of the controller of all things (hm, I guess that would be God!!) This is extremely stressful, and it's how I lived my life before He taught me how to let go.  

Letting go allows me to bounce back sooner.  It gives me more stretchability. It helps me to grow, to learn, to develop.  

I could learn to live with that.

Forgetting it

"Do you remember when..." can be the start of something beautiful, the shared memory of a wonderful time spent together.  Or it could produce just the opposite (such as sharing where we were when a horrible atrocity happened, be it the assassination of a president, the advent of a hurricane, or the crumbling of twin towers and the loss of some three thousand lives). Or it can be the start of a pathway to resolving a long-standing feud or grudge. Or starting one.

Memory is God-given.  It is a tool to remind us of better times and to help us learn from the worst times, to use to help others who are struggling with the same issues we once faced (or still face).  It might not always be pleasant. It might even hurt.  But it's better than the alternative.

Great article on Alzheimer's safety here

When a person starts to lose his or her memory for whatever reason, it can be a frightening, even confusing and distressing thing for the person or for his or her loved ones.  Ask anyone with any kind of dementia (whether Alzheimer's or permanent brain damage from decades of alcoholism!) The reasons are immaterial. Whether someone "can't help it" or "brought this on themselves" by a lifestyle or an addiction ... matters not: once the memory starts to go, it's too late to go back and fix it, so judging serves no purpose.  Forgetting where something is: from car keys to cell phones to where you parked the car to even where a particular store is located - can cause panic and stress.  Forgetting where someone lives when you've been there dozens of times before is frustrating.  Forgetting where you were going when you're half-way there is confusing.  Sitting in a parking lot trying desperately to remember why you came to this store (or how to get home) ... is horrible.  

And it's horrible to watch someone you love going through this memory loss process.  The short-term memory goes first.  Living in denial that there's anything wrong, the sufferers often blame those around them for hiding things, keeping secrets. Or they forget small things that inconvenience others, and then berate themselves when the truth comes to light.  

As the memory loss expands, the baser fears start to come out - and show their true character, which they may have been able to conceal from some people until that point.  And then the long-term memories start to go. Gaps develop in the memory that are small at first - then whole incidents, certain types of behaviors which they deny they ever did or said.  They accuse their loved ones of lying about the past, making things up, contradicting them.  They remember incidents differently than the way they actually happened.  The result is a lot of upset for them and for those who are closest to them.  Eventually they may not even recognize the people who've known them all their lives, a tragic state of affairs.  Some even revert to a child-like state and live in that pre-traumatic era for the rest of their lives, relying on others to meet their every daily need because they are incapable of doing it themselves. 

Witnessing the permanent effects of memory loss on someone's life has made me rethink expressions like "forgive and forget" and "wish I could forget that whole year..." and "forgetting those things which are behind..." all of which refer more to an intentional forgetting - a choice (though the incidents are remembered and can't be forgotten) to not let those unpleasant events define who I am in the now, even though they are a part of my history and I can draw upon them to help someone out of a rut they might be in today.  

I've come to realize that the memories I have, the experiences I have had, can be (as they say in the recycling world) "repurposed." I'd like to think that (whether the memories I have are pleasant or painful) I have lived the life I have lived so that someone, someday, would be able to look at the beautiful things that God has done in my life in spite of the pitfalls, and say to themselves, "She has something special.  I'd like to know what it is."

That would be something to remember.
 

Change by millimeters

Today I had another reminder of how gradual and almost imperceptible growth is. 

I'd been fretting about an upcoming event for weeks, because I knew it would place me in a situation which - all my life - I would avoid like the plague because it MIGHT be construed by someone (anyone, it doesn't matter who!) as confrontational.  And I hate confrontation.  There was a lot of preparation that went into it, and I got some really cool strategies for coping with the stress of the situation from someone who was way more seasoned a presenter than I am.

Well, today was the day.  And the event happened.  And not only did I not sit there like a bump on a log afraid to say anything, I spoke up.  And I held my own. And I wasn't afraid. Yes, I stumbled over some of my words, but you know what? the world didn't cave in on me when I struggled to express myself.  

And - truth be told - the whole thing went pretty well.  

Surprise!  (Well, nobody there was more surprised than I was at how much I said and how calm I was!)  I thought afterward (about myself and my performance today), "Who was that person? and how can I get to know her?" 

But I reminded myself that I entered this new realm, took this new endeavor upon myself in order to "stretch" me. Indeed, I discovered how much I had already been "stretched" by growing in my own recovery and getting comfortable inside my own skin the last few years - without even knowing it!!  

It's been in increments - in millimeters - and at times it's felt so slow, almost glacial.  But it's been happening nonetheless.  And it's days like today that show me just how far I've come in what (in hindsight) has been such a short time compared to the "before" picture of uncertainty, insecurity, fear, and anxiety - which took decades to create.  The change boggles my mind.

Calm.  Confidence.  Compassion.  Courage.  

The inner climate is warming. The glacier is moving.

Last of his kind

He considers himself the last of his line. His offspring includes only girls.  And he's grateful for that.  

He thinks that it's unfair to perpetuate the kind of heartache that has been so much a part of his family for generations, passed down from father to son.  

In his determination to do everything the opposite of the way things were done to him, he has instead become the first of his kind  -  the first to be kind, the first to actually leave a legacy worth remembering, fond memories to look back on.  He may feel unworthy ... but so often, great men do feel that way.  

He was the first in his bloodline of the last hundred years or so, who actually chose his children over his career.  He dropped things he wanted to do - things that would wait until he got to them - so that he could sit down on the floor and play games with them, listen to their concerns (no matter how small), care about them, or thank them for their help, no matter how great or small their contribution.  His subconscious motto was (and is) "People before things."  To this day, his children know they can go to him with their problems, trust him with their feelings, and he'll listen to them without judging.  He listens because he was never listened to by his own dad and he knows how important it is for kids to feel loved and accepted, to have a safe place to land.  

He personally considers Father's Day a useless holiday.  Yet if anyone deserves to be honoured on Father's Day and every other day of the year, he does.  He raised himself and his younger siblings.  He had no model to go by, nobody to look up to, but he's been a rock, even more so the last three years or so.  And his wife and children look up to him and would go to the mat for him... any day of the week.  He's a wonderful life partner ... and a fantastic dad.  

I just wanted him to know that.  Happy Father's Day, honey.

If it feels good

"If it feels good," goes the old saying from decades ago, "do it."

Hm.  I remember sermons about the evils of that saying, calling it hedonistic, condoning the love of pleasure rather than of God.  But I think it's all in how you take it.  

Perhaps it's better with a qualifier.  As long as it doesn't disrespect yourself, as long as it has a consequence that builds you up and doesn't eventually destroy you spiritually, physically, or emotionally, you might want to consider the idea that it's a good thing.  

I know people - and I am one of them a lot of times - who stay in unhealthy situations and/or relationships far too long and don't stand up for themselves or don't walk away out of fear of what the other person or people involved might think. Some of those same people are afraid to enter what could be healthy situations or relationships out of fear of being rejected, not fitting in, or just out of habit.  "It's always been this way."  

Sometimes we can get in a rut, you know?  Doing the same things, watching the same TV shows, hanging out with the same people, having the same arguments (er, um, intense discussions).  We spin our wheels and don't allow ourselves to do what feels good for us  -  some call this "novel" idea "self-care!" 

This cool photo was one I found at discoverfrance

Maybe we think that doing something for ourselves is a sign that we're selfish people (or not selfless people).  But it's been my experience that if I don't look after myself, I suffer in the long run.  I become depleted, I run on empty, I run out of emotional gas, I don't have anything left to give yet I insist on continuing to give because it's expected of me - and that's the place where resentment, bitterness, and depression breed.  I know. That's where I lived for decades.  

There's a word that's really popular in evangelical Christian circles - stewardship.  Most people think of that as taking care of the things and people with which or with whom God has entrusted you: family, friends, job, finances, time.  Interesting that "yourself" is not listed - not even thought of.  But God has also given us our selves - and not taking care of ourselves is just as irresponsible as not taking care of our loved ones.  It's like we're taking this huge untapped asset and burying it in the dirt because we're afraid of taking a risk on it.  We've undervalued it.  And someday we may be called to give an account of that.

We need to know in our innermost being that we have value.  Not to others, that's not what I mean.  So many people get their sense of worth from other people and wonder why relationships either are impossible to maintain or unattainable in the first place. It's because the focus is backward.  The primary relationship is with the self.  If we are not comfortable in our own skin, nobody else will enjoy being with us.  Enjoying our own company is the first step to healthy and fulfilling relationships with others.  We can't do that by forcing ourselves to take last place all the time and be miserable as a result.

Taking the time that it takes to nurture ourselves is going to pay off in so many other ways.  Taking risks, learning something new, growing in some way that enhances our selves, this is time well spent and will pay dividends we never imagined.  

What's stopping us from taking those risks?  Today is a great day to start.  If it feels good, if it will build us up and not hurt us in the long run, then let's do it!

Back to the wall

The last time it happened, I was at a meeting of a rather large number of people stuffed into a rather small room, barely big enough to accommodate the conference room table and the 25 or so chairs around it; there were over fifty people there, so there were chairs along the walls.  I sat in one of those, one chair away from a storage table that was there to hold supplies or whatever the presenters wanted to store.  It was located half-way down the length of the main table. Half of the people sat to the north of this table, half to the south.  A friend of mine, my neighbor at work, sat beside me.

I was okay while folks were giving speeches and presentations. And then it happened.  The catered food was brought in, set on the table next to my friend, and they devised a plan for people to come to the table.  They laid out the rules and got everyone to stand up in order to form an orderly line.  But depending on whether people were on my end of the table or not, they followed the rules.  Or didn't. Folks on my end of the table were so close to the food they could smell it so they just decided to go in the opposite direction. Nobody knew what was happening - but a few more got the idea and started to push past me toward the food table.

The result was chaos in my little corner. I was in the middle of a human maelstrom. People were stepping over each other's toes, jostling each other's elbows and bumping into each other in their eagerness to get to the pizza boxes before their favorite kind of pizza was all eaten.  

HERE is where I got this photo!

The monster struck so fast that I didn't have time to think; it was just suddenly there ... and I reacted.  It felt like a hard, calloused hand grabbed my throat and started to squeeze.  I began to hyperventilate, couldn't get enough air. My skin felt like ants were crawling over it.  

Someone else pushed by me.  All I wanted to do was leave - I felt like I couldn't breathe unless I got out.  But there were 25 or more people between me and the door in a little passageway wide enough to only accommodate ONE person if there was a clear path. There wasn't.  I was stuck and I knew it.  I couldn't get out.  

I think I lashed out verbally against someone who crossed my path at that point.  Something about sitting down and waiting until the pigs got finished at the trough, I think.  The person thought I was angry with her.  I barely had the presence of mind to say it wasn't her.  Instinct trumped common sense. I was wildly looking around for a way to close myself into a bubble, to retreat into someplace safe for me.

Finally I saw my chair, sitting about four feet away. I dove through a hole in the crowd and flung myself into the seat - my back to the wall.  Something about knowing the wall was there behind me and that nobody else could approach me from that direction, allowed the grip around my throat to loosen a bit.  Just a bit.  I let my neighbor know I needed to sit - my voice came out more like a squawk than my normal voice; she looked alarmed at my appearance.  "Aren't you going to get some food?" I shook my head swiftly.  "Not right now," I squawked out.

I swallowed. Hard. Self-preservation still flailing around inside of me, I forced myself to close my eyes.  Slowly, the voices around me became muffled and indistinct.  I made myself breathe slowly, evenly. One voice was a little closer than the others, and her voice rose in tone at the end of what she said.  She was asking me something. 

I opened my eyes.  "Did you want me to get you a piece of pizza?" my neighbor repeated.  


"Um - I - well..."


"There's chicken and spinach pizza and Hawaiian pizza right here beside me.  I could grab you a slice of one of those."

"Um."  The simplest decision was agonizing. "H-Hawaiian I guess.  Thanks." I managed a wan smile and returned to my breathing. Five breaths.  Six.  Seven.  The knot in my stomach started to loosen.  The hand around my throat was still there, but it wasn't squeezing. 

I heard her voice again.  "There.  At least you'll get something to eat." She handed me a slice of pizza, still warm even after all that. 

Deep breath.  "Thank you," I said, and called her by name.  

She had helped me anchor myself, keep my back to the wall, retreat to a safe place. She looked after me while I was looking after myself.  

I'm not sure if she knew how much she helped me, or even what it was she was helping me with.  And I'm not sure if I ever told her how much I appreciated her kindness in the midst of my inner storm.  

All I remember thinking is that I survived it.  That time.

Cornered

She knew she had only seconds to escape.

She'd seen that enraged look before.  She'd followed the quick glance that the woman, twice her height and over twice her weight, aimed toward the hook on the wall where they both knew there was a man's belt hanging for just such a time as this.  Her body suddenly felt flushed, tingling with inner electricity.  

She darted like a frightened deer through the opening between the woman's elbow and her waist.  She didn't think; she reacted.  She could hear heavy footsteps behind her, trying to keep up.  

She ran - no - clambered on all fours up the stairs like a spider monkey running from a jaguar, panic rising in her throat.  The steps followed. She dove into the nearest room - where to hide? - the deepest closet in the house!  She pushed her way past the dresses, trousers and coats inside, her breaths coming in small gasps, her pulse beating loudly in her own ears.  She didn't know it, but she was cornered. 

The footfalls stopped.  The woman's hand snaked inside, fished around relentlessly and grasped her by the arm, wrenching her from her safe refuge.  She could not stop herself from being surprised by the woman's face; it was at close range and contorted with rage, just like it was every time.  Yet she convinced herself she did not recognize it.  Her only recourse was to appease - in the split second before the first blow fell, she filled her lungs with air and screamed at the top of her lungs, "I'msorryI'msorryI'msorry...." over and over, even though she didn't know what she had done wrong to deserve this level of reaction. But she must have done something horrible.

Screams melded with sobbing as she, to no avail, continued to apologize.  Was it for existing? Was it for making the woman angry?  She didn't think of these things - she was only trying to get away - every twist of her body to escape the blows only opened a new angle of attack, fresh skin on which a welt would soon form. 

She didn't know how many times the arm raised and fell - how many stripes the cracked strip of leather would leave. It never crossed her mind to count them, to show them to someone.  She felt too guilty for the bruises the woman would show her on her own hand later - bruises left on the parent by gripping the belt to strike the child.  Eventually - seconds or minutes later - the hitting stopped. The strong hand released the girl's arm and the heavy footsteps receded, leaving the child to continue her sobbing in a heap on the floor, totally broken - irreparably damaged where no one could see: deep inside. Not by welts that would heal, but by the knowledge that she was of no worth.  

She was only eight years old - already a discarded old woman in her heart - her childhood, her personhood ripped from her again and again.

It is forty years later.  Now the woman, the former aggressor, seems so much smaller physically than her daughter - who herself has children of her own.  

Yet in the former daughter's soul, she is still very much afraid: afraid of being attacked, cornered like prey - and devoured.  The scars on her spirit have marked her throughout her life, left her perpetually sobbing inside, calling out soundlessly to everyone who will listen that she is sorry, she is responsible, it's her fault - whatever the problem is or who might be to blame. Her fear, her woundedness, her determination with never being out of control ever again, of controlling and manipulating those she loves in order to protect them, has driven her own husband and children away from being able to connect with her, and likewise alienated people who would have offered their friendship.  

She is unhappy and alone, even though on the outside, all seems to be perfectly fine.  Her external facade has held, perhaps with a few cracks.  But she bears within the burden of all the shame of all those terrible rages, the feeling of being cornered, of that all-too-common breathless, unspeakable terror.

She snaps out of her reverie, and catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror.  She looks into her own face in the glass, and sees the little girl's heart behind those eyes, the one who is hurting, who is abandoned, who is lonely. She takes a deep breath and lets it out, slowly. This is going to take some time. 

She glances down at the trembling page in her hands and reads the words on it, for the first time of many, many times, reads to the frightened little girl inside:

"What happened to you was not your fault.  It was wrong.  And it was her problem, it was never yours."  
"You ARE worth something; you are worth a great deal."  
"You can be yourself - you don't have to change into anyone or anything else." 
"You are precious, you are treasured, you are loved."  "
"Your opinion matters."  
"What you feel is normal for what you have been through."  
"People can like you exactly as you are."  
"You can feel what you feel.  It's okay.  You can cry, you can laugh."  
"You can like yourself.  You can love yourself."
"You CAN heal."

Middlin'

It's a common expression in England.  Ask someone - especially an older person - how they are and you're likely to get the answer, "Oh, middlin', lad [or lass]".  

It means they're doing about average.  Nothing to write home about, nothing to complain about - well, a few aches and pains, but who wants to listen to that?  Just the same old same old.  Middlin'. 

One of the things I say to people when they ask how I am is "Okay" or "Not bad" - it's the truth, it's much like, "Middlin', lad."  Yet I've lost count of the number of times some zealous optimist has said, "What? you're not GREAT?  you should be FANTASTIC!" (...usually followed by some religious or positive thinking platitude, sorry folks but that really gets me going.)  Lately, if I get that response, I have been known to come back with, "So, I should lie.  Hm."  Which usually gets them backpedaling - hee hee.  (Ain't I a stinkah?)  Honestly.  Don't you mistrust a salesman who's ALWAYS grinning? 

Most of the time, I'm middlin'. I'm okay.  Life is throwing an equal amount of pleasant and unpleasant things my way.  It all evens out (as they say around here) "in the warsh."  

That's a whole heckuva lot better than it was just a few years ago.  Life sucked.  It just did.  Every day was a drudge, more reasons to be upset because nobody would do things my way (which, of course, was the right way!)  - and I had this huge happy-faced facade up so nobody would suspect how miserable or how incredibly lonely I was.  

When I started living my new lifestyle of respecting boundaries: my own and others', and started taking care of myself and taking responsibility for my own actions and expecting others to take responsibility for their own actions... such a weight fell off my shoulders!! My stress level was reduced by at least 75%.  And I began to trust my "feeler."  I'd always been taught to distrust my emotions, taught that my feelings were somehow evil.  When I started paying attention to how I was feeling and letting that alert me to those things in my life that were out of balance, my life and my relationships started to improve.  

So now, when I get to feeling really awful inside, and I can't shake it or seem to deal with it - even with the new tools at my disposal - that's when I'm no longer middlin' and then I know it's high time to pay attention.  

Like a couple of months ago.  I slipped into a bout of depression that made me doubt my own sanity.  People who remember what I was like during that time frame will remember how concerned they were for me. I wasn't sleeping well at all, losing on average three hours a night of sleep, perhaps a bit less on the weekends when I could nap in the afternoons.  I was bone-tired-weary all the time.  Everything ached. I dragged myself around. I was paranoid, fearful of everyone. My self-confidence was non-existent. I seriously doubted my own judgment, my own thinking patterns. I didn't want to do anything or go anywhere, especially work and church. It was a herculean effort to even get out of bed in the morning. I was on the verge of either tears or an outburst of rage nearly all the time. I lost my temper more.  And I cried.  A LOT.  

When I finally did ask for help, and started to get it, I realized that I had allowed certain things to go on far too long without dealing with them.  I had permitted things to build and accumulate until I was convinced that some people were just out to get me.  My perceptions were clouded by my own inner reality.  When I started looking after myself more, and got the rest I needed to get, things slowly righted themselves.  I'm so thankful that they did; I know that some folks aren't quite so lucky. 

Even with that, it took nearly a month for me to start feeling more like myself, getting back to middlin'.  Just to wake up in the morning and not dread putting my feet on the floor is worth more than I can express.  I might not look forward to this or that thing that I will have to do that day, but it all balances out.  That's a good thing. 

Middlin' is okay. Okay is good.  I like it.

Carried along

The landscape was peculiar; rocks and trees jumbled together in a nearly impossible to navigate path before her.  She'd been told that the creatures in the wood could take her to where she wanted to go - but it meant letting go of her need to be in control.  All around her, inside her head, she could hear the voices of those who had urged her to go and stand in this place.  

She pondered her decision.  She could go back.  She could choose the safety of what she'd always known.  Or she could decide to call upon those foreign creatures she'd only heard about, who, surefooted as they were clever, would take her safely there - if she held on tight.  She wondered how they would know how to find her. 

Finally she thought, "Yes.  This is where I would like to go.  I need to find one of those crea-"

Immediately, she felt a gigantic, broad beak darting between her legs from behind, and scooping her up.  She slid on her buttocks, terrified, down the long, narrow, stubbled neck and onto the broad, feathered shoulders.  From atop her perch, the dangerous rocks below looked so far away and she was gripped with a sense of panic.  This was too soon.  This was too high.  She didn't know the way.  And what (God forbid) if she fell off? She slid back a bit, and tucked her legs under its warm wings.

Instinctively she gripped the bird-creature's torso with her legs.  It squawked and began to move, deftly navigating with its sturdy, long legs the sharp rocks that would most certainly kill her if she fell on them from this height. The speed was so much faster than she imagined.  She gulped, and grabbed the base of the wings with her hands to help her balance.

No turning back now.  She leaned forward to compensate for the bird's rapid acceleration, blinking rapidly to release the tears that the wind brought to her eyes.

It was two weeks ago. 

"Yeah, you'll make a good one, that's a great idea!  Why don't you go for it?" this one person urged me. 

I was still unsure, wondering about this scenario or that one.  "You could always ask the 'what if' questions.  You'll never know unless you try." No matter how I tried to escape it, that logic kept coming back.  Finally I decided to at least ask my questions.  They were all answered - patiently. My co-worker didn't push me and respected my right to make a decision on my own. 

Thus began my reluctant induction into the halls of representing my colleagues before management - also known as being a union rep or in the organization's jargon, a steward.  I had no idea what I was getting into.  But I had asked my questions and objection after objection had disappeared.  I was faced with one question - whether I thought I could make a difference to my peers in improving their work atmosphere.  

When I finally decided to 'go for it' - I was surprised at how quickly the wheels started turning after that. I was invited to meeting after meeting - all in the space of a few weeks.  It was all a little - well, not quite overwhelming, but almost.  My short description, above, describes many of the sensations I felt.  

This is way outside my comfort zone.  I am not by nature a confrontational person; I know some who thrive on it ... but I am not one of them.  Having to "raise concerns" before people who have the right to have me dismissed, is all a bit much for me.  However, I am confident that what my guides tell me is true, and that we will eventually arrive at our destination.  

I know that this experience will stretch me.  Of course, "stretching" hurts.  I'd briefly (and conveniently) forgotten that.  Yet I have the assurance that this process will give me a unique perspective, help me see the big picture and be involved in some frank discussions with senior executives without fear of reprisal. 

I must admit, that assurance of equality does intrigue me.  I wonder if I'll be able to overcome my fears and act appropriately on behalf of those I represent.  I guess I do need to remember that I'm not in this alone.  I have the support of those stewards who have gone through this before, and I also have the support of my peers.

I know that this is but one more step in becoming all that God has been leading me into the last few years, and that He will continue to be faithful, to be with me, to continue to lead me one step at a time, one day at a time.

I just wonder when - or if - or even where - this particular ride will end.  But I'm willing to give it a go. 

No way out but down

Beep.  Beep.  Beep.  Beep.   The measured noise of the heart monitor almost blends into the background except for one thing - it is reassurance that he still lives.  I wonder how long even that will last, even if he survives this time, whether he'll try a fool stunt like that again.  

A medicine cart rattles by, pushed by a nurse doing the morning rounds in this open ward.  There must be about two dozen people lined up in hospital beds, side by side, with just enough room for a chair on one side and a heart monitor on the other. Some have the curtains drawn for a bit of privacy - but nobody can get away from the sterile, no-nonsense activity of this place. 

My mind goes back, unbidden, to the events of the last 24 hours.  The trip to the emergency room, the chest pains that started right in front of the registration nurse.  The blood tests, the intravenous drip to rid him of the poison he ingested. The concern on the doctors' faces as they talked to each other in hushed tones about numbers and letters that would mean nothing to anyone but them.  Occasionally I would catch a snippet I understood - like 'organ failure' for example - and my heart would jump into my throat. They weren't sure they'd transfer him to a hospital in the next province, but if it looked like there was the possibility of endocrine system shut-down, they'd not hesitate to ambulance him over. The words became a blur.  Everything felt somehow out of phase, as if I was there but I wasn't really there.  This couldn't be happening. 

I barely remember the four-hour drive to the second hospital, just that I was on edge the whole time, praying with all the love in my heart, "Please God.  Please."  It was all the prayer I could muster; the Almighty could understand the pain of fear, of panic deep in my heart.  The ambulance had gone on ahead of me and I was going separately in our vehicle with our two children, then aged 17 and 14; we had hastily had packed a few belongings and made arrangements for friends to come and house-sit with the dog.  I kept thinking that I had forgotten something.  What was it?  yet my mind was racing ahead to where I was going, not behind me to where I had been. 

My oldest sat beside me, tight-lipped, pale and fearing to speak aloud what her naturally worrying mind was screaming. "What if he dies?"  The other, full of faith (for she has always been so) simply quipped, "He's going to be fine.  I don't know why you guys are so upset."  I envied her trust in a God she barely spoke to on a regular basis ... but I knew that when she did, God listened. I allowed myself to be comforted - if only a little - by her words. Throughout the whole trip, silence hung over us like a thundercloud. We followed the directions that the doctor had given us to reach the infirmary, and found ourselves - at last - in the parking garage, able to get out and find our way into the place where only the most exhausted ones sleep.

He was vaguely aware of my presence, but unaware of anything at the same time - in and out of consciousness, not even knowing where he was - I knew that he would never remember this.  But I would always remember.  I would never be able to forget.  I stayed as late as I possibly could - the nurses promised me the doctor would see him at ten pm (after which he would call me) and then again in the morning - and I withdrew into the cold February night, leaving the number at my friend's apartment, my friend who opened her small place up to the three of us to stay the night - or however long it took.  I thought how grateful I was to have a friend like her.

And now it is the next day, although the light level inside has stayed the same and one loses all track of what time it is.  I sit by his side in a chair provided by the nurses, holding his hand, listening to the beep of the heart monitor, watching the numbers on the blood pressure monitor hover dangerously high (now I know what I forgot at home! his blood pressure medication!) listening to the noises of the other monitors, the medication carts, the code yellow announcements, and the voices of nurses nattering on about their normal lives.  All of these sounds are miniscule darts that pierce into my soul again and again.  Time seems to have slowed, or my perceptions have quickened.  

My friend is looking after the kids; she is taking them to a birthday party for her granddaughter.  I tear up again - and there have been many such episodes - at her acceptance and her love.  

The curtain parts.  It is the doctor on duty, a young man with a slim physique, black hair and blue eyes. I briefly wonder how fresh out of medical school he is.  "We were thinking about sending him home today ... but there are some concerns.  One is his blood pressure.  Is he on any medication? did he bring any with him?"  

"No-o. I mean yes, he takes medicine for his blood pressure, but I forgot to pack it."  I smile miserably. "Everything happened so fast, I - "

"Do you remember what he was on?  perhaps we can order it at our pharmacy and see those numbers come down..."

"Of course, yes, that's a good idea," I blabber, so weary yet so relieved that the end was in sight.  And I tell him what the medications are, and give him the dosage instructions.

"Very good. We'll get that probably within the hour.  Now.  One more thing."  He takes a deep breath.  "He ingested a known poison. We are treating this as a suicide attempt.  We can't allow him to go home without some sort of assurance that he will get counseling."  He saw my hesitation, the fear, the doubt in my eyes.  "We can refer him to a psychiatrist in your city if you like - or you can go to see a counselor of your own choice, but he would have to be registered."  

"Well, someone did recommend a counselor ..." I gave him the man's name. 

"Ah yes.  I am familiar with him.  Very good then.  We'll get that blood pressure medication in here and then monitor his numbers.  If they come down, we'll release him.  We took him off the drip last night around midnight.  He'll still be a bit groggy (you may have noticed he's a bit more alert today) so he shouldn't drive for the next 24 hours, just to be safe."  He looks at my face, searches my eyes in what is as close to compassion as I have seen from the bustling people in this white, antiseptic place.  "This was a close call, ma'am.  Too close.  Please get him some help."  

"You can count on it, doctor."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Over six years have passed since that day.  We know so much more about what really happened then, and much of it was harder to hear than the original crisis was to experience. But it was the truth, and the truth does set free - albeit through the fire.  

He had never tried to commit suicide.  He had only told us that to hide his addiction problem.  Three years would have to pass and it seemed that every time we ended up in emergency care, things were a little worse.  The monster of addiction took more of his life, affected more and more relationships, even the ones at work, eventually took his job from him.  But those things (hard as they were) needed to happen.  They buffeted him, and pointed out to him how he was trapped in an insane pattern from which he could not escape on his own.  

That process took over three years AFTER that hospital stay was done.  And when he was finally down to his lowest ebb... (and it's hard to imagine anything lower than that experience six years ago, but that's exactly what happened) when he was at his "bottom" - he finally asked for help.  And God stepped in and ever so slowly started to transform his life.  It's not anywhere near perfect; there are still significant struggles and doubts - but the addiction problem has been removed.  

As damaged as he thinks he is ... he's back.  And I am so very grateful.