A Goodness Allergy

I have a real treat for my readers today. A guest contributor has graciously offered to allow me to use something he shared with me earlier today.

Before I hit "Copy - Paste" I should let you know a few background things that will make it easier to understand some of the things to which he refers. He is in a Twelve-Step program so he believes strongly in those Twelve Steps (as do I!) 

Since he refers to them frequently, I'm including a link to the 12 steps here. He also refers to the 3rd Step Prayer and the 7th Step Prayer, which can be found at this link to the AA prayers.

If his story touches you, please consider commenting on his submission below in the comment box provided. I believe that it's in telling our truth that we can be free ... and help to free others in the process. However, if we tell our story and nobody says, "Yeah, I can really relate," or "I really needed to hear that today," or whatever, then the good that telling our story does is swallowed up like a cup of water in the desert sand.

So, without further ado, here is his submission - or his admission, if you like. I will only preface it by saying that it is so honest and raw that it is sometimes uncomfortable for me to read, but in a way that challenges and inspires me to shed the facades and live a life of rigorous honesty - with myself, with God, and with others. 

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I learned a valuable lesson today:   I have a virulent “goodness” allergy:  any time anything good happens in my life,   my body, and mind and spirit will immediately try to reject it and belittle it.    There appears to be no medication for it; it must just be recognized, partially treated on the spot and ... suffered through.
 
It can be easily seen if you examine a day’s events with an analytical eye.  Yesterday, I had what I called a “bad” day. Things did not work out in the manner and degree that I was expecting, some things happened over which I had no control and felt “put upon” as a result, leading to a pity party. And my youngest daughter and I had it out over numerous perceived problems at home leading to tears, angry words and confrontation…all of which I hate. 

A few good things happened as well.  My recent cold actually improved somewhat, no new bills came into the house, nothing broke down in or outside of the house, etc.
 
But in my reaction to those things, I learned a few key things…I can’t enjoy the good things that happen because my allergy flares up and won’t allow me to enjoy them. 
 
When my allergy kicks in, I find that I can`t focus on the good that is happening but will instead key in on all the bad things that happened in the midst of the good. By the time that I've berated others about the perceived bad and cursed God for allowing all this crud in my life, the good that was there is all shriveled up and just a fraction of the size that it was. And it is so surrounded and buried by the bad that I've heaped all over it, that it looks and tastes almost as the terrible as the bad that it is inside.  It is badly tainted.
 
My allergy is backwards looking as well. Even if there is no bad in the day that I'm living, if there was any bad in the previous day or week, my allergy will smear that all over the small bit of good to make it unpalatable as well.
 
My allergy stems from a small number of factors.
 
The most important one is that I consider myself to be bad and totally undeserving of any type of good in my life.  All my life, I've been taught that I'm awful, that I can't do anything right, that I'm a total failure and that no good thing can come from scum like me. So when something good does happen, I feel that it must be a mistake, that this happened not for me or because of me, but instead because of the others that I surround myself with or the place that I just happen, by chance, to be in. That if they were gone, the good would be as well, and this generally makes me angry. This is because I know that the only reason anyone, including God, could be doing good things for me is because they wish to earn brownie points for themselves or because some of the good that falls on me will spill over to the others, for whom this good is being done for in the first place.  And that makes me feel neglected and used.
 
Second is what I call the fear factor.  I am terrified that if I make a big thing and focus too much on the good that I`m having today, that it will be removed either by a God who loves to tease and annoy me, or by someone that gave it to me in the first place that I consider a friend who will snatch it away, out of spite, anger or pettiness.  I'm terrified that if someone finds out who the real me is, not the one that I`m allowing others to see, but the real inside me, that any good that I receive will dry up and never be allowed to come back. So if I don't make a big deal out of it at first, then I won`t be as disappointed when it goes away
 
And the third is the hatred factor. I hate myself at the primal level, at a point that I'm scared that God can`t or won`t reach, at a point that I rarely tap into because it hurts so much. Almost four years into recovery, and I still cannot look at myself in the mirror to shave my ugly face in the morning. I hate how I act, my personality, my looks, my memory, my "talents", etc. And when the me that I feel is there so prevalent on the inside acts up and takes control, then any good that comes my way is lost in the terrible disgust I feel for me.
 
I feel there are steps that I can take to help this.
 

1. I must redo my Step 4. At the time that I did this step, I found that the negative feelings and mistakes and bad character traits that are so rampant in me were easy to list. But I forgot that the step also calls on me to list my good moral traits as well. I did not do this and must redo. 
2. I have to make the Seventh Step prayer a real part of my life. It tells me to turn all of me, my bad side AND my good side over to God to let Him deal with things. Again, I found it so easy to dump my "lousy me" on God but never gave Him my "good me". I guess I'll have to find it first....
3. I'll have to learn to trust God. I know in my head that God doesn't make junk, that He loves me, that He has a plan for my life in which I can help others through the thoughts in the Third Step prayer. But after four years. I still really do not believe this at the heart and feelings level. I must cry out to him to allow me to trust, to manipulate my life in the way and timing of his choosing to make the changes necessary in me to allow me to be  "shalom" - which means nothing broken; nothing lacking.
4. And finally, and for me the most fundamental, I have to somehow not try to see myself as a bad person trying to learn how to be good……but instead, because of the imputed righteousness of God, as a good person, who is just sick, trying by doing all the right things that he can and knows how to do, to get well.

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What more can I add except to say that this touched me deeply.  I hope it touched you, too.

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.   

Thanks - for pivotal moments

Today my thoughts strayed to those moments in my life when something crucial changed because someone did or said something, or stuff just happened that seemed to be "co-incidences" (which is simply - according to Einstein - God's way of remaining anonymous.)  

I am grateful for those moments where things have changed in the direction of my life or of my thinking just by certain people being placed in my path or by certain events happening.  Here are some examples:  

Fifty cents:  When I was about 9 or 10, my mom kept house for various clients.  One of those people was a severe, wizened old crone who seemed to have had all the joy sucked out of her.  She owned the apartment building and had one tenant upstairs. When it became too much for me downstairs, I would mount the stairs to Amy's little apartment.  Amy, as sweet and soft-spoken as the other woman was sharp and curt - was timeless to me.  She was probably about 80 years old in reality.  She had never once cut her hair, and kept it in a bun on the back of her head, held up by decorative hair barrettes made of dyed porcupine quills, leather, and sticks of wood.  Watching her take down her hair and brush it was mesmerizing to me.  She was kind to me.  She would talk about my schooling, my friends, take an interest in me.  When she saw me fidgeting after about ten minutes of conversation, she would press two quarters into my hand - a fortune to me, especially from a person who wasn't a family member - and let me go into town to buy myself a treat.  Her kindness was a haven for me in what was often a world of people twice my height who seemed to be angry with me all the time.  Her belief in me helped me believe - if only just a little - in myself.  Thanks Amy!  

The road home: I was twelve, old enough to attend the youth class in Sunday School.  It was taught by a lady named Jean.  Jean had been a war bride from England - with a rich Yorkshire accent and a heart for young people.  To me she was old - but she was probably only about 60.  She valued my contribution to the class, and never ridiculed me once for asking or saying anything stupid. She never once yelled at me for anything. When I was about 13 and in the midst of my teenage rebellion, some correspondence course material started arriving for me in the mail, something called the "Road to Emmaeus".  I never really knew who sent it, but I'd be willing to bet it was her.  I did the lessons and sent them in to the company; they came back to me with check marks on them and someone wrote encouraging words in red pen: "Excellent!"  It gave me a spiritual anchor in what were those tumultuous teen years when everything was topsy-turvy.  

The reflection: It was grade 9.  I was at the zenith of my teen rebellion... even stole cigarettes from my dad's packets to smoke at school.  I had started smoking to get a bully off my back, one who got her face into mine and yelled - threatened - cajoled me into trying tobacco with the oh so persuasive peer-pressure argument, "How do you know you don't like it if you haven't tried it?" ( I hated it, by the way, my mouth tasted like an ash pile.  I was just doing it to get out of being bullied. )  I was hanging out with some pretty rough characters, had developed a reputation that took me years to live down afterward.  In the midst of that, my guidance counselor, Mr. Moleman, called me into his office.  Very quietly he mentioned he'd seen me around the schoolyard with some people, and had noticed that I had started smoking. If he had gotten angry with me or raised his voice with me, I would have dismissed him.  But he just locked his gaze into mine from about 10 feet away - and simply said, "I want you to do me a favour when you get home.  Go find a place at your house with a full-length mirror.  Take out a cigarette - don't light it - just hold it in your fingers.  Watch yourself put it into your mouth.  Then look at yourself and ask yourself - is this what I really want for myself?"  He ignored my quizzical / innocent look.  "Just do it, ... please."  That afternoon after school and before my parents got home, I went into their room where the only full-length mirror we had was placed.  I took out the cigarette, and did as Mr. Moleman asked.  What I saw, I didn't like.  That was when I decided to quit - and over the next three weeks, the desire to smoke left me as I stopped lighting up.  The bullies - for some strange reason - left me alone after that.  Who knew.  It was the beginning of a long road back from nowhere.  Thanks, Mr. Moleman.  

Source: (via Google Images):
http://connectionstogod.wordpress.com/2011/04/27/doors/

The lifeline:  I would be sixteen in three weeks. Someone had said some very harsh words to me.  I was smarting from them.  I was miserable, lonely, and totally unhappy.  Yet Someone waited for me behind that empty bedroom doorway.  I went into the room, closed the door behind me and sunk to my knees beside the bed.  Hot tears spilled over and soaked into the bed-spread as I sobbed my way back into His waiting arms.  There was no condemnation, there were no harsh words there.  Only forgiveness, only goodness, only grace.  In those moments, the course of my life changed permanently.  Had I continued with the road I was on, I would have ended up in a ditch somewhere, dead - or worse.  He rescued me with His love.  I will never forget.  Thank You Jesus.  I owe You my life.  

The schoolbus:  I was almost 18 and had been away from home for the first time in my life that was more than 2 weeks, at a Bible camp in the States.  I'd been corresponding with a friend all summer - and had just gotten a letter from him.  I went into an abandoned schoolbus behind the camp to read it by myself.  As I read, my friend revealed a secret to me which should have made me furious with him.  Yet all I could do was sit there and forgive him, want to talk to him and tell him everything was going to be fine.  Part of me was baffled by my reaction - and I asked myself why I would behave this way, why?  And then the answer came to me, as if that part of me was an entity outside myself.  "Because you're in love with him, ya dummy!"  That moment of realization turned everything around for me, put a lot of things into focus.  By the way, I ended up marrying the guy.  (grin).  

The interview:  I was looking for work - I'd have been around 22 - and had only been able to get summer jobs as a waitress here and there.  Finally I went in to talk to a counselor about this job I saw that I knew I could do.  Her first question to me was, "So what was your major in university?"  I was flabbergasted.  I'd never been to university.  You didn't need to be a college graduate to do those duties I had read on the job posting.  What was she talking about?  I told her I had not been to university and she said bluntly that I couldn't apply for the job, then.  I got angry.  "Well then, what would it take to say, have YOUR job?"  She told me it would take a Bachelor of Arts with a major in one of the social sciences, like Psychology or Sociology.  "Fine! I retorted.  "I'll see you in four years!" And I stormed out of her office.    Later, I mentioned that conversation to my hubby.  And he said, "Good!"  (Huh? I thought.)  "Why not?" he queried.  (What? me?  college?)  He urged, "You can do this, why not show her?"  And I found myself saying, "All right, I WILL!"  And that's when I applied to go to university.  Getting my degree opened a lot of doors for me in so many ways I can't begin to count - all because of one interview.

The employment counselor:  There was this guy who had been in a diving accident which left him a quadriplegic - he also happened to be an employment counselor and I found myself in his office quite frequently as I looked for work near the end of my university days.  He believed in me, went to bat for me, and encouraged me.  I will never forget Tony, nor will I ever stop being grateful to him for never giving up on me.  

The telephone voice: I was a brand new mother and trying to nurse my child.  I'd gotten all the wrong advice from well-meaning people in the hospital, people who had never nursed their children - one who had never even HAD a child.  When I got home from the hospital I was sore - things were burning and stinging all over the place.  Finally hubby said, "Wasn't there a booklet we got at prenatal class with the number for a support group somewhere?"  I dug out the booklet and called the number.  The voice at the other end was one of a kind and understanding woman.  She listened as I described my situation and then said one word which let me know she knew what I was going through:  "OUCH!"  In the next five minutes, she corrected the misinformation I had been given, gave me some positioning tips and within three days the pain was completely gone.  I started going to the support group and through this same woman, became the co-leader of the group.  For six years, I was able to help people just like she helped me - and that experience as leader has stood me in good stead in my career development - believe it or not! 

The crucible:  The children were young, and after a failed business we were in such deep, crushing debt that we couldn't see our way out of it.  The defining moment came for us as we sat across from a loans officer at a finance company to borrow money to pay for groceries that week... for the second time.  We knew we were in way over our heads. So after much soul-searching and weighing options, we finally sat across from a bankruptcy trustee and filed for personal bankruptcy.  We lost friends over it, we lost the support of people whose theology didn't include that sort of thing - and yet we saw so much good come out of it.  Most notable was that we learned to trust God for everything.  Every thing.  (I've spoken at length about this in previous posts, so I won't repeat myself here).  We also learned a lot about the nature of grace - and although I would rather crawl over ground glass than do it EVER again, I am so grateful we went through that experience.  We learned lessons we never would otherwise have learned.  And through it all we knew the provision of God, day to day.  

The policeman:  One incident which happened on March 24, 2009 is burned into my brain.  I called my husband when he didn't show up at the appointed time to go home with me from work.  I reached him only to find out he was at the hospital.  I rushed out there, and saw him in the "quiet room" which is where they put the drunks to dry out.  A policeman guarded the door.  He was a young man and had spent over two hours with this fellow twice his age who couldn't string two coherent sentences together.  I went up to him and without going into a lot of detail, there were grounds for pressing charges against him for public drunkenness. I was beside myself.  My hubby had been scheduled to go into the Rehabilitation program of the local addictions centre within a week. And now this. The officer looked at me - I must have appeared in some distress because he took pity on me.  He gave me a choice between letting the police have my husband to book him, or me taking him home in his present state and letting him sleep it off.  Justice - or mercy.  For me there was no question.  I chose mercy.  Because of that kind policeman's offer, my hubby was able to get the help he needed when he needed it most.  He has not had a drink since that day. God used that young man to help give my husband back to me.  
Thank God.  Thank you, Officer.