What's THAT feeling?

 I was sitting at breakfast with hubby yesterday morning. We had been talking about everything and nothing, one of my favorite times of the day. The dog was laying at our feet, chewing on a bully stick. And I noticed it ... inside of me. 

What's that feeling? I thought. It's ... different.

I tuned into my emotions and it was then that I realized what it was. As I did, my eyes opened wide ... and I turned to my husband. "I'm ... happy," I said.

He blinked slowly. "You're what?" he queried. 

"Happy." I smiled gently, gently placed my elbows on the table, and cupped my chin in my hands.

"Wow," he responded, eyes wide. "It's been a long time since I heard you say that." 

"I know." My attention turned inward, and I held the feeling close to me like one would hold a little bird: gently, lovingly. I was silent for several seconds. An indulgent smile crept onto my face.

"It's all this," he said, gesturing to my tote bag where I carried my clipboard and my appointment book back and forth to my counselling office. "Isn't it."

I nodded. 

"I am so happy for you," he said, softly. "And I am so proud of you." He took a sip of coffee, and looked me in the eye again. "You were made for this. You've found your niche." 

I smiled and nodded as my eyes stung with tears. "It feels so good.  And I'm learning so much!" My mind drifted to all the neat things I was learning from my experiences as a counsellor, from my clients, and from my supervisor. I shook my head slowly in amazement. 

Happiness. Who knew?

I remember one day, after the umpteenth time in three years when this one person asked me how I was and I responded, "Okay," she said to me that one of these days she was hoping that I would be able to answer by saying "Great!" 

Well, I guess she got her wish. It took a while, though. 

This feeling - this happiness - is reason enough to stay in the moment to enjoy it. I like it. It's good.

SSS-KSS-KSS-KSS-KSS

No, it's not a typo.

The title that I chose today is the sound my little dog's nails and feet make on the floor when he races around the house doing what little dogs do when they are excited (or just before bed): "the zoomies."

We had a snow last night. As always happens in the morning when the dog wakes up, he wants to go out. So I put his harness and leash on, and carried him out the back door onto the deck, and put him on the deck for him to choose a place to do his business. But as soon as he had emptied his little bladder, he put his nose into the white stuff on the deck, and jerked away. COLD! And then his nose melted it. He cocked his head. "Wuff," he whispered. He put his nose on the white stuff again. Cold! He pulled his head back and peered at this strange substance.

 

Bullet, September 2020

 

All of a sudden, the lightbulb came on over his head. He started doing the zoomies right there on the deck! SSSS-KSS-KSS-KSS went the little feet as he turned tight corners and slid around ... over and over again! Mouth open, tongue lolling, snapping at the flakes he was raising, he was the picture of pure doggy joy as he lived each and every nanosecond in the moment. 

It made me laugh out loud! Literally! Even when he left snow crystals on my Crocs (and melting into my bare feet inside of them) I couldn't help surfing on the waves of joyful puppyness that emanated from him. 

No fear. Pure joy that comes from confidence - which comes from knowing he is loved. I am slowly learning that I am loved unconditionally, and that gives me confidence ... and joy. My heart skipped and skidded around with Bullet on that deck. Though I hate the cold, somehow it didn't matter to me, and I laughed -- no, giggled -- like a child at play.

It feels good.  SSSSS-KSS-KSS-KSS-KSS-KSS-KSS.....

Nothing to prove

In just a couple of months, it will have been three years since our daughter passed away at the age of 21. Grief, my constant and relentless companion at first, has become more of a travelling companion now, and I nod at it as it overtakes me and carries me in its wake at times. Other times, I travel life without it dogging my heels. Some days I even forget that I have been that profoundly touched by its presence. Other days, it's all I can think about.

At first, every conversation was about her. I needed to talk about her, needed to not forget her. I was afraid that I would forget what her laugh sounded like. I was afraid that if I enjoyed life, I might stop hurting - and I needed to hurt - hurting made the loss feel more fitting somehow.  

I kept reminders of her everywhere. Pictures, pieces of jewelry, little keepsakes, cards and letters from people expressing their condolences... things that helped me traverse the nettles of fresh grief, things that kept the wound from closing until it healed on the inside. I maintained that one never gets over the death of someone so close. And one doesn't.  Yet ... I started to get worn down by the grief. It was like being chained to a post. The reminders became burdensome because they were reminders of what I had lost, not of what she had gained by being free of her own chains, all the strikes against her.  I lost sight of how happy she is now.  

April 26, 2016 - the décor of our living room is changing.

As well, as time wore on, I began to realize that my belle was all about living large - enjoying the moment - and she would want me to do the same.  So I began to put away in a safe place some of the little things that were such a constant reminder of her and which, likely as not, would just end up making me sad. All those snowflakes are mostly relegated to one Christmas ornament that hangs in the corner of our living room doorway, and a chain of snowflakes a dear friend crocheted for me for Christmas last year. Oh ... and the paper snowflakes my belle taped to a lampshade one year. Her picture still hangs in our kitchen, but the wall art in the living room - where we spend the most time during our waking hours - has changed to reflect the things in our lives that we enjoy. Things that remind us all of life, of beauty, of strength and freedom.

I think that before, I kept trying to prove to people that I loved my daughter and that I missed her.  I have come to a sort of place of peace about that, knowing that love is eternal, that it is probably the only thing that you take with you when you die (so I know she still loves me!), and that as long as we are separated, I will ALWAYS miss her.  I don't have to prove that.  It's a fact.

So I guess I have nothing to prove to anyone anymore - and I think that I have already begun to move forward, onward, upward - in small ways.  I don't need those constant reminders anymore.  I don't need to look back at what might have been; I can't change that.  I don't need to wish I could go to her in the sweet bye and bye.  That will happen soon enough; that's a fact of life.  

It's okay that she is free of having to prove herself too. She's totally free of that pressure to perform, that uphill battle to just have the right to take up space. I would not dare take that freedom away from her even if I could.  And I cannot.

What I can do is live.  Not just survive, but LIVE. Enjoy life.  Have goals. Strive for them. Relish today.  Savour the moment.  Not living in the "if only I had" or the "I can't wait until" but living in the "this is so cool" mentality.  That's how she lived her life.  That's how I choose to live mine.  Nothing to prove, not to anyone, not to her, not even to myself.  

It's okay to put some of her stuff away.  It doesn't mean that I forgot her or that I ever WILL forget her.  It just means that I embrace life, not death.  

I think that's what she would want.  I know it's what I want.

Still learning

My baby girl ...
It's been over two years since you passed away.  Trying to grasp it, I shake my head.  I still don't know how I've been able to survive these months with you gone - well, maybe I do - the love of those left behind has really helped.  

I've been thinking a lot about how much of an impact you have had on my life, not only by your death, but also (and much more) by your life, how you lived it, and what was important to you.  

I have talked a lot about what I learned through your passing, and the miracles with which I have been blessed in the midst of my grief.  I focus on those blessings because they are truly miraculous, and I so need the miraculous. 

The day-to-day reality is still of such unutterable sadness; I try to fill my days with other, busy things to occupy my mind.  Work, school, eat, sleep ... never enough sleep. Every day I am reminded in some way, whether I talk about it or not, of your absence from my life.  I can't say that I have gotten used to the dull ache inside that is my constant companion.  Sometimes it lifts, but then it comes back.  It is relentless, this "new normal."  And sometimes, it overwhelms me - even now.  

And so, lately I have been allowing myself to be inspired by you yourself, and how you approached (or should I say, attacked) every day.  Carpe deim - seize the day - was one of your guiding philosophies, even though you never said those exact words.  You were more inclined to say go big or go home - and friends matter.  And - of course - every snowflake counts.

If anyone was sad, you were the first to try and cheer them up.  If they were happy, you were happy with them and helped them celebrate. Your hugs were the best... tight and warm and long and heart-felt.  You would do the craziest things to lighten the mood, hated it when things were too quiet.  

Arielle, summer 2003

I remember the day that you and your sister and I went on a trail ride at one of those tourist stables - I think it was in Brackley.  We had such fun - you were around eleven - and then we went to this little diner nearby and got treats.  You had your first milkshake ... strawberry ... you were so excited!  From you, I learned that even the smallest shared pleasures can bring the greatest joy.

There was the time when you were four, and we were walking across the parking lot toward the grocery store.  It had rained the day before and the sun was out.  You slowed down almost to a snail's pace, irritating my take-charge agenda... until you told me what you were looking at.  "The rainbow, Mummy."  When I asked where, you said, "... in the puddle.  Look!" and you pointed.  There, in a dirty puddle with a little motor oil residue floating on top, were iridescent colours of red and green and blue and purple, reflecting a mini-rainbow, slowly distorting like a lava-lamp, in the most unlikely of places. We squatted and looked into the rainbow for a couple of minutes. From you, I learned to slow down, and to look for beauty ... because if I did that, I would find it, sometimes when I least expected it.  

There were countless times when you were a child that you would rush into the house in the summer and grab about five jumbo Mr. Freezies from our freezer, cut them in half and take them outside to give treats to your friends.  I complained.  I said you were trying to buy your friends.  I asked if you thought I was made of money.  But it never crossed your mind to withhold good things from your friends.  They were hot and thirsty, and you cared about them.  From you, I learned that love is lavishly generous.  It just is.  It doesn't need a reason and it makes no excuses.  It just gives.  I had to learn that lesson.  You just knew it instinctively.  

The stories I can tell are only a small portion of how amazing you were - wise beyond your years and a never-ending source of happy, crazy, funny, off-the-wall, passionate and compassionate you-ness.  I have learned even more of your stories from those who knew you - the lives you touched in your 21 years here with us has been far more than a lot of people get to touch. And you didn't do any of the things people associate with success: you never finished school, never had a job for any more than a few months ... yet you are still teaching me. 

I am still learning.  Maybe someday, I can be a little more like you ... when I grow up.

The Annual Drive

Christmas Eve, and all that is left of the church service is the smell of smoking wick from several dozen candles, and murmurs from the little pockets of conversation as people leave the building. 

We pack up our things and load them in the vehicle, and drive home to unload them before piling into it again for the Annual Drive.

2013

Someone brings a Christmas CD. We put it in the player and take off to view the Christmas lights in and around our city. In some areas it seems that folks try to outdo each other to create jaw-dropping displays. Others are more quiet, understated, and yet hopeful ... a few electric candles in the window, the muted twinkling of the Christmas tree from inside the house, showing through the window. 

As the music plays, we join in the singing, each one putting in his or her part until we feel the stirring of that elusive Christmas spirit in our hearts. 

After about an hour or so, we head back and we have something hot to drink - a little cocoa usually, topped with marshmallow bits. We watch our own Christmas lights reflect and twinkle amid the decorations. We turn on some soft music (or we tune in to the Fireplace Channel) and we sip our warm drinks and enjoy each other's company. Later, we might watch a Christmas movie on TV before turning in for the night.

We have done this tradition for over 20 years. Last year, we did it with one less among us ... so we asked a close friend to join us. We felt free to feel what we felt, no matter what that was. And we will again this year. 

This year, we don't have the luxury that the initial numbness (shock) of the loss brought. Its cold, harsh reality seems to dare us to plunge into the abyss. But a big part of Christmas is about never needing to be alone again. So, we reach out to others, and we share what we have. And though it feels ... different ... we can still be grateful, still know peace, still laugh and enjoy quality time together. Not just this night, but any night we want to. 

Because we're family. Because we love each other. Just because.

Happy Holy Days

The holidays have always been a mixed bag for our family. As with most people, the stresses of Christmas shopping, combined with the extra expense, the social and family obligations of visiting and extra cooking all combine to increase the background noise that can make everyday stressors seem more ... stressful. 

But those are normal. Every family feels those to one degree or another, depending on how much fun it is to do the social thing, and on how accomplished a baker one is. 

Last Christmas, we went through a lot of the motions as a family because - well, because the youngest member of our family was spending her first Christmas in Heaven. But at the same time, we didn't want our own personal tragedy rob us of experiences that we'd later regret not having. So - with minor adjustments - we still cooked, still baked, still put up a tree, still had presents and carols, and still attended the Christmas Eve service. We still had friends over for a Christmas meal. It was hard, and we had to make some adjustments because our grief was so very fresh - her accident was only about two months before Christmas - but we did it and we survived. 

The name of the game was survival. And because of the love of friends - and each other - we did survive. 

It's been a whole year of firsts. Wednesdays - the day of the week it was when the police came to our house - hurt for months. Easter: no egg hunt for the first time since she was two. Her first birthday after the accident - July 16. Wow, that was hard: she would have been 22. Thanksgiving was so overwhelming, just a couple of weeks before the first-year anniversary of her death. All I could hear in my head was what she'd said to me the previous Thanksgiving: "Don't give up on your Thanksgiving spirit, Mom. Look at me. I'm homeless, I'm living in my car, and I'm thankful for you, for Dad, for God, for my friends." 

But we survived. We even celebrated BOTH Thanksgivings - the first with a dear friend sharing our 'unexpected' turkey meal, and the second with just the three of us and a ham dinner with sweet and sour mustard sauce.

And now it's Christmas-time once more. And we wonder if we'll ever have "happy holidays" again. We have discussions about what traditions will make the cut this year - and which ones are just too stressful to keep doing. Some things we are keeping. Others we are letting go. 

The grief is always under the surface - potentially just as searingly painful as the first day. Most days it's completely submerged; other days - or should I say at other moments, usually when we least expect it - it leaps out at us from behind a door or in the face of someone walking down the street who looks like her or dresses like she did. Today there was a moment when I was listening to a children's choir perform and they started to sing, "Somewhere in my Memory" (we hear it every year when they air "Home Alone") and the lyrics that talk about happy faces, happy people and family being all together ... reminded me that we weren't all together, and I had to get out of there, tears streaming from my eyes. 

The thing that has made this holiday season a bit more bearable is concentrating on the "holi" part of "holiday". Concentrating on the real spirit behind the Christmas season (the Holy Days, Christmas being Christ-mass or celebration of Christ) has helped to ground us and make the decisions about what to do and not to do a little easier. It'll never be the same, that's sure, but it can still be good. 

And yes, there can still be happiness and joy in the season. It's tinged with sadness because the circle is broken, but that is a given. It's okay to be sad; it's okay to acknowledge how much we love her and miss her. But it's also okay to laugh, to enjoy life, to enjoy each other, and to share what we have. 

And that's how we have decided to spend the next couple of weeks or so.

Drowning

As most of my friends know by now (I am quite vocal on Facebook and of course my co-workers hear me probably from the next room!) I've been fighting a nasty cold for the last week.

It's a rather unsettling feeling to wake up feeling like you're drowning. Panic instantly sets in and you struggle to breathe, coughing and gagging until the airways allow you to function. Then the coughing reflex is so strong and the adrenaline so high that you can't get back to sleep. As I type, it's 5:30 a.m. and I have been awake for an hour and a half. 

Oh well. At least I can blog. (LOL).

Being sick has left me more vulnerable to emotional outbursts; my immune system is in high gear and I am weaker physically (the least effort exhausts me) so emotionally it's been a challenge. It's a challenge especially since I turned the page on the calendar yesterday morning to the month of October and saw that the 22nd had a sunset drawn (by my own hand) on it, signifying the death of our daughter on that date last year. (To understand a bit more about that, you can read the post I wrote on it shortly after we got the news.) 

Photo "Sinking In To Water" courtesy
of koratmember at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

And "losing it" emotionally is like drowning as well. Oh to be sure, I will advocate for rigorous honesty in admitting to and experiencing whatever emotion is there, because emotions signal that something needs attention. 

I'm not changing that stance. However, I guess what I'm saying is that it isn't easy; and, it wasn't intended to be. Sometimes I need to "get it out" just like I need to (pardon the graphic example but it's what I'm living just now) get the phlegm out. And take vitamins. And try to eat nutritious food. All so I can breathe again ... even if it means that the symptoms get a bit worse temporarily from something I eat that I know is good for me.

Chicken noodle soup has become a current favorite, by the way. 

(But you wouldn't want to see me eat it at the moment.)☺

Yes, I'm sad more these days. That's normal. Grief is normal. So ... I cry. And I feed my soul with inspiring words and music. And I am honest about how I feel ... honest with myself primarily, because when that happens, it's more okay to be honest with those who I know care about me. It's all part of self-care, of being okay with what is and not denying it, and doing what I need to do to look after myself. When I do that, I find that I have more spiritual resources on tap to share with those who might need a listening ear. 

Allowing myself to BE sad, or angry, or hurt - and practicing self-care while I'm doing that (even if it feels like I'm at the mercy of the "waves") - frees my inner self to experience happiness, and excitement, and forgiveness, and peace, and joy, ... and love. If I shut off one kind of emotion, my brain shuts off the rest of them; I don't want to run the risk of turning that part of myself off! So - as inconvenient as it is at times - I try to accept the bad when it happens, and accepting it makes me able to appreciate the good even more when THAT happens. 

And - even when I feel that I'm drowning in the sadness - it DOES happen. 

The last year has been living proof of that. I've been rescued from drowning ... by so many people and in so many situations that I've lost count. And by my faith which, in spite of the heartache (or maybe because of it!) has grown. And because of the help I've received, I've been able to help others who feel the waves of circumstance billowing over them: people I never would have been able to understand - much less help - before.

To those who have reached out a hand and let me be me (whoever that "me" is at the time) ... and to those to whom I have reached out (and been strengthened in the process!) ... I can only say one thing. And it seems so trite, so lame. Yet ... it's all I have.

THANK YOU.

A Nothing Day

Today is another "snow day" - we might have about three a year where I live (in the Maritimes of Canada). This is the second one in a couple of weeks, timed (conveniently) to land on a weekend and give us a little longer to enjoy time with family and friends.

It's one of those kinds of days I used to call "a nothing day." Nothing gets done, nothing is open, nothing much happens. 

"Fireplace" - a photo by adamr at|
www.FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Yet I need - especially in winter - "a nothing day" once in a while. It's a time to think, dream, reflect. It's an opportunity to spend quality time with spouse, children, friends. The slow-cooker is doing a roast; I'll soon be starting a batch of home-made bread and rolls to combat the inevitable, "oh-I-forgot-to-get-bread" (or whatever you invariably run out of when there's a storm). It's so relaxing for me ... baking ... and I don't get much of a chance to do it anymore.  I find myself looking forward to it - as long as it's a "want-to" rather than a "have-to" thing. Making bread is therapeutic for me. I do it from scratch because there's something about feeling the dough between my fingers and watching it respond to my touch ... that ignites a creative spark in me.

As I was writing this post, I didn't even want to turn on the TV, at least not to watch any shows. So, I turned it on, and muted it, and put it on the "Fireplace Channel." Even if there is no fireplace in our living room, the continual do-loop of video showing a crackling fire does give a rather warm ambiance to the space, an air of peace and civility, and of a refuge in an otherwise cold and harsh atmosphere. At some point during the day, I will probably listen to some André Gagnon - like his Neiges (perfect for a winter's respite, you can even hear the wind howling outside). 

The silence, the absence of hustle and bustle, the ability to do what I want when I want to do it, these all recharge my inner batteries and nourish my inner me. Everyone needs that mental / spiritual break. I was going to say "once in a while" but ... I think it's more "on a regular basis" ...

I guess I'll watch the fire a little longer ... and then go start making some dough.

Fun-sucker

In an argument between mother and daughter in the movie "Freaky Friday" (which I highly recommend by the way) the daughter accuses her highly organized,  highly professional (psychologist) mother of being a "fun-sucker" - and when her mother incredulously repeats the word, her daughter says, "Yeah! you suck the fun out of everything!"

I can relate.  I can relate to both.  My parents were homebodies and my mother was what my daughter calls a "Christianazi" - religifying (rationalizing with a religious reason) her decisions not to allow me to do this or that thing.  I remember resenting that.  Yet I ended up doing the same things with my children. 

The truth is that I (and I expect she before me) did not know how to have fun, was not allowed to have fun, and was taught that amusing oneself - or even having free time - was somehow "wrong" or "sinful."  As a result I spent much of my growing-up years feeling like I was alone even though there were people all around me.

I didn't know how to make friends.  As a result, I didn't have any.  

Those who paid attention to me did so to make me the brunt of a cruel joke they could brag about to their friends later on, and they loved it when their actions made me cry - which I invariably did - and then they would point and laugh at me.  (This is a major reason why I absolutely DETEST practical jokes.)  I had a well-developed case of demophobia - fear of crowds.  If in a crowd I had to be apart - and/or close to an exit so that I could beat a hasty retreat in case the cold fingers of panic squeezed my throat and made it impossible to breathe normally.  

So when I started to recover from the hurts of the past, discover the roots of those hurts and deal with my feelings which were "stuck" inside that little girl, and then start to parent her and grow up inside, one of the things that I had to learn how to do was to lighten up and have a little fun.  

You know, it was (and is) really hard to get out of old habits and try new things.  I had to become willing to work on this; and yes, I had to pray for the willingness and to examine my reasons for not wanting to go there in the first place.  My reasons had a lot to do with my own opinion of myself.  So the first step in the process was admitting to myself that I was worth taking time for.  A lot of my reticence to participate in things was the belief that was drilled into me every day of my life until I was 20 and left my birth family (a belief I carried with me until I was well into my 40s) - that I was not good enough the way I was, that nobody would want to spend time with me, that all I was good for was this or that, and nothing else, and why would I even want to be liked - it was so vain of me!  

The antidote to those lies was truth.  That I was good enough.  That people could like me for who I was.  That I had something to contribute.  That I didn't have to change to be what someone else wanted me to be. That I didn't have to fix people's problems for them.  That I could feel what I felt and not have to apologize for having those feelings.  As I spoke truth into the heart of that little girl and she started (over time) to respond and peek out from behind the closet door... I was given opportunities to start to have fun.  I learned what was fun for me and what wasn't.  

And slowly - ever so slowly - my world started to expand.  My circle of friends started to get bigger; at one point I only had a very select few.  There are more now.  I even went to an office "offsite" summer gathering recently that happens every year - I've worked at this particular job since March 2008, so I have had four opportunities to go, and this was the first time I even showed up (before, I would stay at the office and work while the others were out having fun.)  I went; I stayed for the catered meal, participated in one activity before and during the meal - and when my skin started to crawl after the meal was done and people were milling about (the demophobia kicking in - it's a bit better than it was a couple of years ago), I left.  It was a little victory for me.

I'm far from being the life of the party.  But as I have healed inside, I find that I can connect with people better, and socialize for short periods of time without pushing the red button - the one where I am convinced that I am in danger, and I panic, feel suffocated, and have to get out.  I can see it coming and extricate myself graciously now, before becoming overwhelmed.

And I can actually enjoy some of the things I thought i would never enjoy - ever. Bantering with people.  Visiting with someone.  Mingling with folks in the foyer of the church (for short periods only at this point).  Going to a BBQ or a church picnic.  Before, these things were activities to be avoided, endured at best.  Now I can actually enjoy even the simple pleasure of running into a friend at a department store and chatting for a few minutes, making plans to spend more time together later, that kind of thing.

When I think about how things used to be, how isolated I was, how lonely I was sitting around "being right" - it boggles my mind that God has brought me this far ... that I can actually look on my facebook wall and see that I have over 100 friends, that I can walk into a store without dreading it, that I can laugh and mean it, that I can set boundaries without feeling guilty, that people brighten up when they see me coming toward them (wow, what a trip!), and that I am - more often than not - happy. 

It's a miracle. Plain and simple.

Be Yourself

"Be yourself. Everyone else is already taken."
- - Oscar Wilde

The injunction to "be yourself" used to frustrate me so much. The struggle to be authentic just didn't work for me - I was always changing to suit the person I was with, a real chameleon. It took me a long time to figure out why I just couldn't "be myself."

I didn't know who "me" really was. I'd never gotten to know myself, I was taught never to trust myself, and certainly didn't like myself (at least the self I thought I was). The person I had become was someone who survived an abusive past, had to adopt certain coping mechanisms to survive that intact, and retained those coping mechanisms, using them on others in my life when those behaviors were no longer necessary. It's in a small way the same process that soldiers go through after witnessing atrocities overseas and being afraid for their lives while in a war zone, and then returning home where it's safe. But they are still on "red alert." Never able to shut the warning bells off, they lose the joy they used to have in their social, family, and recreational pursuits.

With me, my childhood was such that I felt that I needed to control something - anything - anyone - to give myself a sense of balance. But even when I got what I wanted (and I did at times) the victory was a hollow one. More times than not, it drove people away, made them not want to hang around me. I needed so intensely that people were scared away by it. I opened myself up to people too quickly, too deeply - and they accused me of playing the victim. But it got me attention, and I ate that up. I did the same thing with my husband - controlled him by manipulating, guilting him into doing things for me. He loved me, and he did things for me anyway because he loved me, but there were times that I am sure he wished I would just grow up and "get it."

And then when I had children, I tried to control them too. It was okay at first because they were little and they didn't know any better. But as they got older, they started to resent my controlling ways. By that time I was hopelessly addicted to it and couldn't have stopped it even if I had tried. I had to control what they said, did, watched, listened to, thought and believed. At the same time I was dealing with a husband who had become an alcoholic without my permission. I tried to control him and he just drank more. When I confronted him, he was contrite and then went and drank behind my back and then lied about it. I did all the wrong things: I poured the stuff down the sink, threatened to leave, yelled, withheld sex, gave him the silent treatment, and complained about him to the children. They loved him - and they seemed to hate me. I was so confused and upset. I wanted everyone to be happy and of course they couldn't be happy unless and until they were like me. (Oh really? was I happy??)

When I hit my lowest point in December 2008, and realized that I needed help to be able to "help my husband" with his drinking problem - I found a family counselor who "clicked" with me. I believe God brought that relationship into being when the time was right.

I distinctly remember sitting in my counselor's office, early in the process, and him telling me that along the way, in looking after everyone else in my life, I had lost myself and that I needed to find me again. I broke - shattered into scores of confused pieces inside. "I don't even know who that person is!" I sobbed. "And I am SO afraid that even if I find out who she is, I won't like her!"

Truth about myself began inside of me on that day. That was the beginning of my healing process, my recovery from that obsessional mind-set, that need to control. I did start to find myself finally - and to my surprise I discovered that I actually was (and am) starting to like that person.

Who knew?

I needed to control, for all those years, because I hurt so much. Over the course of the following year in this process of inner healing, I learned how to let God enter those wounds, to let Him have those hurts and take them away. Once I didn't hurt anymore, I didn't need to control people anymore. I learned to "lighten up." My kids noticed the change, and they started to like me for the first time since they were very young. And my husband - well, I'll just say that a month ago he celebrated 18 months of sobriety, on his own journey of recovery that has somewhat mirrored my own...

And the best part is, I didn't have anything to do with it. YAY GOD!!

The Hardest One to Forgive

I thought I was finished my list of people I had to forgive, people who hurt me.

In His usual gentle but persistent way, God brought me back to the list. "You forgot someone."

Forgot - who? I wondered.

"YOU."

Uh-ohhhhh. This was going to be a rough one. One of my favorite exercises was self-punishment. Even in front of people I would make disparaging comments about myself, my size, my looks, my habits. I didn't know how to take a compliment. "Oh this old thing? I paid $2.95 for it at Repeats." Or worse yet, I'd spiritualize my self-deprecation when someone complimented my singing voice - I'd totally take the wind out of their sails and slap their compliment in the face by saying, "Well, praise the Lord." (I've since learned to smile brightly and say "Thank you!" and mean it.)

I had taken to putting myself last. Always. Go to the department store, get something for everyone else but nothing for me. I didn't deserve anything. It wasn't like I didn't have the money either. It was that I just wanted to get in the store and out of it before someone noticed me. Time after time I would duck into an aisle to get out of someone's way, feeling like they were breathing down my neck, or wanting to get past me but couldn't because I was so fat. I remember going once to this one store, finding only something that I liked and wanted, but nothing on anyone else's wish list. So instead of making someone else stand behind me at the checkout just for my stuff, I put the thing back where I got it and walked out of the store.

I thought I was this horrible person because I acted the way I did toward people who mattered to me. Had to be right ALL the time. Had to win EVERY argument. Had to show off how much I knew. Had to make sure that my story of suffering was worse than anyone else's. If they had a cut on their knee I would show them the scar I had on mine from the 13 stitches I had when I was two years old...that kind of thing. Had to judge everyone's words, actions, beliefs, thoughts. My temper tantrums - well, the kids just avoided getting me angry because nobody wanted to be around that. My freak-fests: snooping around the house looking for secret stash, crawling around the bushes and under the deck outside, rummaging through all the cubby holes in the trunk of the car, under the seat.

Everything I did was fear-based. Even the fits of temper. Fear of rejection, fear of abandonment, fear of anger. Fear of being wrong. Fear of being seen as stupid.

But as I looked at the things I did to hurt myself before getting into recovery, and then after I got into recovery, to sabotage it, I realized that I had never forgiven myself for having to go through what I did, for having to do what I felt I had to do to survive my childhood (I say survive, not go through; I was never allowed to be a child). I blamed myself for my own abuse. Huh. The sense of shame was hidden by several layers of "That didn't hurt" and "I'm warning you - don't corner me" - but it ran deep. It was very closely tied to that frightened, lonely little girl I talked about in "Beautiful" - the one who didn't at all believe she was worth anything.

My counselor explained to me that guilt and shame are two different things and that the first can be good while the second never is.

Guilt is feeling bad for what we've DONE. Shame is feeling bad for who we ARE.

It took a few weeks of constant digging and bringing to the surface all the ways I was hurting myself. I kept trying to wriggle away from it. Sometimes these self-defeating behaviors and attitudes resurface - they are that deeply ingrained. However, they are better than they were. I'm constantly learning of new ways to let go of the lies I was told, the lies I told myself after having been told them so long I believed them.

And I keep telling that little girl that she is something really very special, that she has a great purpose in life and she is only beginning to tap her potential. It's slow, but she's starting to believe me. One day at a time, she is starting to stop hiding in the closet.

At least now, if I see something I like in a store, and I want to get it, and I have the cash, I can allow myself that luxury.

It's a start.

Pathway to Happiness - Getting out the Broom

The list I made of people that hurt me, the one that also listed what part I played in my own demise, called to me.

There was unfinished business. I'd asked God to remove the defects of character that led me to treat people the way I had, to react the way I did. But those people were still out there. With some people, I was already prepared to ask forgiveness for my behavior and attitudes. And in some cases, it was much harder. For these people, it was more difficult because I had to get past the "but they hurt me first" hurdle. I had to become willing - and this was not in my own strength but as a direct result of my prayer for God to remove my character defects - to not only ask forgiveness of these people but begin to treat them differently: with respect rather than with contempt. That was a tall order in some cases. I had to let go and trust that God would bring me to that place. I've never been a big fan of "fake it til you make it" theology. This had to be real or it wasn't going to happen.

My journal helped me keep track of all of this as it unfolded. Slowly, the list of people to whom I knew I had to make amends, started to have little check marks beside them. As I went on I knew - for the most part - who I could approach and who I couldn't. Not primarily because I was scared, (okay, well, the whole thing scared me - I've always hated confrontation even if it's not about me!) but also because of their own fragility and poor self-image. With these people, it was enough just to begin to see them differently, to treat them with more respect and kindness. However, the times I refrained from apology were few and far between; usually God would (I was going to say hound) keep gently reminding me of this person or that person on the list.

My kids were on the list too. I remember what happened as I sincerely apologized to my oldest (who was near the top of the list). She took the brunt of a lot of my "stuff" in her growing-up years. Now she was 20 years old. She listened carefully to me. And she forgave me - no holds barred. We talked for a long time after that, heart to heart ... Finally she said with tears in her eyes, "Wow, Mom. That really means a LOT. I'm so glad you came to me and we could talk like this - it all makes sense now!"

As I took that step of going to people individually and apologizing for specific things and general attitudes, there was a feeling of vulnerability in me; it became so strong that I could almost touch it. But as people I loved forgave me freely, one after another, there was a growing sense of freedom as well, and - yes, I'll say it - happiness. There was an inner lightness, a delight to which I was not accustomed.

I was curious about the feeling of vulnerability, until I realized something - again from the story of Lazarus. Once the wrappings started to come off, guess what was underneath? He was naked under there! So here he is, still stinking of the slime from the mummy-wrappings (I'll leave that to your imagination; if you've ever watched a crime scene investigation show on TV then you'll know what I'm thinking). He's standing there totally naked, in front of friends and family. Someone else has to give him their cloak probably - (and believe me, they won't want it back!!) to cover his nakedness. He'll have to spend 7 days purifying himself of the filth because that is what a practicing Jew did if he even touched a dead body. He WAS a dead body.

So I learned to live with that feeling; it was a sensation of being exposed for what in many cases was the first time. It meant the wrappings were loosening and coming off.

That feeling of happiness was worth my new-found transparency - and discomfort.

Whenever I'm tempted to hold onto or grab back some of those resentments and dance with them - and I am tempted because I lived like that for so long that it's familiar, even comfortable, I inevitably feel the maggots start to gnaw at me again. So to avoid that return to the limiting, one-sided, narrow-minded and dogmatic prison I was in, I TRY to remember the smell of death. I TRY to remember the wrappings. The bondage. The pain I put people through. And I TRY to remember the new depths of relationship to which God has brought me and the promise of even deeper intimacy with Him.

Do I really want to sacrifice that freedom ... to go back to the tomb ?

God wasn't finished, however. There was even more.

Pathway to Happiness

I was sharing with someone today about the last couple of years and how my life has changed radically in that time frame.

I remember saying something like, "My kids, and others who know me really well, would tell you. My kids are still saying every so often, 'What's with Mom? how come she's not freaking out?' The biggest thing about this is that I've learned to step back and let people be who they are. That is so freeing!"

It sounds so weird when I say it like that. "Let people be who they are." But for many years I couldn't do this one seemingly simple thing. I couldn't stop trying to change people, especially (but not exclusively) people I loved. I felt threatened by anything they did, anything they thought or believed, anything they said, that was not what I would do, say, think, or believe. I couldn't carry on a civil conversation with someone whose views I didn't agree with. I was all about making them be who I was.

Which is kind of sad, really. Who I was at the time wasn't anyone even I liked. Why did I ever want more people like me running around manipulating, guilting, feeling responsible for, and trying to control everyone's "bad" behavior?? Yikes!!

Once I got into a healing process, one of the first things I had to learn to do was let go. Let go of my need to be involved in the little details and nuances of people's lives, heartaches, interpersonal and/or private troubles. And I would indiscreetly share my own troubles with others who might use that information as a weapon against me. I was constantly, as one of my friends puts it, getting up other people's noses. I had to learn what was my responsibility and what wasn't.

One of the things I learned was that it was okay for people to have their own opinions - even if they weren't the same as mine. (After all, my opinions were the only right ones!) This was based on a false assumption, one whose antidote I learned much later : just because they had a differing opinion than mine didn't mean they weren't out to change my opinion - at least not the way I wanted to change theirs. I'd turn any opinion I had into some sort of doctrine, never to be questioned. I didn't like a TV show - okay, I found a way to Christianize my reason. My REAL reason was - I didn't like it. Because I didn't like it, I didn't want anyone else to watch it.

For another BIG example, anyone who didn't believe in God, who belonged to a different religious organization, or who even had doubts ... well!! That person threatened my world. I became indignant and when I did, it turned them off (of course) and then they'd clam up and perhaps never bring anything like that up to me again. There went a lost opportunity to open a dialogue and listen to someone else's heart for a change. But I never saw it like that. My logic was that my faith was such an integral part of me that when they disrespected the object of my faith, they were disrespecting me. How blind I was.

This type of thing caused more hurt feelings, fights, and scream-fests than any other in my home, between me and my daughters. I nit-picked about the TV shows they watched because they were "of the devil." I forbade them to watch certain types of movies or listen to certain types of music for the same reason. "Oh, this movie is so New Age." Or, "You see how they portray the father in that show? like he's a flaming idiot - way to foster disrespect for the head of the home - no wonder kids don't respect authority and mouth off at their parents ..." Or, "You know how demonic those lyrics are..."

I was pretty much "anti-everything." The result was that my kids tuned me out, shut me out, and nearly turned away from God - because of me. One of them coined the term, "Christianazi" - because of me. And they held resentments against me for years because of these things that made them feel like freaks when they were talking with their friends -- and couldn't participate in conversations about this episode of this or that movie they weren't allowed to watch. If they had a personal problem, they refused to come to me, knowing they'd get either judgment for feeling the way they did, or I'd get all "Judy to the rescue" on them, or I'd get indignant against one of their friends, and want to make a big issue of it...when all they needed was a listening ear.

But then I got so desperate for help that I was willing to do ANYTHING to stop being so incredibly angry, fearful, and sad all the time. And God made it possible for me to find exactly the type of counselor I needed, one who had been where I was and who also was a Christian, to show me the way out.

So when I got into recovery from my insatiable obsession with controlling everyone's every move and rescuing them from the consequences of their own actions, something changed fundamentally in me. There was a paradigm shift, as the psychologists say. A new way of looking at the world. I was introduced to the idea that I was powerless over other people, and that in tryng to control them, I'd lost myself - and not in a good way. I was lonely, scared, and so very unhappy.

Now... I'm not. There was indeed a way out. I discovered the roots of my unutterably abysmal behavior in my childhood - and it was a slow, difficult process to rid myself of those scars and learn to look after myself instead of focusing on everyone else around me. And I needed help to do it - help which God gladly provided by an amazing set of circumstances. It wasn't easy to work through those things and learn the path of acceptance and forgiveness, to find out who I was and what God was really like, how much He really loved me. But as I did, I literally could feel the tightly-woven mummy wrappings loosen from me. I could move a little more freely. My relationships started changing: first with myself, then with God (I'm being honest here...) and lastly with the people in my life. They all kind of changed together, but the first in the healing stream was me, then me and God, then me and others.

And one day a few months ago, I looked around me and the emotional and spiritual landscape had changed from what had been a laborious, rocky vale of tears and strife - to a peaceful mountainside pass beside an artesian well, accompanied with the songs of birds and a cool summer breeze.

I was happy. Not just once in a while and for short periods, but most of the time. This was a new experience for me ... and I liked it.

I still do.

Just Daddy and me

I love to watch babies interact with their dads. There is an openness, an inner delight, that each gets from the encounter. It touches something deep in my spirit. I must admit that there have been times - not lately of course - when I've been in church and have listened more to the sermon being preached from the pew ahead of me where a father and his baby were interacting, than the sermon being preached by the minister. There is a unique love-language, a special bond, between dads and their infants. What a privilege it is to witness it! It's relationship. Relationship based on total love (provision, protection, nurture, attentiveness) on one side, and total trust (helplessness, dependency, expectancy) on the other.

That's a model for relationship with God. It's why Jesus said we had to become like little children. LITTLE children. Babes in arms. Totally honest and open before our Father. Exploring Him, looking only to Him, gazing into His eyes.

What a wonderful way to show us what He is like, what we are like when we are dependent on Him. No wonder He loves it when we trust Him. It's why He created us.

Today

A few minutes ago I was thinking of a song I learned as a child.

Today, while the blossoms still cling to the vine,
I'll taste your strawberries, I'll drink your sweet wine...
A million tomorrows shall all pass away
'ere I forget all the joy that is mine - today. (Randy Sparks - sung by John Denver)

The song itself is about not caring what tomorrow brings, just living in the pleasure of the moment. Many people would find that offensive. Even sinful.

I think there is wisdom in living each day as it comes. That way, without regrets about the past and worry about the future, there is only today - enough strength, enough wisdom, enough courage for this one day, dispensed as we need it. Another song that comes to my mind says,
We have this moment to hold in our hand and to touch
as it slips through our fingers like sand -
Yesterday's gone and tomorrow may never come,
but we have this moment, today. (Gaither Vocal Band)

I spent decades filled with regret over the things in the past I could do nothing about - things which happened to me without my consent, and some of which I had a part in creating. I spent the same time worrying about tomorrow, worrying about what people thought of me, what they meant by what they said to me, whether I would ever have any real friends. I wasted that much energy - in remorse, in anxiety - that I didn't have enough energy for the 24-hour period I was experiencing. When I first started to rid myself of the chains of the past and start living in today, it was uncomfortable because it was so new. However, as I continued, I noticed that my enjoyment of the moment was enhanced, I had more energy to handle the things that were happening now - and I was happier. Go figure.

It's a powerful word - the word "now."
It's where God, who is eternal, lives.