Conversation With My Son

My boys have been asking questions since they learned to communicate. Most of the questions involved whether they could have a certain food but occasionally there would be a question about my childhood. Questions centered around my favorite TV show as a kid, music, or school.  As they have gotten older, some of the questions have changed, expect the ones about food.  

Over the summer my son and I were off by ourselves running errands. As we were getting back into the car after one stop, he asked me a question that threw me off balance.

“What is the worst thing that happened to you as a child?” 

Time stood still for a moment. I had a choice to make and needed to make it quickly. I could either give a rather benign answer (my parent’s divorce, moving away from my friends, etc), or I could give him the more honest answer. 

I had never told my boys I was abused. I have always considered them too young. As their mother, I wanted to keep the knowledge of real monsters away. My oldest just turned 13. 

There are several members of my family who are unaware of my abuse. In some cases, they just do not need to know.  Some I just simply do not trust. I either do not trust them to believe me or handle the information with grace. I imagine them chalking up character flaws to the abuse, using it to explain who I am.  Yes, I am basing my lack of trust on what I imagine they are thinking. It may seem ridiculous, but if we are honest with ourselves, we all do that. 

The biggest trust issue with sharing any part of my story is confidentiality. I want to control where the information is going. 

I always figured my sons would be at least 20 years old before I ever said anything. As they approached middle school, I considered sharing a little after “the talk” to drive in the concept of consent. The moment was now upon me. I chose to tell my 13-year-old the truth.

“I was abused as a child.” 

“No you weren’t,” was his reply.

“I actually was. Why do you think I wasn’t?”

“Because, you do not act like it.” 

After I assured him I was not abused by anyone he is related to or even knows, the conversation steered towards how an abused person behaves. He essentially was basing his information on what he had heard from a friend about a 6 year old. I did explain to him abused people are not crazy but need help. I advised not to jump to conclusions about anyone who has been abused. There were a few moments of silence and then the conversation turned benign. 

Later the day, when I was alone, I considered the conversation. 

If my son had asked the question of the person I was a few years ago, regardless of his age, how would have I answered? Would I have given the same simple answer? Or would I have given a lesser answer? 

Up until around 3 years ago, my level of recovery was superficial. I was wrapped up in the shame of the abuse. I considered myself less valuable because of it. I would not want my son to know I was less than human. I would have fought to make sure my kids did not think I was crazy. The hard work over the last 3 years has changed my answer to his question. 

Due to the grace of God, help from my counselor, support circle of friends and family, and pastors, I now know I am not crazy, flawed, or less than human. I am valuable and have the confidence to be honest with my son. 

My son thought abuse victims are crazy and we talked about how they are not. Now, with my simple confession, he knows it is possible to be abused and be fairly normal. Somewhere along the road it is possible my son will realize his mother was abused and yet made it through, fought the good fight, and turned out okay. 

Chip On My Shoulder

In the past 90 days I have collected 4 chips, all from Alcoholics Anonymous.  Every alcoholic’s story is different and not all involve several DUIs, trips to jail, losing jobs, or family.  Mine involved my daily decision making and I decided to give it up before drinking lead me to one of the above.  I only mention this because giving up alcohol has made facing my recovery that much more difficult.

Over a year ago I “voluntarily” admitted myself to a behavioral health center to get help with abusing my anxiety medications and cutting.  These medications were removed from my regimen and I have not taken them since.  I considered not telling my new psychiatrist about the medication abuse in order to have the anxiety pills prescribed again.  It was a short-lived internal debate. He had my discharge papers from the hospital.  I have had to ride out the anxiety since then, which is not all that much fun.

I did not stop drinking when I stopped the pills. I did not see it as a problem, even though I was mixing pills with the alcohol.  I decided alcohol was controllable and I did not drink that often anyway.  With the loss of anxiety medication, the drinking picked up.  A lot of my writing has taken place with a glass of vodka right next to me.  On occasion I have met with my therapist and support group just after consuming a drink, just to take the edge off, to numb reality enough to avoid being crushed by it.  

To recap, I am off anxiety medications and alcohol.  Where does this leave me? Smack in the middle of reality with no way to escape and experiencing “white knuckling” when I feel like I could just explode. There is not a clear way to distinguish the good and bad of this new lifestyle and I can argue both sides.

I am no longer depending on alcohol or medication abuse to help get me through the rough spots.  The buffer is gone. Everything I have used in the past to keep myself sane has disappeared.  Cutting is no longer satisfying.  I tried it after giving up alcohol and its effect was minimal.  I considered upping the severity, but eventually decided against it. I did not want to have to explain it to anyone.

The upside of all this is the same.  I can no longer numb myself or keep a buffer zone between myself and all that emotion and truth I need to get through.  Logically I can rationalize the benefits.  The possibility of having a life unconsumed by the abuse and its effects surrounds brings hope in face of soberly tackling the mess the abuse left behind.  However, the thought of digging through all this mess head on, without chemical help, also brings nausea and fear.  There are moments it all feels like a lose-lose situation.

Not drinking has affected my desire to write for the same reason above.  I will feel the full impact of the emotions and memories I post here.  For the last 90 days it seemed easier to keep the laptop off.  

Recently, I wrote out another portion of my story for a support group, first time I have ever done this totally sober.  It was painful, simply because I felt it this time.  There was not my comfortable level of detachment.  In the past I had written out parts of my story in one sitting, maybe taking an hour.   This time around it took nearly the entire week.  I would get a section down and have to stop.  I wrote some of it in a public place, which is a cheap form of putting distance between myself and the words on the paper.  I have a strict rule about making an emotional scene in public.  I barely do it in counseling or in private.  My nerves of steel were now spasming and I was amped up on emotion.  If I had to paint a picture of what life was like that week, leading up to the time I had finished reading my story, it would be of a squirrel in the middle of the road with a car coming at it.  I could not make up my mind which direction to go.  It was like I did not have time to think rationally, and I wasn’t. I experienced my first episode of “white knuckling” and hated every second of it.

Approximately an hour after I finished reading the story and the next member told theirs, I felt better in the sense I was no longer rocking back and forth in my seat.  I was exhausted and I was emotionally exhausted well into the next day.  However, I had done it.  I faced my story head on, as nerve-racking as it had been.  I am certainly not saying I will be able to handle my recovery in stride and with grace, but I at least know I have done it once, and the first time is always the hardest, right?

Serenity Prayer

God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. 

I have to be honest, I have grown weary of this prayer. 

The serenity prayer was written by American theologian Reinhold Niebuhr. Its earliest recorded reference to the prayer is in a diary entry in 1932. In early 1942 it was noticed by Bill W. In AA in an obituary and grew in popularity with the organization and several others over the years. 

For years I have been hearing this prayer quoted in all types of circumstances. Every recovery program I have been involved with used this. It is quoted to give comfort to those who are hurting and those needing encouragement. It has become a standard poem for people searching for something to say in uncomfortable grief moments. I have seen it printed on mugs, wall hangings, pendants, blankets, coasters, cards, journals, and countless other items. In my opinion, it is overused. 

How much comfort can one get from an overused prayer? If it is so repetitious and can be quoted from memory, how does the meaning get across? How much comfort does it really provide? Maybe my problem is I have heard it so many times I have forgotten what it can mean for those needing comfort, including myself. 

God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change:  This is a major hang up for me. I feel the need to be in control of most things and I am always hesitant to admit I am powerless in a situation. I cannot change people. I cannot change my past. I cannot change the fact I was sexually abused. I cannot change the fact I have an addiction. I cannot make God fit into my plan. God has always had a plan for my life and so much of it is unknown. I have to be okay and comforted by this. I cannot change God, but he can change me. 

To change the things I can: Accepting what I can change is difficult also. To change anything about myself is to admit I am not fine the way I am. For the most part, the only thing I can change, with God’s help, is myself. There has to be a different future based on choices I make. Healing from the abuse is part of my future. By taking the steps forward I have no option but to change; the changes are a choice.

If any of you lacks wisdom, you should ask God, who gives generously to all without finding fault, and it will be given to you. James 1:5

Wisdom to know the difference: This is where it gets tricky. Wisdom can all be linked to control. I have to take a step back and allow logic to make a decision rather than emotion. The wisdom is in the pause, a pause I fail to take more often than I would like. I can learn to take a breath before reacting but cannot do it regularly without divine help. How does this wisdom come about? Prayer and meditation in God’s word. By consistently being in God’s word and regular prayer, the pause will become more of the norm, second nature if you will. There will be times, of course, my knee-jerk reaction will kick in and the wisdom will come afterward. It’s human nature. It takes a divine nature to interrupt foolishness and gather wisdom. 

The Serenity Prayer could be an irritation because I see a truth in it I am unwilling to face. 

Nightmare Revisited

Nightmares are inescapable and a part of everyone’s life. Some happen while we are sleeping and others are happening right in front of you. As survivors of sexual abuse we have experienced both.

Not all of my nightmares have been driven by the abuse. A horror or disturbing movie will cause them for me. I have been known to watch a Disney movie after a movie or show has left me uneasy and unable to sleep. With the deeper work through recovery, the more frequent the nightmares became. Several nights I woke my husband up screaming. I did not always remember all the details but always the feelings of fear, sadness, anxiety, and helplessness. Most mornings I was exhausted and my entire day was off.

I am not sure what was different about today, but I recalled a nightmare I had years ago, when I was sixteen and had just started therapy for the abuse. It stuck with me for years but I have not thought about for at least 15 years. There are not a lot of details but the ones I recall still bother me.

It started in circular all-white room. I was barefoot, wearing a pair of shorts and a pink shirt. If I had to guess my age, I was in my teens. The room was cold. Slowly the room started to darken. I was in the center and a dark blue haze was forming around the sides of the room. I was surrounded by the haze with just a tad bit of light coming from the ceiling. My feet were cold on the still white floor. I was anxious, confused, and frightened of the haze. Eventually I could no longer see the sides of the room through the haze. As far as I could tell, there was no way out. I began to fear suffocation. An arm with an outstretched hand materialized only inches in front of my face. There was no noise, just the arm. More started to appear and as I turned around I realized I was surrounded. My breaths became shallow and I lowered myself into a crouching position with my arms hiding my head. The hands never touched me and there was only the noise of my panicked breathing. I started to shiver from the cold and fear. There was the sensation of the blue haze closing in on my, making my spot of light smaller and smaller. At this point I either woke up or just do not remember if anything happened next.

This nightmare bothered me for years and I never understood why I could not shake it. Details of other bad dreams disappeared when my eyes opened; this one stayed. In fact, it shook me so much that every time a room was suddenly cast into darkness from a power outage or the lights were simply dimmed I would be taken back to the above nightmare. There were a few uncomfortable moments my senior year of high school when the power went out and I started crying in the dark. I lived in a very windy area and power outages were frequent. Eventually I learned to keep the panic and tears inside.

Dream interpretation is not something I have looked into. I do not believe any dream can be explained in its entirety. I looked at this nightmare as just that, a horrible dream as a result of the sexual abuse. The circular room without doors was my being trapped, helpless against the abuse. The blue haze everything I could not remember and the hands were those of my abusers, reaching to hurt me. I often thought some of the hands represented the doctors who treated me for numerous urinary tract infections or any abuse-related problem. There was a day an invasive test was done in order to diagnosis the recurrent infections. I was four and fought the doctors and nurses with all I had, which resulted in them restraining me with a sheet tied around a board. No one picked up on the sexual abuse. There was no escape from the room in my dream; I did not see a way out. It ended with me in a crouching position being overtaken by the haze.

As mentioned, today triggered the memory of the nightmare. I could track down the specific cause of the trigger, if I felt it necessary. As the day wore on I started to wonder if I was misinterpreting the dream.

The nightmare occurred at the start of treatment of the abuse, not before I started to remember and not in the middle of recovery. What if the white circular room represented the small world I created outside of the abuse? I hid it for so long and presented myself as the “good girl.” Everything was shiny and white and unblemished. The blue haze still could represent the memories still to be recovered, memories I have always been frightened of. The shiny world was becoming hazy. Instead of the outstretched arms and hands representing those who hurt me, what if they represented the memories and emotions I needed to grasp to clear the room? In the dream the hands never touched me; they were just there, surrounding me. What would have happened if I had touched one of them? Becoming smaller and trying to hide at the end of the dream could simply be my unwillingness to take these hands and discover the truth about my sexual abuse. The haze was surrounding me and closing in on me because there was no turning back. Once the door is opened and healing starts it cannot be stopped. It can be suffocating and terrifying. I have often felt like I was drowning in memories, emotions, and depression.

All the dream interpretation above could just be a load of bull. I could just be reading into something that has absolutely no meaning and has nothing to do with my abuse. My perspective on the dream has changed however. I have taken it from a nightmare to a dream representing the beginning of recovery.

The sixteen-year-old girl has grown up and her life is different. What was initially seen as a nightmare full of things wanting to hurt her has shifted into a dream representing what needs to be embraced and processed. Still just as frightening, but now representing a plan of healing.

My heart continues to skip a beat when a room suddenly becomes covered in darkness. I considered myself crazy because I reacted like a scared little girl when it happened. Honestly, who isn’t taken aback when the light disappears, even for a minute. It is unsettling but it does not have to be a huge deal; it can be a temporary inconvenience.

Getting caught up in the negative and nightmares of abuse is so easy we often do not feel it happening. It feels natural to take up residence in the hopelessness and see the world through a negative blue haze. Perspective is seemingly forever tainted by the abuse. Taking one step forward, however how small, we can clear our vision and see hope.

Addictions

It has come to my attention that I have an addictive personality. At least in my mind. I have drifted into one physical addiction after another. It started with sex and pornography, transitioned to anxiety medications, and I have recently had to admit I am an alcoholic.

With guilt, therapy, and a lot of journaling I managed to get past the sex/pornography addiction. It is still tempting, especially when I am having a difficult time having sex with my husband. I used it for “inspiration.” When I could not have sex with him without looking at pornography online I had fought harder to stop. I also was made to realize most of women in the clips and movies were being used and I felt like I was using them also, which resembled abuse.

The anxiety medication was an easy addiction to fall into. I was taking more than prescribed. I enjoyed the feeling of calm they provided. Nothing bothered me and I could handle just about every situation without losing my temper. They were fabulous. I started to abuse them, mixing them with alcohol. I hit a really difficult part of abuse recovery and I was suicidal. The pills and alcohol became a source of self-abuse. I was not actively trying to end my life but if the pills and alcohol happened to kill me, I was okay with it. This way of thinking landed me in a hospital at the hands of a mini-intervention by my therapist and husband. I acknowledged my addiction the anxiety medication but did not see the alcohol as a problem. That was a little over a year ago.

Over the last month or so a voice inside has been telling me I have a problem with alcohol. I dismissed it for as long as I could. Alcohol was an option and I was not dependent on it, according to the little voice with horns. I did not drink every day and felt okay about it when I did drink. I told myself I deserved a drink because of a bad day or because my stress level was too high.

When I finally mentioned the drinking to my therapist he ever so gently (not really) mentioned I was not supposed to be drinking with my antidepressants. I was strongly encouraged to enlist my husband’s help in quitting and to just not buy anymore. It lasted 2 days. About a week later I was put on an antibiotic. The nurse and pharmacist warned me not to drink alcohol, not even use mouthwash, while on the antibiotic or I would be incredibly sick. In fact, I was told to avoid alcohol for 3 days after finishing it also. I took their word for it and did not have a drop. It was a perfect opportunity to quit completely. Two and a half hours after I finished I had a beer in my hand.

I started to get concerned when I felt myself craving a drink while at work. Granted my coworkers stress me out but I could taste the vodka and looked forward to getting home to drink. Once home I would make sure I did not have to drive anywhere or be some place where my full brain was required. If there was no reason to leave the house, I poured myself a drink in the middle of the afternoon, on an empty stomach to get the full effect.

My therapist again pushed me to tell my husband and get his help. This meant I had to tell my husband I believed I may have a drinking problem. I asked him to hold me accountable and help me. He asked if he needed to pour out the vodka and anything else I liked to drink in the house. I discouraged him from doing so because I did not want ‘to waste the money” spent on it. Less than 48 hours later I was sneaking it and mixing it into my benign drinks. I even started asking my husband to mix it for me or just bring it to me straight up, which he did. It was official. I am an alcoholic/addict. It also proved that spouses are not the best accountability partners.

In considering anyone I know to become my new accountability partner I thought about AA, a group of people in the same situation and who a had a reputation of accountability and tough love. Now the thought of being vulnerable to essentially complete strangers was terrifying. I am not good at being vulnerable at all, even with my husband. It is a skill I am trying to build; however I am not fond of it. My therapist and a pastor encouraged AA. I started looking up meeting locations.

I thought about a friend I have known for years who was posting updates on his sobriety journey. He has reached the 5 year mark. I sent him a message asking for suggestions for possible meetings. He immediately responded with, “There is a good one tonight at 8.” My first instinct was to decline. I was not ready to jump in just yet. Also, I was already in my pajamas (5:30 pm). The annoying soft voice insisted I give it a try. I got dressed and went to the meeting.

The experience was overwhelming. Everyone, I mean everyone, was friendly and welcoming. They were also huggers. I was totally out of my comfort zone simply because it was a large group of friendly people and I sometimes hesitate to hug people I do know. I was the only newcomer at the meeting and received more attention than I wanted. I politely refused to go up front and receive my first “chip.”

As nerve racking the experience was, there were positives. The friendly, nonjudgmental environment was encouraging. I was actually instructed to just listen to others speak and take it in. There was no pressure (minus the chip incident) to participate. All the members seemed to understand my anxiety and tried to make me feel at ease with my decision to attend. The more stories I heard, the more I realized I was headed in the right direction.

Hermit Mode

Admittedly I have become a hermit. If it were not for Facebook, I would have completely

disappeared. I was not exactly aware I was isolating myself until the other day.

I have kept in touch via text and email, but leaving the house, outside of work, has been a struggle. Excuse after excuse has been uttered by me to get out of going anywhere outside of daily function. Even the grocery store has been a chore. Some of my reasons have been legitimate but some of them were just a flimsy excuse to stay home. 

The last few weeks I have had to drag myself out of bed to wake the kids up for school. They go to different schools with different start times. I would get one up and then go back to bed until time to wake up the others. Once they were dressed and ready I would crawl back into bed until I absolutely had to get up and go to work. Once home I would perform minimal tasks to keep the house running and would retreat to my room for the evening under the guise of working. I did work some but not nearly as much as I should have. 

It had been a month since I had seen my therapist, mostly due to travel and medical issues. I was not desperate to see him and I considered myself in good shape. I blamed the dragging and isolation on a busy month and a desire to rest. When I went to my next therapy appointment I started to give my counselor a brief description of life since my last visit. As it turns out, I’m depressed. 

I did not see it coming. I did not want to see it coming. It all started to add however. My writing had slowed to almost a stop; nothing was completed. Was it because I was dodging facing whatever was making me tired and withdrawn? Yes. I convinced myself I was just taking a mini break or that I did not have anything to journal or contribute to recovery. 

The shattering of my denial by my counselor with the depression revelation did not immediately turn me around of course. I thought it would. I wanted it to work like a connection from the past to my future. There are moments when you connect a current reaction or mindset with the instigating factor in the abuse. The “AHA” moment. Once the connection is made, the transition and energy to change is apparent. Steps seem lighter as a sense of progress and growth burn bright in our hearts and minds. 

Pulling back the curtain on my depression was actually more depressing. I do not seem to have the motivation to pull out of it. I am not happy in this place but I feel I have cement shoes. I have made a few baby steps to move back into life. I have lethargically completed small projects around the house and made an effort to hang out with the family, but outside of work, I have not done anything social out of the house for a few weeks. I am not a fan of anyone I work with at the moment, so keeping to myself there has been fairly easy and not at all social. 

This coming weekend I have an event for my sons’ group. The place will be crowded with a lot of people I know with probably an equal amount of people I do not know. There will be a degree of fatigue as we will need to get up early and drive to an all-day function. I am mentally exhausted just writing about it. While I do have the option of not going, disappointing my sons, and feeling guilty, I really need to go. 

Another place I need to go is church this week for mid-week supper and study. I have failed to attend the last few weeks while my family went. I had work I could do from home but it was not critical. Admittedly I enjoyed the quiet in my usually active house. I slept or mindlessly watched TV a lot of the time. 

I will go this week, not out of a desire to leave the house and see friends, but in an effort to turn the depression around a little. I want to prove to myself I can move out of this horrible slump, even just a little at a time. I am hoping the momentum will keep me going and the weekend will be a little easier. From there maybe the fog will start to clear and I can start to understand the underlying cause of this big emotional dip.

Baptism

And Peter said to them, “Repent, and let each of you be baptized in the name of Jesus Christ for the forgiveness of your sins; and you shall receive the gift of the Holy Spirit.” Acts 2:38

Do you ever feel clean, like you have finally washed to sin of your abuser off? I never feel clean, even after all these years. I still feel dirty, a realization that hit me during a Good Friday service in which several people were baptized.

I grew up in churches that did not consider baptism necessary and it was never offered. The doctrine focused on accepting Jesus as our Savior. I was taught baptists believed a person was not saved until baptism. At the age of 7, during vacation bible school, I accepted Jesus as my Savior; and I was baptized at the age of 28.

Therefore we have been buried with Him through baptism into death, in order that as Christ was raised from the dead through the glory of the father, so we too might walk in newness of life. Romans 6:4

My baptism happened out of desire to join my finance’s church. I called the church to ask about becoming a member. A staff pastor and his wife came to my apartment under the assumption I had never given my heart to Christ. I was in my ‘people-pleasing’ mode and went along with it. I was then asked to schedule my baptism to become an official member of the church, which I did.   I can give the year and approximate month of it happened and a few details but I really do not remember much about it. The biggest thing I do remember is the disappointment. My expectations were not met.

I was counting on a cleansing, a washing away of sin, and peace. None of which happened. The pastor did tell me baptism is an act of obedience; however, I did not approach it this way. My approach to baptism was not emotional nor did I consider it an act of obedience; it was corporate; a way to join a church. Looking back on it now, I can see why my expectations were not met; they were wrong to begin with.

A victim of abuse and/or rape will often mention taking several showers or baths to try to feel clean, to get the dirtiness of the act off their physical body. Our body is not what we are trying to clean, it is our hearts and minds. One shower will eliminate physical evidence but never the emotional damage.

Many times I have sat in the Gulf Coast to the level of my shoulders. I wanted to feel the warm water swirl around me. I needed it to wash away how dirty I felt inside. I have stood underneath waterfalls and showerheads for the same reason. There never seems to be enough water to cleanse me. It is not my sin I am wanting to wash off; it is the essence of my abusers. It permeates my skin and there are days I believe it comes through my pores, like the smell of an alcoholic after a night of drinking.

During the Good Friday service I was contemplating of the above and writing out my thoughts. I was wondering why I never felt clean enough though my body had been washed thousands of times since the abuse. I had been baptised with water and I felt no different.

It was at that moment I heard God speak to me. There was just one sentence but I stopped all my questions immediately. “You never felt the blood of Christ wash away your sins,” was the sentence I heard. If possible, you could have heard a pin drop in the silence in my head. There were no more questions, just direction.

And according to the Law, one may almost say, all things are cleansed with blood, and without the shedding of blood there is no forgiveness. Hebrews 9:22

Water has nothing to do with what I really need.

This feeling of uncleanness in my heart is not about my abusers; it is about me. It occurs to me that allowing the blood of Jesus to cleanse is really what I need. When compared with blood, water has no significant weight. I imagine the dirtiness of my heart and soul, and then the blood of Jesus coming over me. All of my sin and the sins of my abusers are washed away, leaving forgiveness and grace.

While I am sure of my salvation and do not deny Jesus as my Savior, this step of accepting Christ’s grace has yet to be made. I cannot tell you why I am holding back, but I do know I am standing in my own way. My heart aches to stop feeling the filth of sin of the abuse, but I cannot let go. I have no doubt I will relinquish what is keeping me from acceptance, I just need to figure out what it is.

Just A Touch

I came across the following section of scripture in the midst of writing a different piece. It did not fit the subject I was investigating but it gave me pause. 

A large crowd followed and pressed around him. And a woman was there who had been subject to bleeding for twelve years. She had suffered a great deal under the care of many doctors and had spent all she had, yet instead of getting better she grew worse. When she heard about Jesus, she came up behind him in the crowd and touched his cloak, because she thought, “If I just touch his clothes, I will be healed.” Immediately her bleeding stopped and she felt in her body that she was freed from her suffering. At once Jesus realized that power had gone out from him. He turned around in the crowd and asked, “Who touched my clothes?” “You see the people crowding against you,” his disciples answered, “and yet you can ask, ‘Who touched me?’ ”But Jesus kept looking around to see who had done it. Then the woman, knowing what had happened to her, came and fell at his feet and, trembling with fear, told him the whole truth. He said to her, “Daughter, your faith has healed you. Go in peace and be freed from your suffering.” Mark 5:24-34

This woman intrigues me and I relate to her. She had been suffering for twelve years not only from the bleeding but from the shame and isolation forced upon her. In the world in which she lived she was already a second-class citizen. With the constant bleeding she was also considered untouchable; no one was allowed to touch her lest they become unclean themselves. 

How often have I felt unclean because of my abuse? It has been longer than twelve years. I have spent days, weeks, months, and years hiding myself due to shame and a feeling of being damaged. I often find it difficult to believe anyone would really love me if they knew the truth. As an abuse victim, I feel there had to be something genetically wrong with me in order to be abused by so many men. I never could put my finger on it but there had to be something that flashed “Abuse Me! I’m not worth saving.” 

There is the doubt about being worthy to be loved and cared for. It seems so much easier to hide real feelings and emotions than let someone in on how much of a train wreck you really feel. No one wants to date a disaster. Early on we learn to pretend everything is okay and keep our dark secrets. We do not want to create trouble and need everything on the surface to look normal. Deep inside we are desperate to find someone to love us, understand us, and heal our hearts. More often than not, we end up spending all our time with people who will take advantage of our weakness and our spirits become more damaged. 

The woman who reached for Jesus’ cloak had not given up. As much as she had been isolated and ostracized in her world, she still had enough fight in her to reach for Jesus. She pushed through obstacles to get to him. It is possible the crowd surrounding Jesus was not familiar with her plight, otherwise she would have been cast aside and never allowed to get close enough to touch him. She was there, however, with a secret contained within that would make her an outcast. This woman had heard of Jesus and made sure she got close enough. 

I want to talk a little about her level of shame. She was unclean by the standards in her time. If she had been bleeding since puberty, no man would be able to marry her. It was forbidden to lie with a woman while she was menstruating. If she started the constant bleeding after marriage, she could be divorced simply because she could not engage in intercourse and produce children. Her circumstances placed a burden on her that would have made it difficult to look anyone in the eye. She had to hide. When Jesus healed the sick he came face to face with them. The woman was desperate and afraid, so she came up behind and touched Jesus’ cloak. 

Why do I hide from the healing power of Jesus? Like the woman in the scripture, my affliction was not my doing. I did nothing to cause the abuse and she did nothing to cause the hemorrhaging. The shame inflicted on myself simply comes from within. I internalize the shame and guilt; none of it my fault. I did not cause it. I was moping up the needs of men who had no regard for me as a person. Their actions were absorbed by my emotions and sense of self-worth. I made myself an outcast. 

When Jesus felt her touch he turned and asked who had touched him. Jesus was walking with a crowd of people. What made her touch so obvious to him? I believe it was the desperation and faith behind it. Although she did not know Jesus, she had heard of him and just knew touching anything attached to him would restore her. He felt the power of her faith, not the physical touch of his cloak. 

While I fully believe this woman walked away from this encounter with Christ completely healed, without residual effect from her disease, she did have to adjust to a new life. She had been in bad shape physically and socially for twelve years. Physically her body was restored but how long did it take for the emotional healing? She had to engage society again, let her people know she was healed and no longer untouchable. They had to understand that she was no longer damaged and was now worthy of marriage and a respectable reputation. How many people tried to dim the light in her eyes? Squash her hope of a better future? Was she her worst critic as I am? 

Unlike the woman in scripture, I can reach for Jesus with a prayer and seek healing. I do not have to fight through a crowd to get to him. I only have to fight myself to get in his presence. I can spiritually reach for his cloak, having the faith that he can restore and heal. In fact, I do not need to seek his cloak, I can seek his hand on mine and feel him enter my heart. Emotional healing is not instant for us because we live on earth and are subject to the influences around us, even the negative influences in our minds. If we fight through the noise within ourselves and reach for Jesus, the noise becomes a whimper and we are filled with the hope and love of Jesus Christ. Our faith will make us well. 

Severe Weather

The Weather Channel used to fascinate me. Every morning I would turn it on and try to catch my local forecast. Over time it became easier to catch the weather on the internet and the local television stations started sending text messages with weather watches and warnings. Now I have an app on my phone I check long enough to see if my kids need to wear a jacket. As a result I have been caught in the rain a few times. To avoid being a soggy cold mess all I had to do was pay attention to the warnings.

This past week I did not pay attention to warning signs and found myself picked up by an emotional tornado, spun around, and tossed on the ground so hard the wind was knocked out of my chest. I did not see it coming because I had become too comfortable.

I had convinced myself the worst was over. So much work and writing had taken place, demons faced, tears shed, and addictions conquered. I was sure I had reached a stage of being a support for others rather than someone who needed to be supported. This attitude and complacency landed me flat on my back, struggling for breath.

Listening to a woman tell her story started me down the path towards the tornado. Storm clouds started to form but rather than listen to my body’s reaction, I chose to dismiss it and not take it as seriously. Previously I have taken notes regarding my reactions and where they started so I would have a point of reference later if I needed to work through something. No notes were taken and at the end of her story my head was starting to spin. There were many similarities with my story. It was the chaotic situation surrounding her abuse and age that hit my heart. The deeply rooted desire to feel special and feel affection in her story coincided with mine. I had felt the same love/hate relationship with my first abuser.

Already fighting the tornado strength winds, another woman brought up having a health sex life. I am still working on this with my own husband, but the memories of my first husband and the mental and sexual trauma he delivered jumped to the surface. I only wrote his name in my notebook. The tornado was beginning to carry me off and I was losing ground.

Next came the frustrations of a single woman wanting to be in a relationship but she feels she has too much emotional baggage due to the abuse. She is convinced no one will want to take her on as a girlfriend/wife.  All of the emotions tied to the abuse, especially the anger, are so overwhelming she did not know how to express them.  This young woman knew she had closed herself off with thick walls around her heart, determined to never be hurt again. This woman represents everything I have ever been and what I still struggle with. I had to face the fact I still need to open myself up more, especially in my relationship with my husband.

I went home rather shell shocked. I went through the motions of getting the kids and myself in bed. My head was still clogged and I felt unsteady on my feet but was convinced it would all be better in the morning. The next day started pretty well. My brain was fuzzy but I managed to function most of the morning. At lunch I had started to write on the debriefing sheet what I had felt and experienced the night before. It is usually best to do the sheet within 24 to 48 hours, while the information is still fresh. As I began to write the warning bells started going off in my head. The world was swirly and confusing and my emotions started to get the best of me. I made rash decisions, got wrapped up in paranoia, and just fell apart. While I had already written my story, I felt an urgent push to journal another part of it, to face an incident I had yet to deal with. I also needed to understand what had been stirred up the night before. I was in a bad place.

Fortunately my off balance ramblings were kindly squelched by a person who is familiar with my recovery process. He reminded me to breathe and not overreact to my emotions. I was also encouraged to sleep and not push myself to figure everything out at one time. I needed to slow down and really think about what was happening; to recognize the origin of the emotional panic and put it in its place.

This did not happen overnight but over the next couple of days I started to debrief myself. I started writing and logic started to beat out emotion. The 3 events I mentioned above were written out and I made the connections to my own story rather than getting mine mixed up with theirs. The storm started to move away. I was able to feel the ground under my feet again.

Being comfortable with the progress I have made is not a terrible thing. I do not want to feel there is a piano ready to drop on my head at any moment either. There is a delicate balance that has be learned and recognized. There is no doubt another victim’s story will stir up emotions in my heart. There will be situations that will cause initial panic at their familiarity with my abuse. However, I need to learn to take a deep breath, put them in perspective, and not let amped-up emotions override logic; in no way an easy task. It will come with time and practice.

Drawing Together

I have not been writing lately. Ironically I have never needed to write more. Writing has always been therapeutic yet I hesitate when I am aware of how much I do not want to discover in the words.

Over the last 20 years or so I have been started on a few antidepressants. The first one I stopped myself because I really did not think it was helping. I did not ask for another, thinking I would get the same result. I was off for several years afterwards, until my first hospitalization. When I left the hospital I was placed on a combination of 3. Over time the medications were adjusted by a psychiatrist and life moved along pretty smoothly.

Around 2 years ago medications were added and adjusted as my depression and PTSD symptoms became worse. It reached a point where I was on seven different medications and I was not any better.

Last year I agreed (under some duress) to enter a behavioral health center to accept help for self-destructive decisions and an addiction to anti-anxiety medication. Several medications were stopped and I was discharged on a total of 3 medications for depression and PTSD. Since discharge a great deal of recovery has occurred. I worked hard to push through a lot of things holding me back. Hope became more apparent and my spirit lifted. After discussing it with my counselor, it was agreed I was in a much better place in my recovery and I talked to my psychiatrist about tapering off one of the medications. She recommended we wait until it had been at least six months after discharge and I agreed to wait.

Recently I met with her and she started to tape my dose. After battling with insurance my new prescription was filled and I started the new dose. Not even 2 days later the side effects of withdrawal became apparent. The last couple of weeks have been unpleasant and the temptation to give up and return to the higher dose strong. I have not surrendered but have found how much the difficult recovery work has changed my thought process and strengthened my character.

Perseverance- The word “can’t” is no longer in my recovery vocabulary. I can no longer tread water in a sea of doubt. I have learned to swim through the muck of memories, self-loathing, suicidal thoughts and actions, hopelessness, and have made it to shore. There are moments, like now, when it seems a tidal wave is overtaking me, but I can see the big wave for what it is, a temporary distraction. I am no longer able to convince myself I am incapable of handling and/or processing my situation. There are times I would like to rest on “can’t” and it frustrates me that it is no longer an option simply because I just get so tired.

Trust- I shared with my support group the struggle with withdrawal. I was quiet and felt the need to let the group know why I was silent and seemingly detached. It never occurred to me to not tell them. There was no hesitancy in sharing. I trust my group and felt safe enough to share, knowing I would not be judged. Transparency has never been a character trait of mine before. People are being invited into my life and struggle. It feels odd but freeing. The concrete walls around my heart now I have windows in them.

Faith- God has shown me so much in the last couple of years. My eyes were opened and my heart felt His peace. He is in control and will carry me through good and bad times. He is my salvation, hope, and teacher. I do not know how long the withdrawal symptoms will last and the overall length of time to get to the minimum dose, but I do know this is temporary, a drop in the bucket. God is holding me, guiding me through. All I have to do is let Him.

I am now at a point where I am feeling back to my new normal. My body has adjusted to the decreased dose. My psychiatrist recommended tapering my dose further and I have decided against it, along with the recommendation of my primary care physician and private therapist. The decision was made based on an awareness of my own body and how I want to take care of it, which I will explore further in a future post. For right now I am going to rest with this new dose and not push harder than my body can handle.