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.

The Other Side Pt. 2

I continue to imagine hurting my abusers. I am human; it is going to happen. Writing my last post brought to the surface a lot of anger and desire to cause them pain. At times it feels like I fight these feelings every day. Several times in therapy and my journal I expressed the desire to make someone hurt as much as I. Wanting to punch, kick, and stomp a person so much they could feel my emotional pain was overwhelming.

For years I was afraid to tell my therapist about the raw desire to hurt others simmering in my soul. At first I was afraid he was going to kick me out of therapy because I was beyond redemption. When I had children I became scared he would take them away if he knew. The feelings terrified me. I did not want to be one of “them” but did not know if there was a point to fighting it. I honestly believed if I ever acted on the feelings or could not stand them anymore I would just end my life. I would not be able to live with myself either way.

Slowly I started to reveal this to my therapist. I was testing the waters, giving just a little at a time to gauge his reaction. There was never any judgement and eventually I spilled it all.  Much to my relief family services was never called and I was not considered a hopeless case. He understood and declared the feelings a normal reaction to abuse trauma. In fact, he suspects a lot of victims become abusers out of the same desire to make someone feel their pain. It is not an excuse. Abusing a person is a choice, a way to mop up a selfish need at the expense of the victim.

As I wrote the last post and am writing this one, I am ashamed, not of my selfish desires to inflict pain as much as considering myself better than my abusers. While I have not abused a child or adult sexually or physically, I have hurt people in my life. I destroyed my first marriage out of selfishness, put my current marriage in danger, and have hurt countless others who have crossed my path with thoughtless words, lack of compassion, and an air of superiority.

We are all born with a sinful nature. Mistakes will be made and we will hurt others; it is unavoidable. Murder, physical/verbal/sexual abuse, and other violent acts will not enter the lives of everyone, yet the potential always exists. I am just as capable of murder as the next person. As nauseating as it feels to me, I am also just as capable of abusing another physically. It is my sinful nature. I can no longer deny its existence and am humbled by it. The sinful nature we are born into puts us all on the same playing field.

My abusers and I are not as different as I am comfortable with. Every cell in my body seems to scream that I am better than them. I want so much to believe there is a great void that cannot be crossed between us. My heart wants to cling to to the idea they are the scum of the earth and I royalty in comparison.

The first time God gently taught me all sinners are the same it was like taking a bullet. I was crushed and did not want to accept it. I fought against the idea and turned away from him, refusing to give up my royal status in the world. Unfortunately avoiding the truth hindered my recovery. I had to get honest with myself and God to keep going in recovery. I struggle with this truth so much. I do not want to show grace to my abusers. I do not want to forgive. I do not want to consider my sinful nature the same as theirs. It goes against my nature and the world’s nature.

What can I do? I can put myself on the long journey towards faith and surrender my pride. This is a moment-to-moment struggle a good part of the time. As I read His word and allow grace to enter my life for my sins, I will learn to extend the same grace to others, even my abusers. There is no earthly finish line in accomplishing this and it is not only about the abuse. Grace is something to be extended to everyone in our lives, no matter how difficult.