WARNING: This post is wholly negative with few to no redeeming qualities. It contains loads of whining and complaining, about which I feel entirely guilty. However, I have been assured by my therapist that repressing emotions leads to great stress and increased health problems. So be warned. Read at your own risk.
Halloween has come and gone, but life doesn't only visit horrors upon us at the end of October. Life has plenty of awful things to go around and it isn't shy about handing them out all year. 2013 has been generous. In January, my heat-pump failed, necessitating purchase of a new system at a cost of more than $4000. In March, I began having health issues which started with chronic exhaustion and deep pain in my bones and joints. My doctor started performing tests and determined that I had a severe vitamin D deficiency, and she began treatment for it. In April, it appeared that my place of work might close down or have to move to a new location. Then, in May, my father went in for surgery to remove a blood clot from his carotid artery, and suffered a severe stroke during the process. He died four days later. The month of June was a blur, trying to catch up with work I'd missed after my father's passing. The situation at my place of employment improved but that in itself created an enormous amount of extra work and pressure. The exhaustion became worse, and so did the pain and stiffness. I chalked it up to overwork and pushed past it, like I always have.
In July, I started having deep pain localized to my right side. This was a kidney stone, and after eleven days, I finally went in for surgery to remove it, only to find that the stone itself had passed earlier that morning. I had a week to recover, then another stone started to move. After over a month of pain, medications, and medical visits, I was unable to get through a day without medication and several hours of rest. My doctor decided that I needed to have more tests run, and after countless needle sticks, IVs, and procedures, it was determined that I have rheumatoid arthritis.
Some days, it hurts to move. I am tired but sleep isn't restful and only lasts about four hours at a stretch. My body doesn't recuperate the way it once did; it takes days to bounce back from exertion, where it once took hours. I am on strong anti-inflammatories, and they make my stomach uncomfortable. Sometimes they help, and other times they don't. I limp and hobble like someone twice my age. I am forty-two years old but I might as well be eighty. My thought-processes have slowed because I am preoccupied with pain and weariness. I lack motivation to complete even the things I enjoy, and tasks that used to be easy now present significant difficulty. For example, the laundry room is in the basement. It is hard to carry baskets of clothes, and it is also hard to go up and down stairs. Hot water feels good on my hands, but I sometimes have trouble gripping dishes in order to get them washed. Driving is necessary to get to work and get the kids to school, but it causes my elbows, hands, wrists, and back to throb.
This week has been particularly hard. After a late meeting on Monday night, I haven't been able to catch up on my rest. Each day has gotten progressively more difficult and the cold I thought I had shaken off last week is back, full-force, complete with sneezing, coughing, and even asthma attacks. I've run a low-grade fever on and off for the last three days. Today, at around 11 am, I walked from one end of the building to the other and back - and collapsed into my chair afterward like I'd just finished a 5K. I was freezing, exhausted, and achy all over - it felt like I had the flu. I'm sure I don't - this is simply what an RA flare feels like.
So where's the horror-story in all this? Try being forty-two, active, and relatively healthy one year, and then lethargic, in pain, and weak the next. Try thinking about your future and the plans you've made and then integrating the realization that most of them will probably never happen because your body won't be able to sustain them. Try thinking about affording a $2000 a month medication regimen on a single parent's already low income while feeding, clothing, and educating two kids.
Yeah, I'm whining. But it's more than whining. It's grieving. My life is fundamentally changed by this diagnosis. The most I can hope for is a period of remission, or that once the doctors agree on what kind of medication I need and the insurance company stops fighting and provides it, I will experience increased mobility and a better quality of life. I have enrolled in a Master's program beginning in January, but I am facing the likelihood of never being able to use what I learn because the plain fact is that I'll likely be disabled within the next year.
Oh, it is what it is. It's life, we all get through it. Nobody asks for the awful things that happen but we are all responsible for doing everything we can to bring light out of the darkness we experience. If we can find ways to make our suffering redemptive, then at least it will have meaning. I keep telling myself these things. I have struggled for years with pain from various sources; relationships, sexual assault, abuse, and domestic violence. I have sifted through the ruins looking for treasure more times than I can count. I will likely get to that point again, but right now, I can't even type more than a few sentences without needing to rest my hands and arms. I am hard pressed to find anything good in any of this. It is probably best to go ahead and grieve, to cry and scream and shout at God, to ask why the hell, after every other shitty thing I've been through, life had to add this, too. It isn't fair. It sucks.
But it's life. We all get through it. Even with all this negativity, I am still blessed beyond measure. In comparison with that of many others, my life has been ridiculously easy, though comparisons of this type are odious, invidious, and completely without meaning. I know these things to be true. I just can't feel that truth, I can't find the light in this darkness. Right now, I'm too tired to even try.
Thursday, November 14, 2013
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
Feels Like Forever
It has been over three months since I've written here - and a lot can happen in three months. Since I wrote about women's empowerment in March, I have completed my degree, gained my certification as a professional in human resources, and lived through a life-altering loss. That's what I want to talk about today, though a large portion of my mind is insisting that it is still too soon, that the wound is still too fresh. But my therapist tells me that it is never too soon to feel what I feel, and that in order to honor the grieving process, I need to be true to myself and my emotions.
My father died of a massive stroke on Friday, May 31st. I could go on and on about a lot of the things that happened around his death, but I really only need to say one thing about it: Daddy never wanted to live in a body that was compromised and could not do the work he loved, and I am thankful to God for the merciful swiftness with which his life ended.
This post isn't about how or even why my dad died; it is about how he lived.
He was the oldest of nine children, eight of whom survived into adulthood. His own father suffered a stroke and lived on for a time in poor health; my dad witnessed that and it instilled in him a life-long dread of the same fate. Because of his father's illness, my dad was like a father to some of his younger siblings. He was a man of music and great talent - he played the banjo and the guitar and he sang. One of my first, best memories is wrapped around his music. I remember sitting on the front porch in the warm darkness of a summer night, watching fireflies rise like glowing spirits from the grass. Outside the dim halo of light cast through the screen door, Daddy was obscured by the night - only the notes of his guitar and the red glowing circle of his cigarette testified to his presence. The music was fluid and beautiful - it followed his mind's wandering over western plains with the cowboy dreams that he loved. I swung my feet over the porch step and slapped at mosquitoes, breathed in the scents of hay, smoke, and recent rain, and stared up at the stars that were mirrored in the firefly-light of the evening. I felt secure in that moment. Happiness and harmony were as certain and present as the music; suffering, pain, and fear had not yet entered my world in any significant way. It was a moment of perfect peace. It was 1975; I was four years old, and everything in my world was right.
He was a farmer, and he loved the land. He knew how to treat his farm and his animals so that they stayed healthy and productive. He was kind to both. He knew just about everything a farmer needs to know - how to give medical care, how to cultivate, rotate crops, and conserve his soil. He could build any tool or machine he needed and could repair the parts that were old or broken. He was the only person I knew who understood my desire to take things apart to see how they worked, to see if I could rebuild them from memory, and he never got angry if the experiment failed and he had to step in and rescue the project.
People would come to our house late in the evenings to ask for help with electrical problems, sick animals, or appliances that wouldn't work. Even though he'd spent a hard day in the fields, he never failed to go directly to those who were in need and would work all night until the problem was resolved. He knew his neighbors' fields and animals almost as well as his own - could tell when there were problems - and would leave his own work to take on that of another.
I remember waking up to a horrible storm when I was eight years old and ghosting through the house to find him sitting in darkness in the living room. The power was out but he hadn't yet gone to bed. He heard me and called me to him - I climbed on his lap and he held me against his chest and he told me that I didn't need to be afraid of storms. He said if I was afraid, I should just close my eyes and imagine a field full of green grass and flowers. He said to think of all the things that made me feel happy - little foxes and raccoons and rabbits playing together in the grass. He painted a picture with his words that made the storm seem far away and taught me how to visualize a better place and find a calm oasis within myself.
One day, about fifteen years ago, he and I were riding together in my car and he told me a great secret that I've always kept close to my heart - I've tried to remember it when I was in doubt and while that process has been horribly imperfect, I have come back to his words time after time. He said that God put us here on earth intending for us to be good to each other and help each other; he said that the best thing we could do for God was to lighten someone else's load. I reached a deep place of darkness on my faith-journey about four years ago, and even in the awful desert of unbelief, Daddy's words rang true and helped me find my way back to the right path.
On the night of his wake, we stood in the church for four hours and greeted an endless parade of friends, neighbors, and family. Each person had something important to say about my father and his place in their life. It was an incredible testimony to the life of the most generous, loving, and Godly person I've known. I have no doubt about where my father is now. I know that the reunion in heaven must have been incredible. It has brought me a lot of peace and joy to know that he is with his parents and his beloved grandfather. I lie awake when the lights are out and I imagine the music and the laughter and the stories they must be telling each other. I smile when I think about it, even though tears are falling. I am not sad for Daddy - I am sad for me. We will be together again someday, but no one knows when that will be.
It seems so surreal. I can hardly believe that he's gone. At least a dozen times in the last two weeks I've caught myself wondering what my dad would think about this or that; thinking about what I'd tell him on our next phone call. Needing his advice or just craving his company. I'm no stranger to those feelings, but always before I knew there would be another time to be together or another phone call. There won't be a next phone call or another visit this side of heaven. I have accepted that - but sometimes I forget and reality hits like a ton of bricks; the grief is fresh and new each time, and the pain leaves me breathless. That's when someday feels like forever, and it is so hard to wait.
My father died of a massive stroke on Friday, May 31st. I could go on and on about a lot of the things that happened around his death, but I really only need to say one thing about it: Daddy never wanted to live in a body that was compromised and could not do the work he loved, and I am thankful to God for the merciful swiftness with which his life ended.
This post isn't about how or even why my dad died; it is about how he lived.
He was the oldest of nine children, eight of whom survived into adulthood. His own father suffered a stroke and lived on for a time in poor health; my dad witnessed that and it instilled in him a life-long dread of the same fate. Because of his father's illness, my dad was like a father to some of his younger siblings. He was a man of music and great talent - he played the banjo and the guitar and he sang. One of my first, best memories is wrapped around his music. I remember sitting on the front porch in the warm darkness of a summer night, watching fireflies rise like glowing spirits from the grass. Outside the dim halo of light cast through the screen door, Daddy was obscured by the night - only the notes of his guitar and the red glowing circle of his cigarette testified to his presence. The music was fluid and beautiful - it followed his mind's wandering over western plains with the cowboy dreams that he loved. I swung my feet over the porch step and slapped at mosquitoes, breathed in the scents of hay, smoke, and recent rain, and stared up at the stars that were mirrored in the firefly-light of the evening. I felt secure in that moment. Happiness and harmony were as certain and present as the music; suffering, pain, and fear had not yet entered my world in any significant way. It was a moment of perfect peace. It was 1975; I was four years old, and everything in my world was right.
He was a farmer, and he loved the land. He knew how to treat his farm and his animals so that they stayed healthy and productive. He was kind to both. He knew just about everything a farmer needs to know - how to give medical care, how to cultivate, rotate crops, and conserve his soil. He could build any tool or machine he needed and could repair the parts that were old or broken. He was the only person I knew who understood my desire to take things apart to see how they worked, to see if I could rebuild them from memory, and he never got angry if the experiment failed and he had to step in and rescue the project.
People would come to our house late in the evenings to ask for help with electrical problems, sick animals, or appliances that wouldn't work. Even though he'd spent a hard day in the fields, he never failed to go directly to those who were in need and would work all night until the problem was resolved. He knew his neighbors' fields and animals almost as well as his own - could tell when there were problems - and would leave his own work to take on that of another.
I remember waking up to a horrible storm when I was eight years old and ghosting through the house to find him sitting in darkness in the living room. The power was out but he hadn't yet gone to bed. He heard me and called me to him - I climbed on his lap and he held me against his chest and he told me that I didn't need to be afraid of storms. He said if I was afraid, I should just close my eyes and imagine a field full of green grass and flowers. He said to think of all the things that made me feel happy - little foxes and raccoons and rabbits playing together in the grass. He painted a picture with his words that made the storm seem far away and taught me how to visualize a better place and find a calm oasis within myself.
One day, about fifteen years ago, he and I were riding together in my car and he told me a great secret that I've always kept close to my heart - I've tried to remember it when I was in doubt and while that process has been horribly imperfect, I have come back to his words time after time. He said that God put us here on earth intending for us to be good to each other and help each other; he said that the best thing we could do for God was to lighten someone else's load. I reached a deep place of darkness on my faith-journey about four years ago, and even in the awful desert of unbelief, Daddy's words rang true and helped me find my way back to the right path.
On the night of his wake, we stood in the church for four hours and greeted an endless parade of friends, neighbors, and family. Each person had something important to say about my father and his place in their life. It was an incredible testimony to the life of the most generous, loving, and Godly person I've known. I have no doubt about where my father is now. I know that the reunion in heaven must have been incredible. It has brought me a lot of peace and joy to know that he is with his parents and his beloved grandfather. I lie awake when the lights are out and I imagine the music and the laughter and the stories they must be telling each other. I smile when I think about it, even though tears are falling. I am not sad for Daddy - I am sad for me. We will be together again someday, but no one knows when that will be.
It seems so surreal. I can hardly believe that he's gone. At least a dozen times in the last two weeks I've caught myself wondering what my dad would think about this or that; thinking about what I'd tell him on our next phone call. Needing his advice or just craving his company. I'm no stranger to those feelings, but always before I knew there would be another time to be together or another phone call. There won't be a next phone call or another visit this side of heaven. I have accepted that - but sometimes I forget and reality hits like a ton of bricks; the grief is fresh and new each time, and the pain leaves me breathless. That's when someday feels like forever, and it is so hard to wait.
Friday, March 8, 2013
Celebrating Women
I grew up disliking, disrespecting, and disempowering myself. I frequently put myself down, thought of myself as less-than, as unworthy. I looked at everything I was and I hated what I saw, what I felt, what I experienced. I was ashamed to be me. I lived underneath, lower, in the shadows. I slouched so I would not be seen, I tarnished my accomplishments so I would not shine. If I did something good or worthwhile, I made it seem like a fluke. I worked hard to undervalue everything I was. When I was thirteen years old, I took a series of IQ tests and scored higher than anyone expected me to - I left the testing area with my score of 155 thinking that I must have cheated somehow; there was no way my IQ could be that high. I was ashamed of that score, ashamed to have anyone know it. I believed that it must have been a mistake, I just got lucky.
I struggled with self-esteem that was non-existent. My life was a series of lows with flat plateaus between where things weren't quite as bad. I expected awful things to happen. I expected poverty. I expected difficulty. I expected poor health. I expected violence and mistreatment. And of course, because I expected those things, I received them - I was issuing the Universe an engraved invitation to join me in my self-hatred, and I got exactly what I believed I deserved.
You might be asking yourself why I felt this way. The answer is simple but profound. Because I am female.
I was born in the early 1970's, during a time when the second wave of the women's movement was beginning to take shape. I grew up in a very conservative, rural area, where women's roles were sharply defined and bordered by the walls of the kitchen, the bedroom, the nursery, and the edges of the garden. My own family was extremely traditional, and there was no questioning the predetermined paths we walked. I am the last of four children; one boy, three girls. It was a funny family joke that when I was born, my father said with disappointment, "oh, another girl" and often opined that until we reached puberty, girls were just as good as boys. Don't misunderstand me - I love and respect my father. He means the world to me. But his worldview colored my own and without any true mistreatment on his part, I came to know that I was second-class because of my gender.
Even though I accepted them without question, I struggled with the inherent restrictions my sex placed on me. Elsewhere in America, girls were dreaming great dreams - they would be doctors, or attorneys, or journalists. I remember talking about a future career with my mother, who told me that "the women's libbers ruined it for girls" by changing the cultural norms so that girls thought they needed to go to college and have careers. I was in the first grade then; later on, things had changed enough that she believed it was good for girls to be educated, but that the only careers they could - or should - aspire to were those of teacher, nurse, or secretary. My ability to see something greater for myself was greatly constricted by the narrow view my mother took; so much so that I have been or attempted to be all three.
Compounding the restrictions placed on me by my upbringing was the fact that my feminine self was attacked multiple times - I was barely pubescent when I was sexually assaulted. The ongoing molestation culminating in rape left me hating the sexual parts of my body. I spent over twenty years trying to bury myself alive, denying anything in me that was feminine, disrespecting other women to the point of having almost no female friends, and expressing disgust at any ideology that could have been interpreted as promoting equality or femininity. Then I became pregnant, and slowly, things began to change.
Pregnancy is an undeniably feminine condition. For years, I had managed to submerge my femininity, but pregnancy exposed it. My body metamorphosized into something new that was all about being female. Compounding these changes was the discovery that I was carrying a girl. I was shocked - I could not imagine myself raising a daughter. The very idea was frightening for reasons I could not - or would not - imagine. I reacted by becoming the quintessential stereotype of mother; June Cleaver had nothing on me. I immersed myself into a 1950's pre-liberation lifestyle. I stayed home, I cooked elaborate meals, cleaned house, played with my daughter. There is nothing wrong with any of these things. There is, however, something very wrong with forcing yourself into a role that no longer fits, losing everything that makes you who you are. I gave up everything I had formerly enjoyed; writing, gaming, even thinking. Thinking was dangerous - it made me want what I felt I could not have. I was more caged than I had ever been. I gave birth to another girl four years later. I felt that the tomb was sealed.
But ultimately, it was motherhood that saved me. It was watching my daughters grow and feeling total sadness that they would be repressed by the culture and society in which we live. It was like seeing two beautiful young trees growing free and wild uprooted, placed in tiny pots, then brutally pruned and twisted and shaped into bonsai. I know that most people find bonsai beautiful, but all I can see when I look at bonsai is the unrealized potential of the tree. I knew I had to find a better way for myself, for the sake of my daughters.
The journey toward self-acceptance has been long and difficult. I have worked to overcome the disdain I felt for my own gender. I broke down the structures of misogyny that culture and upbringing had erected within me. I became free to appreciate women for their strength and ability. I cultivated friendships with other women and found in myself a deep need for these connections, which I had never enjoyed outside my family. I learned to value my womanhood, to appreciate my femininity. I have stopped slouching, stopped tarnishing myself. I shine.
Today is International Women's Day. There was a time when I would have scoffed at the very notion, but now I celebrate it. It is a beautiful thing to be a woman; to be strong and flexible, tough as deep roots, with undeniable grace, keen discernment, and sharp intuition. To sway and bend with life's storms, but not break. To realize my own potential and know that as much as I have grown, there is more - more life to embrace, more love to share, more words to shape. More to create. More to receive. More to give. I hope that all women, everywhere, celebrate themselves today. I hope they realize their potential and see how much they can grow, what wonderful things they can give and receive. I hope they shine.
I struggled with self-esteem that was non-existent. My life was a series of lows with flat plateaus between where things weren't quite as bad. I expected awful things to happen. I expected poverty. I expected difficulty. I expected poor health. I expected violence and mistreatment. And of course, because I expected those things, I received them - I was issuing the Universe an engraved invitation to join me in my self-hatred, and I got exactly what I believed I deserved.
You might be asking yourself why I felt this way. The answer is simple but profound. Because I am female.
I was born in the early 1970's, during a time when the second wave of the women's movement was beginning to take shape. I grew up in a very conservative, rural area, where women's roles were sharply defined and bordered by the walls of the kitchen, the bedroom, the nursery, and the edges of the garden. My own family was extremely traditional, and there was no questioning the predetermined paths we walked. I am the last of four children; one boy, three girls. It was a funny family joke that when I was born, my father said with disappointment, "oh, another girl" and often opined that until we reached puberty, girls were just as good as boys. Don't misunderstand me - I love and respect my father. He means the world to me. But his worldview colored my own and without any true mistreatment on his part, I came to know that I was second-class because of my gender.
Even though I accepted them without question, I struggled with the inherent restrictions my sex placed on me. Elsewhere in America, girls were dreaming great dreams - they would be doctors, or attorneys, or journalists. I remember talking about a future career with my mother, who told me that "the women's libbers ruined it for girls" by changing the cultural norms so that girls thought they needed to go to college and have careers. I was in the first grade then; later on, things had changed enough that she believed it was good for girls to be educated, but that the only careers they could - or should - aspire to were those of teacher, nurse, or secretary. My ability to see something greater for myself was greatly constricted by the narrow view my mother took; so much so that I have been or attempted to be all three.
Compounding the restrictions placed on me by my upbringing was the fact that my feminine self was attacked multiple times - I was barely pubescent when I was sexually assaulted. The ongoing molestation culminating in rape left me hating the sexual parts of my body. I spent over twenty years trying to bury myself alive, denying anything in me that was feminine, disrespecting other women to the point of having almost no female friends, and expressing disgust at any ideology that could have been interpreted as promoting equality or femininity. Then I became pregnant, and slowly, things began to change.
Pregnancy is an undeniably feminine condition. For years, I had managed to submerge my femininity, but pregnancy exposed it. My body metamorphosized into something new that was all about being female. Compounding these changes was the discovery that I was carrying a girl. I was shocked - I could not imagine myself raising a daughter. The very idea was frightening for reasons I could not - or would not - imagine. I reacted by becoming the quintessential stereotype of mother; June Cleaver had nothing on me. I immersed myself into a 1950's pre-liberation lifestyle. I stayed home, I cooked elaborate meals, cleaned house, played with my daughter. There is nothing wrong with any of these things. There is, however, something very wrong with forcing yourself into a role that no longer fits, losing everything that makes you who you are. I gave up everything I had formerly enjoyed; writing, gaming, even thinking. Thinking was dangerous - it made me want what I felt I could not have. I was more caged than I had ever been. I gave birth to another girl four years later. I felt that the tomb was sealed.
But ultimately, it was motherhood that saved me. It was watching my daughters grow and feeling total sadness that they would be repressed by the culture and society in which we live. It was like seeing two beautiful young trees growing free and wild uprooted, placed in tiny pots, then brutally pruned and twisted and shaped into bonsai. I know that most people find bonsai beautiful, but all I can see when I look at bonsai is the unrealized potential of the tree. I knew I had to find a better way for myself, for the sake of my daughters.
The journey toward self-acceptance has been long and difficult. I have worked to overcome the disdain I felt for my own gender. I broke down the structures of misogyny that culture and upbringing had erected within me. I became free to appreciate women for their strength and ability. I cultivated friendships with other women and found in myself a deep need for these connections, which I had never enjoyed outside my family. I learned to value my womanhood, to appreciate my femininity. I have stopped slouching, stopped tarnishing myself. I shine.
Today is International Women's Day. There was a time when I would have scoffed at the very notion, but now I celebrate it. It is a beautiful thing to be a woman; to be strong and flexible, tough as deep roots, with undeniable grace, keen discernment, and sharp intuition. To sway and bend with life's storms, but not break. To realize my own potential and know that as much as I have grown, there is more - more life to embrace, more love to share, more words to shape. More to create. More to receive. More to give. I hope that all women, everywhere, celebrate themselves today. I hope they realize their potential and see how much they can grow, what wonderful things they can give and receive. I hope they shine.
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
Power and Responsibility
From everyone to whom much has been given, much will be required; and from the one to whom much has been entrusted, even more will be demanded. ~ Jesus Christ (Luke 12:48, NRSV).
With great power comes great responsiblity. ~ Voltaire (Oeuvres de Voltaire, Volume 48).
I've spent much of my life feeling powerless. Now I know that I was wrong - I am not, nor have I ever been powerless; I just didn't own my personal power. I was busy giving it away, mostly because I didn't know what it was, or even that I had it. The culture I grew up in was not conducive to deep self-knowledge or belief in personal power, especially for women. I grew up believing that my most important role was one of support to any man who happened to be in my life, whether that man was my father, my brother, or - eventually - my husband. I was a secondary consideration, a second-class citizen, even to myself. I look back and see that some of the inability to access my own power came from the way I was brought up, but just as much came from the media, and from other cultural sources like teachers, preachers, and other adults in positions of responsibility. No one made it a point to teach me that I should matter to myself. Maybe no one knew I would need to be taught.
Now the point is moot; my journey has taught me that I have as much personal power as I care to claim. In learning this, I have also learned that with great power comes great responsibility. There was a time when I felt overly responsible for everything - that is a function of having codependency - but that isn't what I'm talking about today. I'm talking about real responsibility. Here are some examples.
I own guns. I like my guns. I enjoy target shooting. I like having my pistols around for self-defense and just for the fun of going out to the range and sharpening my aim. Firearms are powerful, and they impart power to their users. But with such power comes responsibility. I am not at all threatened by the idea of background checks and permits. I already have a carry permit, for that matter, and I'd be happy to fill out paperwork and be checked before making a new gun purchase. I wouldn't mind a waiting period - it's not that big a deal, and there's no firearm on the planet that I need in such a hurry that I can't bear to fill out paperwork and wait for a week to obtain. I abide within the law and I have nothing to fear from such requirements. It is a responsibility that I welcome and even invite.
I have daughters. I can't raise them the way I was raised. The world has changed and is changing more swiftly now than perhaps at any other time in the history of human life. We can't afford to raise our children in the vacuum of our own childhoods. I can't let my daughters grow up unaware of their own personal power. There are two lives in my hands, characters that I will shape. If that isn't power, I don't know what is. I have the responsibility to make sure they understand their own worth and never, ever question it.
I am a survivor of violence. I am no longer a victim; I have a voice and great strength of purpose when it comes to advocacy for those who suffer. With this power comes the responsibility for speaking out, for raising awareness, for working toward a better world. If I ignored or failed in this responsibility, I'd be telling myself that there is no purpose to be found in my past, and no reason to struggle and strive to heal.
We all have the power to change what is around us. It starts within us, not without. We have the power to look at who we are, what we believe, what we live for. We have the power to ask God what wonderful things are happening, and that we might somehow be made a part of them. We have the responsibility to work toward something better. Wherever we are, whatever lives we touch, we have the ability to affect change, to light candles and push back the darkness. With great power comes great responsibility. We can't afford not to act. Look at the world we live in and begin the work of discerning how it can be made better. Speak up. Vote. Call your state and federal representatives and let them know how you feel. Treat other people the way you hope to be treated. Perform random acts of loving kindness.
Remember that you are powerful and honor the responsibility that comes with power. It won't be easy, but it will always be worthwhile.
With great power comes great responsiblity. ~ Voltaire (Oeuvres de Voltaire, Volume 48).
I've spent much of my life feeling powerless. Now I know that I was wrong - I am not, nor have I ever been powerless; I just didn't own my personal power. I was busy giving it away, mostly because I didn't know what it was, or even that I had it. The culture I grew up in was not conducive to deep self-knowledge or belief in personal power, especially for women. I grew up believing that my most important role was one of support to any man who happened to be in my life, whether that man was my father, my brother, or - eventually - my husband. I was a secondary consideration, a second-class citizen, even to myself. I look back and see that some of the inability to access my own power came from the way I was brought up, but just as much came from the media, and from other cultural sources like teachers, preachers, and other adults in positions of responsibility. No one made it a point to teach me that I should matter to myself. Maybe no one knew I would need to be taught.
Now the point is moot; my journey has taught me that I have as much personal power as I care to claim. In learning this, I have also learned that with great power comes great responsibility. There was a time when I felt overly responsible for everything - that is a function of having codependency - but that isn't what I'm talking about today. I'm talking about real responsibility. Here are some examples.
I own guns. I like my guns. I enjoy target shooting. I like having my pistols around for self-defense and just for the fun of going out to the range and sharpening my aim. Firearms are powerful, and they impart power to their users. But with such power comes responsibility. I am not at all threatened by the idea of background checks and permits. I already have a carry permit, for that matter, and I'd be happy to fill out paperwork and be checked before making a new gun purchase. I wouldn't mind a waiting period - it's not that big a deal, and there's no firearm on the planet that I need in such a hurry that I can't bear to fill out paperwork and wait for a week to obtain. I abide within the law and I have nothing to fear from such requirements. It is a responsibility that I welcome and even invite.
I have daughters. I can't raise them the way I was raised. The world has changed and is changing more swiftly now than perhaps at any other time in the history of human life. We can't afford to raise our children in the vacuum of our own childhoods. I can't let my daughters grow up unaware of their own personal power. There are two lives in my hands, characters that I will shape. If that isn't power, I don't know what is. I have the responsibility to make sure they understand their own worth and never, ever question it.
I am a survivor of violence. I am no longer a victim; I have a voice and great strength of purpose when it comes to advocacy for those who suffer. With this power comes the responsibility for speaking out, for raising awareness, for working toward a better world. If I ignored or failed in this responsibility, I'd be telling myself that there is no purpose to be found in my past, and no reason to struggle and strive to heal.
We all have the power to change what is around us. It starts within us, not without. We have the power to look at who we are, what we believe, what we live for. We have the power to ask God what wonderful things are happening, and that we might somehow be made a part of them. We have the responsibility to work toward something better. Wherever we are, whatever lives we touch, we have the ability to affect change, to light candles and push back the darkness. With great power comes great responsibility. We can't afford not to act. Look at the world we live in and begin the work of discerning how it can be made better. Speak up. Vote. Call your state and federal representatives and let them know how you feel. Treat other people the way you hope to be treated. Perform random acts of loving kindness.
Remember that you are powerful and honor the responsibility that comes with power. It won't be easy, but it will always be worthwhile.
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
The Mark of the Cross
Happy Ash Wednesday, everybody!
Oh, I know...Lent isn't supposed to be happy. Lent is a time for repentance, for abstinence, for fasting, for giving up. Most of us think of it as a difficult journey of sacrifice. But the truth is that I look forward to Lent the way some people look forward to Easter, or even Christmas. Do I give something up for Lent? Sure I do. Is it hard? Absolutely! But no other spiritual discipline has brought me as close to God. The sacrifices I've made for Lent have enriched my life so much that for me, Lent is something to be celebrated.
We talk about what we will give up. Some people give up meat, or dairy, or chocolate. Some give up smoking, or coffee, or sex. Some even give up Facebook. Whatever you give up, it must be meaningful. It must be something that comes between you and God. Last year, I gave up self-deception. My life was so profoundly changed that even today I am experiencing ripples from that decision. Some people take something on - a new spiritual discipline, perhaps, or a volunteer opportunity. Whether you decide to take up a new cross or lay down an old distraction, make sure that the objective is to clear the pathway between you and God.
In 2011, I posted about the Lenten service I attended. The meat of that text is below - it is as relevant now as it was then. I hope your Lent is meaningful, and that it leads you closer to God.
Receiving the Mark
On Ash Wednesday the Christian world begins its wilderness journey with Christ in commemoration of his forty days in the desert. At my church, the Sanctuary is quiet as we come forward in long, solemn lines to receive the ashes. Before me, I hear the ministers whisper about how we are all made of dust and must therefore return to dust – exhorting us to repent and believe what the Gospels have taught us. I pray the prayer of contrition, confess my sins before God. I stand with the rest, my forehead bare, waiting. Knowing that the season of Lent begins in that moment, when the minister’s finger draws the midnight-black cross on my skin, marking me as a follower of Jesus, as one who stands in solidarity with the Son of Man in his long suffering, his work for human-kind, and his violent death on a rough piece of wood. In addition to the imposition of the ashes, we are to think and pray and choose something to give up, or some discipline to adopt to mark the forty-day journey through the wilderness.
If you make a sacrifice, it must be meaningful. It must be something that comes between you and Christ. Something that ties you to this world and keeps you from focusing on Kingdom-business. Some give up meat. Some give up liquor. Some give up sex. Some give up coffee, or cigarettes, or chocolate. Somehow, I cannot imagine coming to God’s altar and laying down coffee or cookies. It must be meaningful. It must be something that I can hardly bear to part with, something without which I cannot imagine my life.
But honestly, there is nothing I have or want that seems good enough. I wait with the others and I remember how I stood before the church and read the words of the Fifty-first Psalm earlier in the evening. There is no acceptable sacrifice except hearts that are broken, and spirits that are crushed. God wants to make all things new. He wants to enter empty vessels and fill them. I receive the Mark of Christ, the Body and the Blood of Christ, and then I go to the altar and I pray in the words of the Psalmist from so long ago –
Create in me a clean heart, O God; renew a steadfast spirit within me… Restore me to the joy of your salvation, and grant me a willing spirit, to sustain me. Hide your face from my sins and do not count them against me. Create in me a clean heart.
I came away feeling emptied, ready for whatever the journey brings. I am here, Lord; we can walk together.
If you make a sacrifice, it must be meaningful. It must be something that comes between you and Christ. Something that ties you to this world and keeps you from focusing on Kingdom-business. Some give up meat. Some give up liquor. Some give up sex. Some give up coffee, or cigarettes, or chocolate. Somehow, I cannot imagine coming to God’s altar and laying down coffee or cookies. It must be meaningful. It must be something that I can hardly bear to part with, something without which I cannot imagine my life.
But honestly, there is nothing I have or want that seems good enough. I wait with the others and I remember how I stood before the church and read the words of the Fifty-first Psalm earlier in the evening. There is no acceptable sacrifice except hearts that are broken, and spirits that are crushed. God wants to make all things new. He wants to enter empty vessels and fill them. I receive the Mark of Christ, the Body and the Blood of Christ, and then I go to the altar and I pray in the words of the Psalmist from so long ago –
Create in me a clean heart, O God; renew a steadfast spirit within me… Restore me to the joy of your salvation, and grant me a willing spirit, to sustain me. Hide your face from my sins and do not count them against me. Create in me a clean heart.
I came away feeling emptied, ready for whatever the journey brings. I am here, Lord; we can walk together.
Thursday, January 24, 2013
Equality - Justice - Peace
I have been struggling to figure out what to write for a while now - since the end of December, in fact. Every time I sit down to sort out my feelings I end up furious and I slam my computer shut. If I'm alone, I cry, or yell, or kick my desk, or punch my pillow. Sometimes I meditate or pray; sometimes I just try to do something else until I calm down. I've been avoiding my own anger. Maybe it's time to stop.
Here's why I'm angry: Jyoti Singh Pandey.
Do you know her name? If you don't, you should. Maybe you know her as India's Daughter. Or maybe you know her as that girl who was gang raped on the bus in India, and who died of her injuries two weeks later. Or maybe you don't know who in the world she is, or why anyone would be angry about her.
I have a confession to make - I'm not just angry about Jyoti Singh Pandey. I am angry about Steubenville, Ohio. I am angry about Savannah Dietrich. I am angry about New Mexico's House Bill 206. I am angry about the Violence Against Women Act of 2012 which was stalled when Republicans balked at protecting Native American women, immigrants, and the LGBT community from violence.
I am angry for my friends who have been abused and harmed. I am angry for the women and men who are pressured by society not to come forward after they have been raped. I am angry for the soldiers who are shamed by their leaders and comrades after being raped or assaulted. I am angry for the children who suffer in silence because they are afraid to tell someone that they are being hurt by a family member or friend. I am angry for the LGBT people who have been viewed as prey and who are attacked simply because they have different expressions of gender or orientation. I am angry for myself, and angry at the people who decided it was fair and just for them to take what they wanted from me with no thought about the damage they did to my psyche and my soul.
For the past month, I've been trying to find a way to constructively deal with my anger. I have signed petitions, worked to raise awareness, and participated in two magazine interviews on the subject of sexual violence and the rape-friendly culture we live in. I have meditated, read books on healing, shame, and vulnerability. I have prayed endless prayers, asking God to change our world. Asking God why people are so cruel. Asking God how he can allow these things to happen. I have prayed that God would take away my anger.
I wanted peace. I wanted resolution. Instead, my rage grows. Maybe the answer is in the anger - maybe the rage itself is right. Shouldn't good people be angry when they see evil being committed? Shouldn't we be enraged when we hear about innocent women and men and children being abused? Shouldn't we be galled by inequality and injustice?
If everyone was angry, maybe things would change. If everyone felt this same anger that I feel, maybe instead of ignoring these issues or deeming them too controversial, we would all work together for justice. Maybe we would overturn a few tables in our cultural temples, and drive out those who are abusing the system for their own gain. Maybe. This is my hope - that each of us could be as incensed over injustice and inequality as every football fan is when the refs make a call in the other team's favor. That we could all spend as much time working for justice as we spend making up our fantasy football teams and talking about last night's game. This is about human rights, people! Wake up!
Equality. Justice. Peace. Aren't these things worth fighting for?
...let justice roll down like water, and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream. ~ Amos 5:24, NRSV
Here's why I'm angry: Jyoti Singh Pandey.
Do you know her name? If you don't, you should. Maybe you know her as India's Daughter. Or maybe you know her as that girl who was gang raped on the bus in India, and who died of her injuries two weeks later. Or maybe you don't know who in the world she is, or why anyone would be angry about her.
I have a confession to make - I'm not just angry about Jyoti Singh Pandey. I am angry about Steubenville, Ohio. I am angry about Savannah Dietrich. I am angry about New Mexico's House Bill 206. I am angry about the Violence Against Women Act of 2012 which was stalled when Republicans balked at protecting Native American women, immigrants, and the LGBT community from violence.
I am angry for my friends who have been abused and harmed. I am angry for the women and men who are pressured by society not to come forward after they have been raped. I am angry for the soldiers who are shamed by their leaders and comrades after being raped or assaulted. I am angry for the children who suffer in silence because they are afraid to tell someone that they are being hurt by a family member or friend. I am angry for the LGBT people who have been viewed as prey and who are attacked simply because they have different expressions of gender or orientation. I am angry for myself, and angry at the people who decided it was fair and just for them to take what they wanted from me with no thought about the damage they did to my psyche and my soul.
For the past month, I've been trying to find a way to constructively deal with my anger. I have signed petitions, worked to raise awareness, and participated in two magazine interviews on the subject of sexual violence and the rape-friendly culture we live in. I have meditated, read books on healing, shame, and vulnerability. I have prayed endless prayers, asking God to change our world. Asking God why people are so cruel. Asking God how he can allow these things to happen. I have prayed that God would take away my anger.
I wanted peace. I wanted resolution. Instead, my rage grows. Maybe the answer is in the anger - maybe the rage itself is right. Shouldn't good people be angry when they see evil being committed? Shouldn't we be enraged when we hear about innocent women and men and children being abused? Shouldn't we be galled by inequality and injustice?
If everyone was angry, maybe things would change. If everyone felt this same anger that I feel, maybe instead of ignoring these issues or deeming them too controversial, we would all work together for justice. Maybe we would overturn a few tables in our cultural temples, and drive out those who are abusing the system for their own gain. Maybe. This is my hope - that each of us could be as incensed over injustice and inequality as every football fan is when the refs make a call in the other team's favor. That we could all spend as much time working for justice as we spend making up our fantasy football teams and talking about last night's game. This is about human rights, people! Wake up!
Equality. Justice. Peace. Aren't these things worth fighting for?
...let justice roll down like water, and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream. ~ Amos 5:24, NRSV
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
Giving thanks
I've been writing here for over two years and faithful readers know where I am now, where I'm headed - well, as much about that as I know, anyway - and where I've been. Last week was Thanksgiving, and while I don't spend the month of November publicly posting what I'm thankful for on a daily basis, I have been thinking a lot about my many blessings this month. This seems like a good time to enumerate a few of them.
First, I am thankful to be here. Not just here, in this blog, or here, in my home, but here, in the world. I am thankful to be alive. There have been times when I doubted I'd make it this far, and it is very cool that I have. I am grateful to God for every minute, and that I have learned to inhabit each moment so that I am really living, all the time. That leads me to...
Second, I am thankful for the lessons I've learned. My therapist tells me that our hardest trials teach us our best, most needed lessons, and that life keeps sending the right people our way until we learn what we need to know. So I am grateful to have had the people in my life who have taught me my most-needed lessons. It was hard, but worthwhile, and I am a better person for it. Thank you.
Third, I am thankful for my children. I have two lovely daughters and I couldn't be more proud of them. Erin is incredibly intelligent and witty; she challenges my intellect and my social justice principles and never lets me just slide by. Laura is also very smart, and she is open-hearted, loving, and hilarious. She brings laughter to my life. They both bring me joy and I am grateful to be their mother and to have the opportunity to teach them some of the lessons it took a lot of time and trial for me to learn.
Fourth, I am thankful for my job. I am employed by the most incredible church in the world and am loved and nurtured by a stellar cast of co-workers and a beautiful Christ-like congregation. I don't know what else I could say about that except that I love each of you and am so grateful to work with and for you.
Fifth, I am thankful for my family. I think most of you don't really understand me, but I always know that each of you loves me. I love you, too, just the way you are.
Sixth, I am thankful for my friends. I have truly been blessed with great friends. Some of you are people I have known most of my life. Some are people I only know because of our connections via computer - but real or cyber, you are gifts in my life. I am happy to go through my days knowing you support and love me, and I am privileged to do the same for you. Some friends are more than friends; I don't have a name for that concept. Family isn't right...maybe Superfriends is best. Superfriends - and I trust that you know who you are - you bless my life. I hope I have blessed yours.
Seventh, I am thankful to serve and love God. Words can't convey how I feel here, so I won't try. But thank you, God. Thank you.
Raise a glass with me and give thanks for the good in your life; recognize that what seems difficult or painful often brings joy in the aftermath, the same way storms precede rainbows. I am thankful for these and many other blessings, no matter what guise they might wear.
First, I am thankful to be here. Not just here, in this blog, or here, in my home, but here, in the world. I am thankful to be alive. There have been times when I doubted I'd make it this far, and it is very cool that I have. I am grateful to God for every minute, and that I have learned to inhabit each moment so that I am really living, all the time. That leads me to...
Second, I am thankful for the lessons I've learned. My therapist tells me that our hardest trials teach us our best, most needed lessons, and that life keeps sending the right people our way until we learn what we need to know. So I am grateful to have had the people in my life who have taught me my most-needed lessons. It was hard, but worthwhile, and I am a better person for it. Thank you.
Third, I am thankful for my children. I have two lovely daughters and I couldn't be more proud of them. Erin is incredibly intelligent and witty; she challenges my intellect and my social justice principles and never lets me just slide by. Laura is also very smart, and she is open-hearted, loving, and hilarious. She brings laughter to my life. They both bring me joy and I am grateful to be their mother and to have the opportunity to teach them some of the lessons it took a lot of time and trial for me to learn.
Fourth, I am thankful for my job. I am employed by the most incredible church in the world and am loved and nurtured by a stellar cast of co-workers and a beautiful Christ-like congregation. I don't know what else I could say about that except that I love each of you and am so grateful to work with and for you.
Fifth, I am thankful for my family. I think most of you don't really understand me, but I always know that each of you loves me. I love you, too, just the way you are.
Sixth, I am thankful for my friends. I have truly been blessed with great friends. Some of you are people I have known most of my life. Some are people I only know because of our connections via computer - but real or cyber, you are gifts in my life. I am happy to go through my days knowing you support and love me, and I am privileged to do the same for you. Some friends are more than friends; I don't have a name for that concept. Family isn't right...maybe Superfriends is best. Superfriends - and I trust that you know who you are - you bless my life. I hope I have blessed yours.
Seventh, I am thankful to serve and love God. Words can't convey how I feel here, so I won't try. But thank you, God. Thank you.
Raise a glass with me and give thanks for the good in your life; recognize that what seems difficult or painful often brings joy in the aftermath, the same way storms precede rainbows. I am thankful for these and many other blessings, no matter what guise they might wear.
Wednesday, November 7, 2012
Words, Actions, and What Lies Between
November is a month of contradictions. We in the Western Hemisphere enter it in a glorious blaze of autumn gold and we leave it grey and dreary. Somewhere between Indian Summer and Pre-Winter, the trees release their last pretense of modesty and stand, starkly naked and shivering, to face the cold. The world turns toward the death that must come before renewal. But, being human, we don't long tolerate the bleakness of impending winter and dying autumn. We dress November in trappings of Thanksgiving and Christmas-to-come. We engage in a frenzied whirl of activity. We celebrate with friends, co-workers, and family and we make the gaiety last as long as we can because behind the carnival masks, we recognize the skeletal trees and grey skies for what they are: heralds of winter's little death.
A few years ago, I lived through a November bereft of celebrations and joy. Cold terror and desperation threaded through the days which seemed to drag on endlessly. There were days that should have been wonderful - my daughter's thirteenth birthday, Thanksgiving with my family. All the good those times should have brought was sacrificed on the altar of surviving an abusive relationship. Daily assurances of his love were punctuated with nights of threats, physical violence, and sexual coercion. I believed in his love for a short while, but the words of adoration became meaningless lies in the face of his actions, which spoke nothing but hatred. What lay between those two extremes was a decimated battlefield that was my life.
People ask why victims of violent relationships stay, why we don't escape. I answer that chains aren't always visible. Violence creates fear and fear exerts a powerful amount of control. When someone shows you by his actions that there is nothing he won't do, no line he won't cross, there is no reason to hope that you will somehow escape unscathed, or even alive. Finally there comes a time of understanding that you don't really have a choice anymore. You could die if you stay. You could die if you leave. Do you risk your life for freedom or for continued bondage?
I chose to be free. A difficult year followed; there was stalking, damage to my property, and constant fear of reprisal. I began to rebuild myself and my life, but I did not understand how deep the devastation had gone, how damaged I really was. It has only been the in the past few months that I have learned how desolate my inner landscape had become. Without knowing how it came to be, I found myself again in the ruin that exists between the two extremes of words of love, and actions of disrespect, indifference, and careless self-gratification. This time, I didn't need to escape; I needed to purge. I needed to learn a lesson about my own self-worth and how to claim my life and my heart for myself instead of giving them away. I needed to heal.
Learning who I was became the goal. I had to learn how to value myself before I could allow myself to be valued by others. Always before I felt that any praise or happiness in my life was a cheat; I felt unworthy and was always afraid that others would see and exploit my flaws. In acknowledging the way I had given up my personal power and the poor choices I made, I regained my ability to discern what is good and right for me, and to believe that I deserve happiness, kindness, and respect. Slowly but surely, I let truth replace the lies, and I began to reclaim myself.
I stand now on the edge of what used to be a wasteland. It is November - the trees are bare and the wind is cold. Drifts of fading leaves litter the ground. But there is beauty in the barren trees and brittle, frosted grass. There is the promise of life in the naked limbs. Standing stones may be battered by the wind but they welcome and radiate the sun's warmth. The shards and ruins have been cleared away and this place - my life - has been reclaimed. It is mine. I may choose to share it at some point in the future, but I will never again give it away or fragment it for someone who cannot be trusted to speak the truth, and act upon it. I did not risk my life to stay in bondage - I risked it to be free.
A few years ago, I lived through a November bereft of celebrations and joy. Cold terror and desperation threaded through the days which seemed to drag on endlessly. There were days that should have been wonderful - my daughter's thirteenth birthday, Thanksgiving with my family. All the good those times should have brought was sacrificed on the altar of surviving an abusive relationship. Daily assurances of his love were punctuated with nights of threats, physical violence, and sexual coercion. I believed in his love for a short while, but the words of adoration became meaningless lies in the face of his actions, which spoke nothing but hatred. What lay between those two extremes was a decimated battlefield that was my life.
People ask why victims of violent relationships stay, why we don't escape. I answer that chains aren't always visible. Violence creates fear and fear exerts a powerful amount of control. When someone shows you by his actions that there is nothing he won't do, no line he won't cross, there is no reason to hope that you will somehow escape unscathed, or even alive. Finally there comes a time of understanding that you don't really have a choice anymore. You could die if you stay. You could die if you leave. Do you risk your life for freedom or for continued bondage?
I chose to be free. A difficult year followed; there was stalking, damage to my property, and constant fear of reprisal. I began to rebuild myself and my life, but I did not understand how deep the devastation had gone, how damaged I really was. It has only been the in the past few months that I have learned how desolate my inner landscape had become. Without knowing how it came to be, I found myself again in the ruin that exists between the two extremes of words of love, and actions of disrespect, indifference, and careless self-gratification. This time, I didn't need to escape; I needed to purge. I needed to learn a lesson about my own self-worth and how to claim my life and my heart for myself instead of giving them away. I needed to heal.
Learning who I was became the goal. I had to learn how to value myself before I could allow myself to be valued by others. Always before I felt that any praise or happiness in my life was a cheat; I felt unworthy and was always afraid that others would see and exploit my flaws. In acknowledging the way I had given up my personal power and the poor choices I made, I regained my ability to discern what is good and right for me, and to believe that I deserve happiness, kindness, and respect. Slowly but surely, I let truth replace the lies, and I began to reclaim myself.
I stand now on the edge of what used to be a wasteland. It is November - the trees are bare and the wind is cold. Drifts of fading leaves litter the ground. But there is beauty in the barren trees and brittle, frosted grass. There is the promise of life in the naked limbs. Standing stones may be battered by the wind but they welcome and radiate the sun's warmth. The shards and ruins have been cleared away and this place - my life - has been reclaimed. It is mine. I may choose to share it at some point in the future, but I will never again give it away or fragment it for someone who cannot be trusted to speak the truth, and act upon it. I did not risk my life to stay in bondage - I risked it to be free.
Friday, September 14, 2012
A Testimony to Imperfection
Because the relief of pain is built into its perception, I search within and remember when:
I did not use my power;
I did not see;
I resisted change;
I was afraid of excitement;
By these admissions I ask for the help that I long for, the cure that I need, and the insight to change.
Life is fluid. When we put up barriers to its native motion, life tends to overflow, to flood, to destroy. Maybe it is human nature to hoard life, to try and imprison it so we do not face loss. In the same way we tend to hoard love, to erect safe houses to contain love, to build structures around our hearts to keep love in - and sometimes to wall love out. By confining the flow, we rob life and love of their inherent power. We become misers, clinging to what we feel we cannot live without; people, memories, behaviors, feelings. Because we are unwilling to spend or share what we hoard we cannot benefit from it. We cannot enjoy it. The very thing that we love builds up in turbulent weight behind whatever dam we've created to hold it back, until the barrier breaks and we are washed away.
We are left standing on a flood-plain of devastation, picking through mud-slick ruins and searching for what we once treasured. But the truth is that we placed value in externals - we laid up our treasures in the wrong places. We gave away our own sense of worth - we placed value in others and forgot to value ourselves. We are taught that we should always put ourselves last but we fail to recognize that when we devalue ourselves, we are devaluing the image of God that we carry at our core. Christ admonished us to love our neighbors as we love ourselves. We forget the second part of that commandment and buy into the idea that if we devalue ourselves we are somehow doing God's will. Christ's words call for a balance within us - a healthy amount of self-love from which we can recognize that our neighbors share our humanity and so are worthy of respect and kindness. If we cannot value our own humanity, how then shall we value that of another? We violate our own worth and because this creates emptiness, we struggle to fill that emptiness - with love, life, work, or excitement; with sex, food, drugs, or alcohol; we lay up the treasures that these things bring us until our walls are finally broken and we are drowned by the deluge of what we could not release.
We violate that which is Eternal when we violate ourselves; for our failures of truth we ask for honesty and courage:
For acting out of fear of looking at ourselves deeply and honestly;
And for using honest self-examination as a substitute for changing ourselves.
For paralyzing ourselves by thinking we could not change;
And for using these prayers as a substitute for real change.
There comes a time when we awaken to ourselves and realize that there is no substitute for change. We discover what it is we must release because it is the thing without which we cannot imagine life. For some of us it may be an addiction, for others, a person - a belief - a behavior. We struggle with the knowledge that we must let go. We grieve while we still possess whatever it is that owns us. We try to imagine living without it and we can't, or if we can, that future life seems pale and purposeless. But here we are, crushed by the weight of that which we once treasured, in a desolate landscape overrun with what we once loved. We must change, lest we die.
We go through the process of excision; we separate ourselves from what we believe sustains us. We find a new sustenance within ourselves, a well of strength from which we draw. We go about the work of restoring and repairing our lives. We bring order from the chaos. In the wreck we often find sparkling bits of treasure that remind us of what it was we loved. We rescue these from the mud, clean them carefully and place them on a shelf. These relics of the past form a crooked road-map that helps us know exactly where we are today.
We evade that which is Eternal when we evade ourselves; for our failures of truth we ask clear vision:
For those times I turned a deaf ear on the cries of children;
And for those times I turned a deaf ear to the small child within me.
For those times when I believed that I was alone and there was no point in reaching out to others;
And for those times when I believed that my temporary helplessness was permanent.
In recalling this pain I experience it, I heal it, and I commit myself to replacing it with joy in the coming year.
We learn to be present in the now - the past is worth an occasional glance, and the future is a place of hopes that are yet unborn. This moment we are in is what we have; this body we own is where we live. We accept that confining life does not allow us to live abundantly. We understand that only by releasing that which we love can we ever truly have it. We learn that truth is worth more than illusions of happiness and that those who cannot love us when we are true cannot love us at all. We accept; we understand; we let go. Life becomes too big to contain behind walls. Our hearts - our souls - grow proportionately. We live.
(Words in italics are taken from Appetites: On the Search for True Nourishment, by Geneen Roth - they are listed by the author as being taken from the Al-Chayt, which is a testimony to human imperfection.)
I did not use my power;
I did not see;
I resisted change;
I was afraid of excitement;
By these admissions I ask for the help that I long for, the cure that I need, and the insight to change.
Life is fluid. When we put up barriers to its native motion, life tends to overflow, to flood, to destroy. Maybe it is human nature to hoard life, to try and imprison it so we do not face loss. In the same way we tend to hoard love, to erect safe houses to contain love, to build structures around our hearts to keep love in - and sometimes to wall love out. By confining the flow, we rob life and love of their inherent power. We become misers, clinging to what we feel we cannot live without; people, memories, behaviors, feelings. Because we are unwilling to spend or share what we hoard we cannot benefit from it. We cannot enjoy it. The very thing that we love builds up in turbulent weight behind whatever dam we've created to hold it back, until the barrier breaks and we are washed away.
We are left standing on a flood-plain of devastation, picking through mud-slick ruins and searching for what we once treasured. But the truth is that we placed value in externals - we laid up our treasures in the wrong places. We gave away our own sense of worth - we placed value in others and forgot to value ourselves. We are taught that we should always put ourselves last but we fail to recognize that when we devalue ourselves, we are devaluing the image of God that we carry at our core. Christ admonished us to love our neighbors as we love ourselves. We forget the second part of that commandment and buy into the idea that if we devalue ourselves we are somehow doing God's will. Christ's words call for a balance within us - a healthy amount of self-love from which we can recognize that our neighbors share our humanity and so are worthy of respect and kindness. If we cannot value our own humanity, how then shall we value that of another? We violate our own worth and because this creates emptiness, we struggle to fill that emptiness - with love, life, work, or excitement; with sex, food, drugs, or alcohol; we lay up the treasures that these things bring us until our walls are finally broken and we are drowned by the deluge of what we could not release.
We violate that which is Eternal when we violate ourselves; for our failures of truth we ask for honesty and courage:
For acting out of fear of looking at ourselves deeply and honestly;
And for using honest self-examination as a substitute for changing ourselves.
For paralyzing ourselves by thinking we could not change;
And for using these prayers as a substitute for real change.
There comes a time when we awaken to ourselves and realize that there is no substitute for change. We discover what it is we must release because it is the thing without which we cannot imagine life. For some of us it may be an addiction, for others, a person - a belief - a behavior. We struggle with the knowledge that we must let go. We grieve while we still possess whatever it is that owns us. We try to imagine living without it and we can't, or if we can, that future life seems pale and purposeless. But here we are, crushed by the weight of that which we once treasured, in a desolate landscape overrun with what we once loved. We must change, lest we die.
We go through the process of excision; we separate ourselves from what we believe sustains us. We find a new sustenance within ourselves, a well of strength from which we draw. We go about the work of restoring and repairing our lives. We bring order from the chaos. In the wreck we often find sparkling bits of treasure that remind us of what it was we loved. We rescue these from the mud, clean them carefully and place them on a shelf. These relics of the past form a crooked road-map that helps us know exactly where we are today.
We evade that which is Eternal when we evade ourselves; for our failures of truth we ask clear vision:
For those times I turned a deaf ear on the cries of children;
And for those times I turned a deaf ear to the small child within me.
For those times when I believed that I was alone and there was no point in reaching out to others;
And for those times when I believed that my temporary helplessness was permanent.
In recalling this pain I experience it, I heal it, and I commit myself to replacing it with joy in the coming year.
We learn to be present in the now - the past is worth an occasional glance, and the future is a place of hopes that are yet unborn. This moment we are in is what we have; this body we own is where we live. We accept that confining life does not allow us to live abundantly. We understand that only by releasing that which we love can we ever truly have it. We learn that truth is worth more than illusions of happiness and that those who cannot love us when we are true cannot love us at all. We accept; we understand; we let go. Life becomes too big to contain behind walls. Our hearts - our souls - grow proportionately. We live.
(Words in italics are taken from Appetites: On the Search for True Nourishment, by Geneen Roth - they are listed by the author as being taken from the Al-Chayt, which is a testimony to human imperfection.)
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
Love and Compulsion
Love and compulsion cannot peacefully coexist. Compulsion
leaves no space for love; compulsive behavior crowds out loving behavior. The
object of our compulsion becomes the object of our affection. The people and
things we love or value fall away and we are left with this compulsion upon
which we depend. We deny that the compulsion is harmful, wrong, or damaging. We
convince ourselves we have control because admitting that the compulsion
controls us means we must change our behavior and abandon what has given our
lives meaning or brought us comfort. In the face of our need we make poor
decisions that impact not only us but those around us. Sometimes the impact is
negligible; sometimes it is profound. We end up alienated from the people we
love. This has the effect of forcing us deeper into our compulsive behavior and
feeding our dependency. In our twisted thinking, we have been abandoned by our
loved ones. We do not see that we have pushed them away. We do not acknowledge
that we chose the compulsion over the people we love. So we lose our friends
and our family, but the compulsion is still there bringing us comfort. We
wonder why anyone would ask us to give up this thing on which we rely. It is our
only constant! Why would we want to give it up?
Drug and alcohol use, disordered eating, gambling, overspending,
hobbies, hoarding, and sex can all become compulsions. There are others but
these are probably the most recognizable. Until we can see the detrimental
effects our compulsions have on us and others, we will be unable to make
healthy choices for ourselves. We will continue to put compulsions between us
and the people we love – we build a wall with our behaviors to protect us from the
vulnerability inherent in giving and receiving love. Slowing or stopping the
compulsive behaviors is not enough. The root of the impulse must be exposed and
explored; otherwise, the compulsion surfaces whenever the pain is triggered, and
those of us who suffer from compulsive behaviors know how easily that can
happen in the course of living.
I have suffered with compulsive eating for much of my life.
Though it has been a long time since I actually binged, the compulsion is still
there. I often struggle with the desire to binge. There are times when I feel
that my consumption of food is out of control, even when it is reasonable. My
thinking around this compulsion is so warped that it is difficult for me to
know what is appropriate. In the same way that a person with anorexia can look
in the mirror and see a bloated, distorted body, I can look at my food
consumption for the day and distort a normal amount of food into a binge, which
makes me feel guilty, ashamed, and out of control. I have labored for so long under the
belief that I can’t make good choices about food that I don’t trust
my body to tell me when it is hungry, or to know what kind of nourishment it
wants. I have been working for the last month to relearn my body’s cues related
to hunger with help from my therapist and several books by Geneen Roth. This
mindful approach to living inside my own skin is working well; Ms. Roth’s
guidelines are reasonable: eat what you like, eat only when you are actually
hungry, and stop eating when you are no longer hungry. Pay attention to your
food and don’t eat while distracted. Note how hungry you are before you eat and
after you eat. There are some other directives, but these are the core.
Now that I take time to think about the emotions behind the
compulsion before I engage in it, I find that sometimes I am not hungry when
I think I am. Instead, I’m angry or lonely, sad or anxious. Sometimes I'm simply tired. There are
better ways of dealing with emotions than burying them in food. I am learning
that my emotions won’t kill me. The pain behind most of these feelings is pain
that has already happened. I can acknowledge it for a few moments and then move
forward without engaging in compulsive behavior as a way to cope.
As my compulsion fades, I find more room for love. My
particular brand of compulsive behavior came between me and loving myself
rather than me and other people in my life, so the love that is increasing is self-love. I trashed my own body with my compulsion.
I made myself unhealthy. Perhaps I was trying to make myself as unlovable as I
felt. My body was like a hoarder’s house – cluttered with the detritus of my
compulsion. It has been three years since I lost over 130 pounds – I have kept
almost all that weight off, but without addressing the root of my compulsive
eating, that won’t remain true. In the same way an alcoholic can stop drinking
for a while, I can stop bingeing for long periods of time. But the urge is
there – the unhealthy attitude is there – the desire is there. The causes of my
behavior are deeply rooted in the past. The pain is valid. The fault is not
mine. But the responsibility to find help and to heal does belong to me. It is
in understanding and remaking the beliefs that drive the compulsions that I
will find healing.
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