An End. And A Beginning

i am going to share a story that begins seven years ago.

wait, i take that back.  this story really starts twenty-seven years ago, when a boy met a girl and was captivated by her eyes, her energy, her strength. 

his love, kindness and attention to her was persistent enough to win her heart...a heart that had been waiting eighteen years to be won by precisely those characteristics. 

soon they were inseparable, each receiving something they needed from the relationship, and each making assumptions about what it all meant.

three years later they got married. this event occurred during an inauspicious time, in suboptimal circumstances, but their friendship helped them to press forward, mostly together, but in some ways unbeknownst to her at that time, they were also moving somewhat apart. they were quite young. this is not uncommon.

six years passed and the loveliest daughter was born to them. 

after nine years of marriage, the dearest son arrived.

life was busy, school and work demands were neverending.  there was a feeling of disconnect between them in many ways.  the girl struggled to make things better, to keep the boy's interest, to raise their children, to fill life with love and wonder. the boy loved the girl as well as he could, and worked hard to be kind and supportive, but he always felt like he was letting her down in elemental ways that he couldn't change. the girl always believed that the challenges they faced would eventually disappear. 

they did not.

time passed.  seventeen years had passed since they'd wed. one day, (we now arrive at the seven years ago part of our story), without knowing about the other, they each sat down at the very same moment, and wrote letters to the other, sharing their feelings. they had both decided that they should part ways.  

this was not what the girl expected to happen. she had put much prayer, fasting, thought and tears into this decision. she didn't know why it felt like the right thing, because she loved the boy and still wanted things to work out, but the answer in her heart was unequivocal...

...it was also without a sense of urgency.  no "when" was attached to it. she thought maybe sharing her feelings would be the beginning of a new era, a catalyst that would bring them together.  so she was surprised to learn he'd written her and come to the same conclusion.  

as they shared their feelings, they were kind. they were supportive. they decided to wait several months to proceed til it wasn't quite so challenging for the boy, who was in medical school at the time.

during that time, small shifts in their interactions happened that helped things enough that eventually they decided to call off parting ways.  the answer had been clear, but the girl thought maybe the shifts had changed the right course of action. she had hope.

things went well enough for a while, but then began to grow even more difficult. twenty two years into their marriage, they again arrived at the point where things were untenable. for six months they were separated, ultimately deciding again to part ways.  but then for a variety of reasons, she decided to stay. it was the right decision at that time, and as long as she was staying, she redoubled her efforts to do everything she could to love, cherish, serve, and support the boy, and nurture their relationship as they continued raising their darling children.  

it was a good experience, and the girl grew a lot in the process.  but there was still a part of her that was so sad. a part that simply couldn't reach the boy. and a part of the boy that couldn't reach her. but it was livable. 

by early this year, things were essentially as good as they had ever been when one day, the answer came; "now".

"now" it was time to part ways.  the girl was not prepared for this. it seemed like she could hang on a mere three years at least, til the boy was done with all his training, and their children were done with school. she would be much better off financially if she waited. they were in a reasonable place with each other. they had never fought or been acrimonious.  there was obvious logic to waiting. the girl questioned and resisted. she fasted, prayed and begged god for a new answer. the whole idea consumed her thoughts for weeks as she wrestled with it. 

one day in response to her petition to god, the words D&C 6:22-24 came to her mind.  she looked it up and read those verses, and from that moment forward, a peace filled her and carried her forward through the hardest thing she had ever had to go through.

until a solid month after it was done and over.  

only then, when things were actually official, and she and the boy were no longer legally tied one to another, did the grieving process set in. 

it occurred to her that our wise god knew if she'd glimpsed the mourning that was to come, she would have probably just decided to go back to the familiar again.  go another round or two. we have our systems for coping, we humans. she had them growing up, she had them in their marriage.  even if a situation wasn't a good one, it was known.  she was surviving. there were moments when she even seemed like she might be starting to thrive.  she could keep living that way. it wasn't a bad life.

but none of that hit her until it was over, and the boy had moved out and moved on. there hadn't been any real question in his mind about him leaving in the next few years during his training, but he admits he felt it would eventually happen.  it's certainly not an easy experience, but he admitted he's grateful she set him free. he had felt like he was living a lie for a long time but couldn't bring himself to move on because of how it would hurt her. and despite all their struggles, the boy loves the girl. still.  instead, he slowly changed, and these changes were too hard for her to assimilate, and brought them to this point. 

it was always going to be easier for the boy, she knew.  he's so beautiful. he's so fit, healthy and strong, he's intelligent and kind, talented and good. and he's a doctor who will be financially sound in a few short years. she knows his combination of traits are as rare as a unicorn in a non-magical world. girls will flock to him.

he knows she's sad, but he also believes that someday she'll be happy. he hopes someday she'll find someone who is a much better match for the person she is and the type of life she wants to have with her partner. and they both hope to make it through this transition and come out on the other side still friends. he will always be family to the girl, and she will always be someone the boy loves in a way. but it's hard right now.

so the girl is grieving. the girl is trying to move forward. the girl has noticed the hand of god in her life. it's especially manifested in the lives of their children, who have managed to navigate this transition with astonishing peace. they are thriving and progressing and not letting the situation with their parents undermine their lives.  this is the most significant blessing the girl could have ever hoped for. she has moments when she feels peace, followed by moments of being pulled under the rogue wave of grief over losing the boy. it's like a death but not as bad because he's still here and still being the wonderful father to their children that he's always been, which is of course much preferable. but it's also more complicated. 

this is the story of the past. this summer was the end of a chapter...maybe the end of a book. but it's also a beginning.  the girl and the boy spent nearly 27 years wrapped safely in a cocoon of their own making, becoming new creatures. they've finally emerged, and while his wings have dried and he's taken flight, the girl is getting there.  soon, this little blue girl will fly. 

~the end. and the beginning.~

grateful for:  god

How It Went

Hi guys!

Okay, I think a little background info is in order before following up on my last post.  

As I've mentioned before, it's been years since I cut off contact with my parents.  Five, in fact.  

At that time I wasn't sure how long it might be. I didn't really have a plan, I just knew that for my own sanity, I needed some distance and time to heal from the abuse and neglect of my childhood, and that just wasn't happening as long as they were in the picture. I tried to be nice about it, but really, there's no way something like that doesn't hurt. And I hate hurting people.

A year later I checked in with my mother while she was visiting a friend who lives near me. I told her I still wasn't ready to resume contact. 

Another year passed and that's when I confronted my father (as I wrote about and linked to in my previous post).  That was three years ago.  

I described part of my journey to this point in a talk I gave this past April, which explains how I was able to get to the point I was at last Christmas Eve, when I sent them a long email, the heart of which was to tell them: 

I’ve been working hard and praying hard, and I want you to know that I forgive you both for the things that you did, and didn’t do, which have caused me pain.  I know you are both good-hearted people with good intentions. We kids were a handful and you did what you could, and some things you couldn’t do, but we all at least survived, and I’m grateful for what I’ve learned so far in my life.  I really am."

So again, I want you to know that I do forgive you, and I’ve been praying for you both, but unfortunately I’m still very uncomfortable about having you in my life. And I’m sorry about that, but it’s just where I’m at.

Which brings us up to this past Saturday when my father called.

Since you're probably curious to know, I will tell you that overall, dinner went pretty well. I was noticeably quieter than usual; not really comfortable, but trying to be pleasant. But my typically reserved, "back row kind of guy" husband really stepped up to the plate and was conversant, engaging and sociable.  My sweet girl was her cheery, normal self. And even Gator, who didn't really want to go, also did just fine. It all made me feel so supported, thankful for, and in love with my little family! (And then I came home and had several lovely notes of support from my bloggy friends.  Imy bloggy friends!  Thanks for the notes and emails!)

As we were leaving the restaurant my father asked if there was a time we could talk before they left town. I didn't have my calendar on me, so I told him I'd call and let him know.  (By the way: Did you know that buying yourself a little time in situations like this is actually part of having healthy boundaries? I didn't realize that until my therapist mentioned it yesterday.)

I can't say I actually wanted to meet again, but I felt like I should at least make an effort to hear what he wanted to say.  So I called Sunday night and arranged to meet for breakfast on Monday morning.  At the last moment, my mother asked if it was okay to bring my brother Davis along.  "ABSOLUTELY!"  (SO glad I didn't have to do it alone!)

We met at IHOP and after a few minutes of chitchat my dad dove in.  I wasn't sure if he was going to announce that he was terminally ill and had just weeks to live, or what.  But I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that really, it was just about the family stuff.

One thing they were both a bit confused about was how come things aren't better between us, since I've supposedly forgiven them.  We (Davis and I) had to explain that there is a huge difference between forgiveness and trust.  And honestly, I don't think that he EVER realized this before.  I could see the dawning of understanding in his eyes as we explained this concept to him.  Forgiving him didn't mean we trusted them, or felt comfortable being with them.  

I should have used the example (but I didn't think of it at the moment) of Sigfried and Roy, who had the most visited show in Las Vegas, until one night during a performance, Roy was bitten on the neck by a seven-year-old male tiger named Montecore, and dragged off the stage. He suffered severe blood loss, a stroke and partial paralysis and has spent years in rehabilitation.

These men loved that tiger. They'd raised him from a cub and spent time with him every day of his life. But this event changed their relationship forever.  They could forgive the tiger (if you'll excuse the example of forgiving an animal...this is a metaphor after all), they could even still love the tiger, but the trust they once had was shattered, and their show had to be permanently cancelled.  

Sometimes when things are serious enough, trust won't ever be restored 100%--at least in this life. My parents have a long way to go before I will be in a position to really trust them again. 

The other really big thing was explaining to my father that we think he has very high-functioning Asperger's, or something along those lines (my totally unprofessional diagnosis)...because he has always had a massive blind spot that he doesn't even realize is there when it comes to social issues and how interpersonal relationships work.  This was totally news to him, but all three of us insisted unanimously that it's true.

It was like trying to explain to someone that can't see the color red that there's this whole part of the spectrum that most of us are aware of, but that they didn't know existed. And we didn't realize he couldn't see it all this time, but we're starting to put the pieces together. 

So now, having had this brought to his attention, perhaps he can do some research and gain some knowledge about the matter that might make it easier for him and those around him in the future.  He just really doesn't understand how some human interactions work, and that is part of the problem (though it doesn't account for his uncontrolled temper, which thing never really did change even after the sexual abuse stopped. Discussing this part may help him be aware of why we're uncomfortable even now.) 

I can't honestly recreate much of our breakfast conversation WHICH LASTED FOUR HOURS, (made sure he left the poor, underpaid waitress a really big tip), but ultimately I feel like there was some movement for all of us I think, and over all it was probably a good thing that we had the talk. I agreed to allow limited email communication, and I was able to say some things that I probably needed to say.  

I know I don't have all the answers about this whole matter of healing and forgiving deep wounds. I'm no expert, but I DO I feel like I'm being led along, tweaked and turned in ways that will ultimately help in the (in-depth, never-ending, intensive) refining process, and I’m just trying to be humble enough to let myself be helped if possible. I share my journey here in case it might in some small way help another in their own life.

I really do hope that my parents can continue to learn and progress so that things can really improve for them.  It kind of seemed like they were still hyper-focused on me, and trying to get me to change so that things would be "all better" in our family.  I may have imagined it, but it felt like maybe they realized there were things that they still need to do and CAN do on their end.  So that gave me hope.

Thanks again for the support during this experience. It means a lot to me!

xoxo,

Blue

PS: I really will be getting to the promised Drama Triangle.  Soon!

Trust

I used to have a different blog. I had it long before anyone I knew had a blog, and I loved my blog. Then almost 4 years ago my childhood finally started to catch up to me, and as a matter of survival I sent a letter to my "upline" asking them to not contact me or my family any more, including reading my blog.

Perhaps it was because one of my siblings had stopped talking to them years before, without even a formal request for no contact, and they seemed to just let them peacefully go their own way, I assumed they'd oblige and respect my Official Request and I'd be off the hook, too.

That wasn't the first time I've been wrong. Won't be the last.

Where before he'd never followed my blog, suddenly my dad started leaving comments not only my blog, but Doc and Bunch's blogs, too. Before this time, he would maybe pick up the phone or write once a year (if that). He'd let my mom sign his name on just about every card I'd ever gotten for my birthday. I can only recall one gift that was specifically from him in my entire life...a set of white scriptures. He simply didn't bother with relationships.

Now suddenly he was doing anything he could (mail, email, phone) to contact me...all while never mentioning my letter.

(Which had been very clear, in as kind a way as I could put it, about why I needed to cut them off. If there is, in fact, a kind way to essentially divorce oneself from one's parents.).

His refusal to respect my request for no contact all while ignoring the matter entirely was maddening.

After a few weeks of this I reached breaking point and in vintage John Grisham style, I entered my own "blogger witness protection program". I abruptly abandoned my old blog, and any readers following it. I didn't write a final post, or offer any explanation. I simply "escaped", at a time when flight was really the only coping mechanism I could manage. I'd never been good at standing up for myself.

The next couple years were so free. This new blog became a haven for me. But like those in the witness protection program, I was a little paranoid of being discovered. I tried to be SO cautious, but one day, my biggest blog fear happened.

I was reading my site stats. Now, I know the habits of my readers. Most of you never click anything...and a two minute visit is impressive. But one night, someone had been on for hours and hours, reading every blasted page of my blog.

I felt gut-punched. I'm just not THAT interesting, and I know it. Then I looked at the location of this visitor. Strike two--my parents town. Looking up the ISP confirmed my worst fear: they'd found me. Or at least one of them had.

In a world with half a billion blogs at the time, I hadn't been too worried that they'd just stumble across it on their own. They're just not technically savvy. But (and you are welcome to laugh at me!) I naively trusted that even if they did somehow...as soon as they realized it was mine, they'd stop reading. You know, out of respect for my privacy, because, you know, I'd sent That Nice Letter.

I'm such an idiot at times!

I emailed them that night. It was my first contact with them in 2 years, but I confronted them and asked them to let me know if it wasn't them, because I was feeling kind of violated.

It took almost a month before I finally got a reply, and it was from my mother, who confirmed it was just her. She then apologized and said "I feel really sorry for that. Will you forgive me? I promise not to do it again without your permission."

I wanted to know how she found out about it. I asked repeatedly, but that question was avoided. Eventually I found out that it was my own carelessness in leaving a comment on my sister's blog without changing my name to "anonymous" so it was linked to my profile that was my undoing. My older brother's wife saw it, told him, who immediately fed the information to the parents.

And that's the story.

Though I don't trust the older brother or his wife who never agreed not to read it, for some reason I trusted my parents would do as they promised and not read my blog. I know you are probably thinking I am being ridiculous. "It's out there where the whole world can see it", some have told me. "It's asking a lot for them to not look at it when everyone else is allowed."

Still, old habits die hard, and in many ways I'm still that small kid who wants to believe their parents are trustworthy.

When I was five, I was digging around in the dirt one day when I found an old, rusty, odd-shaped hammer buried in the dirt in our yard. I was elated with this fantastic treasure...it was the neatest thing mother earth could have offered up in to me!

I have no idea why, but my little tool just seemed to need me to scratch my name, complete with backward letters, on the front of my mom's wooden dresser.

I had to oblige.

When she discovered what I'd done, I was in H.O.T. water. That spanking still stands out in my mind 35+ years later. It was epic. But thankfully she didn't take my beloved little hammer away from me, so I was able to scratch my name into my dad's dresser too! So they'd match, you see.

When she discovered second signature, not only did I lose my precious hammer for good, but we had a serious talk about trust, and how when it's broken, it "takes a really long time to regain it". She explained that she had lost her trust in me, which was very painful for my five-year old soul.

I've known for a while that they didn't keep their promise.

Known it, but I don't have it in me to pull up stakes and run away again like the last time. So I'm here for good. I still don't want them to read my blog, and every time it happens I feel a little further away from ever mending the situation. If I started over, it would only be a matter of time before I messed up and they found my new patch of cyberspace.

It's a small world, after all.

Grateful for:
1) That two year reprieve I enjoyed. I was able to heal and grow a lot during that time.
2) My new bloggy followers. Even if you never comment...I see that you've visited and that gives me warm fuzzies.
3) Doc finished his first of his 13 Transitional Year rotations today. It was a grueling one, but the next month won't be bad at all in comparison.

An Hour, Or A Day

Today I had a wonderful conversation with one of the angels in my life, who shared a story with me about a woman whose life had been ruined by some people. The woman was filled with hate for them, to the point that it was all-consuming and destroying her.

Recognizing the need to forgive them, the woman began to pray for help. For a long time, nothing changed, but then one day, as she put it, "I forgave them for one hour-but then I hated them for seven. Then another day I forgave them for three hours, and then hated them for two days. Eventually I forgave them for a whole day, but then hated them for a month. Sometimes that's how forgiveness works."

I cried as my angel told me this story.

Grateful for:

1. Not really ever hating my "upline". I'm most often just sad about the "what might have been" aspect (or, more accurately, who I might have been. They ruined a lot of things.)
2. Making peace with the fact that we don't have to keep caustic people close to us. Isn't that great?!
   
3. Stories that bless me with a new insight. I won't necessarily have one of those "and suddenly, it was just lifted from my shoulders and I was free" kinds of forgiveness experiences you hear about sometimes...most likely it'll continue to be just like this woman. An hour here, a day there.
   
   I'll take it!

♥

I Write

Sometimes I lose my words. Don't for a moment interpret that to mean I stop talking...alas, one aspect of my anxiety is that I talk MORE when I'm uncomfortable. But most of what I say is a nervous effort to fill the silence, because if it gets too quiet, I risk getting close to the inside of me.

Yesterday I attended a writer's retreat and one of the questions posed was "why do you write?"

There are lots of reasons people write, but my answer to that question is I write to heal. And I write to find out who I am.

In one short exercise we were asked to get quiet, close our eyes, allow an image come to us. So we did that, and then she told us to write about our image.

I don't know why I thought of the shower in my parent's bathroom when I was growing up, but I did. It was the scene of numerous painful experiences for me...and I've never really let myself get close to them.

The song "Glitter In The Air", which I had never heard before, was playing as we wrote, and I tried to capture and release that memory...to let it, too, become glitter in the air.

That is why I write.

Grateful for

1. Discovering the art of writing; I'd never thought of myself as a person with anything worth reading.
2. Meeting lots of my online heroes in real life for the first time. You're a source of continuous inspiration and insight. What a gift!
3. 2nd Annual Studio Night...I created something I've been planning to do for almost a year. I'll share it soon.
4. BONUS: Finding my words.

Scot-Free

Tendrils of steam drifted upward as streams of hot water raced down her body in the small, square shower. She was busy rinsing any trace of stubble from her dad’s Schick razor so he wouldn’t know she’d used it, when she heard the bathroom door handle jiggle. Instantly tense, she watched the lock give way and the handle twist all the way to the right.

"Ha!” she thought to herself as he tried several times to push the door open without success. She’d learned via prior experiences that the lock was worthless against intruders. By jamming a heavy chair from the dining room at an angle under the doorknob, she'd barricaded the door. It almost surprised her that it worked. After a few hard shoves with no luck, he pulled the door shut again, and left her to shower in peace.

She had just lathered up with soap when suddenly the entire door was pushed straight into the bathroom, crashing against the sink. He had removed it from the hinges…a possibility she’d never even considered. 

Shock from being out-smarted was fused with fury and fear. Shoving the chair out of the way, he approached the shower door. She could see his face, distorted by the frosted plexiglass, reveling with perverse pleasure in his torture of her. He’d won again.

“Get OOOOOOUT!” she screamed at him over and over while desperately clinging to the shower door handle to keep it closed. It was slippery business. He was not only stronger, but also had the advantage of being dry. And not naked.

Traumatized that he could see even her smudgy outline through the door, she managed to hold him off for several long moments all while praying he’d give up and just leave.

Suddenly, the thin panel of clear plexiglass that ran along side the door fractured, and a long crack appeared. “Now you’ve done it! You’re going to be in SO MUCH TROUBLE when mom and dad get home!” She was almost glad it had happened. He broke the shower!  Finally she had proof, hard evidence of his behavior. Surely he'd be punished this time!

Distracted by the broken side-panel, her focus on the door momentarily lessened, and with one great yank, he suddenly pulled it away from her.

Cowering down in the corner in a futile attempt to conceal herself from him, hot tears of rage mixed with water spraying down on her. He just stood there without a word, raking his smug eyes back and forth across her body.  “I hate you! I hate you! I hate you! Get out of here!” she screamed endlessly, as the water gradually grew colder and colder.

365 Days

A year ago today I numbly drove to the airport, parked my car, took the shuttle to the terminal. I walked up to the SkyWest ticket counter, showed them my airline ID, received a jumpseat boarding pass, got on a plane, and flew to Houston.

When I landed in Houston I went to the car rental desk, rented a car, and drove to the house my parents live in.

I parked my car, walked up their walkway and rang the bell. No one answered. I walked around the corner and saw that my dad was in his back yard trying to mend a fence. How ironic, I thought.

I walked up and stood about 10 feet away from him. His back was to me. His hair had gone white and he looked much older than the last time I'd seen him. I stood watching him for a solid 3 minutes before I started crying and lost my nerve.

He hadn't noticed me, so I turned and left. Back in my car and needed to blow my nose and wipe my eyes, but had no tissues. I drove to a fast food place and got a stack of napkins. This was going to be hard.

Returning to their house, I went again to the back yard, but he was no longer there. I walked around to the front door, and rang the bell. A moment later the door opened, and my dad stared at me for a very long 15 or 20 seconds before he recognized me. I could see it in his face the moment it happened. Almost whispering my name, he staggered back a bit before catching his balance.

“I thought we should talk” I said.

“Yes. We should talk.”

He opened the screen door and I followed him inside. Sitting down on one end of the L-shaped couch, he sat on the other end. I think he probably offered me something to drink, which I declined. I asked if my mother was home. “She should be here any minute. She’s out shopping. I’ll call her.”

He called her cell phone but she didn’t pick up. He left a message telling her to call home as soon as she got the message, but not why. While he called, I looked around at their house, which I had only been to once, a decade earlier. Every nook and cranny was filled with autumn decorations and nicknacks...pumpkins, turkeys, leaves, figurines. I never realized that my parents were that into tchotchke. They had (outdated) photos of me and my siblings, and their grandkids covering the walls. A portrait of a happy family.

He hung up. And I started to talk. Words tumbled out and I unloaded, without reservation, all the pain, anger, hurt and suffering his actions had caused me. How it was all him, and not me. That I was a small child, and none of it was my fault. And that it doesn't matter if he doesn't remember any more, it still happened.

I wasn't worried about blaming him for things that may not actually be his fault...who can sort that out? I just told him how his abuse has impacted every aspect of my life. How I grew up feeling like a worthless piece of trash, and believing I was the ugliest girl in the world. How my feelings impacted me emotionally, and socially, and how that has influenced every relationship I’ve ever had, and everything I endeavored to do, down to the present time.

I told him of my struggle to fit in with school mates, friends and co-workers. When I started dating, his choices impacted my interactions with men, and eventually got in the way in my marriage. And especially problematic has been my relationship with God…my Heavenly Father.

I said anything that came to mind, without reservation. I had finally stopped worrying about hurting his feelings at my expense. I’d gotten to the point where I had to stop holding my pain inside, pretending he’d done his best, and that I was fine. I didn't believe that I just needed to forgive him without going through the grieving process of an innocent childhood lost. He hadn’t done his best. Being a pedophile isn’t doing your best. Throwing things at, and hitting your kids isn't doing your best. Having volcanic eruptions of anger that come out of nowhere and terrorize your children isn't doing your best. And though he could have done worse than he did, what he did was bad enough.

I’ve always excused his behavior because he finally stopped himself and repented of his sins. He tried to control his temper. But he never obtained any counseling for himself, or his victims. His repentance process did not include confessing his sins to his victims, or his wife (who claims not to know anything). Nor was there any kind of restitution. When I first discussed this with him (almost 20 years ago), he informed me “I know I’ve been forgiven, and now you have to forgive me.”

I believed him when he told me that, and felt bad that I was uncomfortable with him. I have tried all my life to forgive him. Lord knows I’ve tried. And if praying for reprieve from the pain, and praying for peace was all it took to move forward after a history like ours, I’d have been there long ago. It’s all I’ve ever wanted…to feel inner peace, instead of the battle that has raged over who I am all my life. But I didn’t know what to do. My coping method was to stuff the pain deep down, and pretend it wasn’t there, and wait for the heart to change. Because I believed him…that it was only me that had any work to do still. He was my dad, after all.

For years I thought I’d actually gotten there…that I’d forgiven him. Because truly, I don’t hate him. I don’t want him to be unhappy. I do want him to enjoy his life. But I just didn’t want to have to be part of it…and I felt guilty about that. So I MADE myself be part of it. But three years ago something broke inside me; I couldn’t do it any more. I had to cut off contact. This visit was the first time I’d seen or spoken to him in 27 months.

Eventually my tears (which I hadn’t managed any control over for the month preceding this encounter) finally dried up, and I didn’t have anything else to say. My mother had never called back or come home. I’d talked for over three hours, and realized that actually, I didn’t feel up for “Round Two” when she returned. So I told him I had to go.

He said he was sorry about everything and walked me to the door. “I hope we can do this again real soon” he commented. I looked at him, kind of sadly, and walked away.

Blessings:
1) Courage and support
2) A year of real progress
3) Hope for the future

One Year

A year ago today things turned upside down in my world. One moment I was humming along kind of obliviously naïve, and then literally in a single moment, I had the air sucked out of me and felt like I was suffocating.

It was the start of the hardest year of my life. A year of evolution, a year of movement within me, and a year of hard, hard work…which continues even now as I uncork the pain bottled inside me for so long and struggle to find my footing in this world.

There have been days when I felt like I was being water boarded. There have been lots of tearful days, and a few astonishing hours of raw fury and rage seeping up from the deep. But there have also been days when I literally drop to my knees in awe and humility at the love and kindness shown by people around me. Days when the world is so bright and beautiful I can scarcely contain my joy. Days when beautiful music reaches into my soul and wraps my heart in feelings inexpressible. I am so grateful for those moments.

Any of you who have read my blog for longer than a few months know that I’ve struggled with depression, among other things. This isn’t new, but dealing with it head-on is. I’d forever adopted the “I’ll handle this on my own” approach all my life, but I’ve learned that there is no shame in accepting help when you’re struggling.

And help has come in surprising forms…not the least of which was cherished new friendships borne from blogging. I’ve also treasured re-connecting with people from the past and gaining a closeness that wasn’t ever there before. Help has come from learning to be honest with myself about things, healing wounds in my soul, and re-training my thoughts. It’s been a year of wonders. I’m still learning, and I’m sure I’ll still have a lot of hard days. But praise be, I’m making it. (With a little bit of help from my friends.)

♥felt thanks for all the cheers from my fan section. ♥

Grateful for:
1) Sunlight after storms
2) Serendipity
3) Renewal

Photo credit: taken by yours truly from my back porch of rainbow over my mountain

Blame

Sometimes I like to blame others for where I'm at right now. Am I the only one who does this?

My primary target is my dad. I often feel like he's responsible for almost all the messes in my life. I play that "if only he'd done this differently" game, and trace everything back to his choices.

Like, for example, if he hadn't abused me as a child, then I would probably have had more self-esteem growing up. And my relationships with people would be healthier. I'd have been a better student. I wouldn't be struggling with depression. I'd have accomplished more with my life. Yadda yadda yadda.

But I don't know for sure that this is true. I mean, if he hadn't done what he did, and effectively ruined our family with his actions, it would have been easier to feel safe, secure and loved growing up. And having that would have influenced my life in ways I can't fathom. And I wouldn't be spending so much time and money-we-don't-have right now to wade through the pain and grief that I'm presently struggling through. At least not as it relates to my childhood.

But I don't know that I wouldn't be struggling with depression. And I don't know if I'd have had more success and confidence etc.

Because this I DO know: life isn't easy for anyone. If it doesn't throw one problem, challenge, setback, heartache in your path, it'll throw another. Because there hasn't ever been a person who just got "lucky", and managed to incredibly side-step their way through life, avoiding all the pain, loss, suffering and sorrow that is native to the mortal experience.

Eventually, we all learn through the hard moments we are given. Life isn't a series of green lights and empty parking spaces. We're here to be tried and tested and experience joy. I'm having a lot of the first two, and trying to have more of the third. I'm trying to be a better person. To learn from my experiences. To create beauty from ashes. Both in my life, and the lives of those around me.

So I can blame my dad for now. And my mom, too. But I realize it's not useful. That if I use blame to absolve myself from taking responsibility for my life, I just perpetuate the problem.

So even though he did what he did, and even though he is at fault for all of it, and regardless that I'm stuck with the fallout (and so is he. so are we all.) of his actions, blaming isn't going to fix things. Blaming won't change the facts. The only thing that can change is what I'm going to do about the situation.

So I'm trying to move beyond blame to forgiveness. Forgiving him doesn't mean he'll ever be part of my life necessarily. I don't have any reason to believe he'll ever do what needs to be done in order for us to interact with each other. He hasn't yet, and neither has my mother, or my brother for that matter. But forgiveness is elemental to making peace with how things are between us. It's not my fault that things are the way they are, and heaven knows I tried for decades to "fix" the situation. I can't fix it. It may not be fixable in this life, but if it is, it's proved to be beyond my abilities.

What I can do for now is move through the various stages of mourning and grieving...a part of which includes blaming. Cause that's what kids do, and the kid in me is finally getting her voice. Even if some days it's only a whisper still.

Grateful for:
1) The chance to heal
2) Sunshine today
3) A great laugh with Doc and Bunch last night. Laughter is good for my soul.

Controling, Maniacal, Manipulative, Dangerous. AKA my boyfriend Kevin

“I couldn’t tell from the dress you were wearing at the dance when we met if you were in good shape or not, but your ankles looked okay so I decided to ask you out”, he told me on our first date…for which he had brought me to the beach.*

Seeing me in a swim suit, he decided that I could use “a little work”, but was worth the investment so to speak. Thus began my foray into body issues.

How I managed to get that far without feeling self-conscious about my body, especially considering my experiences as a child, is beyond me. I think of it as a tender mercy of the Lord, because it was literally off my radar entirely…just hadn’t occurred to me that there was anything at all wrong with me. Because, as it turns out, there wasn't. And isn't.

Kevin turned out to be a master of manipulation and control. He would take a sprinkle of truth, and then twist it so cleverly that I didn’t even notice it. I was so used to glomming onto anyone who paid attention to me that I overlooked a lot of things that would have sent a more secure person running for the door.

“Our bodies are the greatest gift God has ever given us, so if it’s not in perfect shape, then we are abusing the greatest gift from God.” he informed me. This seemed like a reasonable statement. And after all, Kevin was a medical student, was several years older than me, and had been married and divorced already. He clearly knew a lot more about these matters than I did at just 18 years old.

Thus began one of the strangest relationships of my life. Kevin would show up at my garage early in the morning, before I’d even awoken, and take me to his campus apartment at UCI. He’d never informed the school that he’d been divorced so that he could keep his married student apartment, which was WAY more spacious and affordable than he’d have had otherwise.

Sometimes he’d let me eat something before we went to the campus gym, but most of the time we just headed straight there. After going inside to get his hand stamped for gym access, he’d come out and quickly, while the ink was still wet, press the back of his hand onto mine to transfer the image, so that he wouldn’t have to pay for me to work out in the school facility as a guest.

Then it was drill sergeant time. Swimming laps, pumping iron, running around the track. He stood by and watched while pushing me to go longer, farther and faster than I ever had.

“You have to do this for the right reasons” he explained to me. “My ex-wife Joy started exercising and taking better care of herself while we were dating too, but then after we got married she stopped and let herself go. She clearly wasn’t doing it for the right reason” he’d say with a look of disappointment.

Joy was often used as a “how not to be” example.

After wearing me out for a few hours, we’d return to his house. Once he cut a honeydew melon in half and put it on a plate between us with two spoons. After a few minutes, he dropped his spoon with a look of disgust.

“What’s wrong?”, I asked?

“If you want to be a gluttonous pig, be my guest.” he replied.

“It’s honeydew melon!” I said, leaving off the obvious part about how I’d just worked out for 3 hours and hadn’t eaten at all yet that day.

“Clearly you can’t shovel food into your gaping maw fast enough, so go right ahead”.

“No" I retorted. “I’m not hungry any more”, dropping my spoon in defiance of his accusation.

Not only did Kevin micromanage every bite I took all day, but somehow he got me to agree that if we were in public, it would be best if I didn’t speak.

“You wouldn’t want to say something that might embarrass yourself, or me. We both know that you sometimes put your foot in your mouth.”

This was true. As an extrovert, I’m not shy about conversing with anyone and never have been. Kevin was in training to be a doctor…and we all know how doctors are prestigious and estimable members of the community (snark). I wouldn’t want to jeopardize his standing or position because I said something ignorant or irrelevant. So incredibly, I agreed to this request.

One evening a guy from Kevin’s church stopped by for a short visit. He was a friendly fellow who had graduated from the same college I was heading off to in a couple months. During the visit he chatted with me and gave me a few bits of advice and useful suggestions since I would be a new freshman. After he left, the look on Kevin’s face shocked me.

“What was that?!” he asked.

“What do you mean?” I responded, baffled.

“I thought we agreed that you wouldn’t talk in public” he answered.

"We’re in your living room”, I said.

“When the public comes into my living room, then my living room is the public.” he said.

Kevin was chock full of useful information. One day he explained to me that he’d struggled to control his diet when he was a teen. His grandmother was always filling his plate and pushing him to eat it. They fought a lot about it, till finally he figured out how to gag himself to make himself throw up. “After that there wasn’t any more conflict. I’d just tell her to ‘pile it on’, and as soon as I was done eating, I’d go throw it up.” As a future doctor, he didn’t see any harm in this method, because he wasn’t bulimic, just “keeping the peace”. I never let him know that I tried (but thankfully failed) to follow his example on a number of occasions after he had insulted my eating habits. I'd cram my whole fist down my throat, but never got anywhere near succeeding. My eating disorder was confined to my mind.

There were countless moments of control and manipulation that summer. I didn’t realize that’s what they were at the time. My primary focus was on leaving home (finally!!!) and heading out of state to college, even though Kevin was already grooming me to marry him once we were both done with school. "You'll get to be a doctor's wife" he'd say, as if that was the most illustrious thing I could ever aspire to.

Staying connected long distance wasn’t going to be a problem, because Kevin rigged up a system to communicate with me without paying for long distance phone bills.

He typed up a list of 100 questions, answers, statements, etc., numbered them from 0-99, and made a copy for each of us. Once I was away, he would call my dorm room collect, and when the operator would say “Collect call for Blue”, I would reply “she’s not available”, to which Kevin would ask the operator if he could leave a return call back number which I’d write down (eg:1-8-36-2-17-99-53)

After hanging up, I’d get out the code sheet, and look up question numbers 1, 8, 36, 2, 17, 99 and 53, and then write down the numbers to my answers and do the same thing in reverse. In this ingenious way, Kevin managed to keep me under his thumb from 600 miles away without paying a cent. “Did you run at least 3 miles today?” (Yes), What have you eaten today? (an apple) etc.

As I didn’t really know what being loved actually felt like at that point in my life, being paid attention to was a convincing substitute. And if nothing else, Kevin paid attention to me. At least as long as it was convenient.

Two months after I left for college, I found someone driving home for the weekend and decided to surprise Kevin with a visit. Twelve hours later I was dropped at my house, got straight in my car and drove to Kevin’s (married student) apartment. Granted, it was late, but I’d gotten there as fast as I could, and was excited to surprise him.

He opened the door, and when he saw me standing there he said “what are you doing here?”

“I wanted to surprise you with a visit!” I said. “I just got here and came straight over.”

“It’s late and I’m tired. But there is a dance tomorrow night, so how about I see you there. FYI, there’s a girl who is investigating the church and I offered to take her. It's kind of missionary work. But how about you come over and give me a haircut after the dance?”

As a professional doormat, I agreed to his suggestion. He never let me in.

At the dance, Kevin hardly acknowledged me, focusing instead on his "fellowshipping" of the investigator. But as he was leaving he said “see you in an hour, I’ve got to take Maria home, and then you can cut my hair.”

I was tired. I didn’t especially want to drive down to his house and cut his hair at 1:30 a.m., and my ride back to college was picking me up at 6 a.m. But I didn’t know how to say no so I agreed. I was in his box. Thank heavens for guardian angel friends who speak up!

“Blue, I’m worried about the impact Kevin is having on you” JB said to me in the parking lot after the dance. I wasn’t exactly sure what "impact" he meant, but his concern touched me.

JB was a really good person that I admired a lot. He'd known Kevin for a long time, and apparently had a little more insight about his character than I did. As we talked, he encouraged me to untangle myself from Kevin, but I told him I didn’t know how.

“Sometimes I think God is okay with us telling white lies” he told me. “It’s a matter of survival in some cases. You really shouldn’t go over there tonight.”

“But how do I get out of it?” I pleaded.

“Just tell him you got a flat tire”, JB suggested.

By the time I got home it was 2 a.m. My phone was ringing as I walked through the door.

“Where are you?” Kevin demanded.

“Obviously you know I’m at home since you called me here.” I replied.

“Why aren’t you here?” he said

“I ran out of gas.” (my white lie)

“You ran out of gas, he said, skepticism oozing in his voice. “Where?”

His interrogation went on for a few more minutes. I knew he didn’t believe me because being a person without guile, I am frankly a horrible liar.

“So when are you going to get here?” he asked to my astonishment.

“Kevin, it’s 2 a.m. I’m tired. I’m leaving in four hours to go back to school. I’m not going to come cut your hair.” I said, with my recently acquired backbone.

“You’re NOT COMING?” he yelled at me into the receiver.

“No. I’m not.” I replied, standing my ground.

There was about 20 seconds of silence. I can still hear the buzz of the phone line when I remember this moment. And then, there was the sweet sound of freedom as Kevin hung up on me. Incredibly!

I fairly danced. “He Hung Up On Me!” I was so relieved! This huge, invisible weight, connected to a massive chain simply evaporated in that moment. I was free.

Two hours later he called again, and with piety in his voice tried to convince me he was sorry, and that I needed to forgive him. And give him a haircut. “I’ll come to your house” he graciously offered. “You can sleep the whole drive back today, you don’t need to sleep now”.

I refused his invitation, and told him to never call me again. We were over. Glory Hallelujah and amen. I never spoke to Kevin again.

Just two weeks later I met Doc at college.

While I was blessedly Kevin-free, I’ve never quite regained the carefree peace with my body that I enjoyed prior to him. But I am getting closer. Getting closer.

* And yes, I should have smacked him and walked away at that point, and countless points thereafter. I know that now.

Boxes

When I was eighteen, I had a summer-temp job at a company where I worked with a diverse group of very nice women. We had almost nothing in common these ladies and I. But they welcomed me into their circle and treated me with kindness, as if I were one of their own, even though I’d only been sent there on a week-long temp job initially.

While we worked, we often chatted with each other about things, and one day, Sue shared a story she’d just read, about a woman whose significant other had convinced her to keep her head in a box. Like ALL the time. Day and night.

Just her head, mind you. While her body was free, he’d rigged up some kind of box that allowed for ventilation, but which kept her head in captivity. He would remove the box for her to eat, but then back on it would go. This went on for years, until her atrocious situation was discovered somehow. And I remember being bewildered by the disclosure that even after she was free of him, she sometimes wanted to put her box back on her head. It was familiar.

I didn’t comment on Sue’s story at the time, because it disturbed me very deeply. I couldn't join the discussion. On so many levels it made me uncomfortable. And though it was just a passing tale, one that I never even read myself, I have never forgotten it.

Last week in my appointment with my therapist, he asked me a question (I don’t remember what the question was), but it reminded me again of this story and I shared it with him. As I asked the question How could this woman have agreed to that situation? How could she have let him convince her to go along with it?, it finally registered why it has always stayed with me.

How could I have gone along with the things I did, as a child? Because in a way, I, too, let myself be trapped in an invisible box. My whole life.

I realized that perpetrators “groom” their victims, and I understand that I was a powerless child, that none of it was my fault; I get all that. But it still made me so deeply sad to realize that I was kind of like the woman with her head in the box. I was bonded emotionally to my dad, and wanted to keep him happy. Wanted it more than my own happiness. Didn't want to wreck what good there was in my life by speaking up about what wasn't.

Today I read a story about kidnap victim Jaycee Lee Dugard, who, at least for part of her captivity, was allegedly kept in a box. This made me weep, and I feel sad tonight. Sad for all the people in all kinds of boxes. Sad for the circumstances that led them (us) there. And a little bit angry too. Which if I were a betting-kinda-girl I'd wager my therapist would be happy to hear.

Have you ever been boxed before? How did you escape?

Grateful for:

1) Amazing lime cake. And Shelah.
2) Finding some cute skirts this week at my local thrift store.
3) Finding my old keyless entry remote, and getting it to work on my car.

The phoenix is rising

When I make my fabulous toffee, I stir and stir and stir without stopping for a while before there is any noticeable change in the confection. Then gradually, a little patch here and a little spot there starts to shift, as it transforms from mere sugar, butter and water into utter scrumdiddilyumptiousness. The progress is slow initially, but I keep working at it, and soon it picks up and changes more and more rapidly.

Just recently, I've noticed some little pockets of progress in various aspects of my life. Like those patches and spots of change in the toffee, I'm noticing some growth and progress, and this is very encouraging.

For example, it's been a long time since I was genuinely excited about something besides traveling. But I'm actually excited about some mixed-media creative projects that I've thought of doing. And even more exciting to me is that the ideas for them came to me directly, not inspired by anyone else. One project involves stones, one involves sticks, there's a digital one, and some photography ones. And they all have personal meaning to me. I also have a musical thing I want to do, as well as some writing. I've been itching to get to all of this, and am looking forward to school starting next week and having some chunks of time to devote.

This may not sound like a big deal, but for anyone who has struggled with dysthymia as long as I have, it's big. Finding joy in the journey is one thing...and it's easy to see a lot of it in my life. But feeling the joy in the journey, well, that's been just out of reach for a long time.

As my Blue Whisperer said, it sounds like the phoenix is rising.

Grateful for:
1) Studio night, which started this process
2) Loving encouragement
3) Great examples all around

Mercies

He Knew

For the past week or so I've experienced some serious depression. During work I managed to put on my game face and push things into the background, but the moment I was no longer on duty, I couldn't repress the feelings any more.

Of course like most people, I generally avoid painful things, so instead of dealing with the stuff that was really going on, I focused on more trivial stuff, like losing my wallet. But that was just the "safe" thing to talk about.

I'd been doing pretty well for the last while. It was a good run while it lasted. But I'm also involved in a difficult process of healing and growth too...so allowing space for those feelings, and those hours of tears...well, that's just part of the journey of healing from sexual, physical and emotional abuse. My therapist told me there would be an end to the tears at some point, and to let them come. So I did. And they came. For hour upon hour. In fact there was a salty river running through my house most of Saturday night, till near dawn.

But in those hours when it felt like I was an island of one, I knew I wasn't alone. Though I felt lonely and was in intense emotional pain, when it was hard to ask God for help out of fear of not getting it, He helped me anyway.

First, I forced myself to go to the grocery store shortly before it closed Saturday night and ran into a woman from my church. Our chat was the reason I made myself go to church the next day when I was strongly tempted to justify not going.

Then Doc spent some time talking to me, even though he had to get up in 5 hours and pull a 30+hour shift (during which time he got only 2 hours to rest...he's one overbaked cookie right now). He helped me to keep perspective and hang in there through this process. He helped remind me that depression is an illness, and that I am just sick right now, like having the flu or any other thing. It will pass, and I'm doing what I need to do to heal.

Then in the wee hours of the morning, a beloved friend, my maid of honor at my wedding to Doc, who I have had only intermittent contact with over the past 19 years (and it's been a good 10 years since I saw her), sent me an email in the throes of my long dark night, to tell me "I was on her mind and she just wanted me to know how much she loves me". It'd been better part of a year since our last contact.

And then another darling friend sent me a note of support, and a link to a great talk which I read before finally going to sleep.

Then in the morning my sweet children came in and snuggled with me, one on either side, and I felt enveloped by loves.

I even got myself to church, albeit looking something like this picture. My eyes were so puffy that I put sunglasses on to disguise them, and actually ended up wearing them through the entire service. Yes. Like a freakin' movie star hiding from the paparazzi. Haggard isn't a look I'm comfortable with.

When Sacrament meeting was over, a friend sought me out and invited me to walk with her to her house to take some rolls out to rise. She lives very close, so it didn't take long, and we attended the rest of our services together.

After church another friend called who had seen me from a distance but not had the chance to say hi...just to see how I'm doing.

All of these tender mercies were, I know, my Heavenly Father's way of reaching me, when I was too numb to feel much at all. And it occurred to me that He Knew the whole time that my wallet, the loss of which I focused on rather than what I was actually struggling with, was sitting safely in the TSA office in Boston, and that I'd get it back this week intact. He Knew all weekend that I would make it through this round of intense feelings of anguish. And He Knew that He would inspire people to connect with me.

One of my favorite quotes is "Sometimes the Lord calms the storm, and sometimes He calms his child." As much as I would enjoy a life without storms (at least for a little while), I'm very grateful for His Calming of this child.

Grateful for:
1) Keri
2) Anika
3) Marilynne
4) Maren
5) Heather
6) Marki
7) John
8) Robin
9) Nate
10) Sunnshine
11) Frank
12) Gator
13) Bunch
14) Doc