Preference

Isn't it the norm, especially near the beginning of a relationship, for the couple to prefer one another?  To have eyes first and foremost for the partner in the relationship?  

That disappeared rather quickly in the months leading up to the wedding, though I ignored the signs.  Slowly but steadily bumped, bumped, bumped on the priority list.  One on-time airport pick-up and then running late to not checking the time and my having to take a bus.  Christmas mornings with gifts I ended up buying for myself, and one when I stopped doing that and there were no gifts.  Birthdays, many many many with barely an acknowledgement.  Forget Valentine's Day and anniversaries.  If I didn't make the effort, nothing happened.       

One that bothered me the most was regarding dancing.  I love dancing, and during courtship he was a great partner, seemingly proud to hold me in his arms whatever the dance.  After that, I had to coax or even plant myself in front of him...and along came the critiques.  Many corrections and the eradication of dancing for the fun of it.  When he taught others, he shooed me away into the other room versus using me as his demo partner.  The rapid dive in dancing attentiveness mirrored every other area of our lives.

No spontaneous affection.  If I didn't hug, there weren't hugs.  If I didn't kiss...if I didn't initiate anything affectionate, then it didn't happen.  No hand-holding, no reaching for me or cuddling.  And no spark in the eye for me - I refused to acknowledge it from early on but couldn't ignore it because there was a definite warmth and extra pizazz whenever he spoke or was around his mother and sister.

The Lord has reassured me time and time again of the spark He has in His eyes for me, the delight and pleasure He finds in me, and the regard He has for me.  That communication has sustained me. 

You shall be a crown of beauty in the hand of the LORD,
and a royal diadem in the hand of your God.
You shall no more be termed Forsaken,
and your land shall no more be termed Desolate,
but you shall be called My Delight Is in Her,
and your land Married;
for the LORD delights in you,
and your land shall be married.

and as the bridegroom rejoices over the bride,
so shall your God rejoice over you.

Isaiah 62:3-4, 5b

I'd like to know what it is like to be cherished. preferred. to be considered and regarded.  Outside of my Heavenly and earthly Father, I have never experienced that through a man.  I thank God for both of my Dads being constant in their love for me.  I embrace the healing taking place in my heart and look forward to rebuilding towards wholeness, that I'll never again accept the damaging type of pseudo-love into my life again.  The chain of inconsiderate, neglectful men in my life is broken NOW.  By God's grace I will give and receive His kind of love.  Amen.

Thoughts Sparked From A Book

I read a review for a book that intrigued me and checked it out here in Virginia.  Within a few chapters, I found myself filled with dread...a much more emotional response than I ever remember having to a fictional story.

On a fairly ordinary day, a woman is abducted by a stranger and taken to live way up in the mountains.    Her identity is taken away.  Her success and career no longer matter. There are many new rules governing her life now.  She ends up having a baby with her abductor and is tormented by his treatment of the frail child.  Though there are moments of calm and sometimes enjoyment in her captivity, they are few and quickly erased by the horror of her new reality.  She seizes an opportunity to slay her abductor and flees.  In the process of rebuilding her life, working with a therapist as well as the police who are trying to figure out all the details of the abduction, she discovers that her life was not what she thought it was.  There had been break-ins and previous attempts to abduct her, which she had dismissed at the time.  Her boyfriend had been unfaithful with her closest friend.  Family members had worked against her professionally, tearing her down.  But the worst was her discovery through the police investigation that her mother had set up the kidnapping.  Unforgiveness for a childhood mistake as well as jealousy and competition were the reasons behind this horrific betrayal.  As she's being taken away to jail, the mother insists that her daughter drop all charges to protect her name and reputation.  The daughter walks away.

Yikes.  Obviously my story is different.  But there are many similar elements.

In several chats I've had with a close friend whose husband left her, a startling word came up several times.  Numbness.  I know that word too well.

In my experience, there was so much conflict, discomfort, lack of agreement and upheaval from the time of the wedding that eventually I shut down.  We couldn't walk into Walmart without an argument breaking out.  He insisted on a purple shower curtain (his favorite color).  I acquiesed but protested when he wanted a dark green trash can for the bathroom (his second favorite color).  They didn't look good together.  He claimed that I was already limiting his creative freedom.  What about what I liked or wanted?  I primarily cooked Asian style food with a lot of vegetables, and he suddenly claimed an allergic reaction to all things soy related.  From food to recreation (football season took top priority in all activities) to how I looked, there was constant pressure to yield to his way.  He hated my shoes.  He made disparaging remarks and yucky faces when I put on make-up, especially my signature red lipstick.  My belly ring disgusted him.  And there was the refrain comparing me to his sister...  The two of them had a private club.  Inside jokes, telephone calls at all hours of the day to discuss the most mundane details of their day, making plans for the two of them with me as a tag-along.  My first time in NYC (their hometown), we spent the day going to obscure places so that his sister could get chicken wings and fulfill other whims.  Along the way, they pointed out that Broadway was a block over or that Central Park was across the way...  I was promised shopping but somehow there never was time for it.  Even after I slipped down subway steps, the aimless walking continued until the evening when we ended up back at her apartment.  I was in too much pain to walk up the four steep flights of stairs, so they left me in the car for over an hour while he "quickly" looked at something on her computer.  All this the first few months of marriage.  But the patterns continued.

(Almost twelve years later, I still have not seen any of the sites in NYC though we've been up north numerous times.  He wanted to take our daughter into the city, but I said I had to get the tour first.  Again and again he wanted to take her for a visit to his mother's and into the city - my stipulation stood.  He never planned a trip for me.  Finally, I agreed because I didn't want her to miss out.  This year, a promise to take our daughter to Paris popped up out of the blue.  Another trip that will never be except that I will give it to myself.)

Tired of the fighting and wanting to feel a part of a family, I tried to become like his in order to be accepted.  A few years ago, I finally came to the realization that I'd never be "in" and stopped trying.  The criticisms were always going to come no matter what I did. 

The numbness is kind of similar to the Stockholm Syndrome to me.  When you get worn out and down by the stress and discomfort of the circumstances you're in, you have to find another way to cope.  You convince yourself that perhaps the other way isn't so bad.  Maybe the treatment will be better if you go along with it versus fighting against it.  But doing this makes you numb.  It robs you of your autonomy.  As a living being, things can be buried for only so long before surfacing.  Waking up in your life, as jarring or uncomfortable as it can be, is good.  Being a full participant, cognizant and honest are necessary.  I've missed the vibrant me that surfaced for brief periods before going back under the gloom.  I like her.  A lot.  I've missed the curvy, spunky girl that hid for years under the weight of unhappiness and neglect.  I'm not afraid of living anymore.  I'm no longer apologetic for being expressive me.  I'm a goofball.  Romantic.  Both practical and whimsical.  I like sparkles and dressing from different eras.  False eyelashes and bright lipstick.  I'm quiet and reflective, passionate and fiercely loyal.  When the weight started coming off this January (60 pounds as of now!), I recognized the long-hidden me again.  And I must say, I think she's lovely.

Finding Refuge in My Father's House

I'm sitting in the living room of my father's home, pondering this life.  The children and I have been here for a week, and it has been a welcome reprieve from the pressures/stresses/frustrations of the same-old, same-old mess. 

I thank God for the various gigs He provided for me in the last two months - they've enabled me to purchase the necessary summer items for the kids as well as the money for our trip needs.  Yet it is beyond maddening that there is no additional income coming in while he waits for an offer.  The waiting time in previous years lasted 19 months and  this current one is coming up on two and a half years.  Out of eleven and a half years, seven have been with steady employment with benefits.  The rest of the time...living below the poverty level.  I've worked very hard to shield my children from the underside of this level of living, BUT I can hardly stomach that they've been exposed to this when it is a matter of continual bad choices versus necessity that's dictated the circumstances.  I guess that people revert back to what is familiar and comfortable to them.  The kind of lifestyle my former spouse and his family members seem comfortable living is opposite to what I find appealing and acceptable.  For example,we lived for a year in his sister's house where the front door was inaccessible and the main bathroom didn't function.  To gain entrance, you had to go around to the back door or down concrete stairs to the basement. To shower or use the facilities, we had to go all the way to the basement, two floors down from the bedrooms.

My father would never let things like that linger - he is a man of action who takes care of things immediately.  And in his home, I feel taken care of and that our needs are met.  I feel safe and secure.  Untroubled for now. 

I don't know how the next few months will unfold and what the future looks like.  I am trusting God to slowly fill in the picture and direct me.  That my kids and I will live in a peaceful, tidy home. Stable. Secure.

 

No cursing, yelling neighbors. No more dysfunctional bathrooms and gross kitchen cabinets you wouldn't put food or dishes in.  No more welfare and rude cashiers who rub your face in it when you present your food stamps card.  No more tolerating poverty and barely enough. No more messy, careless living.  Not for me and for my children.  ^"I will say of the Lord, He is my Refuge and my Fortress, my God; on Him I lean and rely, and in Him I [confidently] trust!" Psalm 91:2

Shifting Sand

1.  He had a degree and a decent job when he asked her to marry him.  Then he decided that he needed to do other things and left the job, dabbling in this and that.  The addition of children did not hinder his wandering from scheme to scheme, temporary this and that, this master of his own destiny.  No health insurance.  Dodging bill collectors. Bankruptcy. Foreclosure. Baby number one and two, moving around and around, no plan or preparation.  The imminent arrival of baby three.  Her family is angry. disgusted. frustrated that he doesn't see his irresponsibility and selfishness.

2.  He had a degree and a decent job when he asked her to marry him.  Then he decided that he needed to do other things and left the job, dabbling in this and that. The addition of children did not hinder his wandering from scheme to scheme, temporary this and that, this master of his own destiny.  No health insurance.  Dodging bill collectors. She has been diagnosed with an incurable disease and has maybe a year or so to live. He is angry and in denial, incapable of responding to or providing for the immediate needs she has as her condition rapidly deteriorates. Her best friend's husband installs the safety bars and does the work to protect her.  Her children are lost in their grief as Dad has checked out and Mom struggles...her speech is now slurred, her body in constant pain, and she worries about their future. Her family is angry. disgusted. frustrated that he doesn't see his irresponsibility and selfishness.

These scenarios are a picture of my past (#1) and the possibility of my future (#2), but neither are actually about me. 

Ironically, the angry family members in scenario #1 are my mother-in-law and my husband.  The man is my sister-in-law's husband. They are outraged at the behavior and choices of this man.  How dare he put her and the children through this mess? What about their future? Where will they live? How will he provide? Yet, the mismanager of my own household has walked an eerily parallel path. 

The couple in scenario #2 are new friends about 10 years older than me.  That cannot be me in a decade, still living this shaky lifestyle.  I refuse to allow the prophetic image of scenario #2 to occur in my life.

I was just like the dutiful wives of the fellows in the scenarios above.  Supportive. Encouraging. Seemingly content to put my needs/desires/preferences on the back burner. Except that the damage and destruction in every area of our lives became impossible to ignore. If I continued on as the long-suffering wife of this foolish man, then perhaps the accolades of the proper Christian wife would continue to be mine. 

Whatever. 

I would rather have a righteous life with a heart undefiled before my God, no matter the external judgments or pressure.  

The schemes and abrupt life changes, a sign I missed in the beginning of our lives together, have not ceased coming at me. The switcheroos. Never consulting me.  Our first apartment: we found one near work that was nice, then he decided to rent one further away while I was out of the country that was dirty and too small.  Our honeymoon was supposed to be in Paris, until he decided suddenly that he wanted us to go there at a later time.  He had no alternative plan, just this firm decision to cancel the dream, and we didn't go anywhere on our honeymoon.  Paris has never materialized. We went through the process of being missionaries with an organization working in Europe. After the process was nearly complete (a year and a half of planning/preparing), he decided that we should also go to Africa. My own experience as a missionary, the protocol in raising support, the commitment we'd signed didn't matter to his idea of "maximizing" our opportunity. Nothing can convince him otherwise when he gets an idea. He agrees to something until he decides something else.

It's interesting to me that the pressure "to keep our family intact," "to make choices that benefit the family," "to put the kids first" rests all on my shoulders. "I am destroying our family."

I say that the destruction has been happening for a long time. That every bad decision he made stepping right over me as I cried and pleaded with him to reconsider further damaged the stability and security of our present and future.  He's never honored the sacredness of unity in our marriage, bringing his mother and sister in as confidants from the beginning of our marriage. My requests for privacy were not respected.  They know everything about everything and have an opinion about it all.  He has been more intimate with them from the beginning than with me, his wife.  I would not have married him if I had known that he was already married to them - and I really mean that. He decides something, discusses it with them and gets their agreement, and then does it.  He really doesn't care whether or not I agree with it.  Soooooo, ultimately he is more married to them than he is married to me and I choose not to live like this anymore.  I will consult God about my life and my children.  Depend on Him. Live in peace. Live with honor. I will stand on the solid Rock that is God alone.

Control

The cut is deep, but never deep enough for me

It doesn’t hurt enough to make me forget

One moment of relief is never long enough

To keep the voices in my head from stealing my peace

Oh, control

It’s time, time to let you go

Perfection has a price, but I cannot afford to live that life

It always ends the same; a fight I never win

Oh, control

It’s time, time to let you go

I’m letting go of the illusion

I’m letting go of the confusion

I can’t carry it another step

I close my eyes and take a breath

I’m letting go …

There were scars before my scars

Love written on the hands that hung the stars

Hope living in the blood that was spilled for me

"Control" by JJ Heller

On the radio the other day, someone articulated my thoughts and feelings so clearly 

in a way I have never been able to express previously.

To have so much pain inflicted on you, 

to feel so out of control, so much pressure, so many demands... 

"be perfect. don't you dare cry. don't you ever fail or even appear to falter. how dare you have a need. you don't matter. it's all on your shoulders. fix it. you're responsible for everything."

Self-injury is an attempt to take control of the pain - which is there anyway, 

so much that you go numb.

It's a reminder that you're human and still capable of feeling. 

It's a bizarre source of comfort and relief.

It was first an issue for me in high school when my mother went from beatings 

to demanding that everyone in the family ignore me. 

They acted like I didn't exist. For months. That became years.

One time I knew I had gone too far with the cutting and thought it was the end. 

My body got very cold. 

An angel I'd seen once as a young child appeared at the foot of my bed, 

holding on to the rail and watching over me.

I looked away and rolled onto my side. 

A second angel, also from the earlier childhood experience, stood next to the bed. 

Somehow it communicated to me that they were going to watch over me, 

that I was going to be fine, and I drifted off to sleep. 

When I woke up the next morning and pulled back the towels from my legs, 

I was astonished to see the rapid healing that had taken place. 

Only a very faint scar remains, though I should have many.

Going through postpartum depression, 

especially the judgmental reproaches and abandonment of many closest to me, 

triggered a relapse. 

It's been eight years and I have not conquered this twisted monster in my life yet.

But I'm actively trying, 

gently but firmly working with myself to process the pains and find comfort in God. 

I don't feel as ashamed or try so desperately to cover the evidence, 

though it's not so obvious. 

No one knows the twinges of pain I feel as I walk about my life, 

running, dancing, jumping through hoops,

my feet ravaged by this compulsion.

For the first time in a very long time, I am wearing really cute shoes, 

showing love to the area that has suffered so much. 

A physical representation of a deeper healing taking place.

Leading Up To Matrimony

In order to unravel the mess of today, I have to go back to the beginning.  Back to the time when I was most fulfilled.  radiant.  joyful.  at peace.

I had found my calling and moved to Africa to work with an international organization.  Street kids became my best friends.  Elation at helping a woman get out of prostitution and attend school.  Teaching, laughing, having the adventure of my life.  I woke up every day with such excitement - I thought I'd be in Africa for the rest of my life.

Except there was a dark lining to the dream I was living.  Increasingly, I was being targeted on the streets.  A culture that ranks livestock above the value of women.  The perception that women from the West are promiscuous thanks to our movies and television shows.  I carried an umbrella as protection and had to regularly raise it to ward off unwanted advances.  Some who were bolder had to be shoved or smacked - anything to stand up against the threat.  Sitting in a cafe became unpleasant, as I was indecently propositioned if the person I was with left me alone for even a minute.  Public transportation became nerve-wracking (I was expected to make my own way around town).  One time, the van stopped taking passengers and took off with me, the fare collector waving a condom in my face.  I calmly prayed, pretended to be ignorant of the threat, and acted like I knew the crowd of people waiting at the next taxi stop.  In front of those witnesses, I boldy lunged for the doors and fought my way out.  Another time, the taxi driver forced the other women on board to get off while the men on board moved in closer to me.  It took me a moment to realize what was going on (I wasn't totally fluent in the language), and I suddenly leaped for the exit before the men had a chance to stop me.  Shaking, I tried to figure out where I was and make a plan.  Men thought that they could talk to me in the filthiest English words that they had learned, grabbing at me, trying to force me to yield to their vile intentions.  Anywhere I went.  The only reprieve (and a slight one at that) was if a man accompanied me.  I asked the leadership I worked with for assistance, and they denied me.  After all, their own wives and daughters traveled around the city daily and were "fine." Except that on several occasions, I had stepped in to stop a molestation on the streets of their daughters.  

The land that I loved had turned into a threatening, scary place where I felt alone and without help.  Certainly, God protected me in every instance and was there with me.  I have many stories of His hand in delivering me from danger.  Nevertheless, the strain and toll on me was real.  Something I minimized at the time, but I see how much these experiences influenced the next phases of my life. 

I was granted a reprieve in the midst of the trauma when a friend sent me an airline ticket to visit home for Christmas.  For me, the time back in the States was a blur.  I visited with family and friends.  I shared at churches about my work in Africa.  I told only a few close friends about the difficult side of being overseas but mainly emphasized the wonderful parts, which were true.  I was determined to complete my assignment, no matter the cost, though it felt comforting and safe to be back in the States, on even ground.  I always do what is expected of me.

I kinda fell into a relationship.  Totally unexpected, a friend of a friend who I'd known casually for a number of years.  He lived closest to me and became my ride to many social events and speaking engagements.  My trip back to Africa kept getting delayed.  He slowly moved closer.  I remember thinking, "Well, he doesn't disgust me."  He heard from God.  I acquiesced.  Figured I had another 18 months overseas to figure things out.  I was like a helium balloon without an anchor, solid-looking on the outside but empty within.  Drifting in my life.  Lost.  Caught up in a whirlwind of activity, emotions and expectations that I did not have time to fully process.

I returned to Africa still in a daze.  Things got worse there.  The guy turned up the intensity of his attention with telephone calls and e-mails filled with promises that I would be taken care of, safe.  Lots and lots of e-mails with promises of provision and security.  The head of the organization came to Africa, chewed out the local leadership for not protecting me, then asked me to continue my work in other countries, expanding my role, since I had been successful in fulfilling my job there in Africa.  Within weeks I was back home, got engaged, bought a dress (more about this in my next post), then back on a plane to E. Europe.   

The helium balloon that was me sat on a shelf when not in service.  I came alive when I visited with the Bible students, hung out with gypsies in their churches, and had a specific task to accomplish.  I remember passing the cutest wedding shops and thinking they weren't accessible to me.  I didn't question why I thought that way.  I thrived in serving God's goodness to others but lost my way in receiving it myself.  Helium-balloon-me returned to the States at the end of my service, deflated of my life purpose, now on a new course: matrimony.  Though I expressed my concern with the emptiness within me and how lost I was, the momentum of the "romantic" whirlwind carried everything along.  Many seemed enamored of the dramatic story.  There were no speed bumps along the way to check the rapid-fire developments.  I went along with everything, while starting a job in a crisis center and living back home with my Mom who immediately launched back into her "let's tear her down in every way possible and never let her forget she is unworthy" campaign.   

These are the circumstances leading up to my unfortunate wedding.  My heart grieves for how lost I was and my inability to step in to protect myself.  I didn't think I deserved more or that there was more for me.  And I lived with that belief for a very long time.

Mother's Day

A week ago. Mother's Day.  A day filled with emotion, expectations, expressions of love and devotion...and for some, a painful reminder of what isn't.

I thank God for my three beautiful children who are so generous with their affection and so giving of their love.  I try very hard to be the Mama they deserve, to make sure they know of my love and passion for them.  That I accept and really like them for the unique people they are and celebrate the gifts that they are to me.

A year ago.  I spoke with my Mom for the last time.  A year ago.  I flew home the same day she was released from the hospital.  I bathed her, dressed her and sat with her.  On Mother's Day, she had a list of errands she demanded I complete (a task I would have gladly done had she just asked rather than flinging a piece of paper at me in dismissal).  With my own children 2000 miles away, I endured yet another suffocating and silent holiday dinner. Her bitterness filled the room like a dense fog, making everyone else invisible.  Her disappointments, unmet needs, frustrations, etc., only could have center stage.

The following morning, I stepped out of the shower to the sound of her voice yelling for me.  She pointed to a chair in her room and commanded me to sit.  Then the berating began as she listed the history of my sins against her, starting with the most recent one:  I had not woken up early enough to make her breakfast.  She was starving.  I should have known that (after nearly 40 years, my mind-reading skills were not up to par).  How dare I selfishly linger and not take care of her?  An explanation that I had been up all night sick with stomach pains (a condition that she was aware of and seemed to occur with frequency when I was around her) was inexcusable.  I had committed yet another unpardonable sin.  Then the list continued of everything I had done to hurt her.  I had been clean moments before, but the crap was now being flung in every direction.  This could take hours.  And there never was any absolution.

So I stood up and walked away.  Stepped into my bedroom, closed the door and shook.

"What do I do, God?"

A major way that I survived my childhood was by reminding myself that one day I would be an adult and would not be forced to endure this any longer.  With a peace in my heart that God was with me and leading me, I packed my bags.  In the meantime, my mother summoned my father to her room and began playing the victim.  Had I come to visit just to attack her?  What had she done to deserve being treated this way?  He listened for a few moments and left for work.  She got up, banged around in the kitchen and made herself some food.

I quietly gathered my bags, went out the front door, and waited for a friend to pick me up.  I kept my promise to the childhood me to protect myself and not be forced to tolerate the unending deluge of condemnation.  It'd continue whether or not I was present;  there was no reason for me to cooperate or act as a willing participant.  Removing myself was the best response.

A month later she was in a coma.  I flew back out to visit with her in the hospital, hoping for a miracle and an opportunity to make peace.  She was responsive only one time, struggling to come to consciousness, squeezing my hand, tears running down her face, a sense of urgency as she tried to communicate to me.  I understood.  I forgive you, Mom.  Forgive me, Mom.

She is finally at peace, enjoying the presence of God.

I miss my Mom and the sweet moments that we shared when we could enjoy our relationship.  I've always loved her but also knew that the things she did and said were very wrong.  She was an amazing, gifted and beautiful woman who also tormented and hurt me in many unfathomable ways.  My life is not defined by her behavior, though it has had a huge effect on it, from which I am healing.  And I will not minimize or dismiss the gravity of what she did either.  My family, experts at the art of denial, may choose to canonize her.  I will honor her as my Mom.  With the understanding that she was a broken person who struggled a lot in her life.  I will continue to address the pain and damage inflicted by her and heal.  Because my children deserve a whole, healthy Mama who loves them unconditionally.  And I will choose to live free of condemnation.