swinging and bending, part 8: Elastic Heart

"And I will stay up through the night

And let's be clear, won't close my eyes.

And I know that I can survive

I'll walk through fire to save my life.

And I want it, I want my life so bad

I'm doing everything I can

Then another one bites the dust

It's hard to lose a chosen one

You did not break me

I'm still fighting for peace.

Well, I've got thick skin and an elastic heart,

But your blade—it might be too sharp

But I'm like a rubber band until you pull too hard,

Yeah, I may snap and I move fast

But you won't see me fall apart

'Cause I've got an elastic heart."

--Sia

{somewhat} continued from this series.  

I am no stranger to mental illness.  

Physically, Mental Illness hurt--the raised welts left by a wooden spoon or a hard plastic brush on my small naked backside and thighs subsided.  The stinging red finger marks pulsing with my own heartbeat across my cheeks as a teenager faded.  The headache that was a result of being hit more times than I can count on the head by a heavy college textbook while I sat hovering on the floor, both arms wrapped around my face to withstand the blows only took a couple of hours and 800 milligrams of ibuprofen to melt slowly away.  

But the emotional pain Mental Illness inflicted, those are wounds of a different nature.  Those are the wounds that do not fade--they create.  They create three children with no sense of self, no ability to express healthy emotions, no idea of what they need or how to ask or even have room in their lives for needs even if they could ask for them.  

I sat at the dinner table and watched as Mental Illness hurt my sibling with their words and their hands.  I stared down at the cooked broccoli on my plate, silently pleading with my sibling to just agree--to anything--so it would calm Mental Illness and the storm could pass.  When I began to work through some of these scenes years later in therapy, my silent pleadings for their submission morphed into internal roaring as loud as a lion's--an indignant rage over the knowledge that I had been witness to the breaking of the soul of an innocent child, one I loved so deeply yet could not protect.  

I heard Mental Illness tell my siblings and I why they were choosing to leave our family to be with another, full of self-lies so thick and deep they were convinced those lies were now reality.  Months later I watched Mental Illness sweep back through the home with promises of a fresh start, of trying again, of this time being different.  My ears heard the words but my heart knew--these would fall short and fail as they had already so many times before, as soon as Mental Illness was triggered and rose to the surface once again.

Mental Illness used God to shame, to manipulate, to twist, to control. It wanted the outside of our family to look a certain way to deflect from the inside chaos.  It told my siblings and I that we were only lovable if we played this part--cutting our hair to depict our righteous dedication, wearing clothing that covered the bodies they had created in the way they felt was appropriate and pleasing to God.  Otherwise we were not Good, and Mental Illness made sure we knew it.  

Mental Illness was addiction, divorce, rage, shame, lies, self-loathing, deep chasms of insecurity, manipulation, jealousy, control, and unending amounts of fear.  Mental Illness took every ounce of Safety and replaced it with internal chaos and torment.  It wreaked havoc through my childhood, destroyed a marriage, shattered a family.  In its path of destruction it left pain, confusion, fragility.  

A book once described me, the role of the All-Good Child of Mental Illness,  as "a porcelain soul with tiny fractures," and when I read those words I cried and cried.  They were my worst fears written on paper, naming what I had suspected for so long:  I was broken.  

I have worked and dug and inspected the darkest corners of the fractures inside of me with a magnifying glass.  I have laid out my most terrifying vulnerabilities on a table and offered them up as a sacrifice to Healing.  

I fill the cracks of my own fractures created by the lies of Mental Illness with Truth about my worth, with gentleness and forgiveness for my shortcomings and mistakes, with calling myself out on even the slightest shred of dishonesty and forcing myself to admit to myself and others when it exists, with admiration for not quitting the often-draining work it is to Heal, with acknowledging and often clinging to the beautiful and bright pieces of my experiences, with expressing gratitude for the Life I have been given, and the gift it is to know I can make choices that not only defy the laws Mental Illness tried to place upon me, but to completely abandon those laws and forge a new, healthy path.  I fill the cracks with having boundaries for every relationship in my life--including the one I have with myself, these boundaries creating the ability for me to feel Love all of its forms while also continue to maintain living in a space of emotional integrity.  I fill the cracks with God, and a self-love that can only come from Him.   

I have looked at my past with an objective eye, taking my siblings and I out of it and looking at Mental Illness for who and what it is--two souls even more broken than my own fractured one.  Forgiveness and unending amounts of Love poured out for Mental Illness, when I could view it this way.  Understanding and compassion replaced blame.  

Then I brought the three children back in, and saw us as innocents who--regardless of the broken state of Mental Illness--deserved better, more.  I gave myself permission to allow the emotion for these three who deserved better to take over and drag me under...to Anger, Fear, and extreme Sadness.  I sat inside of these rooms of often suffocating emotion and felt every inch of their walls.  As uncomfortable as it was and at times continues to be, I know I cannot leave the room until I allow it to be as consuming as it needs to.  Only then does it pass, I rise to the surface, and can move on.  

These three children grew up to sit with therapists to help them search for a reality outside of Mental Illness.  They constantly worry and check in with one another, terrified Mental Illness has found its way inside of them.  Any anxious thought, any insecure feeling, any moment of depression has them second-guessing.  They wear Mental Illness like a shadow.  Is it their turn?  Will the shadow catch up and envelope them?  Their ability to gage what is normal is forever skewed.  

For years they have clung to the hope that with time, work, and loving themselves and each other through this, they can break the cycle.  They cling to this hope still.  It is the only thought that keeps the shadow where it belongs, sitting on the outside edges of their lives.  

My sister, my brother and I, we are the ones who Know.  We have sat next to each other on the couch in the middle of the night, wearing pj's and rubbing blurry eyes, our young, bewildered minds trying to make sense of Mental Illness as it fought, yelled, pushed and shoved only feet away from us.  We have heard each other's tears through the adjoining wall.  We have had a front row seat to the screaming, the locked doors, the damage control, the hammers breaking through walls, the uncontrollable sobbing, the consequences, the open-hand slaps, the silent treatments, the barefoot chases on snowy afternoons, the shattered mirrors, and the betrayals.  

We have cried to each other as adults over the pain we experienced, still trying to make sense of it all.  We have called in the middle of the night, showed up on doorsteps, taken last-minute flights and fought for each other to sort through the shadow of Mental Illness and cling to the Light and Love we can feel, and the Worth we see in one another.  We bond over the Knowing--a deep, interwoven bond that at times finds us tethered together, unable to decipher where one of us ends and another begins. 

It is from this tethered place that I write.  It is tough to find boundaries here.  When one of them is in pain, I can not help but feel it with them.  When they are breaking under the pressure of the memories and the faulty core beliefs placed upon them by Mental Illness, I feel the pull of their breaking as though it is an actual part of me.  When the Shadow that has followed for years finally looks as though it may be catching up to one of us, I know I must do all I can to push it back where it belongs.  Internally I struggle between the person I have been, and the person I have worked so hard to become.

I do not know what this last-minute flight will bring.  I do not know if the Light I can still see and the Love I will always feel will be enough.  I worry it will not, I worry I'm too late.  

But I have to try.  

soul-cracking.

this week has been a tough one, in many different ways.  and though there has been beauty and God and love so thick i could almost taste it intricately woven in between the tough, i can very easily say i am drained.  hopeful, but drained.

this morning i found myself two hours before church sitting on the floor of june's room, crying into a pillow to muffle the sobs that came from somewhere deep down in the depths.  it was a mixture of overwhelming exhaustion, frustration, and extreme sadness.   i didn't know how to button up the emotion so i could continue functioning through my sunday morning, and even if i had known how, it would have been taking steps backward from where i have learned to push through.  express, don't repress.  isn't that how the saying goes?

so i sat there letting the tears slide down my face, praying as i cried into the dark teal of the pillow and the white canvas of the ikea chair.  please carry me, i said silently.  i know things could be harder, but right now, this feels like too much.  

my kids were in my bedroom that i had left minutes before, but i heard june's mama!  mom?  mo-ooooommmm! coming closer.  ben intervened before she made it to the door i was closed behind.  mom's sleeping, i heard him say.  she'll wake up in a minute, okay?  i heard june's soft okay,  and knew that ben knew where i was and what i was doing.  he was explaining something that june could understand, so she would give me space and time to recover.

i did recover, finally releasing all of the tears and unleashing all of the frustration until i felt ready to face the world again.  a hot shower relaxed sore muscles, and i worked on getting ready for church with my family.  the rest of the day i have felt like i have been carried, and peace has come into my overwhelmed heart.

there is so much i want to write, but i have to hold back because it was not my pain that produced the tears, it was another's whose suffering has been so acute.  it feels mean just typing that, because i can't really go into details about this week, only to say a few random things.

this:  abuse, in all of its many forms, is so ugly.  when it happens to a child the ugly is magnified and compounded, put upon innocence that is too young to be able to comprehend and fully heal from the dark, twisted, and truly evil of the world.  sometimes just the knowledge of the burden that is placed upon abused children can overwhelm my spirit to the point that it feels so heavy it aches.

this:  i bear my testimony, again, about therapy.  finding a good therapist is a gift straight from God, one who can be the vessel to crack the thick, sometimes bullet-proof shell that has been built for years to protect from the ugly and twisted.  when the shell is cracked, it can feel like the soul and spirit are going to crack right along with it.  but i promise, it does get better.

this:  i am so grateful for those who are willing to be vulnerable, to share their pain with the world  unselfishly and without the need for validation, but in the way that others can learn from it, and not feel so alone.  i listened to a beautiful girl speak into a microphone today, doing just this.  vulnerability takes courage and true humility.  she touched my heart as she cried and spoke Truth to those who were open to hear it.

this:  we are officially insane, because we are moving again.  only one street over, in the exact same model as the house that had mold in it, only my fingers and asthmatic lungs are crossed that this one is as mold-free as it looks.  july 1st is our move-in date, so this little therapeutic internet space may be neglected more so than it already is.  or maybe it will be my outlet, saving me from drowning amid boxes and packing tape?

this:  caleb is getting baptized this coming saturday morning.  i'm hoping i can get my act together  in between packing to make it a special day, because it feels so special to both ben and i.  we love our first and only boy so much, with his sweet heart and strong spirit.

this:  ben is one of the most amazing men i have ever known.  and i am not saying this because i am his wife, because others feel this way who are not his wife.  he continues to astound me and i thank God i was somehow chosen to have the privilege of knowing intimately just how incredible he is, walking through life to watch his courage and unselfishness continue with all he is carrying.

this:  music heals me in the same way the written word does.  much more so than chocolate ever has.

this:  we are surrounded by good people.  i have not been feeling well this week, and had friends reach out to let me know they cared.  ben's uncle pat passed away yesterday, and we were stranded without a baby-sitter while i was in phoenix and ben was trying to be with his aunt and lend his support.  after some phone calls and texts, friends and ward members rallied around to help where we needed it.  our kids were happy and fed and sad for us to pick them up.  living away from family is so hard during times like this, unless you can find yourself living among others who are examples of selflessness and kindness.  we are so grateful.

swinging and bending, part 4: the breaking.

{image found here.}

Read the first part of this story, 
here.  

and the second part,
here.

and the third part,

here.

Round and around and around we go...

The reason I hold on

'Cause I need this hole gone.

Funny, you're the broken one,

But I'm the only one who needed

Saving.

--"Stay"

Rihanna

i was 24 years old when caleb was born.

we brought him home, and i remember immediately feeling protective.  at 4 lbs, 9 oz, he could only eat from a syringe with a small tube hanging from it, guided into his mouth by either mine or ben's pinky finger.  he struggled in almost every area--sleeping, eating, pooping, gaining weight, and mostly, in being content.

his screaming began at around 10 days old and was followed quickly by his seizures.  with his screaming, something inside of me broke--the dream of having the happy, fat, cooing child.  idealistic hope was gone and replaced with desperation.  i quickly turned into the mother i had previously judged and scorned; ignoring all of the books i had read, i resorted to doing whatever it took to silence his cries.

when the seizures were finally diagnosed at 2 1/2 months, another piece inside of me broke.  the piece that knew what faith meant.  i became a mother full of fear, and without knowing it, began to believe that i was singlehandedly keeping this tiny, sick boy alive.

ben was an amazing father and i knew he loved caleb deeply, but seemed to have a more casual attitude toward the instructions we were repeatedly given about his care by specialists.  his mantra of "oh, he'll be fine" terrified me, because it meant i was out in this scary world alone with a special-needs baby.  his actions deepened the fear.  we would talk about how we were going to handle big family situations with caleb, and i was in sync with what the doctors were telling us, to be extremely cautious.  ben would say he felt the same, then change his mind when we actually got in the situation.  i couldn't understand what was going on, and internalized it as somehow my fault.  that he thought i was too crazy, or overprotective, but didn't want to tell me.  so i tried to stuff down the confusion and distrust, not realizing it manifested itself as more fear.  even though there were others around supporting me...i felt i was the only one truly bearing this burden.  i became a control freak, fueled by anxiety and "what if's" that would run through my head all hours of the day and night.

ben and i have talked about this point in our lives many times, and how it was a crossroads for us.  up until then, we had been a strong team, weathering the outside storms between extended family together.  now the rain began to pour inside of our safe place, the winds carrying me to one side and ben to the opposite.

"i felt like i lost my wife,"  he has said.

"i felt like the carefree, worry-free, easily happy person i was--died.  and, i felt like i could no longer trust you to be honest with me, because you didn't want to hurt me,"  i have said.

so, there was that.

we had hoped that having caleb would help bring about a merger to the sides of family who were still contending, and maybe he did.  but it seemed like more of a cold war began, where no one really spoke to each other at family events, just passing icy smiles and nervous glances.  i was so focused on dealing with caleb, that i stopped noticing.

we lived in the basement apartment of my parents' home until caleb was 10 months old.  they had a marriage that had been full of ups and downs.  when things were good between them, they were great.  but during the time we were living there, signs pointed toward them taking a turn for the worse.

i had been witness to this for many years and had grown somewhat of a callous skin to it, but after living in a peaceful, virtually contention-free marriage for 2 years, the understanding of just how unhealthy things were became glaringly acute.  i grew up only knowing this as my only perspective on marriage, and thought it was normal.  i now knew it was not.

this was ben's first time to have a front row seat to some difficult moments.  because he loved them both, and he could not change or help their situation, this began to take its toll on him.  i could see him beginning to separate from them, requesting more space and a clarity on boundaries to define "our own family time." i could understand his desire, but because i had slipped back into my family role as buffer and peacemaker, i didn't see these new boundaries as necessary.  i felt needed, and worth more when i played this role.  boundaries and separation took that from me.  i wavered when it came to upholding them, continually giving excuses for this justification or that. but the truth is, i didn't know how to say no without feeling guilty, and i didn't know how to feel good about myself unless i was acting the part of the "good girl" that i had played for so long.

however, i did have my eyes opened as an adult viewing my parents as an adult.  even though i was still young in married life and motherhood, i began to see them as equals.

during the year we were there, i saw a cycle in their relationship that scared me, because it resonated inside as patterns of my own. enabling one's anger by allowing mistreatment, at the sake of "doing whatever it took" to make another happy.  then, because of fearing the anger or huge emotional reaction, becoming passive aggressive and covertive, using small twists of reality to portray a situation so it would be easier for another to accept.  using self-lies to justify these twists, that the intent behind doing it is to really "help another."  then the lies would be caught, and the reaction was so harsh and forceful that it caused it all to begin again.  i wasn't doing this in my own marriage, but could see glimpses of where i had done it in other relationships, past and present.

i distinctly remember having one specific conversation in that basement.

"why are you allowing this?"  i asked.

"because, when the time comes for me to die, i want to be able to look my Father in Heaven in the eyes and tell him i did everything i could.  that even if it meant taking the aftermath of the anger i didn't deserve, and staying and loving and trying, never giving up--no matter what--that He will tell me i did a good job."

"but," i replied, "i feel like you're just the pillow, catching another's fall.  which is great for the one falling, to have something soft to land on.  but what happens to the pillow?  it's flattened, with all of its feathers slammed out of it.  misshapen and crunched.  why would God want you to sacrifice yourself for another, at the risk of your own demise?  i understand selflessness in a relationship, but not to this extent.  why are they worth better treatment than you're worth?  that just doesn't sit right with me.  what is Jesus for, then?  what is His sacrifice for?  He took this, so that we wouldn't have to.  He is the pillow, not you.  He is the Savior, not you.  but if you continually put yourself in His place, then the one falling will never have to learn to rely on Him to catch their fall, if they can always rely on you.  meanwhile, you're breaking apart here.  i can see it.  i have seen it, for years.  and when you say 'no matter what,' do you really mean that? do you know what you're saying?  what if things get worse?  do you have any limits, any boundaries?  will there be anything that will cause you to say to yourself 'I deserve better' and demand for it to stop?"

that night, somewhere deep down, i was also speaking to myself.  

i could see the damage they had caused each other through the years.  i could also see myself in these things, through them.  the problems in my past relationships became obvious, recognizing the enabling and savior role i had accepted either to change the other or in an attempt to feel some sort of self worth.

in my marriage it was still difficult to detect because both of us had the same unhealthy piece of wanting to be the pleaser, instead of one extreme and another.  when we talk about it now, we can see it inside of the situations surrounding caleb.  neither ben nor myself had been completely honest, stuffing down uncomfortable emotions so we wouldn't have to have uncomfortable conversations.  our dishonesty, though small and unintentional,  caused a resentment to form that took years to understand and undo.

what was finally clear during that year in the basement apartment, was where i had learned and formed this unhealthy, codependent, enabling part.  i had been watching it unfold in front of me for my entire life.

luckily, ben and i still loved being together.  we both pushed our uncomfortable feelings aside, and tried our best to enjoy what we could of being a young family under stressful situations.  we celebrated the milestones caleb would make, breathed an enormous breath of fresh air as his continual crying finally began to cease when he was around 5 months old, and found our new normal creating happiness within the reality of life with our difficult, but miraculous baby.  in many ways, our love strengthened during that time.

ben was hired at a new job about 2 hours south, and we decided to take it.  by this point, we were waist-deep into appointments with specialists and physical therapists and developmental pediatricians for caleb.  my life was consumed with him.  and because of the fear that had taken on full force, i rarely trusted him with anyone besides myself and ben.  when i was around, sure.  but leaving him?  no way.  i had told myself i wouldn't be able to forgive myself if something happened to him, and since no one really knew how to take care of him the way i did, if something happened when i left him to--heaven forbid--go on a date with my husband, that would also be unforgivable.

as the breaking inside continued, i clung more tightly to the only thing that was becoming familiar to me:

fear.

finding the worth of a soul. {on mormon feminism and wearing THOSE PANTS!!}

I grew up feeling unequal and unworthy.  Feeling less than.  

Was it unequal specifically to men?  No, the inadequacy I felt had no boundaries, did not differentiate between race, color, gender, religion.  It was all encompassing and all-consuming.  

I have mentioned before that I also grew up believing that God's unconditional love did not apply to me.  That somehow I was missed, skipped over unnoticed, or did not deserve it.  I mention this again to talk about a different aspect of the places of my life--specifically in my LDS religion--where this idea and belief was affected.  

My religion is thick with culture.  One of my friends in high school was not Mormon and I remember his religion being the topic of conversation once, or maybe twice a year.  On Christmas and then occasionally on Easter.  This wasn't because we weren't open to talking about it, but more because these were the only times he would actually talk about attending his church.  As a young girl, I couldn't grasp the concept that religion did not mean giving of your entire life to dedicate to it.  Sundays were sacred and focused specifically on God and Jesus--whether it was attending a meeting to talk about Him, or following up those hours after the meetings to listen to music about Him, read articles and books written about Him, and spend the day thinking and doing as He did.  And it didn't stop on Sundays.  Throughout the week I attended family activities, meetings, and group service projects.  What I'm saying is this: as a Mormon, the religion becomes a way of life.

I also grew up fearing God.  Don't get me wrong, I think a little dose of God-fear can do a soul some good, but I took it to a place of unhealthy.  I was raised in a very black and white world:  don't consume alcohol, don't smoke, don't do drugs, don't have sex before you get married.  No rated R movies, don't date until you're 16, and moderation in all things.  Forgive 70 times 70, turn the other cheek, strive for perfection.  Wear skirts to the knees, one-piece swimming suits, and no swearing.  The list continues on.  I believed that if I--or anyone that I associated with--went against any of these rules, that it meant they were bad.  Naughty.  Rotten to the core.  The black sheep.  

And that...obviously...I, or they, would be disappointing God and he would no longer love or bless the sinner if there was any sort of rebellion against any of these expectations. I remember consciously thinking this about myself or others around me if we strayed, even just for just a small fraction of time.  

I know that this way of thinking is what fed upon my already planted seed of shame and unworthiness. Combined with other circumstances in my life, it is what created the perfect storm to attempt to squash the thread of self-worth that I was so desperately clinging onto, destroying it to become almost obsolete.  

When I finally came to the end of my frayed, self-deprecating rope, I had the choice to dig myself out.  But that meant truly finding a self-worth that was not built upon the often dangerous and even more often--faulty--opinions of others.  It was a heart-wrenching process, and caused somewhat of an identity crisis for a while.  

There has been a lot of talk of Mormon Feminism around these parts lately.  Now there is a growing number of women who are ready to show their feminism by wearing pants to church on Sunday.  From what I have read and researched, it appears there are many Mormon women who feel they have been dealt with unjustly, and they are tired of it.  They are demanding equality!  Respect!  For someone to finally stand up and say they have worth by allowing them to bless, ordain, hold specific callings, and pray over a pulpit!  To band with other women who feel this way and not feel alone anymore!

And, from what I gather, they want to see tangible results, not just hear someone say it.  But for it to be proven to them, in the form of:

-being able to hold the priesthood, along with other callings that are currently only held by men of the church
-going on a mission for a full 2 years instead of 18 months, and being allowed to leave on that mission at the same age as the young men leave
-feeling supported when they choose to work outside the home instead of rear children
-not feel labeled as a failure if they are un-married or child-less
-being allowed to say a prayer over the pulpit during General Conference
-balancing the budget between male and female extra-curricular groups and events so that it is the same amount for both sides

I know there are countless others, these are just the main points I've heard/read repeatedly.

Now.  I can't recall any specific times in my life where I have actually felt from another member of my religion that women are not worth as much as men.  I didn't have a traumatic experience where I was yelled at and told that I was less than by a male member of my ward.  I didn't look upon men in callings of authority as above me and all other females.  I just didn't.  

I understand though, there are women who have had those experiences, and I don't take them lightly.  I don't say, "just get over it" to them, even if I haven't felt their specific pain.  Pain is pain, and should be treated as such, regardless of whether I deem it pain-worthy or not.  

I have been in many situations where I was told by both actions and words of an individual that I was not worth much.  Not directed toward all women, but me in particular.  So I know the feeling, I know the pain, and I know what it does to someone's spirit when they actually believe the lies of their worth that are told to them by someone who is inflicting hurt.  

But what I feel about this Mormon Feminism wave, that seems to be gathering more and more force as it continues to progress, is this:

no one can define your worth for you except for you and God.

And whether or not you're granted the priesthood some day, or your mission is extended 6 months, or you're praised for your career choice outside of the home, or there is a parade thrown for you with every single member of your ward attending because you're unwed and not a mother, or you get the phone call from one of the higher-ups, requesting for you to pray during the Spring Session of conference next week, or you get to go on a boating excursion with the new and improved budget....

Those things may provide a temporary relief from your pain, but it will not cure it.  

I have come to know this in a very personal way.  Because it didn't matter how many times someone told me I was beautiful.  Or how many times someone's actions or words said that I had earned--and deserved--their love, or the various ways that I was shown and told that I was good and did have actual worth, 

those good experiences did not cure me because I did not believe it.

I chose to instead believe the ugly lies and thoughts and actions of the imperfect people who told me the opposite.  But guess who's fault that was?  Not the abuser's, not the disgusting pig of a boyfriend, not the teacher's or the bishop's or the prophet's....

It was mine.  My choice to believe it.  My choice to let it fester inside, and build and cause anger and bitterness with tentacles that reached and created,

a victim.  

Which in turn, led to a great struggle.  The tiny slice of my self-worth that was still in there, the last shred of my dignity began to fight this self-loathing victim.  It scratched and screamed and clawed and decided to finally DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT TO MAKE SOMEONE SEE THAT I HAD WORTH!!

When really, the only person who needed to see it and recognize it, 

was me.  

But it worked. This soul-wrenching temper tantrum.  In an extremely painful way...it worked.  I was brought to my knees, and found myself begging God to help me see my way through it and start to truly love myself for the first time.  To rid my spirit of the shame and loathing, to rip the tentacles from my heart and thoughts so I could see a glimpse of clarity for the first time in my life.  Looking back now, almost 3 years down the road from then, I am no longer

a victim.  

The great thing about choosing, even if at first you choose unwisely, you can always change your mind and choose a different path. 

Truthfully, for a while I did have to separate my way of thinking from the culture of my religion.  I didn't stop going to church, but as I walked through the double doors, I began shedding the skin of the little girl who believed she was unworthy if she made a mistake, or didn't live up to the "potential" of what the culture told her she needed to.  The imperfect culture and imperfect people of the church truly give it such a bad name, and a hard reputation to defend sometimes. 

As I shed that skin, my heart ached to find a world inside of this religion that was no longer black and white, right and wrong, good and bad.  Whether it could be defined as "gray" or not I don't know, all I knew was that I wanted to be able to see past another's actions and find their worth, regardless of their choices, because I needed so badly to see my own.

And I believe that I am finding it.  I am a member of this church because I believe in its principles, its doctrine {including all of it, that depicts our different responsibilities as men and women},and that deep-down, underneath all of its layers of imperfection...is love.  My testimony of its truth has never been more solid, and continues to grow daily in its solidarity. I no longer care whether someone comes to church as a homosexual individual, a pot-smoking individual, a pornography-addicted individual, a Mormon feminist, an unmarried individual, or a two-piece bathing-suit-owner.  Let them come and sit by me and know that I love them and am not there to judge them or burn a scarlet letter into their chest, just as much as I'm not there for their approval..... or for the male leader's approval, or for my husband's approval, or for the relief society president's approval. 

I am not there for anyone's approval,

only to worship my God.

I no longer live my life for anyone's approval.  The small and seemingly insignificant choices that I make daily, and the larger, more life-altering choices that I make in the grand scheme of things are made because they are what I believe is good for me, and bringing me happiness.  They're no longer made out of shame or fear.  

My worth as a child of God has nothing to do with which responsibilities I do or do not hold, or which callings I do or do not serve in, or whether or not I wear a dress or pants to church.  

God speaks to me now-- daily in fact, if I am listening.  There has been a peace that has come into my heart I have never had before, and I have become a vessel of his. I believe I would be this regardless of my gender, even regardless of which church I belonged to. I believe I would still have the potential to reach this as long as the way I am living my life is inside of truth for me.  As his vessel, when I am open and in tune, I have had the ability to reach those who have been unreachable.  I have had the ability to hear His words meant for others and have Him speak through me.  I do not need to lay my hands upon their head to know it, the words have simply been spoken to me to speak to another.  I also know that when there is no priesthood authority close and I am in need of His voice, or His blessing, or His comfort, I can kneel down and ask for the powers of heaven, and it will be there.

I know not everyone is at this place in their life, and maybe this movement is going to be a piece of getting them closer to achieving it, who knows?  

I have taught, and continue to teach, my children about the "fairness" game.  If they are constantly comparing themselves to another--feeling "less than" and yelling about how this isn't fair or that isn't--I teach them this feeling has nothing to do with anyone or anything outside, but only from the inside.  Insecurities, comparison, jealousy....they all spring from a lack of self-worth, when you really get down to it.  

So I guess what I recommend is asking yourself, while pulling on your church clothes this Sunday, one leg at a time is....

Is this just a cry for someone, anyone {even if it's for yourself}, to recognize and finally acknowledge your worth?  

I don't know....I can't speak for those planning on doing it.  I could be way off base here, and I'm open to the idea that I might be.  Maybe it really is just about women wearing their pain on the outside instead of the inside.  To prove to themselves that they matter, that their pain matters.  But if it were, why does church have to be the forum for that? I definitely have written about my own individual pain, and found outlets to talk about it and own it and show it and mourn it and I didn't have to read it over the pulpit in testimony meeting.  I didn't call my offenders to the forefront and demand change.  As I changed, and healed, the need to bring about my idea of justice and balance and equality to those offenders faded.  It was no longer needed, because I no longer defined myself from the opinions of anyone but me and my Father in Heaven. 

That doesn't mean that another individual's way of working through something is wrong. You want to wear pants?  It's going to help ease your burden, heal some of your wounds?  Then go right ahead.  And I think if I had read an article where one lady had done it and what it signified to her, and how it helped her overcome something, I would be standing up and applauding for her.  It just feels strange that the women who feel this way seem to be unable to voice it individually.  Why the need for a big group support moment?

It just feels like it's more than about being vulnerable and you've been through hard things and you're no longer afraid of showing it on the outside.  Because I believe deep down, that if that's truly what this was about, I would be able to feel that and run to start putting on my own pair of jeans.  But it's coming across to me more like a situation where there's safety in numbers, and hopping on a bandwagon, and proving something, which then eradicates the vulnerability aspect in my eyes and makes me question the sincerity behind the intent.  

I feel like if you really do already know your worth, you don't need to do or wear anything to prove it to someone else.

And I know that, because I have lived through it.  

swinging and bending, part 1.

{image found here}

i was walking up to the parking lot, when i spotted him.  i could immediately tell something was wrong from his posture; his head down, his shoulders slumped, his eyes staring at the cracks in the pavement.  

when i reached him i stopped, and wrapped an arm around him as i crouched to his eye level.

"everything okay, buddy?"  i asked softly so that others standing close wouldn't hear if he didn't want them to. i know my son, and he is easily embarrassed when something is wrong.

with my touch, his face crumpled.  

"we were playing ball and i accidentally hit him in the face!  i said i was sorry but he told me he didn't forgive me and that he was telling on me!"  tears streamed down his face as he choked out the words.

"well if it was an accident, and you said you were sorry, then that's all you can do.  it's okay if he needs some space for a while, and time to calm down. he'll come back, he knows you love him and he loves you.  you did the best you can do,"  i wrapped my arm tighter around his small frame as i spoke.

then i heard him whisper,

"but my best isn't good enough."

at that comment, i raised his face to mine and stared straight into his beautiful, 7-year-old hazel eyes.

"no caleb, that's not true.  your best is good enough, and if he chooses not to forgive you when you've sincerely asked for it, then the mistake is now his.  you can't control his reaction, or his forgiveness.  so if he wants to stay angry with you, the only way to feel peace in your heart in this situation is to walk away and let it go.  it is now his to carry."

i knew then that what i was telling him was heavy, and had a moment of wondering if i was speaking too far above his level of comprehension.  but he said, "okay," wiped his eyes and a couple of minutes later was smiling and laughing again, free from his previous burden.

************

************

i have been asked several times, what happened after the beginning of seeing my Truth.  the Truth that involved abuse, which in turn created a girl who didn't know who she was.  just how does someone change after that realization, and after three decades of being one way--how do i tear down most of who i used to be and rebuild who i wanted to become?

i was something different, to almost everyone i suspect.  i wanted to be, because i ached to be the person that everyone liked--that everyone trusted--that everyone felt close to--that everyone thought was, well...good enough.

codependency sprang easily from my personality, who was born a lover not a fighter.  i shriveled around contention, could not confront another to save my life, lived with constant guilt about all of the things i was not and had not done enough of, felt absolutely internally tortured if i ever found out i had offended anyone, and grew up believing i had been created for the purpose of being one who could always put another's needs above my own--even if those needs inflicted pain upon me.  many times i felt that those who were searching for another person to take advantage of only had to simply put their nose up in the air, inhale deeply, and sniff me out.  

growing up, i had a very clear idea of who i did not want to be. the road had been paved before me with characteristics that not only terrified me, but caused the internal pendulum of my personality to swing as far to the other side of those characteristics as i possibly could. but the swinging pendulum is such a dangerous game.  by being victorious in not becoming that person, it caused me to end up in relationships with those who possessed the very characteristics i feared.  they sniffed the air, and called, and i followed.

3 years ago i wrote about the time when ben came along, in the midst of the realization that my swinging pendulum was only continuing the cycle that had been set before me.  i was in a very lonely, self-loathing place, where i knew that something was wrong....and wrong enough to take a serious break from dating anyone, though i was at the peak of the dating period of my life.

so when he walked into my path, with his easygoing, fun personality and kind heart, i felt the concerns fade, though i was wary and careful.  here was someone who was more like me than anyone i had met.  we talked about how we shared similar weaknesses and strengths, and considered it a bond we had both been searching for.  i knew that he was safe for me in the way that he would not take advantage of the soft pieces of me.  i knew deep down that he was the place i could heal my previous wounds, and felt my pendulum swing more to where, years later, it would eventually find its middle; its balance.

but finding someone who is so similar to yourself can also be tricky.  if there are two explosive tempers, it can be deadly.  two addictive personalities and it can be destructive.  fortunately, neither ben nor myself had much of either one of those; in fact, we had the opposite.  we were so concerned with confrontation or contention, we each learned to stuff any of those "unattractive" feelings down, hoping they would never resurface.  our marriage was a peaceful one, right from the start.  we couldn't relate to friends who spoke of those "rough, first couple of years" as a married couple.  we got along so well, didn't argue, loved spending every waking minute together.  in a way, i think we were each other's respite from the choppy waves of our own rocky and tumultuous oceans of the past.

our individual pendulums had not yet found their balance. during those first two years, were we truly happy?  yes, we were.  but we were also two naive codependents, trying to brave a storm full of circumstances beyond our control, circumstances that would threaten to break apart our interlocking fingers with its whiplash.

looking back now, i can see the dark and heavy clouds gathering around us.


{think it's probably a bad idea for my randomly-blogging self to post a part 1?  based on my past history of struggling to finish these part-blogs, i do too.  but it's too long to write all in one night, so i'm going with it anyway.  fingers crossed i finish it before 5 years has passed!}

knowing autumn. {on abuse and healing from it}

"A wind has blown the rain away and blown the sky away and all the leaves away, and the trees stand. I think, I too, have known autumn too long."

--E. E. Cummings

{image found here.}

i have thought and thought about writing this.  i started it two months ago, and i can't get the words in my head to go away, and new thoughts just keep coming.....

so, it is time.

i'm going to write this pretty straight-forward, because it's the only way i can about this particular subject.

i do not write this because i just love putting it all out there.  this is scary for me, and not comfortable in the least.  i do not write this to invoke pity from friends or strangers. {and to be honest, i'm not going to be putting it ALL out there.  it's not appropriate or necessary.}

i do write it for myself.  it's a journey i have been on for a long time now, i can remember one specific day over 9 years ago when something broke inside of me, and the reality of it slapped me in the face.  i was beginning to see it, for the first time, for what it really was.  and i was too young then, and it scared me to look at it, so i tucked it back down.  but if i have learned one thing in life, it's that you can't run from things like this.  you can sure try, and you can fool yourself into believing you've been successful, but then you open your eyes at what life is really like for you, and you realize.....in avoiding it, it has found you anyway.

i also write this for others out there who i know have felt what i feel.  i know it, because we've talked about it.  i've found them and they have found me.  sometimes it feels like a magnetic pull, to find someone in a crowd of people, who you would never imagine being friends with, and then suddenly you're there talking about similar experiences, common stories of surviving and struggles from surviving.  maybe it will help another put into words how they feel, or give another person who hasn't spoken yet, courage to face their own truth.

i write for ben, who i am open with about these things, but for him to be able to read it in one comprehensive thought, instead of the sporadic times it comes up out of nowhere.  for him to be able to read what goes on in my head on hard days.  when i say he is the best person for me, i truly mean it.  i would have never been able to come to these conclusions without his love, stability, patience and understanding.

and i also write this for my children.  i wish that blogs were around when i was growing up.  i know there were journals and photo books, but there's something about the writing and pictures together, to be able to read about and see who i was as a baby, and at 2, and then 5 and 15.  but not only to read about me, but to read about the thoughts my parents had about life, and what was meaningful to them.  their struggles, their happiness.  it's a way for my children to know a piece of me that they otherwise wouldn't have.

well, here we go.  {big breath in}


during my childhood,
i was abused.


i will not share details about the abuse, who it was, how long it went on, or what happened.  that's not the point of writing this.  to be honest, those details really aren't important.  there are a very, very small number of people who know this about me, and an even smaller number of people who know actual details.  i'm guessing this will surprise some, probably because i don't share it with almost anyone.  that doesn't mean that my happiness or friendliness, or outgoing-ness is fake; it is not.  but there are many parts of me, and this is just one that i keep mostly to myself.

it's funny, i have a hard time even saying that word, abused, out loud and about myself.  it was years after finally recognizing and admitting the abuse before the word would actually come out.  maybe because for so long i justified the actions of another, and lumped the word "abuse" into worn-down women with black eyes and broken jaws, or stories of kids like Antwone Fisher.  there are situations worse than mine, i know it.  there are several close to me with more severe degrees of abuse.  and yes, i do believe that there are degrees, but no, i don't believe it invalidates my own.

maybe, i can write about this because the degree of my own was not as extreme as some stories i've heard, and that i am freeing myself of it.  i can now see it for what it is, even though i don't share it often.  i keep it protected for reasons of my own.

the point of writing this, and being candid about the fact of it without the details, is to discuss what became of me because of the abuse i went through.  to try to help myself and others understand what happens to a person when they are put in a situation like this, and maybe to help figure out how to truly overcome it.

so, i'm going back to the beginning:

if you've ever been parent of a 2 year old, you'll recognize this picture.  i've watched this movie more times than i can count, it's been the frontrunner of favorites for leah for almost a year now. {finding nemo}

one time while watching the movie with leah, when i saw this picture of a baby fish egg with the small crack, something clicked.  it was an analogy i've felt and thought about for a long time now.

we all possess a spirit in our body,  a core that's formed from the day we are formed.  it is what is the foundation for a belief of who we, as individuals, truly are.  we are cared for, loved, and that core becomes stronger.  we are taught self-worth, and our divine nature.  we are taught Truth.

as positive things in our life happen, the outside of the core strengthens.  when we're young, if that core is strong, we have a foundation of self-worth that is laid and the belief that we deserve unconditional love is felt.  there are things we face in life that continually try to break that foundation, but i believe that if it's laid thick and strong in the beginning, we have more of an ability to fight the trials that constantly try to crack us.

but there are situations that break down this core, and abuse is one of them.  my belief is that if it happens during some point in childhood, abuse causes cracks that are deep, and difficult--extremely difficult-- to patch back together.

when i went through my abusive situations as a child, i felt like my core was cracked, broken.  it felt like there was something inside of me that was no longer right.  i felt different from my friends, i felt off.  but i also constantly justified my abusive situation, and refused for a long time to see it for what it was.  it scared me.

as the cracks of the abuse began to spread in my core, negative lies seeped into the cracks, telling me many untruths.  one crack, one untruth, was so deep that telling myself the actual truth in the beginning of therapy a couple of years ago felt like i was lying, pretending, faking it. that it was true for others, but just not for me.

it is probably the most important thing that one can believe about themselves:  to believe that one deserves unconditional love, regardless of who they are, mistakes they make, choices they make, or what has happened to them.

the belief that i deserved unconditional love was broken.  because of abuse, i believed....and up until about 2 years ago, still believed....that for me, love was only conditional.  not just in relationships, either.

i actually believed this un-truth also applied to God.  that i did not deserve His unconditional love.

as i've said before, life is a parallel.  there are certain relationships that are put here on earth to literally mirror how a Father in Heaven feels about us, because we are his children.  and when that parallel is not translated, for whatever reason, it can cause {in my opinion} the deepest, most painful un-truth to settle inside and take roots.

the funny thing is, i didn't even know that deep down i felt this way.  i just continued coping, thinking i was doing fine.  i was a survivor, i didn't let the abuse define me, i had risen above.

i didn't realize just how deeply i felt this untruth, and how i had connected it not only to all relationships in my life, but also to my relationship with God, until i was in therapy.

we were asked to do an assignment; it was called a Lost Poster.  we were instructed by my therapist to think of all of the things we had felt we had lost in our lives, starting from our childhood, and create some sort of poster representing them.  we could use pictures, or words, or abstract representations.  whatever we wanted to do, however we wanted to express it.

i went home that day, scared.  i knew that doing this assignment was going to open up some things for me that i had buried and wanted to forget.  a couple of weeks went by, and i didn't work on it.  i waited, and watched other members of my group as they presented theirs to the group.  then finally, i decided it was time, and began.

i chose to draw my entire poster with my left hand, my non-dominant hand, which is a technique that has been known to access other parts of your brain that aren't usually used on a daily basis.  i didn't know what i was going to draw, i had no ideas yet and just decided to start and see what happened.

in the middle of the poster, i drew a stick figure.  with blonde hair, green eyes, smiling.  the stick figure was holding a mirror, and the reflection that showed on the mirror was not smiling, but the opposite.  it was disfigured, a monster.  with angry eyes and sharp teeth and a pig nose.  the reflection was ugly.  and all over, the reflection was bleeding.  beneath that picture, i wrote:

I HAVE LOST MY SELF-WORTH.

then i started with the earliest memory of what i thought i had lost, and drew a picture, labeled it.  i drew smaller pictures clockwise around the stick figure, drawing and writing as each new memory and thought came to me.  some of the memories brought sadness, some anger, some excruciating pain.  when i had gone around the stick figure, i got to the top of the poster.  there i drew, as well as my left hand could, a sky, with clouds and rays of sun streaming down them.  on top of the clouds stood a figure, in white, floating, also surrounded by bright rays of sunshine.  below the picture, i wrote these words:

I HAVE LOST THE BELIEF THAT GOD LOVES ME.

I HAVE LOST THE BELIEF THAT I DESERVE HIS LOVE.

and that was when the tears came.  they streamed down my face as my now-trembling hands drew arrows from each of the drawings, all pointing up to this picture of God.  they all connected to this one thing, because of everything else that i had lost in my life, this was the one that mattered most. this loss was what had affected so many poor decisions in my life, so many mistakes, so much pain.  i sat and cried for a long time as i finished the poster.  i knew now what had been bothering me for so long, deep down.

and i realized i was broken.

the hardest part for me after realizing that, was not having any clue how to fix it.  i sighed and hoped that somehow through this digging, through therapy, i would find a way.

the next week in therapy, i felt like i was was jumping out of my skin.  i was on edge, nervous.  i absolutely dislike speaking in front of people, having them stare at me.  but at the same time, i felt like i wanted to stand up there, to talk about what i had finally realized.  i wanted to get it out.  i was so scared to admit some of the ugliest things about me that i had drawn and written on this poster, but i also had this feeling that maybe once it was out, it could be the beginning of starting to fix what had been broken so long ago.

i've written about this experience before, but i'll write about it again.

as i stood up in front of nearly-strangers {we had only known each other for a couple of months}, i could not make eye contact.  i started with my self-portrait, the view of what others saw vs. the view i saw as i looked in the mirror.  then i began going around the poster, clockwise, just as i had when i started drawing it.  as i got to a painful place while describing a memory, my voice cracked and my leg started shaking, bouncing.

"keep breathing, take a couple of deep breaths," my therapist said gently.

so i did, and then began again.

~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~

i know i'm repeating myself again, but i feel it's important.  i have heard several people in my life say that they think therapy is "crap." that it's just laying on a couch, talking about your childhood, digging up things that are over and "don't matter."

but i am here to say that actually that sort of thinking is what is crap, because it does matter, all of it.  the people that we are, the thoughts that we think, the emotions we feel, the reactions we produce, are all a compilation of experiences, memories, consequences, choices.  some are originally ours and some are not.  and how our foundation is formed in the beginning is what matters most, so the only way to change some of those things is by going back to where all of it began, finding out where and how things started, and change them if needed.  

~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~

the words did not come easily out of my mouth.  they were choked and sputtered through tears of sadness, regret, guilt, pain, shame.  i stared at my shoes as i talked.  then i looked up at the final picture, my child-like drawing of heaven and God.  and i explained why the arrows all pointed there, and how this belief that He doesn't love me, and the loss of that had leaked through to every one of my other losses.

when i was finally done speaking, the therapist asked if i was open to her doing an exercise.  i wanted to say "absolutely not" and just run out of the room, but found myself silently nodding my head.  she had me sit down in a chair, then asked the other girls in the group to surround me.  they each put a hand on me, and said something kind to me.  either what they had learned from my poster, or something they admired about me.  or just that they loved me.

the tears continued to fall down my face as they each took their turn.  and even though i wanted to dismiss their compliments, and combat them with why i actually wasn't so amazing or strong, or beautiful, i didn't.  i took deep breaths, and tried to let their words soak through the top layer of my skin, down to my tiny, cracked core.

that day, a piece that had been broken so long ago was patched up.

i came home, feeling a little bit lighter than i had been earlier.  i was relieved, and raw.  emotionally so tired and vulnerable.  but i also felt something else:

hope.  

i knew, after that day, that there actually is an ability to heal from your past.  that coping and surviving and closing up and shutting down no longer had to be the way i dealt with painful experiences and memories.

and as the months went on, and i continued to go back to the beginning to work my way forward, i continued to feel hopeful.  i was changing, really changing, for the first time in my life.  i no longer hurt the way i had for so long.  i no longer allowed others to hurt me the way i had.  i actually started believing that i am beautiful, regardless of size, shape, clear skin or not.  not just believing, but knowing.

i started developing the ability to take only what is mine in situations, and to allow others to take what is theirs, instead of carrying it for them.  and what developed from that was a deeper, more empathetic, more understanding version of myself.  i found a balance of being able to mourn with others without their pain knocking the wind out of me, or without taking it on as my own.  or for somehow feeling responsible for it, and like i could rescue them out of it.

i worked extremely hard on boundaries.  that was something that i hadn't realized was so twisted inside of me.  for most of my life, i had extremely firm boundaries with those that didn't necessarily need them, and then had extremely no-boundaries with those who could, and did, hurt me.  unhealthy walls came down, while other healthy walls were built up.  

and i began taking accountability.  sincerely apologizing for mistakes i have made.  some were from years and years ago, and i'm sure weren't as big of a deal to others as they were for me, but those apologies were just another way to lighten the burden of all that i had been carrying for so long.  and they also kept me humble, and out of a place of looking at my life as a victim.

anyone could be a victim.  everyone has a story.  trials and challenges, pain and heartaches.  and honestly?  being a victim can be an addicting place to sit.  wanting to stay hurt and angry for old wounds and new wounds.  feeling badly for yourself, having others feel badly for you.  feeling wronged so that you don't have to reach out.  protecting yourself so you don't get hurt.  

but the truth is, it is always a choice to be hurt, and to hold onto that hurt.  always.  i have seen so many overcome some of the most difficult challenges without remaining a victim.  but it's hard work to do it, when the place of victim has been comfortable for a long time.  

and being a victim for the rest of my life was not where i wanted to end up.  i had seen others ride the victim train, and i saw where that train had landed them.  so i had to make the choice to not stay there.   

as these changes took place, so did spiritual changes.  i separated my religion from finding God, because there were experiences i had gone through in my past that caused religion to confuse me.  i stripped down the reasons that i felt i was supposed to do things, so that i could begin to make choices because i knew i wanted to make them.  

i also made a conscious effort to be constantly aware of how close i felt to Him, daily.  how connected i was on a spiritual level rather than a religious one.  and as that spiritual depth grew, the religion part fell into place naturally instead of forced.  there is a balance between the two that needed to be found for me, and it has been.  

and this is how i began to see just how much He loves me, and how much He always has. His love was always there, all around me, i just hadn't known how to truly see it.  but it became clear when i finally sought it, with eyes that were open to focus on the good that was happening in life instead of the bad.

i could see His love for me in others, who said and did things just at the right time i needed them.  i was offered friendship, kindness, forgiveness, understanding, mercy; often times in places where it was  completely unexpected. i could see His love for me in my children, who were reflecting back His pure and unconditional love for me through them.

and i could see His love for me in the way that i loved my children.  the parallel of what life is really all about became so crystal clear during this time, and as my children have continued to grow.  their weaknesses and strengths, perfections and imperfections became more acute, and my heart was full of so much adoration for them, not in spite of their shortcomings, but because of them.  and in those moments of seeing them for who they really are, my spirit listened to the whisperings that said, "this is exactly how He feels about you."

slowly, my cracked core has begun to be filled.  it is a long process, especially when i look back on the first time i really recognized what was going on 9 years ago, and then when i actually started working 2 years ago.  it has come in steps and pieces.  at times it's felt like i am cutting off a limb, it is that painful.  there have been days when it is exhausting, and i take a break from pushing myself.  and there have been days when i wish that the fight wasn't so hard sometimes.  but there's nothing i can do to change events that actually happened to me, but i have changed how i feel about those events.

this journey has been so worth it.  now that my eyes have been opened to what is on the other side of all of this hard work, and the change that i have seen come over me, i am so grateful.  and like i mentioned before, going through those events in my past has brought about a depth in me that would otherwise not be there.  

i am grateful for that depth, it is one of the things i love most about me now.  

so for those reading who can relate in any way to what i have written, my intention for writing this is that you will be able to see my story as one that is a work in progress, but that is full of hope.  

cracks can be filled, hearts can love and allow love, and broken pieces can be put back together.  

the winds can stop, leaves can grow again, trees will stand.

{image found here}

and autumn will end.