Connection

I have watched the “film” at least a few hundred times. Me, standing off to the side of the playground, between the swing set and the road. Watching the kids during recess, running up and down the field and lawn between the elementary school and junior high buildings. It was cloudy and very cold that day. I’m watching intently, trying to understand. To comprehend what I’m seeing. It looks like any other day, except everything has changed in some mysterious way. It’s all slightly off. Foreign. Something has gone terribly wrong with the world and I’m seeking the tiniest of clues to help me understand. Something that will help me make sense of what I am seeing and sensing. Nothing is the same, even though, at first glance, it looks as if nothing has changed. Something has shifted and that shift changed the whole world.

The only sound I hear is that of the other kids laughing and yelling as they kick balls down the field, play tether ball, jump on the merry-go-round or jump rope. Otherwise, I am alone in a cone of silence and darkness. I am numb. Emotionless. Hyper-vigilant.

My mind races. “The world has changed. Everything has changed. Something changed the word. What changed the world?” I no longer belong; am no longer a part of the life unfolding before me.

Several years ago, while in therapy, in a flash, God revealed to me that the world didn’t change. I did. I was being sexually abused by my father and had reached an age where I could no longer cloak what was happening to me in fantasy, nor could I block it out. Reality had broken through. And it was far easier, though not accurate, to believe the world had changed than to believe what my father was doing to me had changed and damaged me.

That revelation turned everything upside down. Or maybe it turned everything right side up. Still, in spite of the revelation, as I viewed the scene that happened all those years ago, I felt nothing.

But yesterday, I felt.

Yesterday, I felt the dizzying confusion, the overwhelming terror, the desperation and pain. Yesterday, after all these years, I finally felt what I had evidently suppressed almost my entire life. The emotion I had repressed even as I was living and feeling it because it was so overwhelming, I couldn’t process it. Yesterday, I hurt. I felt what it felt like, standing there watching. I was frantically trying to manage, to comprehend, to make sense of the fact that I no longer belonged among my classmates. I was suddenly profoundly different. An alien on an unfamiliar planet. In disguise. Determined to keep the mask in place and to appear to be a normal child.

Inside, I was torn, broken, screaming a silent, gut-wrenching scream. Inside, I was in unbearable pain. All of the air had been knocked out of my lungs and I was gasping for breath, suffocating in agony. And I was utterly alone.

Before, I only remembered being confused. But confusion was the one piece of what I was feeling that could be acknowledged because it was the safest emotion in which to retreat. It was the only emotion I could allow because in my empty, unsafe world, I would not survive if I allowed myself to feel anything else.

I connected. And it was terrifying. But it was real. It was what I felt as a child standing in the cold watching everyone laughing and playing. Doing the things I used to do. I had been marked by darkness. By the evil things that happen in darkness. And the child I once was had been destroyed.

What If I Was Wrong?

Years ago, decades ago, when I was a brand new Christian, I started working for the street outreach ministry though which I was saved.  They needed someone to take care of all the administrative tasks and I needed a job.  I loved the work because there was such great purpose in what we were doing. We reached out to those the churches didn’t want. The street people, homeless, lesbians and homosexuals, people struggling with mental illness or drug and alcohol addictions.  The “failures” of life.  A lot of what we did involved working with area churches to help the people we reached get back on their feet as they began their new life in Christ.  It was hard work with no set hours, often requiring 14 or more hours a day.  But it was fulfilling.

It was also a traumatic experience for me on a personal and spiritual level.

As someone who had not been raised in church, who had abusive, neglectful parents, who turned to drugs and alcohol at the age of 14 just to survive the trauma and abuse, I suddenly found myself in a world where everything had been altered.  Was unfamiliar.  I didn’t know God’s Word or how He expected His followers to act.  I met the Living God and was born again, but I was not yet rooted or renewed.  I felt a bit like someone who had just arrived in a foreign country without knowing the language, customs or laws.

I certainly didn’t know this new world also had predators.

Not long after I started working for the ministry, the founder, a man after God’s heart, was asked to move into a national position.  He turned the local outreach over to the assistant director.  I had met the assistant director several times prior to hire, and frankly, I didn’t like him.  He seemed cocky, arrogant, and quite full of himself.  But over time, as I got to know him, my perception changed.  I started to enjoy our conversations.  He began asking me out…for a hike, lunch, to church…nothing formal.  But little encounters created a connection that was growing stronger and more intense over time.

Then, I met his wife.

I was devastated and confused.  Troubled.  I had fallen more than a little in love with him and we were, by this point, ministering at events together and very close.  There hadn’t been a single clue to alert me to the fact that he was married.

He told me our relationship was special.  We were the exception.  God had put us together in a very powerful way, to minister together, to meet each other’s needs.  God, he asserted, had ordained our union.

And I believed him.  For a while.  I should have known better.  But I was in a new “country” where the language and rules were different from anything I had known before.  No excuse.  But I believe him.  Until I heard our pastor preach a sermon one Sunday.  I can’t tell you what the topic of his sermon was, nor can I recall anything else he talked about that morning.  But I will never forget the one thing he said that opened my eyes.

He said, “What God says is right is always right.  What God says is wrong is always wrong.  THERE ARE NO EXCEPTIONS.”

No exceptions.

That afternoon, I told him I would continue to work with him in the outreach, professionally, but would have nothing to do with him personally.  He tried to talk me out of it.  At one point during the conversation, a thought wedged its way into my mind.  That he was satan with skin on.  And as the thought formed, he stopped talking, turned to me with a mocking, demonic look on his face and said, “You think I’m satan with skin on, don’t you?”  A chill shot down my backbone.  But it was further confirmation that I was doing the right thing.

He told me I had been his greatest challenge.  He knew I was repulsed by him when we met.  And he was determined to win me over…and bring me down.

We still worked at the offices the church graciously allowed us to use.  He in his space.  Me in mine.  But the relationship was over.

A few months later, he came to my office and said he was not feeling well.  His house was being fumigated, so he asked if he could lay down on the couch in my apartment since he couldn’t go home.  My apartment was basically across the street, 2 minutes away from the office.  So, I reluctantly agreed.  I let him in, then headed back to the office, greeting the receptionist when I returned.  I spent the rest of the afternoon working, preparing for the next radio broadcast.

Late that afternoon, just before I was preparing to leave, I got a call from the receptionist.  She acted surprised I was in.  She said they had been looking for the my boss (GJ) because his wife had been calling repeatedly, frantically, trying to find him.  The receptionist told her we had left together before lunch and never returned.  I reminder her I was there and had talked with her when I came back, but she claimed she didn’t remember.

And just like that, we were accused of having an inappropriate relationship.  Rumors bloomed and circulated.  A meeting was called, involving several pastors of area mega-churches.  They were to review the facts and decide God’s will for me, determining my fate.

I had already confessed my sin, begging God to forgive me at the time I ended the relationship.  To have something I thought was in the past dredged up several months afterward caused me to wonder if God had not forgiven me.  I never denied what I did.  Nor did I try to blame him.  I was deceived, I should have known it was wrong.  And the minute I found out he was married, I should have ended it.  I had no excuse, so I threw myself on God’s mercy.  Prayed again for forgiveness.  And prayed God would speak to the pastors, giving them wisdom.  I told Him I would accept whatever judgement they levied against me as if it was from Him because I believed He would be my defender and bring the truth to light.  I prayed He would influence the outcome so His will would be done.  I prayed for His word to prevail.  And I turned it over to God.

The day of the meeting, they first met with GJ.  There were no chairs, so I sat on the floor in the hallway outside the conference room, waiting to be called in to give my statement.  I waited for over 3 hours.  When the door finally opened, I jumped up, thinking the time had finally come for me to speak.  But one by one, the pastors filed by me.  Some didn’t even look in my direction.  A few stared at me as they walked by with hard faces and cold eyes.  Then, my pastor called me into his office.

I was informed they had unanimously concluded I was a Jezebel.  I was no longer welcome in the church, nor would I be allowed to serve in the ministry.  I had been condemned, labeled a temptress, having supposedly caused a great man of God to fall.  There was to be no mercy.

I broke.  Accepted the judgement as from the Lord.  And I concluded my sin was too great to be forgiven.

When I became a Christian, I had a very close relationship with God.  He was not an abstract spirit “out there” somewhere.  He walked and talked with me.  He guided me.  And He gave me a new life.  Now, it was gone.  There was no hope because I was no longer accepted by God.  I was toxic, shameful, an abhorrent person who deserved the stones that were cast at me.  No matter how deeply I was broken, how genuinely I repented, how I strove to live a godly life from that point forward, nothing I could do would ever allow me to be restored to relationship with my Savior.

For years, I begged for forgiveness.  For decades.  And still, God was a million miles away.

Recently, I started going back to counseling.  Partially because, as I grow older, life seems very empty.  Partially because the pandemic has been difficult.  More isolating than I can bear.  Partially because the depression I have always fought has become a bigger monster than I can manage alone.  This past month, I shared this experience with him.  And his response was not what I expected.

He was angry.

Angry at the pastors who didn’t follow proper biblical procedure when conducting an investigation.  Who didn’t give me a chance to answer questions or speak.  He was so angry, he shared my story with an authority in the church, someone who would know the proper process to follow in cases of adultery (him) involving a married ordained minister, and sexual sin (me) involving a member of the church and worker in the ministry. Without divulging any personal identifying information, he shared what had happened and the steps taken.  And the consulted “authority” was livid.  Wanted names.  Wanted to take action against the pastors involved.  Wanted to make it…right.

They didn’t know me; who I was.  But they wanted to fight.  For me.

No one has ever fought for me.  Stood up for me.  Been on my side.  But because I placed the outcome of the meeting in God’s hands, I willingly accepted their judgement as His.  It crippled my relationship with Him for decades to come.

I’m trying to grasp what this means; his anger and assertion a great wrong has been committed.  I trusted God with the outcome and was cast out and labeled a Jezebel.  I trusted God to speak to the men who were contemplating my future.  But now, I am being told what they did wasn’t biblical.  Was even sinful.  I was the “baby Christian” and should have been protected.  He, the minister, should have been held accountable, place on probation and been unable to minister until he completed a period of counseling and rehabilitation.  I’m now being told God isn’t the one who judged me.  That I was condemned by a group of men who protected and covered for a “brother.”  But I’m having a very, very hard time believing it. 

It has been years since I was removed from the congregation and ministry.  Yet, in all those years, God did not once contradict their decision or set aside the sentence they handed down.

What is the truth?  I don’t know.  I can’t make sense of it.  And the discord is unsettling.

What if?  What if I was wrong?  What if God wasn’t the one who condemned me?  What if the distance I have felt from Him all these years was caused by my belief that He rejected me?  The belief that He didn’t accept my confession because my failure was too grievous?   What if He did forgive me, but I haven’t been able to accept His forgiveness, nor forgive myself?

If I was wrong, I can’t begin to comprehend what this changes.  What conclusions that would fall like carefully placed dominos.  When the first domino is knocked down, there is a chain reaction.  If I was wrong, what will this chain reaction do and how will I be transformed once all the dominos have fallen?

It is too enormous for my brain to comprehend.

Mittens

I am a dog person.  I have always been a dog person.  I understand dogs.  I know how to take care of them.  And once I met my first Miniature Schnauzer, I’ve been a Schnauzer kind of dog person ever since. 

Then there was this cat.

She showed up a couple of months ago and started hanging out in my yard.  I’m pretty sure she was sheltering under my shed.  She is small for a cat and she is thin.  And unlike so many wild cats I’ve met, she is sweet, craving attention.  And she attached to me. 

I’ve had cats appear in my yard before.  They were usually kind of mean and stand-offish, fleeing as soon as I got anywhere near them.  Or they were arrogant and hostile, making me wonder if they would slit my throat if I was stupid enough to turn my back on them for a second.

Not this kitty.  She approached me and rubbed up against my foot, my outstretched hand.  She was a little skittish, but not so fearful as to run or hide when I reached out to her.  She wanted to be petted and seemed to be hungry for the interaction.  She was also very thin.  Likely starving.  So, I ran into the house and got the only thing I had on hand at the time to feed her.  Dog food.  Because I’m a dog person.  And I’ve always had dogs.

I saw her again a couple of days later and this time I fed her some skinless chicken breast. 

She came around fairly regularly to be petted and to eat and hydrate.  I made sure she had clean water.  Always gave her some chicken, which she gratefully ate from my hand.  And she would let me scritch her jowls for a while until she decided to move on.

I named her Mittens because she has four white paws.  She got to me.

She was so friendly and gentle.  Well, she was gentle until I tried to pick her up.  That terrified her.  She hissed, clawed me, though not badly, and scaled the privacy fence in a mad race to escape.  She didn’t return for a couple of days.  I realized I needed to slow down.

I wanted to rescue her.  Tried for weeks to win her trust.  I took it slow, feeding her, petting her, trying to help her feel safe.  But this last Monday, as it rained and temperatures dropped, she showed up with about 2 inches of her tail missing, skinned to the bone.  My heart broke.  I decided I could never let her go back out into the night to fend for herself.  I was afraid she would be killed or die from infection.  So I prayed.  And that’s when the miracle occurred.

I had tried several times to get her to go voluntarily into a cat carrier my brother (cat person) loaned me.  It’s a box, basically.  Cats like boxes, right?  But she was not impressed or enticed.  But in my desperation to save her, I decided to try again.  I grabbed the carrier and threw the bits of chicken as far back in the crate as I could.  I talked to her, rubbed her jowls and waited.  And finally…finally she went in!

I closed the door as fast as I could.  She hissed.  But then she quietly waited to see what was going to happen next. 

I didn’t know what to do with her, but I called my brother and told him I finally had her!  I had captured Mittens!

They were headed to the vet, the same vet I use for my dogs.  So I called to tell them I had a feral cat needing care, grabbed the carrier and we rushed to get her there before they closed for the evening.

The next day, after examining her, they told me she was in pretty bad shape.  She needed to have about 3 inches of her tail amputated and it was infected, so she needed some antibiotics via IV.  She had tapeworms, parasites, worms, fleas, ticks.  Her skin was badly infected from the flea bites.  She was weak.  Failing.  Wouldn’t have lasted much longer if someone hadn’t intervened. 

It would cost $1000 to give her the care she needed.  She would have to be hospitalized for at least 3 days after the tail surgery and I would need to keep her isolated at home until it healed and stitches were removed.  If I was going to keep her…

I authorized the treatment, vaccinations and surgery.  What else could I do?  She needed someone to love her.  To care for her.  Someone who saw her value and worth.  She needed me.

On the way home from work that evening, I started weeping.  I realized there was a lesson in the story of Mittens.  Unwanted, unloved, denied care, scrounging for food and shelter, broken, damaged, wounded and hurt, yet I saw something of value in her.  And I determined she was worth the price I would need to pay to rescue her, even if I wouldn’t be able to keep her.  Even if she never loved me in return. 

God saw us.  Unwanted, unloved, broken, sinful, damaged, wounded, lost, hurt.  He saw us and decided to pay the price to rescue us.  Even if we never loved and accepted Him in return.  He loved us anyway. 

That kind of love is unstoppable.

Bow

My father laid his claim and quickly staked out his personal kingdoms.  One of those kingdoms was his home, consisting of us, his subjects who had the misfortune to have been born into the family and who lived in the house he built.  Another kingdom was that of the small town where I spent most of my young life, where we lived in the house he built, and where he “served” as a police judge, gaining credibility and power.  The third kingdom was the junior high school where he worked, where he taught for most of his career.   He was a tyrant over all of these kingdoms, though in different ways, ruling with an iron fist and without granting mercy to his subjects.

 

He reigned supreme, unchallenged, maintaining control over his kingdoms by wearing a pleasant mask or by intimidating the weak.  Putting on his royal, public face to awe his subjects; those who didn’t know him, who didn’t live in his “castle.”  He was an expert at showing disdain when “deserved,” when needed to keep his subjects in line should they attempt to protest.  Smiling minimally when they acquiesced.  Or at the least, leaving them alone, aiming his wrath in a different direction, toward those who rebelled or opposed him.  His fury was decimating.

 

Having been born into the “home” kingdom, we saw the worst side of his personality.  We knew the depth of his depravity, experienced the ugly part of the dictator, his bullying and selfishness.  Behind closed doors, where he didn’t have to answer to anyone, where his power and authority were total, he didn’t bother to restrain his anger or lust.  Anyone who dared to stand up to him, even if doing so respectfully, was punished swiftly and harshly.  A fist powered by fury.  A mandate that restricted, removed the minimal liberties he granted, further isolating us.  A demand to comply or be destroyed by his slaps, punches and cutting words.  We had no options.  There was no one to run to for help or shelter.  No appeal processes.  Only silent obedience would save us from the full brunt of his rage.

 

At school, he had to be a little more careful.  A little more diplomatic.  As a tenured teacher, he was protected to a large degree and that empowered him to disregard some needed caution.  As a result, the monster sometimes escaped the mask.  There were altercations that could have cost him his job, had he not been tenured.  Had he not been so good at talking his way out of trouble by attacking his accusers.  He learned early that the best way to win was to bully whoever stood against him, cornering them, forcing them into a defensive position.  And once cornered, he always won.

 

As a police judge, he felt free to wield his power when handing out severe sentences and ridiculous fines.  He didn’t have jurisdiction over criminal cases, but if he had, we would have either dodged criminal activity within our  city limits because of fear of consequences, or war would have broken out in rebellion against his unchecked, over-the-top totalitarianism.  Actually, there were a few wars.  Even over misdemeanor cases.  And at one point, he used his authority to close the alley in front of our house, erecting barricades, posts dynamited deep into the earth and strung with heavy steel cable to keep cars from trespassing.  During this skirmish, we had to sleep with a pile of tin cans under each of our windows, tied to invisible wire strung calf-high, so if anyone walked onto our property, the cans would be dragged onto the porch, waking us with the noise.  Before bedtime, we were required to “stand guard” in the treehouse, repurposed as a guard shack.  One memorable evening, a group of kids in an old car decided to ram the barricade, which didn’t go well.  I watched in horror as he put his shotgun to his shoulder, letting loose with both barrels into the back of the fleeting wreck.

 

He was known as “Sarge,” both at school and in our little community.  He loved the nickname, wearing it like a badge of honor.  Earned it while a Sargent in the Air Force.  He intimidated everyone he encountered and loved doing so.  His students were afraid of him, though not as terrified as his family.  He barked orders, controlled the classroom with unnerving, cold authority.  He never learned the names of those he taught, preferring to silence them with a stare.  Pointing at them with a yardstick he kept close at hand to give them permission to speak.

 

As a tyrant parent, he used fear and threats to keep us in line.  And he became more brazen the longer he got away with being a mini-dictator.  I was often a target.

 

Once, when I was 16, he tried to run over me with his car; a surprise attack from behind.  The guy I was walking home from school with saw him out of the corner of his eye and threw me into the ditch seconds before his car zoomed through the space where I had just been walking.

 

About 6 months later, I stopped mowing to talk to a friend, one of very few, from school.  The supreme dictator didn’t bother to tell me to get back to work.  Instead, he marched to the garage, got in his car, drove from the garage, which was on the back side of our house, around to alley in front, and again tried to run over me.  I managed to get behind a tree and no matter how fast he drove around it, I was able to keep the tree between us.  The friend took off and never dropped by my house again.  Word got around.  You don’t want to go anywhere near “Sarge’s.”  Not even for an innocent conversation with his daughter.

 

In his kingdom, in the haunted house he built, I was a slave, used for his pleasure, ignored when he was done with me.  I existed only to serve and then to scurry from his sight until he wanted to use me again.

 

I was told that I must perform, conform, do and be what he demanded.  I was to meet his sexual needs.  Make him look good.  To show respect and to and cause him appear respectable.  To further his power and to keep him from being challenged.  It was my job to protect him at all costs, to guard his secrets, shore up his façade.  I had to excel to prove he was excellent. I had to appear normal so no one would suspect how abnormal he was.  How abnormal life was in the house where he imprisoned me.

 

In his kingdom, I was a pawn.  A worthless, dispensable pawn.  He…he was the king.  The all-powerful king.  The one I must always be loyal to.  The one to whom I was expected to bow.

 

I loved him once.  Before.  Before the sexual abuse.  The punches that sent me flying across the room.  Before he imprisoned me in silence, threatening me if I dared to tell anyone what was happening to me under his dictatorship.  Before he withheld his approval, judging me, the daughter who was never good enough.  Before he tried to kill me.  Before he stole my innocence, my childhood, my ability to trust.  I loved him once.  But I feared him until the day he died; the day I was finally freed from his cruel oppression.

 

Don’t get me wrong.  His death did not mark my ultimate freedom.  The marks, scars and wounds he inflicted have kept me bound just as surely as if he were still standing over me, threatening me, using me.  His oppression is past tense, but I am still struggling to recover from the impact of his despotism.  The damage is extensive.  The decimation of my soul complete.  It may be that my own death is what it will take for me to truly be set free.

 

He was a dictator.  Cruel.  Manipulating.  Selfish. Narcissistic. He demanded that his subjects bow to his whims, his rage, his desires.  He was the king and the only one who mattered.  The only one of importance.  He tolerated me…as long as I bowed to his will and demands.  As long as I didn’t embarrass him.  As long as I acquiesced to his supremacy.

 

I loved him once.  But if he ever loved me, he never let it show.  Never let me know.  Not once.  He ruled with an iron fist, unrelenting, until the very last day of his life.  The center of attention until  he took his very last breath.

 

That was the day the tables were turned.  The day he finally had to bow.  And I, weak and staggering, was finally able to breathe, to stand, to take a small step away…if not yet forward.

Tightrope

I am walking a tightrope.  The rope is thin.  It sways and moves beneath me as I try to maintain my balance.  Storms assail me, bringing additional challenges to keeping a tenuous foothold on this frail, shifting rope.  Falling is not an option.  There are no nets.  There isn’t anyone to catch me; nothing to break my fall.  I certainly would not survive the plunge.  I wouldn’t be able to pick up the pieces yet again.  Nor would I have the courage or will to make another attempt at this treacherous crossing.  I am terrified.  All of my energy and concentration is focused on the next step, as I slowly make my way across the tightrope.  I am trying to maneuver my way to safety.  To solid ground.  I’ve been balancing here for a very long time.  I’m exhausted.  Overwhelmed with terror and despair.  And I’m running out of strength.  I’m running out of hope.

 

It’s worse at night, when the terror hits me full force, the distractions of the daytime no longer there to buffer and dilute the impact.  I cling to the rope, praying, praying, praying for relief.  For a respite.  I am assailed by feelings of inadequacy and worthlessness that further weaken me.  I am tormented by my failings: depression, isolation, weakness, self-hatred, distortion.  And there’s the elephant, the childhood abuse from which I’ve never recovered, the ensuing damage and all that it entails.   I am pulverized by my inadequacies.  I feel the full impact and struggle to stand against the wild and brutal storm.  There is nothing to protect me.  No shelter.  It lashes me without mercy.

 

I doubt my ability to make it across.  I regularly question whether it is possible to keep going while facing such a brutal storm. I don’t even truly know if there is “another side” to reach.  I certainly can’t see the end.  But I must try to keep walking for clearly, staying where I am is not a viable option.  At best, I can exist here short term,  for this is not bearable or tolerable and life is not sustainable in this precarious position; in this desolate, lonely place.  It is a place of certain death, this place of desperation where I regularly slip from the rope, frantically grabbing hold, climbing back up, scarcely able to cling to the fragile connection, this nearly invisible thread that is supposed to lead me to a better place.  To the mystical place of healing.

 

I am ashamed.  Ashamed that I have to struggle my way along this journey.  Yet others cross much more quickly.  With so much more style and pizzazz.  I am slow, clumsy, uncoordinated.  I want to hide.  I feel the extra weight of my shame because of my inability to traverse this tiny rope that others walk without hesitation or exertion.  I wonder at my complete inadequacy and deficiency.  It pains me to be so slow and faulty.  So inept and incompetent.

 

If I fall, who will cradle what is left of me?  Who will reach out a hand  to lift me up?  To give me a gentle touch, acknowledging my pain and brokenness?  Will it matter?  Will anyone even know I have lost the battle?  Will anyone care?

 

And what happens if the line snaps?

 

I cling to the tightrope, trying to regain my balance before attempting to stand.  Before I try to take another step on this slippery, swaying, rope that is my life.  Alone, without a net.  Always alone.

 

 

Done

I want to be clear.  I do not think the violence committed against George Floyd, or against a myriad of other people, is right.  I believe anyone…police officer, black person, white person…regardless of race, how hard of a time they’ve had or how easy their life has been…anyone who commits violence against another should be held accountable for their actions and suffer the consequences.  Period.  There is no excuse for any kind of senseless violence.

I also do not believe two wrongs make a right.  Or, if you are a Christian, to put this old adage into biblical terms, “Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.” (Romans 12:21)

Everyone should be free to protest peacefully.  Joining together to let our voice be heard, to call attention to injustice and to become part of the change that needs to happen is necessary.  There is no question that change is needed.  And long overdue.

But to senselessly commit violence against other innocent people crosses a line.  It is to become just like those the angry, hate-fueled demonstrators protest.  To loot and riot and harm people who have done them no harm makes them no better than the police officer who killed George Floyd.

I believe who we are, what is inside of us, our character, our heart, is what makes us a worthy human being.  Or not. The outer wrapping is irrelevant.  But it is our acceptance, willingness to work together, to listen, to come to understand so we can connect, and our LOVE that will change the things that need to change.   Hate, looting, rioting, rejection, judgement…these things drive us further apart.  We become part of the problem and turn into someone who is no better than our enemy.

Love is the force that will draw us together.  And when we work together in love, we can change the world.

Racism is real.  It is wrong.  We were not created to be alike.  We were made to be wonderfully different and diverse.  Difference is beautiful.  And healthy.

But we are also very much alike in many, many ways.  We all want similar things.  To be loved.  To have a good life.  To be wanted and appreciated and valued.  To be safe.  Respected. To find purpose and meaning.  We are all human beings who were created to need each other.  Tearing each other down, hating each other, rioting, spreading hate; none of this will never accomplish the change that needs to happen.

We need to listen.  Listen to understand those who have had an experience that is different than our own.  Who look different or think differently.

We need to love.  Each other.  Only love can affect the kind of change that is needed.

Judgement rests in God’s hands alone.  We are to love; not judge.

This is my opinion.  We’re all entitled to our own.  I know some don’t agree and it is your right to disagree.  But no one has a right to bully someone who doesn’t have the same opinion.  God made us all unique and our experience, personalities and values cause us to see the world through different lenses.

God also gave each of us all the right to have differing opinions.  To disagree, even to disagree with and to reject Him.  We don’t have to be alike or think alike to love and respect each other.  We don’t have to reject each other because we see or believe differently.  Nor do we have the right to demean those who have dissimilar beliefs.

I still care for many people who don’t see things as I do.  But I won’t tolerate being bullied for my viewpoint.  Nor will I tolerate those who recommend and embrace violence as the solution.

I will respectfully dialogue.  I will listen.  I will embrace those who have been mistreated and regarded as outcasts.  I will do what I can to encourage acceptance and love. To support and shape change.

But I am done with the haters.  Those who spew hatred, sow evil and disharmony, hurting others who see differently than they do.  Those who destroy innocent people, damage our country, and cause division.  I am done with hate.

Done.

Shamed

I was shamed today.  By my boss.  I was shamed for having an emotion.  For feeling.  And oddly enough, I was not feeling the emotion for which I was shamed.

 

He assumed.  He said he could tell what I was feeling because he “heard” this emotion in an email I sent containing factual data.

 

I didn’t share my opinion.  I didn’t provide my perspective.  My thoughts.  My ideas.  I sent only facts.  Yet, I was judged because he “saw” emotion in the words I used when sharing this information.  And that emotion, actually all emotion, in general, wasn’t professional.  In particular, the emotion he had decided was present in my email, was entirely unacceptable.  He actually concluded it was his duty to call me into his office to reprimand me for feeling and expressing this thing I didn’t feel.

 

Had I be writing with emotion, or trying to express personal sentiments, sharing my heart or mind, I would have felt I had done something terribly wrong.  I would have been even more mortified.  It hurt, though it wasn’t true.  He was accusing me of being inappropriate and unacceptable, based on the fact that I am a human being who feels.  Who sees things differently that does he.  Regardless of what the feeling might be, it was WRONG to feel.  Because feelings don’t belong at work.  Especially feelings that don’t align with his own.

 

The rebuke hurt on a very deep level because this is the message I have heard repeatedly over the course of my life.  Every person who has been a part of my world, even if only in a small way, has let me know I needed to keep my feelings to myself.  They have communicated, in a myriad of ways, how offensive it was for me to have feelings, how unacceptable I was for having them, and how disgusting I was to let them show.  Others are allowed, even encouraged to be real.  To feel.  Even those who have shamed and rejected me have been granted the right to express their thoughts and feelings.   But this was a privilege not extended to me.

 

Their feelings were “good.”  Acceptable.  Mine were not.

 

Their feelings were “normal” and “understandable.”  My feelings were deemed ridiculous.  Inappropriate.

 

When what you feel is judged and labeled as being “wrong,” you are likewise judged and labeled as being “unacceptable.”  You are sentenced to a life of silence.

 

I have been silent for a very long time.

 

I have carefully repressed all emotion, ultimately reaching a point where I could no longer feel anything.  Not pain.  Nor joy.  Not anger.  Or even ambiguity.  I lost the ability to laugh or cry.  I had to push who I was, the real me, deep inside of myself.  Wrapped that deplorable person tight within a black hole.

 

You cannot connect with others when you are a robot.  When they cannot see you for your mask.  They will only see the worst and judge you.  Reject you.  You cannot connect with others when your soul is imprisoned in a black hole.

 

The isolation is crushing.

 

Black holes are empty.  I live a lonely life.

 

My only “social” interactions consist of the shallow connections I have at work  I have learned the lesson well; being genuine is for others.  For the acceptable people.  Not for me.

 

It’s difficult because I work in a field that urges one to be their “true self.”  Even at work.  To connect heart and passion with profession.  This is the “best practice.” This is what the “experts,” the successful people tell you.  I’ve been listening to several webinars this week and this exact message has been delivered multiple times by numerous presenters in various contexts.   But it’s not the lesson experience has taught me.

 

The lesson I have learned from the real world, reality, from the world in general, and at work in particular, is that one must wear a very clever and impervious mask each day when entering the office, while leaving their heart at the door.

 

When my boss shamed me for a feeling I didn’t have, for supposedly having a reaction, I found myself unable to respond, because that would have required expression of a true emotion.  Indignity, perhaps.  Incredulousness.  Anger.  Laughter.  Instead, I sat stone-faced as he told me I had expressed this unfelt feeling, which he assessed as being categorically inappropriate.  I sat, unspeaking, as he reproached me for being emotional, though, at least in this instance, is was not true.  And it felt as if he had driven a dagger deep into my heart.

 

I longed to be genuine.  But I know this would be a grave sin.

 

I wanted to defend myself, but I knew it would not matter.  His judgement would stand.  I had been condemned without the option to appeal.

 

I didn’t cry out, but I bled.

Social Distancing

The TV blares.  Some random episode of NCIS or Criminal Minds.  It really doesn’t matter.  It’s noise.  Something to keep me from feeling so alone.

 

I am an essential worker.  I have been going to work every day throughout the COVID-19 pandemic.  Home to work.  Work to home.  Scheduling a grocery pick up every week.  Getting gas for my car.  Home to work.  Work to home.  Praying I will not be infected.

 

My dogs need me.  They would miss me.  I want to make sure I can take care of them.  If not for them, I’m not sure I would care so much.

 

It has become evident to me through all the chaos – stay-at-home orders, reopening, travel bans, social distancing , working for an essential business, so required to go to work anyway – that not much has changed in my world.

 

I’m doing what I have always done.  Close, anyway.

 

Last year at this time, I was sitting at home in the evening with the TV blaring.  Watching some random episode of NCIS, Criminal Minds, or perhaps Blue Bloods.  Using the noise to keep the loneliness at bay.  Worrying about being able to care of my dogs, though not because of COVID-19.  Pretending my life was worth living.  Playing games on my computer.  Reading.  Thinking too much.  Trying to distract myself from the fact that my world was empty.  With only my girls (Schnauzers) to keep me company during the long evenings and dark nights, feeling very alone, in spite of their loyal and comforting presence.

 

To be sure, COVID-19 has increased my workload.  I have been charged with creating new policies, keeping employees safe, implementing emergency sick leave and EFMLA.  Learning all the new rules and regulations that have been enacted in record time.  Keeping everyone up-to-date on the latest information about cases, public exposures and how to protect oneself from this highly-contagious virus.  All that, and more, on top of my regular duties, which already kept me crazy-busy.

 

I go home, and very little has changed.  I’m more exhausted.  I wonder if I have become a zombie.  But other than being wiped out, my after-work world is but one rerun after another.

 

I don’t go out to eat; never did.  I never have and still don’t go out with friends, meet them for coffee, have them over, or visit their homes.  I’m not even sure I have any real friends.  Just acquaintances.  I don’t attend parties, bars, plays, social events, networking events or wander around stores, window-shopping to pass the time.  Again, no change.  And I haven’t been on a single date since my ex left me over a decade ago.  Not going to happen during a pandemic, I’m sure!  I haven’t been on a vacation since 2010; only went then because my brother paid my way and refused to take no for an answer.  Mostly, I do what I have always done.  Go to work, run essential errands, come home.

 

Reruns.  Boring and tedious.

 

The changes?  I wear gloves and a mask when pumping gas into my car.  I schedule no-touch grocery pick up instead of going into the store.  I use the pharmacy drive-thru.  I read about COVID-19, trying to grasp the reality of what is happening in our world; across the globe.  Other than this, business as usual.

 

I am alone.

 

No one touches me.  Social distancing is my normal.  Not a challenge.

 

No travel?  No problem.

 

Stay home?  Got it covered.  That’s been my life for so long, I barely remember a time when I had things to do and places to go.

 

I understand others are struggling with the isolation, even though it is my norm.  My daily reality.  Isolation has been my only companion for decades.  COVID-19 has just leveled the playing field.  Sort of.  The only difference is, others have people they miss.  A life to resume.  Travel to plan when the virus is under control.  People who long to hug them.  People who are ready to reconnect when the pandemic is over.

 

Their isolation will come to an end.

 

I will keep doing what I have been doing.  Going to work.  Coming home.  Netflix providing background noise to chase away the silence.  My dogs on my lap, trusting me to take care of them and provide for their needs.  But, I may continue scheduling a time to pick up my groceries when (if) this ever ends, because I’ve learned going into the store is overrated.

 

Social distancing.  It’s my life.  I hate it, but isolation is the one constant in my world.  The only stability in a world in chaos.

 

Love

I have come to the conclusion that the biggest obstacle I have experienced over all the years of my life, the one thing that has kept me from achieving some level of wholeness, is attributable to an overwhelming lack of love and acceptance.  Sounds kind of…obvious.  But it’s the conclusion I’ve reached after trying to understand why, in spite of significant effort and energy expended, regardless of much prayer and years of counseling, though I am a Christian who is supposed to be a new creature in Christ, I have yet to achieve a life that could be described as more than a desperate attempt to survive.

 

It’s hard to put into words and to adequately explain.  And it is somewhat depressing.  But there is nothing resembling “new” and a lot that appears to be a “creature,” about me when I look in my inner mirror.

 

Love is the one thing my heart has hungered for.  Panted for.  Cried out, prayed for, hoped and dreamed of and wanted more than anything else in the world.  Since childhood, through the teen years, young adulthood, not-so-young adulthood, until the present moment, it is the one essential ingredient I have never been able to attain.  I have ached, hoped, desired, craved, and desperately prayed for this one thing.  Just one simple thing.  Love.  I have wanted to be wanted.  To be the other half of someone’s world.  To have a partner who thought I was kinda, sorta, maybe awesomely and inexplicably, special.

 

It’s as if my soul knew this was the only mechanism that could save me.

 

I have watched multiple friends, coworkers, acquaintances and strangers find true love.  People who seemed, at least on the surface, to be no more loveable than I.  But time after time, they have found a mate who adored them and who was committed to making a life with them.  They have gone through ups and downs, but no matter what, they have worked together to achieve happiness and contentment.

 

Life has had meaning.  Because they were loved.

 

Being loved is something so many take for granted.  They simply “are” loved and they don’t see it as being special.  They were born in love, raised by loving parents and were reared knowing what it meant, what it felt like, to be loved.   That’s what they have experienced, so it is what they expected.  And received.  They aren’t surprised to find their soulmate.  It’s what they have seen, at least at some level, in their parent’s relationship.  And so, being loved has become something they believe they deserve.

 

I, on the other hand, heard the words, but never experienced the actions that are born in a heart that loved me.  I was never good enough.  I never did enough.  I always failed and fell short.  So, I never received love, nor did I have the parental example. I sensed it was something I desperately needed.  I felt it was something critical that I was missing.  But my parents were only capable of abuse.  And that, it appears now, looking back, is the thing that has defined my life.

 

I hungered for this undefined “something” that seemed to make life worth living, but was not allowed to taste it.  Or to know how it felt.

 

I married a man who said he loved me…until we were married.  Suddenly, I found myself measured against every other woman he encountered.  I did not fair well in the comparison.  And so, I spent most of my life listening to him tell me that he didn’t love me.  Because.  And there were so many reasons. He would recount my flaws.  My shortcomings.  My failures.  What I accomplished wasn’t worth so much as an honorable mention.

 

When he left me for a more worthy specimen (and who wasn’t more worthy?), I realized even the hope of being tolerated was asking far, far too much.

 

Somewhere hidden in my soul, far down in the caverns of my heart, I’ve believed being loved was the one thing that could heal me.  Not magically.  I knew it would take work.  But I have somehow sensed love would let me see the things I have never been able to see, allowing me to overcome and rebuild my shattered being so I could be the person I was meant to be.  I believed it would vanquish the deep-seated brokenness I have carried with me. And I thought it would rewire my brain, thus setting me free.  Blissfully, joyfully, free.

 

I still don’t understand why others who are flawed and terribly imperfect can find at least one person to cherish them, but I am somehow far too awful to be loved.  Or maybe even liked.  However, over the decades, the point has been made exceedingly clear.  For if wanting to be tolerated is seeking something that is beyond the ability of any human being to give and is asking far more than they can be expected to provide, then it surely follows, hoping to be loved is but an impossible dream of a foolish and unworthy heart.

 

A heart that hungers, never to be filled.

 

Assault

I was born into a war zone, to parents who were incapable of giving love, who thought a child was the answer to their disappointments and unfulfilled dreams.  I was supposed to meet their needs, give them a sense of purpose and complete their life.

Just by being born.

Instead, I had needs.  I was a colicky baby who cried too much.  I pooped my diapers at inconvenient times, assuming one can poop a diaper at a convenient time.  I wanted attention.  I needed to be fed and bathed and cared for all hours of the day and night.  In short, I was a drain.   I was too much and I asked too much of them.

By existing, I let them down completely.  I didn’t magically erase their disappointment or provide them with fulfillment and purpose.  I was work.  And that wasn’t part of their plan.  Or their fantasy.

As I grew, I became wary.  Silent.  Watchful.  Thoughtful, alert and fearful.  Turns out, I had a lot to fear.

Full disclosure.

My father sexually abused me.   But he didn’t just molest me.  Or rape me.  Or ram his penis down my throat until he came as I gagged on his sperm.  He didn’t limit himself to coming into my room at night to satisfy his lust.  He had a more deviant game to play with his firstborn.  Fantasies that went beyond kissing, fondling, raping or forcing me to perform oral sex.

Fantasies straight from the pages of the porn magazines he hid beneath his mattress and the cushion of “his” chair.

He read the articles.  He read them to me.  Or made me read them out loud.  And then, he commanded me to act them out.  With him.  He, in the role of the manly man who was so irresistible to women, they would do anything…anything…to please.  I was a prop.   A thing.  A puppet without will or strength.  He set the stage and pulled the strings.  Forcefully.  I was helpless.  No way to fight against him.  And as a young toddler, I had nowhere else to go.

Even as a middle-schooler…where could I run and what could I do to provide for myself?

Being abused as a child does something to you.  Being sexually abused by a father breaks something so deep inside the soul, no doctor or friend or lover or self-help book can fix it.  No amount of therapy can put Humpty-Dumpty back together again.  What was, is no more.  A new creature has to arise from the ashes if one is to survive.

And I did.  Somehow, I went on.

But life has not been kind, nor has it been easy.  Though none of us are promised a painless ride, I’ve had more than my share of trauma.  And I’m exhausted.  Too many years of my life have been lived while fighting a life or death battle to survive.  I’ve been assaulted.  By forces that were too strong for me to fight.

Assaulted by the dark side of life.  From the time I was born, throughout childhood, into adulthood.  Nothing has been easy.  No one has loved me.  Healing has escaped me.  And I’ve been alone.

Perhaps I waited too long to get help.  I tried to fight without assistance.  Thought if I tried hard enough, I could fix myself.  Thought it was my responsibility to do so.  Bothering anyone else with my “goo” would be unthinkable.  I learned this lesson early, when I first tried to reach out while I was still living in the nightmare.  I learned when I was told to shut up.  To never lie about my parents again.  To never speak of what happened to me.  To keep my repulsive and disgusting contamination to myself.

And I have.  Other than to write about the ugliness of my soul and the damage to my heart, I’ve only talked to a professional.  Which didn’t help.  I’ve lived the lie.  Always fighting for another day.  A better day.

I am running out of fight.

I have been assaulted by those who were supposed to love me.  I have been rejected by people who said they cared.  I have been required to perform, to give, to meet the needs of others in a variety of ways for the entirety of my days upon this earth.  I have had to justify my existence.  I have had to fight for even so much as a tiny scrap of ground on which to live and simply be.

Every day, I wake up to the same war that has been raging within me over the course of my entire life.  The war outside of me has changed.  Parents who abuse me.  A husband who doesn’t love me.  Friends who betray me.  An employer who uses me.  A pandemic virus, being looked over for promotions, job losses, churches that condemn, cars that are wrecked, finances that never provide quite enough.  Life is chaos.

But the assault within me has not changed and that is what has defeated me.  Not good enough.  Too messed up.  Too much.  Too fat.  Not pretty enough.  Undeserving.  Too much trouble.  Broken.  Disgusting.  A burden.  Defiled.  Not lovable.

Assault after assault after assault.  Because I can never be the person I should be.  I can never forge a  normal, healthy, whole person from this fragmented, unworthy debacle.

I think my father’s sperm, that detestable bitter seed that I was forced to swallow, impregnated my heart and gave birth to a darkness so deep, nothing can penetrate the vast inky void.  I think his abuse is what caused the irreparable damage.  Damage from which I could never recover.  And that’s why I have lost the war.

I survived the assault.  But I didn’t live through it.