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.

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.

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.

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.

 

To Tell the Truth

I’ve been told that most people, or at least those who did not experience a childhood generously seasoned with various types of abuse and trauma, are able to fit the pieces of their past together in some sort of linear sequence.  They recall incidents of significance within a timeline, often associated with the grade they were in or the teacher they had that year.  They reminisce about the friends they hung out with during different stages of their youth.  Where they spent their summers.  The joys and the pains of a nurtured, wanted child.

As one ages, the memories the child retains are not always clear and some experiences are mislaid.  But by the time they reach high school, many recollections fuse and merge with the present moment, contributing to the making of the person they have become.  More is recalled than is forgotten.  Personality is forged and beliefs are  cemented into place.

Young adulthood is marked by falling in…and out…of love.  By college and, for many, their first “real” job.  It’s punctuated by those big steps most take as they establish their own lives.  Leaving home.  Marriage.  First promotion up the career ladder.  The birth of a child.  Or two.  The years fly by with increasing speed, but memories flow and connect, one to another, one after another.

When sharing memories of childhood, those recollections are generally intact for the relatively unscarred among us.  Not every detail is recalled, unless the event was unique or concerned a cherished episode.  But there are no glaring holes, for the most part.  No noticeable mislaid amounts unaccounted for time or years that have vanished.  No fragments that float in and out of focus, fading into nothingness.

The memories of an adult who was traumatized and abused as a child are often full of black holes and missing pieces.  One explores the inky waters while imprisoned in darkness.  Yet little can be retrieved from the dark chasm into which we blindly probe.

There is an overriding feeling of loss.  A feeling that important experiences have slipped away.  A knowing that terrible things have occurred and reality is securely hidden behind an impenetrable curtain.  And always, there is a lack of continuity, a shattering of the core of the soul, cruelly marked by the loss of innocence.

Also present is a wary suspicion that truths (if truth exists) have been carefully hidden behind and beneath layers of lies and deception.  A questioning of “reality,” wondering if it has been cloaked in fantasy, changing the story altogether to make it palatable.  Details are deflected and denied until they can no longer be recalled, even with effort.  Truth is painted over, forcefully morphed and minimized until the pain is finally bearable.

Telling the truth is not an easy task.  For the truth is no longer easily discernable, nor can it be viewed without calamitous consequences.  It has become a monster that must be avoided at all costs.

Facts have been dulled and softened.  Covered with shadows or swallowed by gloom.  Truth is the enemy of survival.  And one must survive at all costs.  Even if the price is the loss of one’s own soul.  Or sanity.

And so, we tell ourselves, “It wasn’t that bad.”  “It doesn’t matter.”  “It could have been worse.” “I have nothing about which to complain.”  “I survived, after all.”

Should we uncover some long-hidden tidbit that springs from the night which always dominates our heart, truth feels foreign and threatening.  Questionable.  We speak it out, rolling it around in our mouth and mind as we test and poke it.  But that long-forgotten fact now feels like a lie.  We have so thoroughly deceived ourselves, the truth seems outlandish and preposterous.  Thus, we chastise ourselves for lying.  For making things seem worse than they were.  For using some “fabricated” reality to garner sympathy, as if we are nothing but a pathetic, selfish, attention-seeker who is validated by pretending to be the victim of some horrendous tragedy.

When we tell the truth, we begin the process of whitewashing and cloaking it once more, even as we hear the words escape from our lips.

In therapy, one is encouraged to uncover what has been covered and to acknowledge what has long gone unacknowledged and unaccepted.  This goes against everything life has taught us.  It counters every experience we’ve had and every lesson we’ve had to learn the hard way.  Telling the truth has become a sacrilege.

To tell the truth.  To speak of it, touch it, let it touch us, is a luxury we cannot afford.

 

 

Shadow Monsters

A sliver of a moon
gives a sliver of light.
There’s a foul shadow
across the sky tonight.

 

Nighttime has always evoked mixed emotions.

I like the anonymity it affords.  You can hide in it.  Relax your radar, let your smile slip, cry if you need to, all without being detected, chastised, chided or rejected.  You can simply “be.”  Allow the shadows to swallow you.  Drop pretenses and remove the mask.  Release the pressure and breathe without being evaluated, weighed. Condemned.

With the light of day comes scrutiny and judgement.  Requirements. Demands are made, standards are set and must be met.  Flaws are exposed and magnified.  The worst is laid bare and probed, then mercilessly dissected.  No matter how much effort you expend, you can never measure up.  For when you reach one goal, the bar is raised.

The dark keeps your secrets.  Covers imperfections.  And forgives all flaws.

But the darkness is also treacherous.  You never know when you are about to walk off a cliff or if you are taking your last step on solid ground before plummeting into a pit from which there is no escape.  It keeps everyone’s secrets; not yours alone.  It hides all who come to it.  All are welcome to take shelter in its impenetrable folds.  For the darkness is ravenous.

It welcomes monsters.

When I was a child, I feared those monsters.

I was convinced Medusa appeared in one corner of my bedroom each third night of the full moon.  Terrified I would look at her and be turned to stone, I kept my eyes tightly scrunched closed with my head under the covers in case I forgot and inadvertently let an eyelid crack open enough to see her waiting for me.  I was terrified of the ghosts who gathered and danced at the foot of my bed, anticipating opportunities to eat any fingers or toes that happened to stray over the edge of the mattress as I drifted into a troubled sleep.   Waiting to drag me away into the place of forever darkness.   I heard their footsteps as they wandered through rooms and across rafters, restlessly pacing, impatiently awaiting an opportunity to do me harm. Or do me in.  And I was terrified of the shadow monsters who lived in my closet and under my bed.  Monsters who blended into the darkness, who came to life as dusk turned to night.

I feared…everything.  Everything that lurked in the night.  For the night was full of wraiths and apparitions, specters and banshees, all harboring malicious intent.

As I grew older, I realized monsters were real and they didn’t need to stay cloaked in inky shadows, only coming alive only when they couldn’t be fully seen.  I learned that they hid in the daylight, in plain sight, without fear of discovery.  And two of them slept in the bedroom across the hall from mine.

There are monsters…and then, there are monsters.

The most terrifying monsters in my house were the ones who were not supposed to be monsters at all.  They wore a pleasant mask when presenting themselves to the world.  A mask that hid menace and evil.  They knew how to smile at the right times. To say the right things.  To appear harmless, or even kind.

But when the mask came off, I saw them for who and what they were.  Even if there was only a sliver of moonlight to guide me.  Even with my eyes scrunched closed tightly.  I saw.

I escaped that house as soon as I could and fled the town where I grew up.  I fled that place where I was forced each day to struggle in the night with ominous shadows.

What I discovered was this: if you grow and live in the darkness, it doesn’t magically go away when you do.  When you have soaked in it, it goes deep.  It permeates your being.  The night burrows far underground inside of you, takes root and flourishes.

The shadows became my skin.   Doomed me to live my life shrouded in a thick, gloomy fog.

I discovered you can run away, but you take yourself with you wherever you go.  So, though I escaped the haunted house of my childhood, the house of perpetual darkness where evil ruled and roamed, I could not escape myself.  Nor could I escape what it had made of me. What I had become.  I had to make peace with the night.  I had to learn to embrace the dim sliver of light allowed me and to live with the dark phantoms who now resided in my soul.

I learned to survive with only that tiny sliver of light, in shadows deep and cold and empty.

I learned to survive where monsters danced and cackled in victory.  Where I was harshly caressed by their probing tentacles and terrifying whispers.  Haunted by an unseen presence.  Tormented by their icy fingers squeezing my heart.  Forever changed by those hideous shadows that darkened the landscape of my life and stole the sun from the sky.

The Day I Tried to Die

I had been planning for some time.  Stock-piling medication.  Preparing my will.  I made a list of all my accounts, numbers and passwords so my brother would be able to access and close them more easily.  I included insurance information, bank accounts and other important items I knew he would need.  I also did my research, verifying fatal doses and drug interactions so I would know how many pills I had to take to do the job.  Then I doubled and tripled that dose.  And just to make absolutely certain there would be no chance of survival, I doubled the tripled dosage.

Once all preparation was complete, I began to think about the timing.  I wanted to be ready.  To have reached a point of total certainty.  I didn’t plan to fail.  When I started swallowing those pills, I didn’t want there to be a “snowballs chance in hell” that I could be saved.

What brought me to this point?  Partially, my own brokenness.  I barely survived an abusive childhood and all efforts to recover had proved ineffective.  But I had been living through a particularly dark time that would likely have challenged even the most mentally healthy.

The company where I worked was pressuring me to compromise myself ethically, and they told me clearly what I must do to keep my job.  They wanted me to break some federal laws and I couldn’t do it, clinging to my integrity with what little strength I could muster.  When I refused, I was “asked to leave” because I wasn’t a “team player,” as well as for failure to follow their explicit, but illegal, instructions. Afterward, I interviewed with countless employers, but always found myself in 2^nd place, never chosen to fill a position, even when I was over-qualified. (I later discovered they were giving me a bad reference.) So a year later, I was jobless and out of money, living on credit cards, with no hope and nowhere to turn.

Just prior to this financial crisis, my husband left me for another woman. We had divorced 2 years earlier, a process that had diminished my resources, leaving me with a smaller reserve than was normal.   I was still trying to find solid ground after that unexpected blow; was terrified of being on my own after 22 years of marriage.  Because he was the more outgoing in our relationship, having a “warm-fuzzy” personality, most of “our” friends abandoned me, siding with him, consoling and congratulating him for having “put up with” me as long as he had.  My world had literally fallen to pieces, shattering me even further in the process.

My Schnauzer, who had been with me for 12 years, had died a couple of months before I decided to put my exit plan into action.  Suddenly, my house was devoid of life, for there was no one, human or canine, to greet me when I came home.  No one to keep me company during the long days and nights.

Our church also split about mid-way through the divorce.  The pastor told all of us “older” worship team members to find another place to serve, so after 14 years of attendance and involvement, I lost my church family at a crucial point.  It left me feeling as if God had washed His hands of me because I couldn’t live up to His standards, hang onto my faith and be an inspiration while walking through the dark valley.

I felt utterly alone, isolated, unwanted, unworthy of love and could see no reason to continue my life-long struggle to survive.  The time had come.

It was dark and dreary, cold, with the holiday season looming, when I lost all hope.  There was only one way out.

First, I took an overdose of Clonazepam to relax me.  I didn’t want to get scared and chicken out.  I then swallowed over 300 – 20 mg. Adderall pills.  I knew that 60 pills was the maximum dose anyone had ever survived previously, per the internet gods.  So it stood to reason, if I could get 300 pills down before losing consciousness, the dose would not be survivable.  They were small; I took them by the handful.  I stopped counting once I hit the magic number, but kept swallowing.  And I waited.

At some point, I started feeling guilty.  I was going to be the first patient my counselor would lose.  Though I have no memory of making a call, he told me I called him on his cell phone in the middle of the night to apologize for ruining his record.  He called 911.

I have very vague memories of what happened afterward.  Somehow the paramedics got into my house.  I remember only one thing clearly.  One of them got mad at me for trying to take my life.  He yelled at me and threw my phone across the room, momentarily shocking me back into awareness.  They transported me to the hospital by ambulance, a ride I barely remember (I recall being cold). And because I supposedly didn’t cooperate fully, I was intubated while the most horrible black substance known to man was forced down into my stomach.  I do recall throwing up black goop, repeatedly.  It went everywhere.  All over me. All over the nurses.  All over the floor.  I had no control, nor did I have the strength to care.  Everything in my life was black.

At some point, I was moved to ICU where I spent several blurry days. My memory of this time is also patchy.  I think I had a visitor or two, but I don’t remember anything in any sequence and I’m not sure if the things I recall were real or imagined.  When I was finally stable, the powers that be agreed to release me, but only if I would allow myself to be admitted to their psychiatric hospital.  Given no other choices, I acquiesced.

I still classify this time period as a true low point in my life.  I was angry for having survived.  And now, I was being forced to check into the psychiatric ward of the hospital.

I spent a week there, wasting time.  They did nothing to help me recover, nor did they provide any therapeutic support.  Instead, they took everything away, even my makeup, supposedly so I couldn’t hurt myself.  As if I could somehow kill myself with mascara.  They watched me eat, monitoring and documenting my location every 15 minutes.  Took my blood pressure.  Gave me necessary medication.  My regular counselor worked with their counselors and finally managed to finagle my release.

I returned to my empty house.  Lists still laying on the counter, waiting for my brother.

A few weeks after the new year, one of my few remaining friends bought me another Schnauzer (a huge, generous gift).  I bought another Schnauzer a few years later, shortly after I landed another job.  But the reprieve didn’t last long.  I lost it when the company was purchased by a large French organization that believed strongly in consolidation.  Though I tried diligently, I couldn’t pay off my credit card debt.  Even paying the maximum payment every month only saw me slipping further and further into a hole.

This is when I lost everything.

I had to sell my house at a loss or declare bankruptcy.  With no job and nowhere to live, I had to leave the city I loved, the place where I created what little life I could build while the ground shook beneath me.  Let go of the place I called home.  My brother graciously offered me a rental house, for which I am forever thankful.  But as a result, I live in a small, depressing house with low ceilings and minimal windows.  Too little light.  I’m in a city I despise; a place I left the moment I graduated from high school.  A place filled with haunting, horrible memories.

Only my dogs have kept me going.  They need me.  I’ve had both of them since they were puppies and I know it would be traumatic for them if I were to die before them.  So I hang on.  I get up, go to work, keep my head down, produce, come home, hug them, and then go to bed, only to do it over the next day.

I am grateful for them.  For not being homeless.  I’m grateful to have a job; some income.  After selling my house, I finally paid off my credit card debt.  And last year, I was able to replace my 1999 model Honda with a 2014 version.   These are all good things.

But my heart is yet in agony.  My soul is still shattered.  I continue to live in isolation.

In the back of my mind, I am thinking. Planning.  My oldest Schnauzer is over 13 years old.  I know her time with me is limited.  The younger just turned 8.  If I’m fortunate, she will be with me another 4 to 5 years.  No one will need me once they are gone.  There are no friends who will mourn me for more than a day or two, at most.  Only my brother will be crushed. And that bothers me.  But enough to keep me alive???  I will have to answer that question when the time comes.

I am still in that dark valley.  I have no hope.  And it has only grown darker and more difficult with the passage of time.

A Christmas Story

This is a lonely, painful time of year.   A haunted time.  Haunted by the ghost of Christmas past.  A cruel ghost who steals the joy of the season.  Far worse than the Grinch.  For the ghost who haunts me is a true monster.

 

It’s a time of laughter that never reaches the heart.  Happiness that never touches the soul. 

 

Supposedly, it’s a time of families and close friends cheerily gathering, celebrating, sharing love, magic, joy.  But some of us, people like me, must paint a smile on our face and pretend.  Our hollow laughter lacks the warmth and delight of those around us.  For us, this wonderful time of the year is just another empty, disappointing day.  Even more empty than normal because it’s supposed to be magical.

 

Those of us who are haunted by the ghost know the dark side.  We feel its icy touch.

 

Christmas past…Christmas break.  My father was a teacher, so he was home with my brother and I.  It was a few days before Christmas and it had snowed…a big, deep, delightful snow that turned the world into a frosted, glorious wonderland.  My father was born and raised in Michigan.  He was in his element.  And while this wasn’t a major snow by Michigan standards, it was significant for Missouri.  The snow was knee deep in the shallowest of places.  It was thigh high in the drifts.  My brother and I could barely contain our excitement.  We bundled up and rushed outside to enjoy the breathtaking frosted landscape.

 

My father didn’t often play with us.  But he too seemed enchanted by the beautiful snow that shrouded the world in clean, pure white, like icing on a cake.  Being from a state where a heavy snowfall in the winter was an everyday affair, he knew lots of outdoor winter games.  He asked if we had ever played fox and geese.  We both shook our heads “no.” Shivered with anticipation, as well as with the cold.  We were excited because he was spending time with us.  In a good mood.  Teaching us a new game.

 

Soon, he had us clearing a big circular path in the snow in an open area of our yard.  We kicked and dug and packed and tramped, working up a sweat.  Once the circle was complete, he had us make two more paths through the circle, cutting the pie into four quadrants. 

 

He was the fox.  We were the geese and he chased us around and through the pathways we had created in the snow.  The goal of the fox was to catch a goose.  Once tagged, the goose would become the fox. We ran for our lives!  Laughing.  Falling.  Laughing some more.  We played until we were soaking wet, freezing cold and totally exhausted.  Then we all tumbled back into the house to change into dry clothes and to warm our frosted, runny noses, red ears, and stiff, numb fingers and toes.

 

This is where everything changed.  Where the darkness swallowed the light.  Where the shadows became a heavy blanket of fog that blocked out the sun.

 

I was in my room, staring into an open dresser drawer.  I was trying to decide what sweater I wanted to wear.  As I poked through the 3 or 4 sweaters I owned, I was startled when the door to my room opened and quickly closed. 

 

It was my father.  He had an odd expression on his face.  Something felt wrong.  Time stood still as an eerie silence enveloped me.

 

In that moment, playful daddy turned into a dangerous predator.  A true fox.  He became the monster I called “sick daddy.”  Breathing heavily, he sucked the air out of the room.  Stood quivering with anticipation.  His stare filling me with an overwhelming sense of dread.

 

“Let me make you warm,” he said quietly but firmly in an odd, trembling voice.

 

Then he removed my clothes as I pleaded with him not to.  Begged him.  But he didn’t stop.  He seemed not to hear me.  He kissed, fondled, groped, invading me.  And when he was finished, he said, “There, now isn’t that better?  Don’t you feel warmer?  Get dressed and come on out to the kitchen.  I’ll make us all some hot chocolate.”

 

And he was gone.

 

I stood shuddering in my room, unable to move for what seemed like a very long time.  I watched the shadows gather and dance all around me. 

 

Finally, I picked up my discarded clothes and placed them in a pile.  I dressed quickly.  Quietly.  I felt numb.  Frozen by ice that was colder than the snow that covered the ground outside.  Once dressed, I picked up my wet things to put them in the laundry and cast a glance back into the room before walking out the door.  I wanted to make sure everything was in order. As if anything could ever be put in order again.

 

But what I most remember…vividly remember…is looking back and seeing myself still there in my room, hopelessly broken, barely breathing, laying on the floor.  Bloody.  Splintered. Destroyed.

 

I knew I had a choice.  I could either go back, hold her tightly and die with her or turn my back on her and walk away.

 

And so, I turned and left the shattered little girl behind.  I left her there, a pile of gore and broken bones, crushed spirit and ruptured heart, dumped where my wet clothes had been laying, hideously destroyed, fractured beyond recognition.  She wasn’t able to walk out of that room.  She wasn’t capable of facing the monster that waited down the hall, ready to ply me with hot chocolate and marshmallows.  She couldn’t pick herself up and go on; couldn’t stop screaming.  She was in a million smashed pieces and I left her there to fend for herself, half angry with her for leaving me, for making me walk out into the dangerous world alone.  I saw her body, ripped, torn, decimated.  And instead of rushing to her side and comforting her, I turned away.  I walked out of the room.  And joined my brother and father in the dining room to sip steaming mugs of freshly made cocoa.  As if nothing had happened.  As if nothing had changed.

 

Why do I remember this particular moment so clearly; so vividly?  It wasn’t the first time my father sexually abused me.  Nor was it the last.  It wasn’t one of the worst memories to haunt me.  Certainly, there are far more horrible recollections of perverted things he did to me, things I couldn’t blot out or from which I couldn’t disconnect. So why is this one day, this one event, etched so deeply and perfectly in my mind?  Why can I still see it as if it happened only yesterday?  Only seconds in the past?

 

Several things seem pertinent.

 

When my father began sexually abusing me, I was around 4 or 5 years old.  The memories I have of that time are veiled in fantasy.  I didn’t have the maturity to understand what was happening.  I didn’t like it.  It scared me.  It felt wrong.  But I didn’t have the ability to grasp or process what he was doing or the implications of his actions.  I was able to create a make-believe world and escape into it. 

 

As an older child, escape became more difficult.  I finally reached an age and a point where it was no longer possible to ignore, warp, or wrap what he was doing to me in an imaginary world.  I could no longer deny or fictionalize the abuse.  This is when I shattered. Completely, utterly shattered. 

 

I believe the crystal-clear memory I have, this memory that haunts me still, is of the day, the moment in time, when that horrible shattering took place.  So, even though what he did that day was not the vilest thing my father would ever do to me over the years he abused me, it was a significant moment in time because of the internal impact.  It was the moment my soul was utterly obliterated.

 

I didn’t stop loving Christmas.  Not then.  I do, however, hate snow.  And Christmas was never again a carefree or magical season. 

 

The holiday has never again been wonderful or innocent.  I find myself looking over my shoulder.  Waiting for everything to morph into some unspeakable reality.  There remains a hidden razor’s edge, cutting into my deepest and most vulnerable parts and wounded places.  There is now unbearable pain mixed with a momentary expectation of happiness.  Fear mixed with the shallow laughter.  Terror mixed in with the carols that are exuberantly sung.  And I have stopped believing Christmas will be special.  Because everything that was once special has been stripped away and destroyed.

 

Magic no longer exists.  The lights are not as bright, the ornaments aren’t as shiny.  I see the shadows.

 

A hideous monster hid beneath the bows and colorful paper that covered the gifts under the tree.  I knew the monster.  And the monster knew me.  He watched me, waiting, pouncing, taking.  Christmas that year was when I finally understood what he was.  And seeing, I firmly put the lid back on the brightly wrapped box in which he hid, disguised.  I stood, walked on trembling legs, and carried on, acting as if everything was as it seemed.  As though nothing evil lay beneath the tinsel, glitter and lights.  As if nothing foul had happened.  Pretending the Christmas snow was yet unmarked and undefiled.

 

He is long dead now, this vulgar, unclean monster.  This ghost of Christmas past.  But he haunts me still.

Secrets

Secrets.  I am buried in them.  Buried beneath them, every bit as much as they are buried within me.

 

My life has been punctuated by secrets.  Woven into and hidden within my story.  Carefully camouflaged, masked by deflection, by the many things that are never spoken.  By all that is never revealed.  Weighted under layers of silence.   Dusted with denial.   Until they are all but invisible.

 

These cautiously placed exclusions form a highly effective smokescreen.  I prefer to call it a smokescreen rather than to call it what it actually is.  A lie.  My smokescreen obscures the truth.  Blurs it.  Keeps everyone from seeing the full picture.  Reality.  A lie of omission, but still…

 

It is a necessity.  For secrets must remain hidden.  I have hidden them well.

 

I have let those who have stumbled into and out of my life believe what they wanted to believe.  Allowed them to fill in the blanks.  To build their own version of my story based on assumptions of what they believe those blanks represent.  I have let them create a story they are comfortable with.  It is easier this way.  For all concerned.

 

I have held my secrets close.  Protected them for most of my life.  In truth, you, poor reader are the only ones who hear them.  Who are allowed to peek through the smoke.  Who are given glimpses of what I have been hiding.

 

From childhood, I have known to keep them.  To hide certain things about my parents, my family, what happened inside our house.  I can’t recall being told to keep them until I was much older, and  my father only occasionally remind me.  Threaten me.  But even as a toddler, I knew.  It was communicated to me through a million subtle actions, glances, looks.  Not verbalized, but shouted in a primal language that deeply penetrated.  The message was driven into my heart.

 

Never tell.  Keep your mouth shut.  Smile.  Keep the secrets.  These are things you must not divulge.  To anyone.  Ever.

 

And so, I kept them, not even daring to tell a counselor until after my parents were dead.  I keep them still, for my remaining family doesn’t know the depth or breadth or width of the depravity.  The abuse.  I have no close friends, but those who are the closest to me only know something happened.  Something loosely labeled “child abuse.”  Nothing of what is encased in that general term.  None of the details or the agony those acts caused as they were carved into my soul.

 

The secrets are safe even now, all these years later.

 

I write them here to record what was done, at least in part.  What those things did to me.  I try to express the pain and annihilation, though it comes only in fragments and jagged pieces.  These are the things that made me.  Destroyed me.  It seems important to write them down, at least in part, to chronicle what I can remember of the murky past.  It seems important to tell someone of my brokenness, even if it is only released into the universe here, still obscured, while remaining anonymous.  Even if my story is never heard or shared with another human while face-to-face.  At least it is being told, as best I can scratch it out, with words on a screen where there is little risk of rejection or reprimand.  Or harsh judgement.

 

I kept the secrets so my parents would never have to face the consequences of their actions.  Never have to own up to the things they did to me.  They were able to live their lives as respected members of the community.  That is what I did for them…because I thought it was the right thing to do.  I tried to rise out of the ashes and forgive.  To wish good for them.  Even as I struggled in the aftermath to simply stand or crawl away.

 

But secrets isolate you.  They make you different.  Strange.  They change you; break you.  And they have kept me from connecting with others in a meaningful way.  I have remained hidden behind this invincible mask.  Concealed.  Keeping secrets.  Acting as I should act.  Pretending to be a normal person.  Pretending to fit in, while knowing I never will.  Knowing I can never let anyone see the real me.  The damaged, disfigured, shattered being behind the curtains.  The secret keeper, shrouded in smoke and haze.

 

I am alone with my secrets.  I keep them.  And they keep me.

 

I have paid a heavy price to pretend I have nothing to hide.