Differences

"Always be a first-rate version of yourself, instead of a second-rate version of somebody else." Judy Garland

Last night at supper....I watched my youngest dive into her food. She giggled and commented over and over how yummy it tasted. She's my kid who loves meat...is always open to trying new things....and loves to experiment with different flavors. 

My oldest sat down and 'inspected' her meal.  For her...eating is a chore.... something to finish and get through. She picked out what she didn't like and pushed it to the side. Grabbing the ketchup bottle....she squirted.... coloring everything red. 

Differences - it's fun to watch my kids. My oldest is neat...organized...and amazingly patient. Her brain is wired to ace math and figure out how to put absolutely anything together.  Sensitive and caring...she cries at the sight of a dead bird....or even at the mention of someone hurt.  She cares deeply for the environment...often driving me nuts with her constant reminders to 'recycle.' 

My youngest comes home from school....slips out of her coat...kicks off her shoes....and wherever they land....is where they stay. I find piles of clothes in front of her 'open' closet doors as if she had somehow been prevented by an unknown source from placing them inside. She typically loses cherished items soon after she recieves them.  She is passionate...dramatic....has a wicked sense of humor and tends to face life head on. 

Differences - My kids add spice to our family by being who they are. My youngest brings excitment...my oldest stablity and calm. 

Growing up....It wasn't okay to me. Constantly ridiculed...  criticized...and compared to other kids...I learned being me had no purpose...no value.  Over and over I heard I was all wrong...my thinking...my ways of doing things....even the things I liked or wanted. It's taken me a long time to figure it out...those messages were lies that kept me living as if I had no right to be...

I'm glad my girls are different. I'm thankful for who they are and how they move in the world.

Differences.....they're what make us special.   I never want my girls to compare themselves to each other or to anyone else. I never want them to feel they're not good enough.

We're still hanging out in San Fransisco. Everyone we've met has been incredibly kind to us. It's been alot of fun....but now...I want to go home.  I"m grateful....for everything I've been given...my family...more than enough creature comforts....and mostly my freedom. Freedom means everything to me....

Writing to Connect

‎"Write only if you cannot live without writing. Write only what you alone can write."  Elie Wiesel

 

Yesterday at work...I sat in a meeting...feeling uncomfortable....knowing I had to talk....in front of all those people.  I felt that old familar sick feeling in the pit of my stomach....and a far away feeling....fighting hard to stay present. All I wanted was to run....leave.....hide....   

I think it's because I'm writing another story......based on things that really happened. Things that made me afraid. Things that hurt. Things I've wanted to forget. But can't. And I've been talking to others.....who tell me simialiar stories.....women who have never forgotten the brutality of the mental health system that was supposed to help them....a system that stripped them of their dignity and made them live in fear.

A part of me needs to write....to tell.....to have my voice and to give a voice to others who want their stories told but don't know how to do it.  

 

I want to be heard. I want to be known.... the real me...not just what people see....the strong, friendly, outgoing social me....but that part that so often needs to hide....and that's afraid....

 

When I'm alone....lost in my writing....I feel free....and connected. I can let my heart speak of things I've never been able to say.....things that still play in my head.....that remind me of when I lived with no hope. I know those things made me strong....made me a fighter.....gave me a determination to push back and never give up.

Writing gives me a release....a sense of purpose. Connecting with others who share similiar stories...I want to write the truth.....for them....for me.....I want to be a voice....

Giving Permission

"...Give yourself permission to envision a You that you choose to be." Joy Page
   

Permission: the authorization granted to do something 
Permission - formal consent - giving sanction. 

Sanction - official permission or approval for a course of action.  

When my therapist suggested I give myself permission to be free...I thought she was nuts. I wanted to be free. I had focused all my energy on trying to be free. I didn't get why she told me that....or even what she meant by it. It couldn't be that simple to find release in simply saying those words....or could it? 

I did end up saying the words.....I gave myself permission to be free...to have a good life....a life I dreamed about....a life I yearned for.....a life like most people lived. 

At first my words were just that....words.  But then I noticed a change inside....a shift....a different feel that hadn't been there before. I started believing in the power of those words...accepting their truth....and soon coming to realize that just like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz - I had always had the power to get what I wanted....a power I had never realized before - the power to give myself what no one else could - the permission....the sanction.....to walk free. 

I had tried for so long to twist myself into everyone else's version of what I should be.....all those professionals with their rules and programs and plans....promising me freedom if I would just do what they wanted. The problem - I couldn't fit into their way of being in 'my' world. I couldn't adjust myself enough to become what anyone else believed was right for me. It only kept me stuck....and frustrated.....and angry.
   

More than anything....I needed His touch to break through the darknesss....to cut through my hatred. He showed me something I never had before.....a love so great it gave me the courage to keep fighting. The next best thing....was learning to take back my power and give myself the permission to come home to me.

The Voice of the Heart

"Words are the voice of the heart." Confucius

I thought I was bad, wrong, unworthy of anything good....Over and over my parents called me garbage, idiot, stupid. They told me I was worthless and deserved nothing. They ridiculed everything about me - the way I walked - the way I talked - and what I did. I believed what they said. Their words became the voice of my heart. I lived them. I ran on them.

The power of their words led me into situations that almost killed me. The power of their words took me down a path of self-destruction. They became ingrained in my spirit. They became a part of who I was. I couldn't shake them.

I didn't know they were lies. I had heard them so often I accepted them as truth.

I think words have energy - a power in them that can lift beyond what I think I'm capable of or they can bring me to down to the lowest edge of life.

My parent's words took me deep into darkness - drugs, eating disorder, self-harm. They led me into dangerous situations - situations like being held and raped. Their words became the fuel for my self-hatred, the fuel that drove me to descend deeper and deeper into pain.

Somehow though, God broke through the darkness. I learned the words my parents had told me were lies. Lies that had become so cemented inside me I couldn't shake free of them. Even though I knew they were lies they continued to gnaw at me, tearing at me inside until I had to rip my arms or throw up to relieve their pull to tear me down.

Those words have been the hardest to fight - the hardest to overcome.

Words - I want to be careful to use my words to speak kindness, gentleness and peace. I want to be careful to use my words to empower others and to never tear down anyone or make them feel less than who they are.

Being Different

"Be who you are and say what you feel because those who mind don't matter and those who matter don't mind." Dr. Seuss

I always wanted to be like everyone else. I didn't want to be different. But I felt different. I felt like I was on the outside looking in. I think child abuse does that. It changes who you are. It changes how you move in the world and it changes how you think about yourself.

When God touched me, I started watching and copying others - how they talked, how they lived and what they did. I got really good at doing that, but then I began feeling like I wasn't real - that I wasn't being me.

My daughters are different from each other. My oldest is a tree hugger. She cares about the earth, recycles everything and sees the good in everyone. She's cautious when trying new things, but once she decides on something, she's in with both feet. My younger one is always up for adventure. She's daring, spontaneous, laughes from her toes up and always knows what she wants. She's a definite leader. I love their differences. It makes life interesting and exciting.

When I had my youngest, I asked my oldest if she was jealous of the baby. In her five year old wisdom, she said, "she is the best she is and I am the best I am." That kid is totally smart. And right on. I learned something about me from her that day. I don't need to copy anyone else. I need to learn to simply be me.

That's been really hard though. I had spent most of my time trying to figure out what the abusers thought, what they wanted and how they felt. I had became so in tune to their moods and needs - working really hard to keep them happy and calm and to not go crazy. I didn't exist. There was no me. I became what they needed.

I don't want to be someone else anymore. I want to be me, even if it means being different.

"It's not what we need to learn, but unlearn." Bill Crosby

When I was a kid, I learned to read people. I became really good at detecting other people's feelings and needs, especially those people who were hurting me. I thought if I could figure out what was going on inside them, I could somehow keep myself from getting hurt. I got so good at knowing when they were happy, what they wanted and even when they were about to blow. There was a problem though. I didn't always get it right. Sometimes I did, but sometimes it just made me crazy. I was constantly on edge, constantly afraid, constantly trying to decipher what was going on inside the other person.

I became whatever people needed. But in doing that, somewhere along the way, I lost myself. I never knew what I wanted, or liked, or needed. I had this weird detachment from myself, almost as if I was separate from me. The sensation of not being present in my skin was like hanging onto a thin thread that I felt could break at any moment.

When someone asked me something as simple as what color I liked, or what food I wanted to eat, I went into a panic. Every decision became life and death. I agnonized over the craziest things. Once I stood in the store for hours trying to decide if I liked one color over the other. A friend was with me and he tried to help me figure out which I liked. Finally, frustrated, I asked him to make the choice. I did that all the time and then beat myself up for being so stupid.

I had been taught to not trust myself. As a kid, I was never allowed to make any choices. - not about what I ate, what I wore, what I wanted or what I did. When my father was hungry or tired and I wasn't, he cursed me, calling me vile names, - telling me I was so stupid and didn't know what I needed. He knew better. If he asked me to pick out something in the store and I did, he put it back screaming it was dumb and he wouldn't spend his hard earned money on something so useless. Whatever I wore, he told me to change to what he wanted me to put on. Everything I learned told me -not to trust me.

Over and over and over he and my mother called me names - stupid, idiot, garbage, worthless, deserving nothing. I believed them.

When I began to heal from all the abuse, I realized I had learned so many things I needed to unlearn. Learning to trust myself was huge. I felt like I was in a war. Many times I fought with myself - throwing up, cutting and biting my arms - desperately wanting to make my own choices, but falling back into extreme panic - accepting the lies I had been taught - believing I was stupid and had no idea what I needed or wanted.

I needed to come home to my body. I needed to learn to live in my skin. It was terrifying. Somehow though, God helped me. He was my achor in healing. He gave me what I needed to fight. His presence, His gentleness gave me what I needed to come home to myself.

Hunger for Love and Acceptance

"Hunger is not only for a piece of bread, but for love. Homelessness is not only not having a home, but for being rejected and unwanted." Mother Theresa

For years I walked around with a profound sense of homesickness, an inner ache, a desperate yearning to go home. I felt it deep inside my gut and for years, I couldn't shake that twisting knotting in the pit of my stomach. Nothing took it away, - not relationships, not material things, not drugs, - nothing. I think now it was a hunger, a ravenous hunger for love and acceptance.

Everything I had been taught, told me I was nothing, worthless, bad. Images constantly rolled over in my head of my father spitting at me when he was in his rages, calling me names - garbage, retarded, worthless, - picking up furniture and throwing it at me, punching and slapping me and telling me it hurt him more than it hurt me; .....my mother beating me with a stick, teasing me, telling me I was stupid, an idiot, I couldn't talk right, walk right, breath right....I often wondered what was wrong with me that they hated me so much.

I wandered the streets, shooting dope, sometimes three and four times a day. I didn't care. My friend who I shot up kept telling me I wasn't shooting to get high, I was shooting to kill myself. He was right. I believed I had no right to exist.

One day I was in a fire. It was my fault. I accidently dropped the lit match I used to heat up the dope. My dog saved me. She grabbed me with her teeth and pulled me onto the balcony. A cop who had been looking out for me, heard what happened and came to see me at the hospital. He bought me clothes and when I was discharged, rented a place for us to move into together. He tried to help me. He told me over and over he loved me but I couldn't feel it. I didn't understand what he was saying. The amount of self-loathing I had was stronger than his love.

While I was with him, I was pulled into the rapist's house. He held me there for six months. He told me he loved me but he wouldn't let me go. And he hurt me. He hurt me really badly. Somehow I survived. I don't know how but I did. I never told anyone what happened or where I had been. I thought I deserved it. I thought it was my fault.

Then God touched me; cut through the pain, broke the chains holding me so tight. He took away the drug addiction but not the deep ache inside. That didn't go away. I couldn't let people get close. They would see what I knew, - they would see how worthless I was.

God never gave up on me. His love was so gentle. Some days I didn't care if He killed me. On those days when I felt wild, out of control, - when I ripped razor blades down my arms, or punched my head to make the memories stop, or held my head over the toilet throwing up over and over and over because I didn't believe I had the right to eat or live, - He was there, beside me, waiting. He never let me go. He waited. He stayed. Some days, I begged Him to kill me, to let me go but He didn't. He waited patiently. He waited until I was ready.

I live with gratitude, - gratitude that God didn't listen to me, that He let me live, that somehow He freed me.

I owe my life to Him. He broke through the emptiness and the pain and helped me to feel His love. I feel it. I feel it all the time. That feeling of homesickness is gone. That sense I'm worthless, garbage, - gone.

I want to help other people find freedom. I want them to know what I found out, that there is hope and there is freedom and God's love can break through anything and redeem it. Most of my friends have no idea what I lived. I don't want them to know but something inside me is compelling me to tell, - I think it's my love for God, my gratitude to Him. I need to tell.

Comfortable With Yourself

"The worse loneliness is not to be comfortable with yourself." Mark Twain

For too long I walked around feeling as if I weren't attached to myself, almost as if I was outside my body walking beside it rather then actually being in it. Being separate and not a part of who I was, was a totally weird sensation. It's almost like floating through the world; - not being grounded.

My body wasn't safe. I felt like it betrayed me. It allowed all the abuse, - the beatings, the kidnap and the rape to happen. In my mind, just being seen and having a female body caused the violence. It was my enemy. I fought with myself, trying to force the fear and terror to go away - I fought against myself to be strong, but I was afraid, so afraid I couldn't stand it. The fear forced me to pull more and more into myself and away from reality.

As a kid, I willed myself to disappear until I couldn't feel anything. I lived in my head, in fantasies that took me to another place, a safe place. A place where no one could hurt me. But even that stopped working at some point. I needed to find something stronger, more effective that lifted me out of the pain and shame and fear. So I cut myself, ripped open my skin, injected my body full of dope and forced myself to throw up even if I ate one small bite of something. I told myself, I wasn't allowed to exist. I had been told over and over I deserved nothing, I was garbage, worthless, ungrateful. I believed it. Words are so powerful. I lived on those words, falling deeper and deeper into a dark hole that became harder and harder to get out of.

And then, He touched me. He pulled me up and out of that pit of hell. In a hospital emergency room, where I lay under oxygen - the damage I had done to my body extensive - He touched me. He redeemed me. He breathed life into me. I felt it. I knew something supernatural had happened. It was powerful. So powerful I stopped using the drugs. Right from that moment. Fourteen years of shooting up, three and four times a day,- Gone - Over - because of His touch.

I don't know why He chose to free me. Why me? I'm no more special than anyone else. I thought of friends who died, friends who took their own lives or accidentally overdosed, - why me? Why did He let me live? I don't understand but I am determined now to to look back, as painful as it is, for one purpose, - to reach out and help someone else caught in their own cycle of torment. There is hope. There is freedom - For me, I found it in Him. When nothing else worked, He did. He touched me. He changed me. He turned the light of His love on. The darkness left. The fear went. Now I live with tremendous joy and gratitude.