Loyalty

"The trust of the innocent is the liar's most useful tool." Stephen King

His hook were his words....gentle, soothing...claiming love. I overlooked his rage, the beatings, the name calling.  He told me he loved me.....he told me I was the only one who understood him.....he said he  needed me. I was seven years old.

He poured out his heart...sharing things I didn't understand. And when he hurt me....using vulgar words or his fists....or locking me in the car for hours...I still believed he loved me....I didn't know any different and besides - he needed me. 

At eight....he beat me so bad I started cutting myself. I thought he was right - I believed I was worthless.  Nine...ten....eleven...at twelve I stole morphine trying to block out his rage and my fear....thirteen....fourteen I was shooting dope three and four times a day.

Loyalty.....I was loyal to him no matter what he did or how he treated me.  I tried to be what he wanted, to give him what I thought he needed. He spoke with kindness...tenderness but then in the same heartbeat he turned like someone possessed and I became the object of his hatred.

Loyalty - I knew more about what he liked, what he wanted, what he needed than what I did. I didn't exist near him. I couldn't. He couldn't handle that....so I disappeared. I went away. I got lost. I lived in my own world...

Loyalty....the rapist demanded loyalty just like my father. He said he loved me....that I couldn't live without him....and that God wanted me to be with him. Like my father, he hurt me and wouldn't let me go. I managed to get free...but I wasn't really free. Not for a long time....Not until I had falled so far down....not until I almost died - not until I felt His touch....and He showed me the power and truth of loyalty....

I learned I had trusted in lies, in deception. To trust from my heart instead of my head was too hard.  I screamed at Him to kill me...to let me go...but He wouldn't. 

I needed to learn to be loyal to myself.  I struggled with knowing simple things....like my favorite color or food or tv program. I had a hard time staying present or letting anyone get close and I couldn't stop hurting myself. He waited....with patience...with gentleness.

Loyalty - It's powerful. It determines the direction of life. 



 

Book Give Away

"Not to transmit an experience is to betray it." Eli Wiesel

It took me one year to write what I lived. One year to put it down on paper. One year to remember how far down He had reached to pull me out. One year of fighting within myself to finally come to the place of letting Him use what I lived - to give hope - to someone else.   

It is a story I had never told; I kept it all inside. I started to wonder if it was some crazy dream, or if it had even happened at all. Sometimes I thought maybe I had made it up. Other times I thought it wasn’t that bad – it was no big deal. But last year people I hadn’t seen in a while started surfacing: family, friends... people who knew. “You’re a miracle,” they said. “How did you survive?” 
 “Survive?” “Miracle?”  What did they mean? They started to tell me stories from their memories of how bad things were: how thin I had become, how out of control... My older sister whom I hadn’t seen for a long time returned from living overseas. She needed to talk. She forced me to listen... forced me to remember. 

When the memories hit, they hit hard. I wrote to get the images out of my head. I couldn’t eat or sleep. I wanted to get in my car, close my eyes and drive. It felt like it was happening all over again – the beatings, the confinement, the rape; throwing up time after time after time, even when I had tasted only a small bite of something; shoving needles in my arm  three and four times a day; ripping my arms with jagged rocks to feel something because I was so numb inside.

Why God? Why are you letting me go through this again? 

I didn’t want to remember! Yet in remembering, it dawned on me – finally – just how far down God had reached to free me.

Every day, in heat, rain or cold, I ran - alone in the woods - in the hills near our home. There I felt the gentle touch of God. I heard Him whisper, “You’re stronger now. It’s time to tell the truth of what happened. Tell your story to give hope to others.”

How could I never have told anyone what He had done for me? Nothing else had worked. Nothing had been able to break the chains that kept me living on the edge. Nothing…except the gentleness of His touch. 

The power of His gentleness...
In the Eye of Deception: This is my story. www.gentlerecovery.webs.com

The publisher made an error and printed a couple of books with stretched margins. I thought I would turn this 'error' into a free give away. For everyone who leaves a comment with their email here or on my website -  your name will be written down and my daughter will pull out the name of the winner. The 'winner' will be chosen on Friday of this week. 

Secrets

"Secrets are made to be found out with time." Charles Sanford

Secrets - I kept so many of them. All the time. Never told anyone anything.
Secrets - I didn't think anyone would believe me. I didn't think I got it right. I thought I was making it up. And I thought it was no big deal. 
Secrets - they tore at me  - kept me living in shame - terrified to be seen - unable to look people in their eyes or worse have them look in mine. If they did, I knew they would see how bad, how horrible, how disgusting I was.
Secrets - they forced me to inflict pain on myself because I believed it was all my fault - everything that happened - everything they told me - I was bad - deserved it - worthless - garbage - I ran with those beliefs. Everytime I pushed a needle in my arm, everytime I puked my guts out - everytime I pulled jagged rocks up my arms until the blood oozed out and I could breathe - 
Secrets - the images danced in my brain forcing me to stay awake, terrified to sleep, terrified of the dark, of what could happen in the dark.....
Secrets - made me angry - angry at me. I hated me - everything about me. I tried to destroy myself because I knew they were right - I had no right to exist, no right to life -
Secrets -Finally I discovered I had believed Lies. Lies that kept me stuck. Lies that had sounded so much like the truth. Lies. Deception. 


It's taken me a long time to tell. To tell the truth. The truth of what they did to me. It wasn't my fault - 
Those 4 words it wasn't my fault helped me breathe again, helped me know it was wrong what happened - they had no right. How could I not know that before?


Last week, the radio was abuzz with talk about this loved teacher and Christian youth leader....charged by police for molesting two boys in a Christian camp. The day after he was charged, he commited suicide.
Secrets....
A friend came to me the other day, she's a nurse - told me she needs help - told me no one knows - told me she's  a Christian and an alcoholic - drinking 16 oz. of booze a day.

Secrets....
A good friend of mine found out her husband of twenty years was addicted to porn and had been having an online affair
Secrets....hidden. shameful....destructive
I don't want to live with secrets anymore. I am commited to telling what happened to me. Commited to saying the truth in the hopes someone else whose keeping secrets will tell.....will get help.....will find freedom.

Survival

"I preached to gangs on the streets of Manhattan, Brooklyn and the Bronx - and miracles began to happen." David Wilkerson

     Living on the streets taught me how to survive.  I learned to fight - to get my needs met.

     I rarely had money. When I did - I spent most of it on drugs. A few social workers went to bat for me - arranged to get me bus tickets, food and even clothes. And there was a guy who worked in the kitchen of this Greek restaurant. I'd go see him usually after suppertime. He always had packages of leftover food for me and bones for my dog. When it got really cold out, I went to this downtown shop and the owners let me sleep in the back of their store.

     Surviving. I got really good at it. I figured things out - how to live - how to get by....How to fight for what I needed.

    But there were things about living on the street that was too hard - things that nearly broke me - the creeps, the jerks, the slimy individuals who wanted to take advantage of anyone vulnerable. I felt like prey to them - an animal being stalked - I kept my distance but sometimes, in my naivity, I trusted the sleekness of their words......

     I used to go to this downtown Christian bookstore to shoot up.Their bathroom was clean and they never hasseled me. They were kind and always let me use their washroom. I wonder if they prayed for me. I bet they did. 
     A social worker helped me get off the streets. She set me up in my own apartment. She even managed to furnish it.  One night I sat on the coach in that apartment wanting to shoot up. I was already pretty stoned.  I accidently dropped the lit match. Within seconds the sofa became engulfed in flames. It spread rapidly through that little apartment including all around the doorway. 

     I sat on the floor stunned - listening to the crackling sounds of the flames and the popping and crashing as things broke from the intense heat. I kept coughing from the overwhelming black smoke filling the room, but I didn't move. I didn't try to get out.  I heard a clear voice tell me he knew and I knew so burn baby burn. I kept asking him to tell me what I knew but he just kept repeating he knew and I knew so burn baby burn. 
     Later - I found out that whole apartment had been gutted by the fire. Completely destroyed. The apartment below and the ones next door were not touched by the flames at all.  

     Survival. The streets taught me that. Grace. That's what God taught me. I lived because of His grace. I survived the streets, the fire and so many other horrible things. His grace. It went so far down to pull me out. 
     Survival. I learned to fight on the street. Grace. He taught me love.

Hope

"The doors we open and close each day decide the lives we live."  Flora Whittemore

      All day yesterday I walked around feeling lower than a snake. I couldn't shake the feeling. Came home from work and even hugs from my nine year old didn't make me feel better. 

     I felt like a crumb - a worthless crumb. I went for a walk to try to get rid of the feeling but I couldn't. I wanted to just crawl in a hole.

It was that rejection. Not winning the contest. Maybe they were right - I can't write. Maybe I got it wrong. Maybe everything I've done this last year was for nothing. Writing - praying - believing it was from God......

     But today...... Something changed - something shifted inside me. That crummy feeling lifted. I heard God - His whisper in my spirt  - I'm in this. It is my will. 

     My friend called. My writer friend. She said something wonderful happened. I asked if something she wrote was accepted for publication - or did one of her four daughters do something awesome.......

     Her voice - filled with excitement -  I told my massage therapist that you'll be speaking in October, that your story is awesome......Before I left she asked me to write down the time and address. She wants to come. She wants to hear. 

     That's your wonderful news - I asked. You bet! The strength of her words lifted me out of the crummy place. She told me my writing is amazing...my story is incredible - that it will touch lots of people and she is in my corner. 

I met her online. Three months after I started writing. She did a sample critique -  Then asked where I lived. It blew me away when she said she lived in the same city as me. She wanted to meet. I couldn't. The shame. It took me three months to finally meet her. We've become really close friends. She's a writer, a Christian, a youth worker with girls in trouble. God knew. He knew we needed each other. 

     I went to work today. Wanted to stand on a table and shout - Guys, listen. I'm not who you think I am. I have a secret. A secret I need to tell so I can be free - so others can be free. If you don't like me anymore I don't care. I can't carry the shame anymore. It wasn't my fault. 

     I work in a hospital. People trust me. They see me as fun  - together - But I'm not who they think. The fighter ....the street....still lives inside me. I want to fight for others now. I want to help them get free. To give them hope.

The words have been stuck inside me too long. The shame has crippled me. I haven't been free. 
     But something has shifted. I am going to tell. I need to tell the truth of what happened. I need to do it for me - for my girls, for others - 
I feel a strength I didn't have before. I feel a determination - a drive - a focus. It's the right thing.

Writing to Heal

"Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart." William Wordsworth.

Writing - journaling has been one of the best ways for me to deal with stuff. I couldn't tell anyone what happened, how I felt or how afraid I was or even what I wanted or needed - But I could write.

Writing helps free me. It takes me to that dark place deep inside myself that I've been too afraid to look at. The place that's held the fear, the shame, the pain, the memories.....The place I've spent years running from. Writing has helped pull from that place what I could never say.

To say meant owning it - Owning it meant it was real. I didn't want it to be real. But the shame kept me a prisoner....isolated and distant even from myself....

So I write.

In writing I own it. In writing it becomes real. In writing I look at the shame. I face the fear, the pain, the memories that have tormented me.

There are times I want to close my eyes and not wake up....the memories hurt- the shame too overwhelming....But God doesn't let me give up. He takes me to a place I've never been....a peaceful place. He sooths that part of me I try to hide, to push away, to pretend doesn't exist. He offers me His gentleness and whispers; it's ok now.

People in my life don't know where I've been. They see me as happy, fun, free. I don't know how I never told anyone about being held in that house for six months, desperate to get away. I don't know how I never told all those things I lived, the 14 year drug addiction, the years of battling an eating disorder and cutting myself, of being forced into situations that nearly broke me. It's like I've lived two lives. Side by side. Never free. Pretending. But I want to be free. I really want to be free.

My book is soon ready to be published. I'm afraid of people I work with, friends and neighbours knowing how awful things were and how much a fight it has been. Not telling though is being selfish. If God hadn't touched me the way He had - I wouldn't have lived. I owe Him.

Memories

"Memory is the diary that we all carry about with us." Oscar Wilde.

Last night my friend told me she saw a movie. A movie about a woman whose story is similiar to mine. She told me she understands me better. She said she couldn't have survived what I did. She said she's glad I survived.

Hearing her say that, knowing she watched that movie and related it to me made me feel scared. Vulnerable. I couldn't talk. She's read my book. Edited it. Believes God wants to use me to help others. So why do I feel afraid? Listening to her talk about that show brought up painful memories of what happened. The memories hurt. They hurt really bad.

I talked to Maury Blair, author of Child of Woe. He said everytime he shares his story it hurts. The memories surface and it feels like it's happening all over again. But he said he won't stop telling. He does it because God touched him. Healed him. He talks to give hope to others and to help them find some freedom.

I didn't think it would be like this. I didn't think writing what happened would be so hard. When I remember it feels like I'm back there fighting to survive. The anger is there too. Anger at the people who hurt me and anger at myelf for being so powerless.

Why did God let it happen? Why did He allow it? I think of my friends who committed suicide or died by accident. He let me live. He redeemed my life. Why me and not them? I have to tell. Like Maury, I feel compelled to tell even if it's going to hurt everytime I do.

"Faith is like radar that sees through the fog - the reality of things at a distance that the human eye cannot see." Corrie Ten Boom."

Since we moved, I've been a mess - really tired and totally frustrated. A few things went wrong and I buckled. I don't like me when I'm like this. It feels too much like the old me - wild - on edge - out of control. I hate the clutter. I hate the boxes. I need order. I need space with things put away. My head knows it will happen in time but I also can't find things. Like the card the publisher gave me at the writing conference. He told me to call him. He told me he wanted to help me. I can't find his card. I want to give up.

As I drove to work I prayed. I put the music on full blast. Music that sang of God's love and care. I started to calm down. I hadn't prayed since we moved. Too much confusion. Too much chaos.

"God, where did I put that card?" The thought jumped in my head, 'the green pencil case.' The green pencil case? Ok then, where did I put that pencil case? Silence. All day, I thought of that pencil case. All day I wondered where I had put it. Came home. Told my daughter and said it could be in one of a gazillion boxes. She opened up one and pulled out a green pencil case. "This it?" she asked. We opened it and there was the publisher's card.

The missing piece for me - Prayer. Trust. Faith that God knows. He's with me. Even in the chaos. Even in the mess.

Closing my eyes I see myself fighting to survive. Fighting to get away from people who are hurting me - climbing a six foot fence in the middle of winter, with no shoes desperate to escape - cowering under the blows of my father's hands - cringing from the stick my mother beat me with - fighting myself - throwing up, cutting and biting my arms, shooting dope - getting high to numb out - forcing myself to be strong, to not buckle - to stay alive.

I feel God's love. His care. The gentleness of His touch. Stop fighting I tell myself. You don't need to fight anymore. For today, it's ok again. For today, I can trust. And breathe. And know He is with me. I can let go and still be safe.

Overcoming Hatred

"Hatred can be overcome only by love." Mahatma Ghandi

For years I walked around with so much hate and anger in me. I hated what my parents did to me. I hated the way they shamed me, beat me, made me feel less than human. And I hated the system that claimed they could help me. They were like my parents,- shaming, punishing, bullying.

I was arrested for drug possession. My social worker convinced the judge to let me do the time on a locked pysch ward instead of prison. Being on that ward,- that place of misery pushed me further into myself and broke me even more. Their methods of forcing me to conform were brutal. The chemical and physical restrains took away any shred of dignity I may have had. My brain became dull from the medications, the fight in me subdued, but the hatred grew. Hatred for them, for me, and for everyone who had hurt me.

One time they strapped me to a bed by my arms and legs for some minor infraction. They kept me there for two days like a chained animal, allowing me up only to go to the washroom. At mealtimes, they wouldn't untie my arms. A staff came in to feed me. Humiliated; I refused to eat. I hated them. I despised them. My anger grew. I wanted to hurt them, punish them in some way like they were doing to me.

Instead, I cut into my flesh, trying to rip myself apart, desperate to pull out the bad, the part of me everyone kept telling me was horrible and wrong. Scars formed on my body, but I didn't care, because they were already in my heart and soul and mind.

Hatred and anger became a way of life. It drove me. It fueled the fight in me. I turned on myself with a vengeance. My arms were full of bruises and marks from biting myself and cutting my skin open. The blood oozing out was my salvation, the thing that released the building tension inside me. My blood, a proof of life, that I was still alive.

Blood? That's what finally turned my life around. The blood. His blood. The blood He shed for me so I wouldn't have to hurt myself anymore. Like me, He too was beaten, shamed, ridiculed. He never opened his mouth. He never fought back. That amazed me. How could He not? They laughed at Him, mocked Him, and He said nothing, nothing except, "Father, forgive them...."

Hearing that, my anger began to subside. Thoughts of revenge slowly became thoughts of forgiveness. It's hard to forgive, to let go of the brutality of what some people did - but to not forgive is worse.

I want my life to reflect His love. He loved me when I couldn't love myself. He loved me when I was wild, out of control and bent on self-destruction. I don't fully get how He did that, but I am so grateful for the gentleness of His love that broke the chains that kept me stuck.

Real Strength

"It is the support and care and love you give yourself that gives you the real strength to care for and love others." Oprah Winfrey

I want to make a difference. I want to impact others in positive ways. I know it has to start with me. - Taking care of myself, honoring the life God blessed me with; embracing all of who I am; the good, the bad and the ugly. Accepting me just as I am. That is a tough thing to do some days. For years I berated myself for not being good enough. I did to myself what those who hurt me, did to me. I called myself names when I couldn't do something. I hurt myself to try to stop being afraid or when I felt vulnerable and weak. I refused to eat and threw up when I did because I believed I had no right to exist. That's what I was told. That's what I accepted.

The cult of deception: - lies I believed. Lies that almost destroyed me. Lies that kept me in a cycle of pain. I lived my life based on those lies. The lies made me sick. I had persistent panic attacks. Simply walking down the street triggered them. My stomach hurt. I felt dizzy, lightheaded. My perceptions became distorted and my heart raced. I felt like I was losing control and was powerless to stop it. I obsessed about the fear of being seen. Being seen meant getting hurt - I spent a lifetime hiding.

But amazingly God touched me. Broke the curse of deception. Cut the cords of despair. Filled me with a joy that bubbled and overflowed. The self-destructive behaviours continued. My need to hide persisted, except now I felt I wasn't alone in the dance anymore.

I started reading the Bible. I discovered its power of truth was able to dispel the darkness. I read and reread and learned I was made in His image. I found out I was the apple of His eye. I learned He wanted to set me free.

I moved with caution, but at least I moved. For every two steps forward I was thrown one back. I became frustrated, angry, overwhelmed. But I sensed His Spirit whispering encouragement, prodding me to keep taking a step, then another, and then another.

His touch empowered me. He poured His love into my broken spirit. Somehow His gentleness made a difference. There were days I was so consumed with self-hate that I raised my fist in the air and screamed at Him, daring Him to kill me. Amazingly, instead, He whispered words of peace. The presence of His love walked me through the lies and the pain - He taught me new ways to cope - running, nature, friends, His Word.

I want to partner with Him to help others find freedom. I live with tremendous gratitude.

In the Eye of Deception

Soon to be Pubished: Book - In the Eye of Deception


No one knows what goes on behind closed doors. Raised in a middle-class family, from the outside everything looked good, but inside our home, I lived in fear and terror from the volatile rages of my father, and from the constant criticisms and name calling of my mother. As a young girl, I learned to hide and to feel ashamed of who I was. I came to believe I had no right to exist. Turning to self-destructive coping behaviours; a fourteen year drug addiction, an eating disorder and self-mutilation, I sought to punish myself for just being alive. In my late teens, I was pulled into a cult where I was confined for six months and raped.

This is a story of coming to faith in God but continuing to live less than a victorious Christian. It is a story about becoming whole through facing the pain of child abuse, confinement and rape and learning to trust God to provide freedom from the crippling effects of shame and fear.

This book is one of hope and faith. The message is clear, - no darkness is so black, no valley so deep, God cannot redeem it for His glory.

I Keep My Ideals

"I keep my ideals, because in spite of everything, I still believe that people are really good at heart." Anne Frank

For too many years I lived with anger, hating those who hurt me and wanting revenge. The rage burned inside me. I took it out on myself, numbing out with anything destructive I could think of. I believed I had no right to exist, no right to life. One amazing day, God touched me. He broke the chains. He poured out His love. I stopped hating. I couldn't anymore. His love was too great. I learned to forgive. It wasn't easy. A part of me still wanted to punish those who hurt me so bad. And then I began to realize, at some point in their lives, they too were hurt. Someone did to them what they had done to me. Maybe it was done in different ways, but they were victims too. I want to strive to be part of the solution of healing.
There are days I am consumed by what happened. It makes me want to hide, to disappear and I have to remind myself, what happened does not define who I am. And just maybe what they did to me, doesn't define who they really are too.

The Power of a Smile

"Everytime you smile at someone it is an action of love, a gift to that person, a beautiful thing. Peace begins with a smile." Mother Theresa

It's such a small thing, totally free and extremely powerful. God gave each of us the ability to impact another human being with something that costs us nothing but will reap tons of benefit for us and to whomever we choose to share a "smile" with.