Being Brave and Stirring the Pot

 Sometimes I’m not sure whether it was crazy or brave.

Regardless of how many times this girl washed her face and stopped apologizing, exhaustion and cortisol reminded me that no amount of hustle would allow me to maintain two full-time gigs indefinitely. I was working a full-time job to help support my family, fulfilling a labor of love that required full-time energy and still attempting to show up for my family. Something had to give. So, I dreamt big.

I dared to imagine that I could do the full-time, volunteer position and get paid to do it. So I looked for cracks in the infrastructure, designed a position for myself, and asked for a meeting with the three men who could implement my vision.

Armed with a nifty proposal and my resume, I walked into that room, sat in front of these men and released my dream into the wild.

The no that came days later felt like a sucker punch. I had been brave, put in the work and the answer was still no.

What had felt brave only days before, now felt impotent and more along the lines of farfetched and crazy.

As I’ve spent time processing what I did and what happened, I’ve come to realize that even though I didn’t get the answer I wanted, what I did was incredibly brave. And even though my exact, original dream didn’t come true, the real dream did.

I went back to school, and I’m currently working on a Master’s degree that will empower me to do the job I dreamed of and make a living on my own terms, without the need for the approval of three men.

I learned that sometimes the act of bravery can be the end and not just the means to the end. One act of bravery will be the stepping stone for the next.

It wasn’t crazy, it was brave. I am brave. Other peoples inability to dream big with me isn't an indictment of my dream. My dream isn't for them, and that's okay. Their no helped me see that it was time to pick up my dreams and take a hike. My dream was a catalyst and their no stirred the pot. 

Tell me about a time you were brave.

Loneliness is a Choice?

I gaslit myself into believing it was true. 

But I've come to understand that often people who don't experience something, misunderstand it and mislabel it. It's like extroverts pathologizing introvert qualities. Or the people who have a problem with things like "you are enough" and insist on saying "you are not enough" instead. They don't have the same personality traits, and misunderstand the meaning behind the reassurance that I am enough. 

Sometimes, with some people, loneliness might be a choice, but I spent years shaming and berating myself for being lonely in crowded rooms. I denied myself the gift of saying no and completely burned myself out on the off chance that each opportunity presented might be the occasion that God was going to use to break my loneliness. Mentors blamed my loneliness on me and cited times when I said no as the reason for my loneliness. I would leave social events, binge eat and not understand why. 

Burn out lead to deconstruction, and barely surviving it. 

Celebrate Recovery teaches that "loneliness is a choice", but I could never figure out how I was making the choice. I said yes to everything because I thought saying no was making the choice to be lonely, but I was lonely either way. If making a simple choice could cure loneliness, my loneliness would have been cured a long time ago. 

I think Celebrate Recovery is wrong on this point. I don't think that all loneliness is a choice. 

For some people, loneliness is based in attachment issues that they developed long before they were aware it was happening and isn't cured by being around people more often, or having deeper, more transparent conversations. 

For me, it means never trusting that other people will stick around, never believing that people like me or want to be friends with me, and that there is something inherently unlovable about me. It means experiencing the pervasive and real experience that there seems to be something about me that puts other people off. It also means completely missing signs that other people do like me or are seeking a relationship with me. It also means I just don't feel the connection when it's there, when other people feel it. I've traced my earliest feelings of loneliness to when I was 3. 

More than once (it's actually a pretty regular occurrence) I have made a connection with two or more other people, but then the next time I see them they are better friends with each other, have been spending time together without me, or I see pictures of them hanging out together on social media. They aren't being mean, but I am left feeling baffled about how it happened. I usually tell myself that there is just something wrong with me that makes them not connect with me . . . like a noxious odor that warns off predators. 

I told myself that I don't like talking on the phone, but the truth is, I love talking on the phone. I told myself I didn't like it to inoculate myself against the sadness of never doing it, to manage my own expectations and guard myself from disappointment. It's easier to guard myself against possible friendship than to deal with the grief when it doesn't work out or I am left feeling abandoned and alone.

I would love to tell you that I have a cure, but I don't. I'm currently seeking it. I'm reading a book called Changes that Heal by Dr. Henry Cloud and I am waiting to hear back from a therapist that I am hoping can help me with this. 

I've sought counseling for this before but the advice was surface level and didn't really help. This time, I have a good understanding of what I'm dealing with, and I can communicate it well - both of which should help. 

I'm still learning how this has affected my ability to mother my children well. Once again, motherhood inspires me to learn better, so I can do better and help them to do better too. 

Forgiveness, or Denial?

I felt coerced. Unfree to say no. 

When I was asked for forgiveness, there was nothing to say but yes. If yes is the forced response, can it ever really be true? 

When our kids were young we went through a childrearing course a couple of times. One of the things they taught is that when an apology is due, the perpetrator should ask for forgiveness. For a long time, we practiced this as parents and taught our children to ask for forgiveness as well. 

Until we learned that making amends, or apologizing, should be done without expectation from the person I have wronged or hurt. When I thought about the times that I have been asked for forgiveness and realized that I never felt free to ask for time to process or to say no, it became clear to me that requiring the person I have wronged to say they forgive me is inappropriate. And if there is no room for saying no, then the forgiveness is either a lie or coerced . . . both of which render it impotent. 

Forgiveness is a gift. It can't be earned or coerced. Trust is earned. Forgiveness is done independently of the perpetrator. An apology or amends is helpful and right in a lot of circumstances, but forgiveness is not dependent on either one. 

Trust and forgiveness are often mixed up. Trust is earned, forgiveness is a gift. Unearned trust is not forgiveness, it's denial. Equating forgiveness and trust is dangerous, and requiring trust (while calling it forgiveness) without earning it is manipulative and unequivocally disqualifies the demander of being trusted.  

A good apology recognizes what I did, how it affected the other person and what I hope to do differently in the future. This requires premeditation about what I did, why I did it and how I am going to work toward a different action going forward. 

Lies Marriage Books Told me

I have read a lot of 'how to be a good wife' books. They have helped me to varying degrees, but either the content of the books or my perception of them led me down dark paths of despair when I followed the instructions of the book and didn't get the result the author promised. I'm not going to reference any specific books, because I don't want to disparage a book that might be helpful to someone else, with another set of issues and character defects. The thing I wish that I had done differently is talked to a wide variety of older women, particularly ones who had dealt with the same issues themselves. 

Without further adieu, here are three lies I learned from 'how to be a good wife' books:

1. Men are simple. As long as they are fed and have plenty of sex, they are good. Maybe some men are simple, but believing this led to a long journey of me being diligent about fulfilling those two needs and feeling utterly devastated when all of our problems were not solved. Michael is every bit as complex as I am, with needs beyond food and sex. He has a need for conversation, feeling safe in relationships and non sexual physical touch among other things. Men are human beings too, with complex histories, family relationships and thoughts.

2. If I'm not happy in my marriage, it's all my fault. Yes, it's not my husbands responsibility to make me happy, but I wasn't happy in my marriage because there were very real, wrong things in it. When I reached a pit of despair I shared those wrong things with other people and they helped us deal with them. Deciding to be happy in the middle of what was happening in our marriage was like sitting on a dung heap and talking myself into being happy instead of getting off the dung heap. 

3. It's the responsibility of wives to keep their husbands attention and it's the responsibility of other women to not draw it. If you want to know what the Bible says about how men should delight in their wives you'll have to do your own study. I will say this: it doesn't qualify any of it with how the wife looks. Years ago I lost a bunch of weight, at several points other women said things like "I bet your husband is all over you now". I smiled and replied in the affirmative, but this confused me. Our sex life didn't really change. For a while I thought there was something wrong because his desire hadn't increased to any noticeable degree, and these women seemed so sure it had. But apparently I just married a good man. Michael has loved me at all shapes and sizes. Am I advocating for spouses to let themselves go? No. But I am saying there is more to desire and attraction than what media and porn would have us believe. 

Secondly, while I believe it is my responsibility to dress modestly, I believe it is also the responsibility of men to control their own eyes and minds. None of us get to live in a world devoid of temptation. It's each of our responsibility to flee from that temptation. Men can decide where their eyes and minds go. They are human beings who are capable of controlling themselves. Believing that other women bore responsibility in my husbands ability to keep his eyes and mind to himself created an unfair resentment of and competition with other women.

Changing what I believed about all three of these things has freed me up to delight in and have compassion for my husband. It's also given me the freedom to check my own self, deal with my own stuff and for him to do the same. 

Holding Space in Between

Poles of opinion compel us, 

pick a side and choose a team,

it's comfortable in the black and white,

in the mix and camraderie of a crowd. 

Standing our ground in the gray 

as emotions and reactions attempt to entice

us to one pole or the other

and definitive and clear comfort of black and white.

Holding space in the in-between place 

watching as the people standing with us

gradually give in to the pull of polarity

for protection against the stones being hurled

by those in the black and white.  

It takes courage and steadiness to stand in the gray,

to hold our ground in the winds of doctrine,

to remain planted in place as the streams of water erode

the ground around our roots. 

We are rooted, 

we are planted, 

and we are firm,

we are holding space in the between place

because it's the right, but not easy, thing to do. 

If You're Thinking I am Sad

I've kept it mostly to myself. 

In the beginning of my Dark Night of the Soul, I wrote about my experience a little bit. But as I felt misunderstood, I stopped and decided that until I had fully processed what I was going through and could feel secure in what I knew I was experiencing, I felt like I couldn't handle input from other people who weren't walking through it with me. 

So, I have about 6 years worth of things I've been processing and going through and writing about: thoughts and feelings I've worked through and healed from, but I'm just now sharing. 

Life is complicated, and walking through it alone is hard. The last six years have largely been filled with things I've walked through, worked on and healed from on my own with God. Even though I'm just now sharing it, most of what I'm sharing I've processed and healed from and now I'm sharing it because I feel ready.

I could only share easy things, light things and happy things. But that wouldn't be true. 

The Bible is filled with the experiences and feelings of real people, and they aren't all upbeat or happy. 

Christians walk through difficult things, have complicated feelings and are sad sometimes. And that's right and okay. It doesn't mean I'm not trusting God, it means I'm real. 

Over the last six years, I have listened to Hurt by Johnny Cash too many times to count because it felt like somebody could see me and understand what I felt. I also listened to Unchained because I love the line "it's hard to see the rainbow through glasses dark as these, maybe I'll be able from now on, on my knees"

Loving and trusting God doesn't mean I never have bad feelings or experiences, it means I love Him and trust Him through them.

to the little girl I used to be

 

To the little girl I used to be who looked on while she wasn't chosen, 

I choose you. 

To the little girl I used to be who lied to get attention,

you have mine, and you don't need to earn it. 

To the little girl I used to be who acted impulsively and often regretted it,

you're not the only one, and it's okay. 

To the little girl I used to be who felt left behind and unpreferred,

it wasn't your fault and had nothing to do with you. 

To the little girl I used to be who was told to shut up,

please keep talking. I want to hear what you have to say.

To the little girl I used to be who needed reassurance and lost the friend when she asked,

it's okay to need reassurance, it's okay to take up space, you didn't mess things up. 

To the little girl I used to be who was pinched by the big girl,

I know that hurt and I'm sorry. 

To the little girl I used to be who did the same thing to another girl,

I forgive you, and I love you.

To the little girl I used to be who was called a dog and treated like trash,

don't believe them. 

To the little girl I used to be whose clothes weren't good enough,

beautiful flowers don't need pleasing frocks to wear. 

To the little girl I used to be who promised herself she would be "somebody" to prove all the people, who thought she was nobody, wrong,

you have nothing to prove. 

To the little girl I used to be who spent hours hiding in her bedroom pretending the people she knew thought she was something special,

you already are something special, even if other people didn't notice.

To the little girl I used to be who felt unloved, lonely and depressed,

you are worthy of love, attention and friendship. You don't need to lie. 

To the little girl I used to be who thought she was too fat, too ugly, too evil, too stupid and too needy,

you aren't. 

To the little girl I used to be who did things she wasn't proud of because she felt desperate for love, connection and feeling cared for, 

Ah, to you sweet girl, words are not enough. To this precious girl I used to be, I give my compassion, endless overt affection and delight, and all the forgiveness that a daughter of the woman at the well is due. 

To the little girl I used to be: You are beautiful and sweet and lovely and pure and smart and fun. You have ADHD, which explains the impulsiveness and propensity to lie. You did what you thought you needed to do in the moment to get the love, connection, and attention you needed. That doesn't make you evil, it makes you human. There is nothing wrong with you. You are a normal little girl. I love you, and I forgive you for the lies you told. But more than that, I accept you. I see you, and I think you are the coolest. 

The Trap

Locked in a room I don't want to be in, 

searching diligently for a way out,

I lied, but the door locked tighter,

My face grew hard and I pretended not to care,

but the walls pressed in. 

I silenced my voice, but the door remained locked. 

I was vigilant for opportunities to be nice,

but still the lock persisted.

The longer I've remained stuck, 

the smaller I've tried to become,

the less I've tried to need, 

the quieter I've learned to be,

the slighter I've shared the real me,

until the only person who knows I exist is the man who shares my life and bed.

None of it worked. 

No matter what I did, the doors remained closed. 

The more I tried to solve the problem, the more it stayed the same. 

I could hear the crowd outside laughing and enjoying a party, 

but I was locked inside. 

I can't remember when or how I came to be trapped,

and I can't remember whose fault it is. 

I've asked for and received help, 

but I was still trapped. 

I attended "How to get untrapped" meetings, 

but I was still trapped. 

I hired a professional de-trapper,

but I was still trapped. 

I wrote in my journal, 

but I was still trapped.

I've gone for a walk, taken cold showers, and seen my doctor,

but I'm still trapped. 

I've become a pro at processing feelings, 

stopped telling lies and 

grown in a million ways . . . but I'm still trapped. 

But I'm still trapped inside this closet. 

Is it my life's work to get out of being trapped?

To be the person God intended me to be?

Or is it my life's work to figure out how to make the best of being trapped?

I don't know.

My next step is to cut off one of the things that I think is keeping me stuck. 

It feels like I'm getting closer to be free.

Grief is Not Jealousy

We've never been close,

They belong in a sea of people,

I am other than,

Bound by blood that isn't thicker than water,

We share freckles, lineage and passiveness. 

It's not jealousy, or greed. 

Grief. 

Grief at the reminder of my otherness. Grief that I am once again not chosen. 

Like a blade of grass under a magnifying glass on a bright, sunny day, my soul is singed by knowing. 

I am found wanting. 

I'm not a preacher, or a preachers wife. 

I'm not a baseball player, or a fisherman,

I'm not a neighbor, or a nurse. 

I’m just me. 

A singer and a poet.

A dreamer and a grower.

A binger and a loser.

I'm just me.

A flawed human being. 

A wildflower dying in the wind. 

A try hard and a people pleaser.

A rebel and a liar. 

I'm just me. With the blood that isn't thicker than water, freckles and otherness.

And I'm okay. Unchosen and unknown. Grief is human, and okay. 

Praise God that human choosing isn't a factor in His choosing.

The Branch

Following years of hanging on, I slipped and fell

from the cliff that had been threatening to consume me.

In terror I grasped for anything to break my fall,

I found Their Branch. 

They held me there in safety. 

With white knuckles and eyes clinched shut,

I clinged to Their Branch,

grateful for it's strength and protection,

for peace and quiet after years of turmoil and strife

For space to confess and confront my sin.

Until one day, I started to choke, flail and gasp for air

I opened my eyes to discover water rising

I was going to drown. 

This also came with another stark revealing,

my feet were on the ground,

they had been on the ground for a long time,

but I had continued to hold onto Their Branch, with white knuckles and eyes clenched shut,

even though it was time for me to stand on my own. 

I didn't have to drown, 

I could walk away. 

But I wasn't alone there, 

The soul knitted to my own had to go with me.

So I waited, as I continued to choke, flail and gasp for air. 

With heavy hearts we walked away. 

From our support system,

The support that had seen us through trials, 

and the laying aside of the sin that was entangling us.

The community who prayed with us, 

held our hands, taught us how to break patterns, 

who donated their skill and labor to replace the shag carpet in our home.

But had also kept us stuck. 

As we walked away and I could breath again, 

I sifted through what remained

some wreckage, some fruit, some . . . unlabeled debris,

the emotional fallout,

to find the truth.

It has felt like walking alone through a haunted forest by moonlight,

trying to decipher truth from malevolent shadow,

finding brightly lit homes where the people around me connect, 

but I am left standing outside wondering how to get in. 

Doing the right thing doesn't exclusively feel good, 

or lead to connection, 

but it is still the right thing. 

So I put one foot in front of the other, 

and trust that either in this world or the next, 

The truth will be clear and the shadows will be gone. 

A Poem of Lament

To start this series from the beginning, click here.

Alone in the wilderness,

I built a fire, constructed a shelter 

and surrendered to life there

waiting for my name to be called through the trees. 

Utterly alone, 

I thought I heard a voice, 

my name being called through the trees,

saying it's time to go home. 

It was a sound mirage, 

So I've learned to live life alone in the wilderness

Slowly building a life there,

surrendered to what is. 

I don't know if I will ever hear that voice, 

the one telling me I'm safe, and it's time to go home,

My soul hovers in the middle place,

between despair at being lost in the wilderness and trusting that I will eventually make it home. 

Like a Bubble Boy, I exist in the invisible wilderness bubble,

I see other people, but I'm alone there. 

I hear other people, but I'm alone there. 

I speak to other people, but I'm alone there. 

I am spoken to, but I am alone there. 

And that's the worst kind of alone.

But this I know,

He who formed the trees I rest in,

and built me in my mother's womb,

Hears my voice as it calls His name through the trees.

The God who brought me to this place, will take me home.