pandora's island

Healing laughter

2012-02-14T18:04:00.000-08:00

These past few weeks, I have truly struggled. It often seemslike depression is going to win. It has stressed my marriage to its thinnest,it has affected my relationship with my child and it has tinted my whole worldin dull gray tones. Fatigue and low motivation has overwhelmed me and theintense feelings of being completely worthless and insignificant have batteredmy psyche to a pulp. I have felt hopeless and like there is no way out. SomehowI keep pushing myself to keep putting one foot in front of the other (actuallyI spend a huge part of my day praying for strength and asking God forreprieve). I keep going to the groups I am committed to although sometimes(like last night) I am there only in body, not in spirit. Some days, it is like every breath is an effort that I'm not sure I want to take.

Sometimes though, God uses people in ways that is not expected. He takes what we have planned, sets it aside and uses his plan.

Tonight, I went to the ladies group for our church. The sameladies that usually attend were there, with a few missing exceptions. But theatmosphere started out different, the usual format was sidetracked. The night seemed lighter. The seriousness that oftenaccompanies worship was foregone and it was mostly a night of stories andlaughter; lots and lots and lots of laughter. Everyone was included somehow andit was exactly what my soul needed. For two hours, I didn’t think about howdifficult things were or how I was going to get through the next hour, letalone the day. It was as if God were using these women as a tool to soothe myaching heart with healing laughter. It was a reminder that there will be betterdays ahead. It reminded me that I have people in my life who care about eachother; we laugh with each other, we cry with each other and we move forwardtogether. God laughs with us.

The Struggle

2012-02-08T08:16:00.000-08:00

Darknessenvelops me in a smothering embrace,

The cold unforgiving grip of depression holds me captive.

Distant voicesare muffled, unreachable laughter faint,

My soulis trapped in a faulty, broken vessel, crying out for release.

Istruggle for light, hoping, praying and begging,

Confused, I banter back and forth with lies.

Kickingout wildly, I persevere trying to gain ground,

Resolved, I keep pressingagainst the unyielding pain.

Exhausted and emotionally bankrupt, I finally lie still,

Pinholes of light peek through like stars in the sky, blessing and beckoning.

His comforting voice is near, his soothing touch is authentic,

God sits at my bedside and pulls back the covers, smiling and gathering me in his arms.

“Shhh child. I am right here, I have never left your side.”

Anxiety Strikes.

2012-01-30T20:20:00.000-08:00

This week, I went bowling. I don’t remember ever bowling before. I remember being in the bowling alley as a teenager but can’t remember actually bowling. I went this night because our church had a social night and I brought my son (my husband was under the weather). Everyone was there to have fun and share an evening together. It was a night for building relationships.

The bowling alley was full of people, laughter and jovial bantering. These are my friends. I walk onto the lane, grabbing a ball. I feel its weight and the smoothness of it, rolling it in my hands. The lane is overly bright and the pins at the opposite end seem so far away. Someone laughs in another lane and it hits like a ton of bricks.

Anxiety grips me in its vise, threatening to choke all of my progress into oblivion. The progress I have made has been to develop these relationships, to step out of my comfort zone, to do things I am afraid to do. My heart beats frantically, threatening to force its way out of my chest. My palms are sweating and I’m sure I will drop the ball. The noise of the alley threatens to smother me. I am terrified to turn around but cannot stay here, exposed and vulnerable. Someone laughs and my brain travels through time. Humiliation, being laughed at, being judged, criticized, berated. Not good enough. Worthless.

I know that the anxiety and the beliefs behind it are irrational and I fight every emotion. My life is different today. The people around me are different today. I force myself to continue and to play with my son and my friends. I try not to let anyone see the anxiety and fear. I choke it back and carry on. I finish the night exhausted and wanting to hide where it is safe. I just want to go home.

When we get home, he asks how bowling was. I try to share how I felt and how I feel.

“That’s ridiculous. Get over yourself.”

After some time, I did express how invalidating that simple statement was and that I understand that it was said out of a place of not feeling well. But that type of statement also shows how depression, anxiety and addiction affects more than just me. It wears down the people who love me.

Her Loving Brown Eyes.

2012-01-28T19:43:00.000-08:00

Her browneyes stare into mine like she sees directly into my soul. All I have ever seenin her eyes is love.

We gotour dog Shelby in 2003. We had just moved into a new home with our two cats anddecided that it was time to expand our family. Our son was still a distantthought in the future. Shelby was a true gift from God although I didn't knowit at the time.

Theorchestral noise of the animal shelter was chaotic, dogs barking in every pitchand speed. Large metal screens separated them from us; dogs either jumping atthe gate or barking from a distance, us peering into each kennel hoping to findthe one. We worked our way to the end of the aisle, our hope sinking with everypassed door. At the last gate, there she was. A full grown, large black and tan dog silentlylying facing the door with her front paws crossed, her large ears standing atalert. She was the only dog in the shelter not barking. The small sign on herdoor said "Shelby. Rottweiler/Shepherd mix. 2-3 years old.” There was a note indicatingthat she had been in the shelter for a long time without adoption.

“This isher”, my husband said, “This is our dog.” I looked at him with confusion andconcern that perhaps he needed a slight visit for a psychiatric consult. He wasusually the one who acted with logic and this animal defied all logic, usuallyI was the one who acted on impulse. She was much bigger than I had expected himto want, and she looked like if she wanted a snack, she could take your arm upto the elbow in one munch. “Really?” I asked.

When wefirst took Shelby home, the cats were more than a little perturbed but itdidn’t take them long to adjust. Tabby quickly asserted her dominance as theleader of the house and Shelby acquiesced.

The firstmorning that we had Shelby home, I was busy in the kitchen. Shelby had not madea noise that we had heard yet. Silently, she came up behind me and began tospeak in this long drawn out “rowwowowerrrr”. I stood dead still, sure thatfrom behind I looked like a ham roast and this was my final day on this earth.It turned out that Shelby rarely barked but she did express herself by talking.Shelby is very quiet and very gentle. She loved to cuddle on the couch andbelieved she was a lapdog. She adored playing and running. Evenings, we couldoften be found napping together on the couch. Her long soulful gazing through deepbrown eyes created moments of serenity and calm when the world seemed to be toomuch.

At thetime that we adopted Shelby, I was in the midst of incredible anxiety attacksand was becoming afraid to leave the house. Irrational fear was taking over mylife. Having Shelby forced me outside to walk her several times a day at a timewhen otherwise I would have hidden in isolation. Her large size and appearancegave me great security despite the fact that she was so gentle. I took hereverywhere with me.

When ourson was born, Shelby was both protective of him and me and incredibly gentle.He could pull her giant ears and she would sit quietly and patiently. She wasand is the ideal dog. Several years after she was part of our family, theveterinary college at UPEI during an examination informed us that she was not amixed breed Rottweiler/Shepherd but was in fact an Australian Kelpie. To us,she was just Shelby, an integral part of our family.

Now in 2012,Shelby is a senior and suffers from extreme arthritis in her hips. She is taking medication but it is becoming evident that stairs and any amount of walking isa problem. Her days are filled more with long naps instead of play. But still, thereare those moments when she can look at me with those deep brown eyes as if tosay “it’s gonna be ok, no matter what.” As I see her starting to deterioratewith age I often question, is it really going to be ok?

But then I thank Godfor bringing her into our lives and for everything she has done for me. She hasbeen more than part of our family, she has been a gift. I don't know how much longer this gift will be in our presence but she will always be in my heart.

A Day in the Dark

2012-01-20T09:03:00.000-08:00

Today’s just another one of those days where I’m strugglingto push myself through the motions. Get up, send the child off to school,husband off to work, try and muster through the scarce few jobs on my plate, goback to bed and pull the covers over my head. Listen to the battle within of mybody and mind saying “you just can’t do it today so why bother” and that littlevoice that is gently saying “yes, you can. Just put one foot in front of theother. Start with putting your foot on the floor.”

Depression is hard to explain to someone who has never beenhere. I’m not sad. In fact, I can even be around people and seem like thingsare going ok if you don’t ask too many questions… like how are you. I can laughif the situation presents itself. Depression is not the absence of appearingok, it is not something that you can always see on the outside. And some daysARE better than others. Yesterday was better than today. I’m not repressing myemotions, I just can’t seem to find the kick-start button to actually living orfeeling much of anything. It takes great effort to do simple things likegetting through the shower, turning on the dishwasher, eating a meal. The actis not difficult, the desire is. The few groups that I am part of, I fightevery single excuse I can make up not to go but somehow, I just keep doing it(it helps that I have people around who know how I’m feeling, know what I’mgoing through and don’t really allow me to isolate… no matter how hard I try.)

I’ve spent most of my life trying to pull myself up by thebootstraps and one day I just realized that hell, I don’t even have bootstraps!I keep trying to pick myself up and force myself to be well and all it is doingis denying the realization and acceptance that this is not a battle I can fixmyself. Don’t get me wrong, I can do lots of things to try to improve the way Ifeel but the challenge is that my mind itself seems to be at war with thedesire to do any of those things. So I just have to take it one little piece ata time, one step at a time, one prayer at a time, one minute, one hour, oneday.

So, one foot in front of the other seems to be the motto fortoday. Do one action at a time, no matter how small, and hope that the feelinglifts.

This New Life

2012-01-11T00:16:00.000-08:00

So the year 2012 has been off to a hell of a start.

It began by dragging with it the depression and anxiety ofthe season past and with that came the complications of adjusting tomedications again. During this time, I have experienced the frustration ofknowing that my thought patterns are irrational but being able to do anythingabout them. The suicidal ideations and relapse thoughts have abated thankfullybut the anxiety, paranoia, insomnia and depressive state have hung on like atick draining the blood from my soul. During this time, I have been fortunateto have good friends be with me, to have family supporting me, have feltcovered in prayer, and had the constant reassurance that I can and will getthrough this rough patch. I am being shown that God is present.

Then came the sudden impact of helping see off an incrediblelady and friend from this life to the next. While feeling my own personal griefof that loss and the reminder of other losses in my life, it pains me more tosee the people around me that I care deeply about suffering their own pain ofgrief. If only I could gather my friends about me and draw out their pain likea poison from a snake-bite, but I know it is a human process that they also needto go through for healing. Perhaps it is also a process in my own growth tolove them through their pain in a healthy way and allow them to love me.Through this difficult time, I have witnessed and experienced something like Ihave never seen before. The love of my friend’s family and that of our churchwas tangible, authentic, and awe-inspiring. It is a true testimony to andembodiment of the beliefs and personality of the woman behind it and the Godthat she loved so much.

Now, we are celebrating the birth of my son as he turnsseven years old. This is the same child that came into this world underdifficult circumstances and showed us what a fighter he was, and how a higherpower was involved. This child has been such a wonder and delight through everystage of his development, even during our challenging moments of parenthood. Wehave grown and learned so many lessons from him that could never have beentaught by any professor, book or life experience. We are learning about God’slove from the source – through His love for humanity. We, as parents, get toexperience a little slice of what he does as the true Father.

So despite the emotional exhaustion that this year hasbrought thus far, and we are not even two weeks in, I feel grateful that I amtruly living in this new life.

I am afraid...

2012-01-10T05:42:00.000-08:00

I am afraid…

I am afraid of so many things - Getting close to people.Physical contact. Crowds. People. Emotions. Confined spaces. Failure. To name a few.

I am afraid…

I am afraid of being trapped in myself. I am afraid that theanxiety, depression and paranoia will drive me back to the place I was before,incapable of functioning, incapable of leaving the house without using everyounce of willpower. I am afraid that I will be incapable of enjoying this lifewith my child, my husband, my friends, my community, my world. I am afraid that I will be incapable ofusing my talents and gifts for the reason they have been given me. I am afraidthat I will live my life cloaked in fear and shame. I am afraid that thedepression and anxiety are bigger than the spirit within me.

I am afraid…

I am afraid that HE will come back. The he that still livesin another province that almost destroyed my spirit and my life. The he that isburied and gone, in body but not in my mind. The them that were in the back ofthat car. The he that is now in prison. I am afraid that all of them willforever destroy not just my past but my present and future as well.

Fear is battled with faith and love. Someone once told me“Fear knocked at the door. Faith opened and fear was gone.” I think the samething happens when you begin to experience love. I also believe that fear isbattled with a healthy dose of hope. I don’t know why I kept getting up afterevery time of falling down or getting knocked down. Someone I care for verymuch tells me that throughout my entire life, God has had his hands all overme. Even after periods of absolute hopelessness and attempts at suicide,something or someone was placed in my path to provide even the smallest glimmerof hope that things will get better. I have been shown love and as a result amdeveloping faith. I am beginning to develop a faith in God, myself and others.

Together, we can beat the fears.

She left us with lessons of love.

2012-01-04T11:42:00.001-08:00

A very special lady just passed from this life to the next. She was one of those rare people that impacted everyone she came into contact with in a positive way. I first encountered E in our church, watching her from afar, amazed by her gentle spirit and her love for those around her. She seemed to be the surrogate mother of the congregation. After she returned from a summer long visit to her life in southern climates, I quickly learned what a powerhouse of prayer and a joy she truly was.

At first, I didn't believe that this woman who seemed to be cloaked in wisdom and serenity would want to know me so I kept my distance and I observed. I observed the way that she truly listened to people, the way that she hugged those she cared for, the way that she spoke - always succinct, always full of thought, each word chosen with care. She illuminated love, both in giving and receiving. She was truly an example of Christ living in the here and now.

Our relationship started with a few simple words, where I began to see her humor and her ability to read people and meet them where they were. I would often hide in the lobby during the time in church where people greet each other, because i am uncomfortable with social interactions. Eventually E caught on to this and would make it a point to come out and shake my hand each time, asking with dry wit and a grin, "oh hello there, aren't you a member of our church?"

Then I had the opportunity to be in several groups with her and it seemed we spent more and more time together. She opened up and shared parts of her life during a spirituality group that always left me yearning to know more. I would sit and listen to her for hours if the opportunity presented itself. She listened to my story, always probing to know more about my relationship with god, always encouraging me. In our writing group, I began to see her humor and her sensitivity. She shared her creativity and encouraged my own. We shared a love for all things artistic. She was a true mentor.

Several times I would sit in a prayer meeting and listen with amazement as she spoke words of prayer that were authentic and in true relationship with the Father. I began to see that she did not just act out a life following Jesus, she truly lived a life with God inside her. When she prayed, it was a genuine connection. Each time I was in her presence, I felt calmed and assured. She never judged or criticized. She sometimes questioned in a way that made me reflect and consider different perspectives. E shared time with me during my birthday and before Christmas that made me feel like I had family. She was teaching me how to live. She was teaching me how to be loved.

Throughout the fall, I began to see how age was taking its toll on her, reminding me that human lives are fragile and vulnerable. Our vessel is not meant to be permanent. It was always an honor to be able to assist her walking to and from meetings and helping her any way I could. It became a highlight of my week to enter her home and be greeted by a warm welcome and a hug. Whenever I was having difficulty, she always said " I will pray for you" and I always knew that she truly would, it was never a hollow promise. In that alone, I felt loved.

It came as a shock when our friend quickly fell terminally ill. It didn't seem real (it still doesn't). Many of us sat around the clock with this lady, praying for her comfort and serenity as she passed from this life to the next. We were fortunate to be with her family and to see the legacy of goodness that she has left behind. Her family were true examples of how love blooms from one generation to the next. I witnessed and experienced grief and joy in the midst of difficult times. We laughed, reminisced and cried at memories of our friend. Although I was only able to befriend E for a short time, it was a relationship that was rich with blessings. Even in her death, I was able to witness and experience the love that she so often spoke of, that pure love that is God's love as the community surrounded her, her family and each other.

Although I am comforted by the belief that our friend is now on the next leg of her journey, leaving her earthly vessel to be in the kingdom of God, I still feel a hollowness that her departure has left in my heart. I will miss her presence in church, in our groups, in our friendship, in my life. I grieve the things I did not get to say, the stories I did not get to hear, the joy I did not get to share, the lessons I did not get to learn. I can only hope that I can aspire to be like her someday, to love as well as she did and to know God personally.

Thank you E for blessing my life.

The Pit

2012-01-03T06:47:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I think of depression as an abusive spouse. Itstarts by telling you that everything is ok and you are in control. Depressionwins by removing relationships and isolating its victim. It pushes out God. Thenit takes over the mind by constantly enforcing negative thoughts and lies. Whenit finally takes over your entire being, it doesn’t have the balls to kill youitself, it has you do the dirty work.

I have been struggling with depression for over 10 years.Honestly, the year 2000 was just when I was diagnosed. I have no idea how longI suffered before that because I self-medicated for 14 years prior. WhenI was first told, I refused to believe that that was my problem. I don’t knowthat I even believed depression was a true medical condition despite the factthat my mother was diagnosed with it when I was a teenager. I watched herstruggle with suicidal thinking, ever-present sadness, and at points theinability to even get out of bed. Despite this, I believed I could just pull myshit together through willpower. After all, everybody had sadness andirritability in their life. It was just something I felt like I always had todeal with. Life was just one big shit-storm after another to get through. Ididn’t know that everybody didn’t feel the way I did and that suicide was notalways an option.

Then I began to get treated for it with medication andtherapy. When several different antidepressants didn’t work, it just seemed toverify to me that this was not my problem. Self-medicating seemed to be theonly solution. Then one anti-depressant did start to have an effect. I began tosee the world in colour instead of the grey tones that I had seen it in for solong. The chronic fatigue began to lift. The racing thoughts that constantlymade me feel like I was going crazy began to settle somewhat. I started to beable to sleep some. It felt a little easier to be around people and I actuallybegan to enjoy activities. There seemed to be a point to life.

After a few years though, that medication seemed to stopworking and my life felt like it had come crashing down again. Depression wasaffecting every aspect of my life, especially my job and my marriage. Theanxiety was debilitating and it was difficult to do even the most mundane ofthings like walk to the end of the street to the mailbox. I fell off thesobriety wagon and made plans to end my life. I honestly believed that thepeople in my life would be better off without the burden I was placing on them.Then God put some friends in recovery in my path again and I was convinced totry again and seek help. So I started the uphill battle again to come to aneven footing in life. Eventually, we found another medication that worked (andmany that didn’t) and I started counseling again. Life began to improve.

When my son was born, I was on top of the world. I wassober, I was healthy and I was happy. Then after some time, life crashed again. Irelapsed and the depression took hold (or vice versa). Anxiety becameagoraphobia and I was swirling into what seemed like madness. With it this timecame massive amounts of guilt because I was responsible for a child. I couldnot leave my scar of suicide on him. It seemed like I was trapped. The stressof this disease was taking a major toll on my husband and I was ever fearfulthat this next episode would be the breaking point in our marriage. If I couldjust pull my shit together, then I could control my constantly chaotic life.The burden I was placing on my family, my friends, even my employer all seemedto be too much. I started new medication again. This felt like it was becominga never-ending roller-coaster but depression began to lift. Life improved likeit had never improved before. I not only got clean and sober but I beganfeeling like I was making unbelievable gains in relationships, in dealing withissues from my past, in my ability to function and cope in life. I began todevelop a relationship with God, myself, and others.

But here we are again - back to a low point. Depression isthe most infuriating disease. It steals life. It affects not just me but thepeople around me. I am tired of the ups and downs. My husband is tired of it. Iworry that my son will someday worry like I worried about my mother. I want topull away from relationships in an effort to not burden others with the lowpoints. I often wonder if I have the energy left to try to climb out of thehole again. I wonder if this is going to be the life I am destined to.

So I surrender. No amount of willpower is going to get meout. I’ve tried and I’ve failed. I don’t know if medication is going to be theanswer, or therapy, or prayer, or just taking hold of the hands that areoutstretched to help. I think maybe it is a combination of all of it and maybepatience and time.

2011 in review.

2011-12-29T18:51:00.000-08:00

The new year is quickly approaching, carrying promise of newthings, challenges and experiences. With the closing of every year, I look back and reflect on what the year was really like - where I made gainsand where I lost ground.

I came into 2011 still reeling from the death of mygrandfather. I visited my grandparent’s home (my second childhood home) and theneighborhood I grew up in for the first time in years. I have begun visitingand phoning my grandmother regularly, reestablishing a relationship. The year has been a rollercoaster withanxiety and depression; at times it took me to unbelievable lows and othertimes it seemed I had beat it into submission. Insomnia and nightmares have plaguedme. I quit my meds during high points (twice), both times crashing to extremelows before admitting defeat and starting the process of rebuilding again. This past year, Ihave really begun dealing with issues from my past; in my writing, with mysponsor, in therapy and with a spiritual advisor. This has been an incredibly intense andpainful experience as well as being liberating and life-changing. However, Ifeel it is necessary to change my approach going into 2012. I need some timeto process and come back to an even keel both mentally and spiritually. Theyear has shown me that I cannot do this life thing on my own and I am fallibleas a human being. I make mistakes. I learn and try again. It has also shown methat my story can change and I am not destined to live out my past again.

I began painting on canvas again for the first time since1999, challenging some of my own fears and doubts about my skills and talent. I continued to write and published an article in G! magazine. I had to makea decision whether or not to continue blogging in such a personal nature anddecided that my story is mine to tell, critics be damned. I started doing theArtists’ Way book. I became part of a writing group and have met someincredibly talented and wonderful people. I began writing my life story,challenging all those lies that the secrets must be kept silent. The year hasshown me that I have a purpose and things to share with others.

In 2011, I had only just begun going to church and startedmy journey into Christianity. Sincethen, I have met an abundance of incredible people and have the good fortune tocall some of them my friends. I have become part of a community. Within thechurch, I have been involved in a number of groups – a home group, atwelve-step book study based on Christian principles, a group called SimpleSpirituality, and a Women’s church group. I have faced my fears ofpeople over and over again and am now facing my fear of women and of realrelationships. The year has shown methat I deserve to live a safe life surrounded by people I care about and whocare about me.

Spiritually, I have come to a place where I think I amalmost comfortable calling myself a Christian. That in itself is a miracle. Istill have so many questions and seek so many answers but feel this is part ofmy journey. I have been reading the Bible and am always asking questions. Ihave read dozens of books on spirituality and Christianity this year, and can’t seem toget enough. I have had many, many “coincidences” or “spiritual experiences” (orwhat my friend calls “God moments”). The year has shown me that God has beenmeeting me where I am at, in both my highs and my lows.

In recovery, I have gotten through the year without relapse(another miracle). In the recovery community, we buried several members becauseof addiction. We lost a good friend in sobriety to a heart attack and it struckmany of us hard. Closer to home, I lost a very dear uncle suddenly andunexpectedly as a result of his own alcoholism. The year has reminded me that Ihave a disease that will kill me if I choose to let it.

There have been some major changes in our household. Our soncompleted kindergarten and began grade 1. My husband took on a new role at hisworkplace. I continue to freelance, having gained some new clients and new projects. Ourmarriage has had some major ups and some serious downs but we continue to be committed to and love each other. We had toput down a well-loved cat of 13 years because of sickness and we have watchedage take its toll on our dog with arthritis and hip problems. The year hasshown me that the constant in life is change and how we react to that change isreally what determines our own contentment.

2011 has been a year of change. It has been a year of growth.Of friendships and new experiences. Of pain and grief, happiness and laughter.Of experiencing emotions; truly feeling them to the depths of my core and notforcing them to shut down. Of sobriety. Of commitment and love. Of learning andmaking mistakes. Of falling and getting back up. Of getting to know God. Ofgetting to know me. 2011 was definitely a year I was truly alive.

The Wonder and Mystery of Christmas

2011-12-25T16:43:00.001-08:00

On Christmas eve, I got the opportunity to experience the mystery and wonder of Christmas.

That afternoon, we prepared a wonderful feast of turkey goodness, sharing the blessing of a meal together with family. Laughter and conversation flowed smoothly and there was a sense of feeling loved by this family of my husband's. They continue to love me through good times and bad.

My six year old son has been eagerly anticipating the arrival of Christmas day and of course Santa. Although we, as his parents, have explained how Christmas is about the birth of Jesus Christ, we do not hamper his belief or excitement about Santa and the giving and receiving of gifts. It is part of the wonder of being a child at this time of year. Before bed, he opened his gift of new pajamas from "the elves", and put out cookies and milk for Santa, along with a note he wrote himself thanking him for coming and wishing him well. Putting him to bed, I kissed his forehead and told him for the hundredth time today that I love him. Silently, I said a prayer giving thanks to God for the blessing of having this child in our life. Long after our son was tucked into bed, we could hear him singing to himself, still awake with excitement of the wonder to come in the morning.

Then my husband and I went to midnight mass with his father while family stayed with our son. The night air was a frigid minus eight and I was glad to get into the warmth of the Catholic church. Taking our seat in a wooden pew, I glanced around. The standard fare of any Catholic church I have ever been in was present. A nativity scene sat in front of us, complete with the three wise men (that apparently didn't arrive until Jesus was two... My husband and I had a chuckle over this as it was an argument we had earlier this month), Christ hung from not one but several crosses on the wall, and the trappings of Catholic ritual were present everywhere. Although this is not what I am accustomed to, my husband seemed to revert to his childhood religion with ease.

The choir filled the air with the sound of Christmas music and robed priests began the mass. Again, my husband seemed to slip back into the proper responses and the standing, kneeling, sitting procedure with ease. I was a fish out of water. However, after some time, the priest began to speak about the birth of Jesus and how God came to us in a form that we could relate to - human form. He spoke of the mystery behind it all. He spoke the words "God meets us where we are" and I instantly felt at ease. He has been meeting me in my good days and holding my heart in the bad days. Even though the church was not one I am instantly comfortable in, the message was one I have begun to understand. I reached over and held my husband's hand, looked at him and smiled. I thanked God for this man who loves and supports me, also in good times and bad. I thought of our son safely in bed and our friends and family that have loved me through my best and my worst. I thought about this new life I have been discovering following Christ. I remembered the phrase from worship song I heard recently about the birth of Jesus - "when love was born". Yes, love and life certainly is full of mystery and wonder.

Regaining Lost Ground

2011-12-20T10:25:00.000-08:00

The past while I have been struggling. Really struggling. I’vehad good periods amongst this, some really great moments, but overall it’s beena downhill slide.

I don’t know exactly when it started. I think when my unclepassed away in October, things began to slide for me emotionally. Then therewere some family issues that came to the forefront in November and then theholiday season was upon us. With thatcomes the grief of missing Ma Coline. Throughout the fall, I had been doingsome major life writing, turning over rocks and exposing the dirt beneath. Iplowed through it like a bull, just wanting it to be through and done with andnot paying attention to the effects it was having on me. Some of it was likereliving it over again. The first twelve-thirteen years of my life was all I managed to get through before the dam broke. Despite talking about some of it with caring people, itoverwhelmed me.

Finally, the crash arrived. Insomnia set in and I’ve been extremelysleep deprived. I have crying jags that seemed to come from nowhere. Justtrying to act normal seems like a tremendous effort. I don’t feel like eating, andthe things I normally enjoy doing just seem too difficult. Just being presentis a challenge. Being around people is something I’ve had to force myself todo. What started as negative thoughts began to be a constant reel of self-argumentsfor and against relapse and suicide. The never-ending game of Pong in my head. There is nothing more frightening than beingunable to harness your own thoughts, especially when you know they are “crazy”.I have no desire to leave my family and friends with that kind of loss but somehow it was starting to make sense.

I’ve been at this place of crisis before but not for sometime (and it has never ended without relapse before). Meds usually needadjusting, extra effort needs to go into talking about what is going on and Ineed to work at regaining lost ground.

I tried really hard to will myself into being well (after 10years plus of being treated for clinical depression, anxiety disorders, and addiction you would think I would learn this never works). I didn’t want tobring added stress to anyone’s holiday season. Finally someone who cares aboutme essentially told me to pull my head out of my ass. She knew I was barelyhanging on and could see the signs that I needed help. So I opened up to a fewpeople I trust and told them what was going on. I came clean to my therapistand got an appointment to see my psychiatrist. I made a safety plan. I took responsibility and let go at the same time. The outcome was no longer in my hands. I admitted that I can't do this alone.

Expectingreproach for not being able to pull myself out of this funk, I received onlysupport and love. And lots of prayer. I’ve had people who didn’t even know whatwas going on in my life send me messages that they see that I’m struggling andare praying for and love me. (Here I go crying again.) It is a true blessing that even in the midst of totaldespair when I question where God is and if he really does care, he sends menot just incredible friends but an entire community of people who care in hisname.

I’m thinking it will be easier to get my footing this time around.

Thank you to all of you who have supported and prayed for me during this rough patch. You have made a difference not only to my life but to that of my family.

insomnia

2011-12-18T01:09:00.000-08:00

In the wee hours of the morning during that stillness of night when the dark seems the darkest, the devil whispers in your ear. He awakens you from your slumber by caressing and pulling gently to slip you back into his territory. Out of the womb, into the world. You try to fight him. Sleep. Sleep. I need to sleep. One thought swirls into view, then another and another until the mind is a racing turmoil of worries, self-doubts, criticisms and fear. He has engaged the battle upon an unwilling participant of war. The demon insomnia rears up, its cloven hooves prepared to slash furiously if you attempt to disobey its master’s command. Sleep. Sleep. I need sleep. How can one fight on the battlefield if exhaustion takes hold? The hours of the night where loneliness creeps into the solitude, emphasizing every dark nook and cranny of doubt and uncertainty. Depression and anxiety worsen with every lost moment and insane thoughts chip into your psyche, one lying nip at a time. What once was black, now is white and what once was white is now black. The world is upside-down, an Escher-esque scene in a once tranquil valley. God, are you still here?

Getting to know God.

2011-12-11T22:04:00.001-08:00

This morning at church, our pastor talked about dismantling this picture perfect image that we have built up about the birth of Jesus. He also talked about dismantling this perception that everyone has such a wonderful time during this season and honoring what some are really are going through. I really needed to hear this talk as it just seemed to validate the past few posts I've made and how I feel. (have I mentioned how much I respect this man and the work he does?)

Also this morning, I had an interesting experience. During worship music (before our pastor even spoke), I had a friend's three year old son sitting on my knee and he was telling me about the toy he had in his hand. I was completely at peace and found myself smiling and laughing (this is not normally how I feel in a crowded room). I found my mind wandering to thinking about how Jesus was once this age and how children are essentially a tremendous amount of love in a small package. The first time i truly felt any amount of peace in life was when i felt loved by my son. I looked beside me to my son who is now six. He smiled at me and made a funny face. I could feel his love just by his presence. Then I looked around the room and saw so many people who have been building me up over the past year. People who have become my friends. I smiled inside and felt truly blessed.

During the service, our pastor suggested reflecting on what Jesus was really like (this freaked me out as i had been doing just that during worship). I thought "I am seeing what Jesus is like every single day by being in this community and loving and being loved by them. This is an incredible feeling. "

I feel God's love and I am in awe. I have to admit, I never saw this coming.

My first Christmas with Ma.

2011-12-10T20:15:00.001-08:00

His mother's excitement was infectious. Laughter filled the room to overflowing with joy and a sense of building anticipation. The tree lights shimmered, their soft colored lights warming the tone of the room. Each ornament spoke of a memory; memories of her children from Christmases past, memories of children she taught, memories of friendships and family. I could only stand back and watch as an observer to the wondrous scene unfolding before me.

Fear held me in its grips, I was afraid that if I even breathed incorrectly, it would all fall apart, that this really wasn't the way it was. Fear that they would realize there was a stranger in their midst, someone who somehow did not belong. Someone who did not deserve to be included in this amazing moment.

This is how it was the first Christmas I spent with my boyfriend's (now husband) family. They had invited me to spend the holidays with them in Cape Breton even though I hardly knew them. They knew that my holiday memories were not positive ones and I was probably going to choose to spend the season alone in Halifax. I was 25 years old and carried busloads of emotional baggage with me. His family was a wealth of kindness, grace and love... And all of those things terrified me.

I laughed nervously as his large extended family came in and out throughout Christmas eve; a 'huggy' and boisterous bunch they were but all welcoming and open hearted. Close to midnight, we prepared to attend midnight mass at the Catholic church. I swallowed my anxiety but followed on the assurance that I did not have to do anything other than just enjoy the service. I had only ever been in a Catholic church once as a child to attend a friend's funeral mass.

The brisk night air was magical as we stepped through the snow and through the large doors. People smiled and shook hands, wishing each other good tidings and getting caught up on events. Voices were in hushed tones and a low murmur that was holy in itself. I looked at the architecture and decor incredulously, taking in its glorious detail. We would later be married in this very church. The stained glass windows entranced me with their beauty despite the fact that I knew nothing of their meaning or stories depicted. I didn't really know or understand anything of this God or Jesus Christ that they were here to worship and celebrate. I didn't have any reason to believe. Love seemed like something that perhaps happened to other people. I was watching it occur right before me and it was offered to me by these people but I was terrified to accept it.

After mass, completely exhausted we travelled back to the house and followed their tradition of opening one gift each before turning in. I went to bed unable to comprehend the day's events but it left a warm feeling inside that was unfamiliar but comforting.

The next morning, we awoke and groggily headed into the living-room. There in front of the tree was four full stockings. One each for my boyfriend and his younger sister and brother... And one for me. I didn't know how to respond. Tears filled my eyes as I looked at his mother questioningly. She smiled knowingly. I too had become one of her children.

I was loved.

Thank you for the greatest gift.

2011-12-09T20:24:00.001-08:00

Tonight I ran into someone in a very long line-up at one ofour local department stores. She asked “Do you like Christmas?” Before I couldeven try to formulate a polite response, it popped out, “No, I (insert expletive here)hate it.” I thought the older lady standing in line beside me was going to spither teeth out before she turned to look at me like I had two oozing heads. Itried to avoid her glare and waited for it, the judgment of ‘heathen’, ‘Grinch’,‘sourpuss’. (Thank you to those of you who feel the need to call those of uswho struggle this time of year all these wonderful names. Judgment andcondemnation is really working wonders in getting me into this wonderful Christmas spirityou are exuding.)

I’m sorry lady but my emotions are so raw right now bethankful I didn’t stuff your poinsettia into your puss. Trust me, this is not how I want to feel but the only way I know how to change it is to numbthe emotions and you do not want to meet me in the store line-up if I fall off thewagon. So today, I’ll honor the painful emotions and do my best to work ongratitude and hope. And I’ll pray like crazy for strength, courage and grace.

I’m trying. God knows I’m trying but really I’m having ahell of a time with it. I want to be happy and excited and hopeful about theseason but right now, I just feel extremely depressed and even a bitangry. I can’t put my finger on oneparticular thing but I could give you a long list of things that is making meon edge and emotionally volatile. Insert mantra here “I am not my feelings. Iam not my feelings.” If I am my feelings, somebody better set me up with a roomin the nearest mental facility, because it just ain’t pretty. So I’m smilingand grinning and doing things for my son to try and keep his spirits up buthe’s six, not stupid. He knows that his mom is struggling and he knows that hisdad is even having a hard time. Life just ain’t pretty right now and we’re inthe thick of the mess.

Where was I going with this post… oh right…

Despite howdifficult life is right now, I am surrounded by people who love and support me.My belief system to this point has always been “as soon as they figure out thatyou are damaged and broken, they’ll bail.” Well, these people know I’m brokenand damaged and they aren’t bailing. They know I am struggling and they don’tseem to be judging me because of it. If anything, they seem to be loving medespite it. In a society where people seem to feel the need to force ‘happiness’down our throats for the month of December, there is a small group of peoplewho are ok with me being where I’m at today; good or bad. They are willing to pray with meand for me, they are willing to listen and provide a hug when necessary, to givetheir time and their love. When I have doubts about God, he is putting people in my life to show me that his love is real and unending. Because of this group of people, I just may get through this season and have hope that maybe it will get easier.

I could not ask for a greater gift this season than the lovethese people are giving me. They are showing me what Christ was really born for.

The reason of the season

2011-12-06T05:50:00.001-08:00

This weekend, our pastor talked about how Jesus isn’t really the reason of the season. (I have to say there were a lot of concerned looks and people ready to revolt at this statement). What he went on to say was that the birth of Christ was not because God sent Jesus to be revered and adored. He sent him for mankind, because mankind was broken and needed fixing. While we celebrate the birth of our saviour, the real meaning and purpose of Christ is the same – we need help. We need his help.

And this time of year, this is so evident to me that it pains my heart almost more than I can bear. I need God’s mercy and grace more than anything right now. Those old feelings of abandonment and rejection are attacking me daily as I recognize that I need to change where I look for love and acceptance. I try to focus on building new traditions and at least putting on the façade of joy for my son to make his Christmas memories positive when my own memories are sitting in the background saying “remember us, you do not deserve happiness, who are you trying to fool?” I have no answers to help my husband as I see him battling the grief of missing his own mother who made this time of year so special for all of us and who was the glue that held their family together. I see my own family who are so far apart emotionally that we do not even recognize or acknowledge each other’s pains and needs. We are complete strangers tied together only by blood. The standard financial stresses and added work stresses seem to be only a dim issue in comparison to the emotional upheaval of this time of year. It is like the calendar flips to December and the old triggers of awaiting the next crisis come rushing in. I feel like I am constantly on high alert and my sensitivity level rises. Hearing people say “adjust your attitude”, “be happy!”, “celebrate!” sounds like “what is wrong with you?!” and I’ve been asking myself that very question for 39 years. “What is wrong with me?” It is that same question that has caused me to try to escape in every way conceivable. I feel like I am beating off the old demons of depression, anxiety and addiction with a big stick and slowly losing the battle.

So hearing that the real reason for Christ’s birth is for us as broken humans was a soothing salve over a large open wound. I can open my heart to a God that cares that much about me, especially in a time when I need him most. I applaud those of you who can celebrate his birth as God’s gift with joy and good tidings. It is necessary in this damaged and broken world to have happiness and joy. But for this season, I think I will have to open the gift with the amount of reverence it deserves and acknowledge that it is NOT necessarily a gift I WANT. Christ and God’s love is a gift I NEED more than anything in my life at this moment.

Bubbling to the Surface

2011-11-25T20:13:00.001-08:00

When I was a child, I struggled with math (I still don’tlike it). Most of my marks throughschool were A’s and B’s but it was inevitable that math was always my lowestmark. I would get completely sick with worry and anxiety when I had to do mathtests or answer questions out loud. When I got to the high school level, Istruggled with not just math but sciences as well and played hooky for many ofthose classes. I overlooked all of the accomplishments in every other subject because all I could focus on was the one area I struggled in.

The feeling I remember when trying to do these subjects wasthat it would be my complete unraveling. It would be the thing that actuallyshowed people what I really felt on the inside. My math and science resultsfelt like a blazing red sign that said “Worthless. Stupid. Unlovable.” On somelevel, I think I believed if I had been perfect or even better, not just inmath but as a human being, then I would be loved and not rejected, abandoned orhurt. Either I was doing something wrong to deserve this life or not doingenough.

Lately, I’ve been faced with many of these sameinsecurities.

Work and family seem to be the things that give me the mostemotional turmoil. Most of the time, it is these things that I am powerlessover. That is what it all seems to come down to – I feel powerless andvulnerable and not in control. My natural instinct when everything feels out ofcontrol is to just try harder, that there must be some way that I can fix itall. It seems like I am trying desperately to hold all of the threads togetherin a garment blazing on fire. All of those insecurities come rushing out andsay “See? See? I told you that you were useless, stupid and unlovable!”

I wish I could say that my faith is always strong enough topull me through these times but it is in these times that I question God themost. When all of those old fears of rejection, abandonment and unworthinessbubble to the surface, I question God’s love.

And almost always, he counters it with someone or somethingthat shows me that I am indeed loved. I just need to look more at the blessingsand accomplishments and less at the few things I’m struggling with.

the holidays

2011-11-23T04:39:00.001-08:00

Already,it is the end of November and the holiday season is bearing down upon us. Thisis the time of year where people either love it, hate it or just want tosurvive it until life goes back to “normal” sometime in January.

My husband,like his late mother, absolutely loves Christmas. He loves everything about it- the music, the decorations, the lights, the family get-togethers, the food,everything right down to that last piece of tinsel the cat potentially ate. Ourson, now 6, is ecstatic about Christmas just like most kids his age – theanticipation of Santa and new toys, the parades, the decorating, the baking,the crafts, seeing his Poppy and family. I am trying hard to make newtraditions and memories but generally, I am one of these people who just wantto survive the holidays. I don’t hate it but I don’t like it.

Youcannot escape the holidays without memories. Some memories are old, some arebeing newly created. With all of it come emotions. December is a cesspool ofemotional overload for some of us – an emotional powder-keg wrapped up with apretty little bow. Depression takes hold and anxiety runs amuck.

MyChristmas memories are varied. I recall the excitement of Christmas morning andthe joy of seeing my younger brother’s excitement. I remember how hard Momworked at trying to make it a good Christmas every year – crafting together, baking,hanging paper snowflakes in the windows, spraying fake snow, decorating untilit looked like the big red man himself vomited in our house. But many of thoseChristmases, no matter how hard anyone tried to keep them packaged up pretty,they were like the box with the cat that got wrapped up in National LampoonsChristmas Vacation… eventually the pee leaked out the bottom. Drinking,violence and the fear of the unexpected always tarnished the glittery bits.Knocked over Christmas trees, drunken Christmas brawls, drunk-driving charges,accidents, yelling and arguing. Stove fires from the cook passing out, familystrife and upheaval, inappropriate behavior, Santa missing in action. Treesthat were not permitted, decorations banned and gifts refused. Stress fromnever enough money and too much family. One year, I drank alone in a small roomin Halifax while eating cold beans from a can not seeing the point to celebratinga season where so much pain was involved. Always, my mother tried to keep thefloundering shipwreck called Christmas from sinking into the dark. The year sheand I sat alone in the dark drinking a bottle of wine, afraid to answer thephone and unsure where my father and brother were, while she tried to cheer usup singing Christmas carols off-key. Another year, my grandmother in a drunkenstupor gave me a damp used towel as a gift. Every scene is a new level of dysfunction.

Yes,it’s the most wonderful time of the year. Every jingle comes with a memory of afight, every holiday tune bringing back snippets of disappointment, every litbulb a feeling of rejection and abandonment. Sparkles glitter off the lightslike shimmering tears.

IfJesus watched the scene unfold every year at our house, I am sure he laughedand he raged but mostly, I am sure he wept. I know I did.

Butdespite all of those Christmases past, I have been given the greatest gift. Ihave been given the gift of grace. I have blessings too many to count today. Ican acknowledge the past, feel the hurts but not live in it anymore. Thatdoesn’t mean I am going to turn into someone who delights in everythingChristmas but it does mean that I will work on turning today into good memoriesfor myself and those I love.

With grace comes gratitude. I have a special place in my heart for families with domestic violence, for the abused, the broken, the hungry and the ones in need. I have a desire to love the poor, the survivors, the mentally ill, the addicted and the lonely. I can remember how even the simplest act of kindness made the greatest difference in my life.

Writing update

2011-11-20T17:55:00.001-08:00

I’ve been writing.

And writing.

Putting memories into words and words onto paper.

The thing about this process is…

It hurts.

So many difficult memories to get through. I thought that I had tackled most of this stuff when I did my 4th and 5th step but it appears that it was only the beginning. And with every memory, comes an emotion… or a flood of emotions.

Many of them are emotions that I repressed, unable to cope with at the time of the event. Things that I drank and drugged away, self-harmed to feel anything other than what I thought would kill me if I really felt. Someone tells me “God never gives you more than I can handle”. This phrase pops into my head several times a day, along with “this too shall pass” and “you are not your emotions. You can feel your emotions but you are not made of them.” This is especially helpful when dealing with the rage, shame and grief that threatens to overwhelm me.

I wish I could say I’m nearly done. I wish I could say I’m through the hardest stuff. I think often of trying to sweep it all back under the rug but I know it’s not possible. So I’ll keep pushing through. Eventually I know I’ll push through all of those years and get to today.

Today, life is pretty good. And the nice part is, I can write about that too.

Forgiveness. the saga continues.

2011-11-08T10:09:00.000-08:00

Unbelievable.

Exactly one year has passed and here I am full circle,writing about forgiveness again. Last year I wrote a blog post called“Forgiveness. A Long Term Process” after going on a spiritual retreat. The endstatement in that post is one that I still finding myself asking today “God, doI have value? Do you love me?”

A lot has happened in one year. I’ve managed to stay cleanand sober and most of the time it really isn’t the struggle it used to be. I’vegrieved the loss of some family members and some friends. I’ve put down a petof 13 years. I’m still working on the same career path being self-employed andit’s had its ups and downs but for the most part has served me well. Mydepression and anxiety are at manageable levels. Marriage has had its ups anddowns as well but I have come to a place where I recognize that even in thehardest times, we both have a strong sense of commitment and do love eachother. My son is another year older and has taught me a lifetime of lessons inthis past year. I have become much more comfortable in my church community andmore involved in seeking spiritual growth. I have pulled away from the rooms ofrecovery some, not leaving them entirely but focusing less on making themeverything in my life. I try to get to my ‘home group’ weekly and stay intouch with other recovering addicts as well as my sponsor. I have made somedeep personal friendships that were totally unexpected. I’ve learned a lotabout me and faced some very dark places within. I’ve experienced fear, anger,hatred, despair, bewilderment, happiness and most importantly, love.

But through all of this, the title of the post from one yearprior is very fitting - “A long term process”. The process is one that has not had its amount of pain andquestioning whether it will ever come to an end. One year later and I am stilltrying my damndest to understand how to forgive, not so much the small thingsbut those big nasty painful ones. The ones that are burned in your memory andmake you feel crazy. The ones that take your thoughts to the edge of the worldand threaten to push you over. The ones that have created your identity, forbetter or worse, with all your fears and insecurities, strengths andconvictions. Those are the ones that I still face daily and struggle with thepain of the healing process.

But one year later, I have something new added to my armourin this war. I have people who are involved in my life constantly reaffirmingthat I have value, even when I can’t see it in myself. I have had people who holdme up and stay with me when I feel most like just lying down and giving up. They haven't bolted at the first sign of trouble and abandoned me. IfGod works through people, I truly have been blessed throughout the years, butespecially this past one, to feel the hand of God working in my life. It makesme believe that even the most dire situations is tolerable when you feel loved. It makes me believe that anything can be accomplished, even forgiveness and self-love.

loneliness

2011-11-06T11:48:00.000-08:00

How is it that you can be completely surrounded by people and still feel absolutely and completely alone? Knowing that they have proved time and time again to be safe and caring and healthy, yet you constantly come to that place of feeling that it all is a lie. That you are completely alone in a sea of people.That you must be on the wrong planet. That the universe is playing some massive cosmic joke because you "should" not feel this way but you do.

There is no worse feeling that I can think of than loneliness.

Not the "poor me, I have no friends, nobody loves me, I think I'll go eat worms" lonely blues but that deep down in the pit of your stomach loneliness. The kind that, when you are surrounded by friends who love you and care for you just because you are instead of what you do, tells you that you need to run as far away as possible because you cannot, do not and never will deserve that love. It says "you cannot stand to be inside you, why would anyone else want to stay?" The beast of despair that whispers all those damn lies when you feel like you are making some headway at crawling out of the pit.

The thing about depression and addiction is that they are both spiritual illnesses. Triggered by any number of things, they come out of remission, these roaring demons from hell. Both want you to isolate in darkness where they can whisper the lies until they appear to be truths. They take goodness and love and turn it into fear, doubt, resentments and confusion. They take union and harmony and turn it into chaos and despair. Then they let you do the job of killing yourself, be it slowly or quickly. Spiritual illnesses thrive where it is dark and damp.

I'm still not sure how to overcome this beast that keeps rearing its ugly head every time I make some headway. Persistence I suppose. Persistence and prayer and people. Someone once told me when it all seems upside down and I don't know what to do, to do the opposite of what I feel. If that's the case, persistence, prayer and people must be the answer.

writing update - years 0-6.

2011-11-04T08:05:00.000-07:00

So far, I’ve gotten through writing about the first sixyears of my life. You’re probably asking “how much can one person possiblywrite about for the first six years?” “Does anyone even remember anythingbefore they are six?”

I don’t have a lot of memories of that time but I do knowthat as children, there is massive development in our personalities that occursby the time you become of age to go to school. The few memories that I doretain from that time period seem to be significant of what life was like thenand how things were going to play out further down the line.

So far, this is what I get from looking at this time betweenbirth and age 6.

• I absolutely adored my mother and my grandmother and feltloved by both at this time. I really credit this time period and that feelingof being loved as the thing that kept me from completely falling apart in lateryears.

• My family life was not exactly on par with Leave it toBeaver. There was a lot of drinking, partying and violence in the two homes Ispent time in. That partying, violence and sense of never knowing what wasgoing to come next began to set up the pattern of insecurity and fear thatwould be such a big part of my entire life.

• My parents loved each other. It may have been codependent and dysfunctional at times but that love was evidently there. Although their plans may have been rushed by an unexpected baby (me), they were what each needed to complete the other.

• There was a huge sense of stress in our household overresponsibilities – finances and jobs, drinking, relationships with my extendedfamily, childcare.

• My great grandfather who lived with my grandparents playedan integral part in protecting my grandmother from my grandfather and making mefeel safe.

• My mother and my grandmother passed on to me, a love of thenatural environment. My grandmother was most at home out on the lobster boatand loved being on the water. My mother enjoyed being in the garden andpainting her natural surroundings. My mother also passed on her love ofcreativity.

• I was not looking forward to the major changes that werecoming at age six.

This is what I have felt while writing about this time in my life.

• Comfort in seeing that my parents love each other, even though it was not expressed outwardly while I was growing up. They married despite the challenges they faced and are married today (to each other even!) This gives me confidence in the institution of marriage and the commitment that I see they have. I believe strongly in this same commitment.

• A sense of grieving over the unconditional love that I had from my mother. I believe that that love is still there but there has been a lifetime of muck and grime that tarnishes my perception of it.

• A feeling of loss over the relationship that I wanted with my father but never had.

• A deep sadness and anger about my grandparent's marriage and her conditions of life.

• A curiosity about what made my grandfather the type of man he was.

• A sense of gratitude that my grandmother was such a strong woman to stay in intolerable conditions and help raise my brother and I. Gratitude that my parents did marry and I did not have to live at my grandparents full time.

• An understanding of the stress of trying to make ends meet and just get through day to day life and how people react to that stress. I have had a lot in common with my father in how I want to respond to my son sometimes and how I have reacted to the stresses of life.

• I have a lot in common with my mother in the feelings of sheer joy and love while experiencing a child growing up. You get to live life through their eyes.

• Gratitude for being able to experience good memories. Gratitude of being able to learn from the bad ones.

the mistake.

2011-11-03T16:02:00.000-07:00

Imagine you are 12 years old. You are being bullied at school and in your neighborhood. Thankfully, the Internet is not around yet and cellphones are still to come. You have spent most of your life feeling afraid, angry and depressed. You feel unloved, abandoned and neglected. You have awful secrets that you live in terror of everyone finding out. You are afraid to come home. You are afraid not to go home. You often wish you could die in your sleep.

Now imagine that your birthday is tomorrow. You are turning 13.

It is well into the evening and you haven't seen your father yet. You wonder if he will even remember your birthday this year. Usually your mom has to make him say anything nice to you and his constant criticism makes you want to scream uncontrollably. It seems like all you ever do with him is argue and fight. This year, you have left home twice, only to end up in a worse place.

He comes in the door stinking of booze. His eyes look like two pissholes in a snow bank.

"So tomorrows' the big day, huh?" he slurs.

Your heart leaps a little, he did remember. Maybe this year will be different but you know to exercise caution.

"Uh huh," you reply.

"Have you done the math yet?" he asks.

You are confused.

"We got married in July. You were born in November. Do the math. You were a mistake."

Suddenly your whole life to date makes sense. You were a mistake. Unwanted. Now confirmed. You fight back the tears and swear never ever let him have the satisfaction of knowing how deep the wound cuts.

I have had 25 birthdays since. The wounds never healed, I just kept covering them up. I understand a little more about that time in my life but this huge wound rips open every November. My father is not the same man he was then (and I'm pretty sure he may not even remember this conversation and I know that listening to the opinions of drunk people may not be wise) and I am not that young girl seeking love and approval and just the tiniest recognition that I have some worth (actually I am in many ways). I've spent a lot of years completely drunk trying to just force the day away. I've tried ignoring the day. I've spent many years hiding in the shadow of my late mother-in- law's birthday which was a day later. Then I spent the previous three grieving her death as she died the day before my birthday. So needless, to say, this is not my favorite time of the year. It is a time of reflection, of mourning, and a time of challenging lies.

Perhaps it can also start being a time of celebration... and of forgiveness.

I love you Dad. I hope you can forgive me for all the years I shut you out.

Letter to me at 8.

2011-10-25T20:49:00.000-07:00

As part of the Artist’s Way, I was challenged to write aletter to myself at the age of 8. This has turned out to be a very therapeutic writingproject. It gives me a chance to reflect on what I have been through, the goodand the bad, and to see where I am today. I am learning to forgive myself and see howGod has never left me despite me choosing not to see him. I also can see howboth God and that nearly forgotten child are coming back into my life.

Dear Lisa,

I’m now 30 years older than you are. Next month, you’ll turnnine. I don’t remember exactly how life was as an 8 year old but I know you arein grade three and your brother is now 3 years old. I’m sure you feel like hegets all the attention and love. You are going to go through a lot between where you are now and where Iam today. I know you have already seen and experienced things that no childshould. I can’t express how deeply saddened I am by this. We both deservedbetter.

I’m very sorry that I shut you away where I thought it wassafest, within the confines of my heart behind barricade after barricade ofstone walls. I know it was dark and lonely and that you just wanted to come outto play. I believed I knew what was best. I was wrong in some regards but I trulydid the best that I could. I believed you were forever gone, and God was not inour life. I know today that He stayed with you, the child within that neededhim most, keeping you in safe and loving company. He was also with me but Ichose not to see him.

Today, as you are starting to emerge from the darkness andbecome part of a whole person, the person I am today and am growing to become,I also see God showing himself as well. It is a truly miraculous process. Ithink He smiles upon us.

You have never been forgotten and I honor your place in mylife today. You are the creativeone, the funny one, the one who likes to play. You are the daydreamer and thevisionary. You are the storyteller and the artist. You contain the best partsof both of our parents, the uniqueness of you, and you bring light to a dark world.

Welcome home, little one.

2011-10-21T06:45:00.000-07:00

OK.

So this week I’ve been trying to follow the nudges I’ve beengetting and start mapping out the framework of my life story. I’ve beenstarting timelines, making lists of people, places, and events, looking atemotions and recurring patterns. In short, I’ve been performing do-it-yourself heart surgery.

Here’s where I’m at with it…

GOD???? Are you sure this is what you want me to do???Because frankly, it sucks!

I’m plagued with nightmares and having massive amounts ofbacklash from within – self-doubt, self-criticism and FEAR. There are largeblank spots - some due to black-out drinking, others just large, dark andblank. I’m afraid to find out what is in those places. Then there is thethought of how I need to fill in those blanks. I am afraid to stir up the pastfor other people I care about. I don’t know if it is fair for me to cause thememotional distress just because I have embarked on this path of healing. How doI continue this with good intention and love at the forefront?

And then there is the big F bomb. FORGIVENESS. This is where the journey with God started at aretreat 13 months ago and I feel like it has come full circle. It is the wordthat keeps coming up over and over again (when I read it in the first chapterof this book “God” threw at me at Valu Village this week, I near threw the bookacross the room). I’ve come a long way over the past year and forgiveness hasbeen a huge part of the process but I know it is the largest barrier in mycontinuing growth. Just the thought of forgiving two men in my life makes meseethe with anger.

Continuing, these are the things that I trust:

1. I am at a much healthier place to tackle thesechallenges than I ever have been.

2. God has surrounded me with people who care aboutme and will not bail on me at the first sign of difficulty.

3. God will not give me more than I can handle.

4. The process of healing and forgiveness willhappen at the speed and manner in which they are meant to happen. I am not incontrol.

5. I can keep putting one foot in front of theother to do the work. Sometimes that work involves asking for and accepting help.

Deep breaths.

Good Orderly Direction.

2011-10-19T06:03:00.000-07:00

Coincidences. Serendipity. Synchronicity. God moments.

I’ll bet if you look at your life, you’ll find that you havea series of these. I know I have. I’ve had so manylately, it’s almost scary. Correction – it IS scary. Once I opened my eyes upto accepting and looking for these moments, it seems like they multiply at an amazing rate. I am beginning to believe that if I listen towhat they are telling me, they guide my life in a positive way (sometimeseven through negative events). G.O.D. - Good Orderly Direction.

Sometimes a dream tells me that there is something inmy life I need to look at. Sometimes I find a book or get an emailwhen I wasn’t even looking for the answer to a question. Sometimes aperson or people are put in my life or an event unfolds. Sometimes I just seeor hear the right thing, opening up a thought process that I wasn’t evenintending to travel.

I used to think that if I prayed and meditated hard enough,I’d hear the answers God wanted me to hear. Maybe that’s how it works for somepeople. Maybe someday, that’ll work for me. But lately, the answers I’m gettingare coming at me so fast and furious that it’s hard to ignore the pattern. Ithink God knows I’m a little thick and stubborn and will try to take my ownwill over before I’ll finally give in to the process.

If I look back to the year 2000, events started shaping theroad to this place I’m at now. Family crisis happened on both sides of the family tree (ALL the nuts fell out at once) and we were in a major car accidentinvolving a drunk driver (not me). This all forced me to take a good hard look at my ownsubstance abuse. Our son was born in 2005 and that made me look evenharder at why I couldn’t beat this addiction thing and why I couldn't find serenity within me. Job situations combined with having our son made us look at leaving the city of Halifax; the last place Iwould have chosen was to come back to the island but we did. I didn’t know thatcoming back to the place I grew up was going to force the wounds to heal.

On the island, I really was forced to seriously look at my own issues becausemental illness and addiction took hold again. That led to rehab, counseling andrelapse prevention programs. This time I truly could take advantage of theseprograms because my work situation was suddenly more flexible. At one ofthese programs, I met someone who hooked me up information on a retreat. Then I found myself at church after a series ofdeaths and I had no real answers to give my son about life or death. Mygrandfather died and my whole world ripped apart again. I thought the pain wasnow over but the pain of healing had really just begun. This entire year has beenabout healing. Painful, messy, god-awful healing.

At the retreat and at church (two places I never would have chosen to be on my own), I found my sponsor who alongwith her husband became safe people I could trust to open up to. Theyintroduced me to my pastor and his wife who became more people that I felt safewith. Then I met more safe friends. Healing was beginning to happen at anincredible rate. I began to thirst for a relationship with God. And everywhereI looked, he’d show up.

One of the things that has come out of this year hasbeen the opportunity to start writing again. It started with an on-line group that shares writing prompts. I had not really written anythingreally since university. I began to remember how much I love to write. It started with fiction and then I began to use non-fiction to help the healing process. The more I write and share my story, the moreencouragement I seem to get, even from people that I hardly know. This takes meto where I am now.

Sharing my story. Writing. Healing. Moving forward andfinding a purpose in it all.

I have a therapist who constantly tells me to write. I havefriends who tell me that I need to write. My husband tells me that it appearsto be my purpose. And when I write, it feels right. It takes all of theseevents and things that happened to me, that appear to have absolutely no good in them, and merge them into something that has a purpose. Chaos packagedseems to make more sense. Sharing my story might help others who have hadsimilar experiences, confusions and despair. It certainly helps me. Writing gives me peace and a sense ofaccomplishment.

This past month, I have had people out of the blue tell mehow much they connect with my writing (I’m really not trying to brag here, I’mjust trying to connect the dots). Then I heard on the radio a piece aboutsharing your story and how healing it is for everyone involved. I was suddenly asked tojoin a writing group. I got an email from a magazine about how to write yourmemoir. I went to a group and was asked to share some of my writing that waspersonal. The meeting was about sharing your true self. Everywhere I look,the signs are telling me to write and to share my story.

Yesterday, I happened to go to the local thrift shop and Iknocked over a book. Picking it up, the title was “How to Write Your LifeStory”.

OK God, I get it. Today, I’m starting the work.

Being Loved

2011-10-16T21:38:00.000-07:00

This has been an extremely difficult week wrought withdifficult and intense emotions. Grief over the loss of a close family member,triggered memories and attempting to maintain a “normal” life in recovery whileprocessing all of it has been exhausting. Through all of this, certain peoplehave showed me just what real followers of Christ are like. They have loved me andshown me support when I feel at my most vulnerable and unlovable.

This week, I attended a group function at which I read apiece I had written about “lies” and how I have all of theseblessings in my life for which I am grateful, but my sick, twisted mindconstantly tells me that I don’t deserve them. It takes me great effort toaccept blessings and grace. It also takes me great effort to acceptforgiveness. These are things that God and Jesus are all about – blessing,grace and forgiveness. At church this morning, our pastor spoke about doubts.This has been a week of huge doubts for me; doubts about my spirituality,doubts about my recovery and doubts about me as a person.

Tonight, I came to a realization when someone I care aboutposted a social network status saying how blessed they are with all of thethings they have in this life. I have been shown more grace in this life thanany person could possibly deserve and have more blessings today than I couldever even hope for. I have thought a lot about God’s love this week and howdifficult it is for me to even comprehend let alone accept unconditional love.

Then I started mentally stripping away the blessings I have been given. Whatif I went back to having no job and could not be a productive member ofsociety? God still loves me. What if my husband and son were taken out of thepicture and I was alone again? God still loves me. What if I went back towaking up hungry and not knowing where my next meal comes from; if I went backto looking for a safe place to sleep every night? Yep, still loved. What if Iwas sick and broken and seemingly hopeless again? STILL loved! Wow. That is an absolutelyand unequivocally awesome realization. I do not have to DO anything to deservelove. I AM loved simply because I am one of God’s kids. Simply because I have been created.

I know that I still have tremendous doubts and fears and along way to go with healing but this realization feels like a monumentalblessing on its own.

Out of the Darkness

2011-10-15T09:08:00.000-07:00

Sharp streaks of lightning rip open pregnant skies. Thunderbellows down, reminding me how small I really am, how vulnerable and afraid.Peeking out from the safety of my blanket, I see the rain pelting against thewindows. It sounds like it wants to come in and wash me away, to take mesomewhere even more frightening. God is out there, menacing and all-seeing,lying in wait to judge and condemn even a small child like me. I know he seesmy thoughts and feelings. He knows just how bad I am.

The door slams thunderously. The air becomes static withtension. She sits next to me in silence, the fear sweating off her in waves. Iwant to burrow myself into safety. If only the darkness of the blanket couldtransport me somewhere far away, I would grab her hand and we could escape tosomewhere light. He is all-knowing, all-seeing and all-powerful. He condemns,judges, criticizes and punishes. He can never be pleased or satisfied. Like Godalmighty, he is fierce.

Ripping the drink from her hand, he roars. The glass smashesinto a million pieces, each shard a shattered dream waiting to be swept away. Rumsoaks into the carpet and its sweet smell cloys in my nose. Pushing as far backagainst the arm of the couch as possible, I pull a sparkly piece of glass frommy arm. Blood quickly wells up replacing the foreign object and I suck at itcomfortingly. My eyes hurt from holding back the flood of tears. Ripping herfrom her seat, he forces her to the floor. My world fills with darkness.

I “unbelieved” in God. I wanted to “unbelieve” in the worldI lived in.

Over thirty years have passed, mostly filled with shades ofgrey and black. He’s dead and gone but dark memories don’t fade. They wash inand out of consciousness with varying degrees of force, sometimes a gentle rainwashing against the window panes of my mind, other times thundering stormsthreaten to overtake everything. And where was God?

God has been coming back into my life like sunshine througha dirty window-pane. Unbelief is a slow process to overcome. Sometimes it seemslike the pane is clear and the sun shines through and other times myperspective shifts to the remaining filth left over. But God stays constant,whether I walk away from the task or choose to embrace the comforting warmth ofhis light. The storm is over and God is willing to walk with me to help clearthe wreckage.

God is not who I believed he was at all.

Life Gone Too Soon.

2011-10-09T14:21:00.000-07:00

Let me paint you a picture of alcoholism.

Take someone whois incredibly intelligent, funny, giving and compassionate, full of lifeand love and strip them down to the bare essentials. That same loving person isinside a 90 pound body, sick and muddled, unable to get out of their own wayeven enough to let others help them get well. That same loving person isconvinced that this time, they are in control and can do this life thing ontheir own, even though they seem to have hit their bottom time and time again.They live in conditions that you and I consider deplorable and they can’t seehow or why we care. They act in ways that you and I say, “when are they goingto finally start climbing into the light?”

And God knows, we try. We try over and over to help them getwell. We try to convince them that they can have a good life. We argue. Wecajole and beg. We manipulate. We lead by example. We try to love them well.Sometimes we even get a glimmer of hope that this time they are going tochange. We tried when we heard others saying, “Just give up, he’ll never getit.” We tried when we heard others saying, “What is wrong with that family thatthey can’t fix him?”. God knows we tried.

And still alcohol won. In the end, that same funny,beautifully vibrant, smart, caring man who always had a great story to make melaugh until my sides split or had just the right thing to say to make me thinkthat maybe life was going to be ok, in the end, he left us way too soon. I knowtoday he’s giving God a side-splitting, wipe the tears from your eyes bellylaugh with one of his crazy stories of past antics.

Alcoholism strips us of our dignity. It strips us of ourstrength. It strips us of relationships. It strips us of motivation. I sharethe same disease of alcoholism and know that it could have easily been me wholeft this world too soon. I don't have any answers why him and not me. Alcoholism truly is the great remover. But those ofus who truly knew my uncle, who truly saw the man inside the shell, knew thathis spirit was still there right until the end. His spirit is still inside us,in our memories and in our grief. To love an alcoholic is to practice pure andunconditional love, the greatest lesson any of us can aspire to.

I pray that he finally has found peace because only God knows how hard he tried.

Lies

2011-10-06T13:22:00.000-07:00

Why did you tell them that? Those are secrets! Haven’t youlearned anything in this life that people are not trustworthy? They are nowgoing to judge you as the loser you are. You will never amount to anything. Youare just a product of your environment, don’t ever believe you can be more thanthat. You are not supposed to feel like crying, suck it up candy-ass. Don’t bea baby. What makes you think your story is anything special. Don’t believe inthis God and love stuff, it's all a big lie to make you weak.

LIES.

The million voices inside that breed self-doubt,self-criticism and fear. These are the voices that kept me trapped inside abottle of booze. They kept me locked inside a bottle of pills. They are thevoices that told me the only safe place for me is locked inside my house, awayfrom people and danger. They are the voices that kept my heart locked tight and‘safe’ from relationships. They are the voices that even screwed with myphysical health - adding pounds, blood pressure issues, ulcers and intestinaldisorders. They turned worry into anxiety and anxiety into panic. They coatedeverything in a cloak of depression and fatigue. I thought these were thevoices that made up me; that this is who I am. Worthless. Useless. Hopeless.Ugly. A waste of space.

LIES.

I still have those voices. They are not gone. They come outin full force every time I try to step outside the box they have created forme. Every time I share my story.Every time I do something good for myself. Every time I try to build and maintainfriendships. Every time I take a step forward in my career, my relationships,my spiritual growth. Every time I risk vulnerability. Those voices sometimesstart as tiny whispers, sometimes they barrel into my conscious in a full roar. Their goal is to get me back intocaptivity (or take me out altogether).

Gratitude is one weapon against the lies. I have anabundance of things to be grateful for in my life today. Family, a beautifulchild, a good husband, authentic friends, a nice home, food in my cupboards,material things that make my life easier, an education and an income, talentsand skills, relatively good health and the list goes on. (what’s interestingis that as I write this, the voices shift their focus to "what do you have tocomplain about, see how ungrateful you are? People are going to think you arebragging. They will hate you. Besides, you will just screw it up and lose itall anyway. Don’t get attached to it.")

Once the beast of lies is awakened, I need to get out of my ownhead. Retreat. Write. Talk to someone. Read affirming literature. Pray. Listen topositive music. Walk. Do something fun. Play with my son. Paint. Garden. Createsomething. The best way for me to beat the lies back into submission isto focus outward instead of inward. Gratitude becomes an action and not just a thought. Those actions create breeding grounds for more positive thoughts and hope in the future.

The lies cannot win if I am living a good life by learning to love myself, others and God. This is my truth.

Building a foundation of trust.

2011-09-28T19:30:00.000-07:00

When did it first occur to you thatyou might want to start trusting God with your life?

When I came into recovery first ten years ago, Iheard over and over that I needed to turn my life over to God (or a higherpower) if I wanted to stay clean and sober. It was even made very clear in thesteps (Step 3. Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the careof God as we understood him). Although I wanted desperately to do this, I couldnot believe in something that I didn’t see or understand, refused to feel andwas incapable of trusting (I guess in that case God could be synonymous withLove). As a result, I could never fill that emptiness within and kept repeating the same self-loathing, destructive behaviours and pushing away everyone who even gave the impression that they cared about me.

When life began to change a year ago, I really hadn’tgone looking for God and really didn’t have any plans to start trustinganything or anyone. It just seemed like certain people were placed in my path, events unfolded that I didn’t plan, and God has been revealing himselfto me, sometimes in big ways and sometimes in small ways. God has been offeringa relationship that begins on knowing him and then trusting him. God has been teachingme to trust in the time that seems to be necessary for me (although at times it seems painfully slow).

I can imagine God being like a kind animal loverwho is dealing with a dog that has been tortured; putting a little kibble outbut not forcing the animal to eat, offering kind words and soothing tones but making no sudden movements, eventually gaining enough trust from the animal to be ableto touch her and acknowledge her fear and shame. He proves to the animalthrough loving actions that there just might be goodness in this world afterall and that this animal is worth being loved.

I’m not sure if I’m in a place yet of feeling worthyof being loved or of being able to trust in God completely but I do know thatI’m no longer that mangy mongrel that would fearfully bite any hand that comesnear. I still shiver and shake and probably even pee on the carpet a little,but I’m willing to wait and see what his next move is going to be.

Bullied

2011-09-27T06:23:00.000-07:00

“Tomboy!”
“Freak!”
“Bitch!”
“You better run! We’re going to get you anyway!”

The name calling and taunting was relentless but mostoften, it didn’t stop at that. Each morning, I awoke with a ball of fear startingin the pit of my stomach that grew to tickle each and every nerve ending of mybeing. I awoke dreading the possible events of each day before I even placed my feet on the floor.

Would the criticism start before I even got out the door? Myfather’s criticism was not as directly abusive as what I would face when Istepped into the fresh air but it was just as stinging and worse, it drapeditself over my soul like a mildewy blanket. I believed I could shrug off thetaunting and teach myself to tune out the harsh words of the world, notrealizing that instead the words and actions were seepinginto the deepest recesses of my psyche waiting to disguise themselves in poorself esteem and self loathing. I turned off emotions like someone turns off alight switch.

Summertime was the ideal time for me as a child. I couldescape to the comfort and safety of the woods behind our house for entire days. I was good at making myself invisible,was fast on my feet and knew the trails instinctively. I was at home inisolation.

But sometimes I would be caught off guard by one of theneighborhood bullies before making my escape. It was at those times of being caughtby one or more of these teenage boys (or girls) that the fear threatened tooverwhelm me. I never knew what was coming next. Acidic words, being shot withpellet guns, forced confinement in small dark spaces, the threats of being liton fire, smothered or my younger brother hurt, beaten up, tied up, spit on,violated, material items destroyed or stolen, the list goes on. Today, many of thosepeople today are either dead or imprisoned. Life did not change for them asthey got older, simply the environment changed.

School was a refuge for me because at least within astructured environment, chaos was kept to a minimum. But I still had to facerecesses and lunch hours and the long bus ride home. As early as grade 2, Iwould choose to bike to school rather than face my peers on the bus. I tried tofight back but most often, I just tried to be invisible. Depression and anxietyset in at a really early age. Suicide was always on the back burner of my mind, the final absoluteoption if things got really, really bad.

Some people ask “Why didn’t you tell someone?” to which Ireply who was there really to tell? My grade seven teacher, after seeing anincident in a hallway, asked me about it and I broke down crying. Sheconfronted that particular abuser and a half dozen of his friends made my lifeeven more unbearable. I felt alone, unprotected and life seemed hopeless. Junior high was unbearable. I could be guaranteed on any daythat there would be some amount of taunting, the possibility of a fist fight,the likelihood that my books, lunch or homework be stolen or damaged and thebus ride home made some form of torture.

Stepping off the bus, I’d brace myself for the next part ofmy day. Coming home to my grandparents. There were just so many possibilitiesof what could go wrong there. Would she be just drunk or would she be dead?Would I have to try to break up a fight or call the police? Where would he beand what level of darkness would he be consumed with? How was this part of myday going to play out?

I read stories today of children being bullied and theresulting effects, many of them taking their own lives, and it deeply saddens me. I knowwhere they are, I’ve been where they’ve been and it is a very dark, seeminglyhopeless place. Children have very little skill at perceiving a time other thanthe present. Words like “It’ll get better” seem trite and uncaring. I don’tknow what the answers are for some kids, I don’t think I can tell you how lifecould have been made better for me. Perhaps I wouldn’t have sought relief indrugs and alcohol, self-harm and suicide attempts if I had a concept of a Godthat loved and cared for me. I do know that along each point of the way, I was shown at least one person who illustrated kindness and goodnessand was willing to just listen to whatever small amount I felt safe to share.

Although I felt most of my life that God turned his back on me, allowingatrocities to occur, I see now how perhaps those few people and those smallacts of kindness were the moments and times that God was taking care of me. Thetiniest amount of kindness kept me alive. If there is anything that I do inthis life, I hope that I can touch at least one person in the way that some ofthose “angels” did for me.

The "Friends" List.

2011-09-24T18:31:00.000-07:00

I have been doing a lot of thinking this week aboutrelationships and how I interact with people (or don’t). Sadly, the big newsof the week seems to be about how people are reacting to changes to Facebook(what has the world come to when virtual relationships are the leading news?).I’ve been considering how my life and my interaction with God and others looksfrom the outside looking in and what I truly want it to look like.

Admittedly, I spend way too much time on Facebook, updatingstatuses that are usually quite meaningless, checking what is going on in otherpeople’s lives, posting photos and commenting on other people’s comments. Ihave reconnected with people I haven’t seen in 25 years and some of thoserelationships have actually become people that I have made it a point to havecoffee with every now and then. I have gotten to know some people online wellenough that I’ve been brave enough to bring them into my small circle offriendships. So there have been advantages to taking part in this socialtechnology.

On the flip side of the coin, I have people on my “friends”list that I probably wouldn’t ever invite them over for supper. There are peoplethere that I might not even recognize if I saw them in the mall. WhenI try to trim down my friends list, some people react as if it is anaffront, even though they never interact with me online and probably would notsay hello to me on the street. These are my “lurkers”. In real life, I wouldn’thave this problem because I never would have opened myself up to being aroundthem. I am much more cautious in face-to-face interactions. I should be ascautious on-line but because it doesn’t seem like a real relationship, so Itend to be lax in my security. Fail on my part.

So with the changes this week, I have had to take a seriouslook at my online involvement. The privacy settings have been changed so peopleI don’t even know see when there is an interaction between me and my “friend”simply because my “friend” may have them on their list. I don’t know how lax my“friends” are in their security and it opens me up to security issues thatpreviously I believed I had locked down in my privacy settings. Big-time fail,Facebook! But since you are a free service, I'll cut you some slack, it's your prerogative to change whatever you like. But it still feels a bit like a drug dealer/addict scenario... we've been lulled into a false sense of entitlement and security because you gave us the first hit for free. Now that we are starting to feel the negative aspects, we want to blame you for changing the game.

For a personal example of security issues, there is a gentleman in my past that I do notwant involvement with in any way, shape or form. There is still a huge amountof fear that I know I need to work through but in the meantime, I have made ita point to try to prevent this person from having access to my whereabouts andfamily. Now, because I am “facebook friends” with many people that may have him includedon their list (there are only so many degrees of separation in a small place),I have no control over this security. Don’t get me wrong, I know perfectly wellthat if he wants to find me or contact me, he can find a way but I am hopingthat currently there is little that will put me on his radar. A news feed that has myname pop up may just tweak that sick and twisted radar in my direction again.I’m not willing to let that happen.

As a result of all of this, I have realized several thingsabout me. One: I need to work on the fear and leftover effects of someunhealthy relationships in my past. Two: I need to focus less on relationshipsthat both parties aren’t willing to put any effort into and more on truehealthy friendships. I know this about myself: I fear intimate and realface-to-face relationships and social interaction. Facebook has been a falseway to tackle the feelings of loneliness and isolation and has allowed me notto really force myself to develop real relationships. It is very easy to hidebehind a computer. I’ve done it for the past 15 years at work and at home. Myquestion to pose is this: if I don’t see us ever sitting down to have coffee, a realconversation,or even a meaningful email, are we really “friends”? Even pen-pals have some type of arelationship, it is reciprocal; people getting to know each other. Facebookfriendships allow us to eavesdrop and lurk on other people’s lives withouthaving to put in the effort to really get to know each other. I’m not sure thatis what I want in my life. Still, I’m not sure how I am going to tackle the socialnetworking conundrum options – facebook? Google+? Leave them altogether?

As a result of these realizations, I am planning totake action in this way – try to become more involved in real relationships anddiscover who my real friends are. Maybe you’ll get a note or a postcard in themail. Maybe a phone or skype call. Maybe you’ll get an email with a real letterattached (not a chain mail letter telling you how much friends mean to me. Ifyou’re really my friend, ask me how I’m doing. Don’t send me a cc’ed note andthink that’ll cut the mustard.) Maybe we’ll get together for coffee or acrafting night. Maybe we’ll do something real that is fun and involves realpeople with real feelings. Yes, it’s hard but isn’t it worth it?

At the end of my life, I’d rather think back on the realrelationships I’ve maintained; the family and friends I’ve had and the thingswe did. I’m pretty sure I won’t be looking back and thinking about the statusupdates I sent and how I had such an impressive friends list.

Going against the grain.

2011-09-19T10:29:00.000-07:00

Yesterday in church, our pastor talked about how Christians, especially early disciples, were persecuted and challenged for choosing to follow Jesus and go against the norms of society. Even today we are challenged. Following Jesus just is not the cool thing to do and it makes many people uncomfortable. Change in almost any form upsets the apple cart and sometimes people will do whatever they can to either ignore it or rail against it.

I got to thinking about my own life and how that applies. When I was a kid, I didn’t fit in. I was a tomboy and had no idea how to fit into the norms of all of the other little girls; playing jump rope at recess, talking about boys, learning how to dance and apply makeup, having sleepovers and often gossiping and being catty to each other. I didn’t see the appeal and didn’t feel the need to try to conform; partially out of fear of rejection and partially out of independence. Because I didn’t fit in, I was tormented and bullied a lot, both by boys and girls. In junior and high school, I bounced from group to group or was a loner, not really fitting in to any one group - in the end, I suppose the potheads and headbangers were the closest I came to fitting in (the most broken and damaged group) but still trying to maintain advanced academics so not completely adapting. I don’t know why I didn’t try to conform but I am glad today that I didn’t despite how hard life was.

One of my traits throughout life has been to always root for the underdog (perhaps because I was one). If I saw someone being bullied or beaten up, either in my family or on the playground, I would put myself in the middle of it and stand up for the victim. This did not make me popular and did manage to gain me a lot of bruises. I don’t know why I didn’t slink away or join the crowds jeering on a fight but it didn’t feel right inside and I am glad today that I didn’t despite how hard life was.

I've had many jobs where my supervisor or manager tried to use bullying tactics to bring me into line with the rest of the workplace. "Cut your hair." "Dress differently and use make-up." "Go to this function and suck up." "Work 70 hour weeks and make sure you are on call at all times." Immediately in every situation, I have rebelled (Perhaps I just have a problem with authority). I refused to play office politics and participate in the lunchroom gossip, instead opting for time to myself. I have left several jobs on my terms and find that despite not fitting in to what people wanted me to be, today I am successful with my career. I am glad today that I didn't give in despite how hard life was.

When I decided that my life was out of control and wanted to quit drinking and drugging, life changed tremendously. Although my husband was my biggest supporter, we both found it very difficult trying to adjust to the confusions of me changing. Although the old me was not healthy, we both knew how to live around it and easily could have just tried to give up. When I told my family about recovery, in the beginning, it upset the apple cart. My parents didn’t see how I had a problem (when actually they didn’t see how they didn’t even know who I was) and questioned why I would do something so drastic. When I went into rehab, it was not discussed. One relative, in a drunken stupor, often would say words that were true but had a bite - “You are no better than me and don’t you ever think you are.” The biggest challenge has been breaking that cycle of not just addiction but dysfunctional thinking. When friends I used to drink and use with found out I was in recovery, they avoided me and I found myself alone wondering why I was bothering to try to change. Although the journey has been difficult, I am glad today that I am not giving in despite how hard life can be.

When I started facing physical and sexual abuse issues, I REALLY upset the apple cart. All of the secrets were being let out and some people didn’t look so good in the light, including me in some situations. It still makes for uncomfortable circumstances. Every time I walked into therapy or wrote a new blog post, I felt like I was betraying the family and my own dark secrets. It would have been much easier to just pretend it didn’t happen. Stop talking about it, stop writing about it. But although this journey has been incredibly painful and difficult, I am glad today that I have not given up despite how hard life can be.

Now that I am going to church and seeking a relationship with God, it is ruffling a few feathers. I am not the same person that most people knew me to be. Yes, I still have a dark sense of humor and a crazy side that lets loose occasionally. I’m still shy and anxious in new situations and around most people. I still care for the underdog. I still am determined and hard working. I’m still creative. I still suffer with bouts of depression and fear. The big difference is that I am starting to feel like I am capable of loving and being loved. I am beginning to have faith. But I still cringe when people say “oh she’s religious” because I don’t really think I am. Yes, I’m finding God and I’m finding a community that shares in that search but I still do not comply to standards, rules and regulations that many religious institutions prefer. But just the mention of God makes some people upset. I know because I was one of them. I don't try to convert people and I respect others beliefs. Although I don’t really fit the mold of some Christians and I don’t really fit the mold of my agnostic and atheist friends, I’m glad today that I’m not trying to fit in despite how hard life can be.

I know people that have tried their whole lives living in the herd, just trying not to be noticed or trying not to be rejected. And most of them just don’t seem happy. They seem to ‘get by’ for most of their lives until some crisis hits like a divorce or a death of someone close and then suddenly they find that they don’t really know who they are. They go into therapy or a bottle looking for answers.

It seems to me that the fear of persecution is more painful than actually being persecuted. The herd can be nasty and volatile, ready to attack each other at any instant. Herd mentality is based more on fear than actual persecution. I wonder if herd instinct is a natural way humans are built because even in Christianity, despite the fact that Jesus pushed his disciples to not fall into the trap and to push on, the church seems to have just adapted to it, instead persecuting anyone who thinks differently, questions things or is outside their herd. Ask any person who claims that they "dislike organized religion" and they will likely tell you that Christians are just another herd of people ruled by conformity and that religion is based on fear. Please do not sign me up. It all reminds me of the cliques that made up junior and high school, just a "grown-up" version of the same thing.

I don’t think I fit in the herd (any herd) but I’m glad today that I am becoming who I am. When you truly know who you are and who you want to become, any amount of persecution seems to be a small price to pay. I am becoming who I was meant to be.

Are you?

As We Understood Him.

2011-08-27T04:31:00.000-07:00

Recently, I heard someone mention that they had a fear of Step 3. They were afraid to turn their life and will over to the care of God – as we understood him. I could relate to their fear on the deepest level as that has been my experience as well.

For many years, I focused on the part of that step that said “as we understood him”. I figured that this must be a very important part of this step since it was usually bolded and underlined in all the AA literature. I was not wrong in its importance but I was focusing on the wrong thing. I was looking at it from the perspective that I didn’t understand him so therefore how could I possibly turn my life over to something I didn’t understand.

Not only did I not understand God but had absolutely no control over him, despite how good, bad or indifferent I was. People were difficult enough to trust in relationships, now I had to put my trust in relationship with something even more foreign that didn’t follow any of the formulas or control features that I had worked out? With people, I had grown up learning to read people, to discover what they wanted or expected and acting accordingly in order to get what I wanted or needed. I thought that’s how life worked. For every action, there is a reaction. God doesn’t seem to work that way. No matter what I do, how bad I screw up, or try to make myself better, the fact is still the same – I am a child of God and loved intrinsically. That’s pretty hard to get your head around when you’re used to love being given or taken away like a bone to a dog.

And “as we understood him” is not meant to mean how much or how little we understand him. It is AS we understand him – right here, right now. Even the tiniest belief that there may be a God is an understanding. How can anyone understand God? He is too big to really even comprehend. What I have learned through my journey is that God is not meant to be ‘understood’ but rather the intention is to ‘feel’ and ‘act’ in relationship with God. It is a heart thing, not a head thing.

The thought of turning your life and will over to anything is a scary prospect in itself. Change is hard and when you’ve spent an entire lifetime living one way, you can’t even imagine what life will look like if it is different. It is almost more comfortable living in misery because you know what that looks like. The payoff just isn’t worth it though. I only know this from experience.

And what the new way looks like… I can hardly begin to describe the difference but I can tell you that there is one. People who know me from even a year ago tell me of the positive changes constantly. I see others who are taking this same journey and I see the miraculous changes in their lives. And as for this quest to get to know God, I’m learning to be in relationship with him as I surround myself with people who know him and feel him working in their lives. It’s kinda like wanting to learn how to speak Spanish… why would I go to a French class looking for the answers? I need to go where people know the language, where people get excited about sharing their knowledge and seeing me learn and support me in it. And that excitement is contagious! I want to read everything I can get my hands on, I want to talk to people about their experiences and share questions and thoughts, I want to spend time in prayer and meditation, I want to spend time in worship. I want to live and actually experience life and have fun! I am more able to get out of my own pain and anger and to experience good things. That's a HUGE change.

I still have periods of doubt and question God, people and this new way of life. I still struggle with periods of depression and coping with repercussions of my past. But they are shorter periods and after each one, my faith and strength seems to increase. The fear is diminishing. I see how God is changing my life and how this life is changing my perspective of God.

2011-08-19T03:27:00.000-07:00

This is an article that I wrote for a local magazine earlier this year.

Parenting is an adventure that generally doesn't come with a guidebook. The journey is like none other.

One of the first lessons I learned about having a child is that all modesty can be thrown out the window for at least 12 years whereupon, the child would prefer to throw a sheet over you in public rather than be seen with his or her parent. This modesty-disrobing lesson became evident to me during the following event.

For anyone who has not had the opportunity of visiting Charlottetown's "finest" bathroom facility, it is located in Murphy's Friendly Pharmacy. This state of the art facility is completely automated by hand-sensors, I assume to provide convenience of avoiding those nasty public germs. The washroom door opens automatically by waving your hand in front of a pad, then closes and locks automatically.

One day two years ago, my son needed to immediately use the washroom (4 year olds always wait to the last moment and then panic as if their bottom is afire) so we rushed in. He was already on the toilet as I tried desperately to close the door. Since the door is automatic, resistance is futile and I had to wait until it shut on its own. I looked around, admiring the state of the art appliances, and noticed a panic button which concerned me greatly (those of you who have children, know the overwhelming temptation they have to push a large bright green button with big letters on it). I quickly turned my strict attention back to my child. Stuart by this point has discovered that the toilet paper is hand-sensored and a huge puddle of paper was growing on the floor. "Cool," he exclaimed. "Not cool," I muttered. Cleaning up the waste, I ensured that he completed his task and realized that I too needed to relieve my bladder.

Standing him up, I asked him to pull his pants up while I went to the toilet. So there I was, hovering over the toilet in the evacuate position (my mother taught me to avoid germs the old fashioned way, just don't touch anything; hand-sensored or not. This was hell on escalators as we couldn't touch the railing... She'd rather us fall and break our neck than be contaminated by a germ), and my child standing in front of the door with his pants around his ankles. I stared intently at that ominous green panic button, ready to pounce in the event that little fingers passed anywhere within 2 feet of it. I didn't realize that he discovered that the door is sensored from the inside as well.

To my dismay, the door swung open exposing both of us in all our glory to the pharmacy cash register, the 6 people standing in line and the people in the hallway. I let out a bestial roar expressing surprise, horror and anger... but also drawing attention of those who were already unaware of my current plight; Stuart with his pants around his ankles and me with my large white ass blowing in the breeze. I tried frantically to close the door but as mentioned above, it has to swing open completely and then close on its own slowly... dear heaven above, so painfully slowly...

Although sanitation scores high in that delightful facility, the ability to maintain any sense of dignity was completely and utterly destroyed.

It was only 8 more years until I get to put the sheet over my head.

Those Hands

2011-08-18T21:11:00.000-07:00

Those hands told a story of his life. Rough, calloused, grease-stained, dirt under the nails, well-used. Those hands seemed capable of anything. He fished lobster, pulled nets, built boats, fixed engines, carved decoys, hunted, did electrical work, painted cars, to name but a few things. He seemed all-knowing, all-powerful.

Strong, steady, forceful. Strong hands that never seemed to shake. Strong hands that could strike with every dark mood. He always seemed angry but never unsure. Did all that rage cover some amount of fear? Powerful hands that could take at any moment. He seemed omnipotent and omnipresent.

I still see those nicotine stained, calloused, brutish hands when I close my eyes. The smell of grease, wood and fish guts pulls me back to places I don’t wish to go. Those hands also told a story of our lives.

Slow Down.

2011-08-15T04:55:00.000-07:00

Night-time blackness threatens to seep into my car, worming its way in through crevices and openings. I feel if it does, I will be smothered forever, just a tiny blip in the universe that never was. Roadway yellow lines disappearing forever with every passing mile, speed disintegrating them into the past. I don’t know where I’m going, I just know that driving calms the storm inside.

The shitty committee in my mind is in full force tonight after a roller-coaster day of emotions. Their names consist of Anger, Sadness, Frustration, Loneliness and Despair. I cannot seem to get myself back into a state of calm. Anger wells up as I think about my friend battered once again; a powerful surf promising to pull me under with its undercurrent drowning me, and all of those that I love. Sadness seeps into the edges as memory upon memory nips into my soul leaving chewed markings stained with darkness. Frustration and Loneliness are each taking turns stabbing me with the day's events and the past 3 years since moving back to the Island. They use marital problems, financial worry, friendships gone sour, family disappointments and health issues to define their points. A book I’m reading defines this ‘Battlefield of the Mind’ as Satan trying to gain a foothold using established thoughts as its weapons. A rehab counselor once told me that these thoughts are what addiction will use to claim its power and it wants me not just miserable but dead. And when each of these voices is shouting loudly, death is ultimately the final option.

“Just drive into oncoming traffic. It ain’t gonna ever get any better than this.” “Find yourself a drink or a toke. You’ll feel better.” “You’ll never find a job or be successful at anything you do so why do you even keep trying?” “Nobody cares about you, and anyone who acts like they do is only doing it out of pity.” “It’s all a lie. There is no God or Jesus or even goodness in this world.” “Your son and husband deserve better than anything you can provide.” The cacophony of voices just keeps pounding on the inside of my skull, some are recognizable, others are not. Each one is sparred gently with by the small voice within, “Don’t listen to them.” Weariness tugs at me though, it seems so much easier to just give up the battle. I turn the volume of the radio up, trying to drown out all of them and take me somewhere safe.

“Where am I going?” I think to myself finally coming out of the boardroom of hell to take stock of where I am. I’ve been driving for 45 minutes. I come to a crossroads and turn left onto a country road, getting off of the highway. I’ve never been here before and have no idea why I am turning left. Right would have taken me along the coast to return home. Left takes me inland to unknown territory. I pick up speed again and hear faintly “Slow down.”

“God, are you really out there? ‘Cause I sure could use your help right now. I don’t wanna do this anymore.”

“Slow down.”

“Fuck! What am I doing with my life?!?!” I scream in frustration but take my foot off the gas pedal and the little car loses speed quickly. “GOD! Where are you?! Do you even care?!?”

Rounding the corner, the light from my headlights bounce back, glinting off large black eyes. “Eyes should not be in the middle of the road!”, I think to myself. White and black mass occupies every space of road in front of me. “What the hell?” Four cows are standing in the middle of the road, chewing stupidly and staring insipidly at my headlights bearing down on them. I see a flicker of a tail as my foot instinctively slams down on the brake pedal and I steer to the right. My entire being is sure that there is no way around them. I'm going to go into the ditch.

Were cows always this big? Is my car really this small? Is this going to be how I leave this world, making local news headlines as a milkshake? Unbelievable.

Somehow the car comes to a stop on the roadside and I turn my head to see if that really just happened. My hands are trembling and my stomach has rolled into an uncomfortable upside down position. Did four massive beasts just appear in the middle of the road? My sensibilities tell me cows belong in fields, not roadways. I remember the voice telling me to slow down and shake my head wanting to chalk it up to coincidence. The cows slowly move to the side of the road where the sweet grass beckons them.

I turn into the nearest house with lights on, hoping they can call someone to take care of the animals and hopefully prevent an accident. I wonder to myself if the next person along that roadway will hear the voice telling them to slow down or if they will ignore it as I almost did.

I awoke this morning, hearing the residue of that voice. Slow down.

As I pour soy-milk on my cereal, I think today is going to be a better day.

On the Outside of the Aquarium

2011-08-13T11:10:00.000-07:00

There are times that I question just how completely broken I am and hope that God understands who or what I am better than I do. I also hope he has a better plan to fix that brokenness than I am capable of. When it comes to relationships with other people, I feel like an alien who has been abandoned on a foreign planet. Sometimes it seems like the work involved in trying to figure out what the ‘correct’ or ‘socially acceptable’ way to respond to someone is so exhausting, it would be easier to slip back into never leaving my home and not trying to be involved in a larger community.

I went to a meeting recently and someone was sharing something that happened to her when she was very little. This thing obviously upset them very much and distorted her perception of life and herself. Other women were tearing up from her story and were empathetic in responding to her. The best I could do was to view the situation as if I were on the outside of the aquarium. I couldn’t relate, not because it was something that I couldn’t imagine happening to me, but more because it was something that was common in my childhood and not on the severe end of the spectrum. I had shut down the emotional vulnerability response to that situation long ago. At the meeting, I was listening and thinking “That’s it?”, all the while knowing that my reaction was probably distorted.

This happens to me often. If someone is crying or visibly upset about something, I feel awkward and uncomfortable. I just want to remove myself from the situation. This especially happens around women and may be a large part of why I have avoided most women friendships in my life. I dislike feeling alien, cold and non-empathetic. I want to be able to relate to people and share their emotions. It frightens me because I imagine that sociopaths have this trait of not relating to others or feeling their pain. I question if painful events and my life have caused me to be like this, what happened to make my grandfather the type of man he was? Or on the flip side, is there a genetic disconnect that makes me flawed and unable to receive or give empathy?

Thinking of this all now, I think back to the topic of the meeting: Step 2 : Came to believe a power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity. I don’t think that I can force myself to feel empathy any more than I can change the color of my eyes. It is something I need to let God work out in me and perhaps being in these situations is how I will change. But Lord, if that’s all part of the plan, can you please help me make sure that I don’t do any more harm to people while this is being worked out?

Writing about Play

2011-08-09T10:03:00.000-07:00

This week I joined a writing group. (Can you say synchronicity? I decide I want to write and opportunities begin to open up. Huh. Weird.) We did some free writing on the topic of Play.

Childhood didn’t require compartmentalizing life – work, home, family, friends, marriage, exercise, spirituality, recovery, play. Life’s schedule was simple. Daybreak brought time for play and dusk ended it. Each day was mine to do with what I chose. Wanting to get as far from my home-life as possible, I always chose outdoor play, come rain or shine. The woods were my playground, the fields my refuge. I could choose isolation or friendships. Imaginary friends were my first playmates. Looking back, I wonder now if these friends were the many faces of God. No rules, no boundaries, no limits. Play was my meaning of life.

Softball. Kick the can. Up and over. Street hockey. Marbles. Games with rules and teams and competition but nobody really kept score. At the end of the day, the scoreboard was wiped clean with new expectations, hopes and opportunities for the next day to come.

There were no real to-do lists aside from a few chores. Every day began with a question - “Whaddya want to do today?” No quantifiable goals and no required objectives, just sheer staying in the moment pleasure. Sometimes tempers would flare or feelings would be hurt but just as quick as they came the heat would fizzle out; like a flash of fireworks on a humid summer night, leaving only a faint imprint on our memories. Friends changed, games changed and life went on. We were growing up.

I look at life today and wonder if perhaps we need to grow back down.

After writing the above, we asked some of the following questions to ourselves - What doesn’t fit? How does it feel? What is omitted?

Nostalgia overtook me as I wrote. I wanted to go back to the simplicity of childhood where life wasn’t wrapped in a package of limitations, schedules, responsibilities and never-ending tasks. God was in nature. God was in each moment. I was free.

But what I didn’t discuss was that dark cloud of fear and paranoia that overshadowed every day. Even with friends, I felt alone; alone and afraid. I didn’t speak of how most of my friends were younger than I, thus non-threatening. I didn’t speak about how I had no female companions. I didn’t trust them. They seemed like foreign dignitaries whose culture I knew nothing of.

Play was also an escape from reality. Play was a salve to every wound. Each toss of the softball was a band-aid. I was good at sports so I thrived on those feelings of success with every achievement. I was fast, strong, and physically coordinated. I didn’t speak of how I refused to play on school sport teams although I was asked often. I feared authority and my peers. I feared rejection and criticism. I was filled with shame.

Play is supposed to assist in a child’s development and growth. I created and adapted this play to support the bubble of security in my life.

To Write

2011-07-31T10:18:00.000-07:00

I write fiction. I write fiction because I do not care who reads it. There is no one to protect or shelter. I don’t have anyone or anything to censor the words that go onto the page. I can be whomever I want at any particular time or place. I can be whatever I choose. The words tumble out of my mind onto the keyboard, creating realities that could be or should be or never were or never should have been. I write for the sheer love of writing.

I write non-fiction. I write about my life, its pains, its sorrows, its injustices as well as the beauties and glories I have discovered along the journey. I write about my thoughts, my experiences, my hopes and my beliefs. This writing is more difficult. Between my mind and my keyboard sit a number of censors, creatures built out of fear and shame and doubt. They are the two-headed demons that whisper barely legible affirmations out of one mouth and ear-splitting criticism from the other. They are being birthed, are dying off, and are being born anew with each new passing day. These censoring devils are your children. They are my children. They are everyone I ever knew or will know. They are people I have never met and may never meet. They are demons of evil intent. They are demons of malcontent. They are demons of misintention. Love, hate, indifference… each comes with a new censorious bedevilment.

Edward Bulwer-Lytton coined the phrase “the pen is mightier than the sword” but when it comes to those demons between my ears, the pen is the only weapon in a fight for freedom from darkness. Each new bloody word spills light into my soul. I write for the sheer necessity of writing.

Make My flippin' Day

2011-07-21T05:32:00.000-07:00

What do you do when someone questions your integrity and values? When you are confronted harshly about the things that you believe, the things that happened and who you are? I have discovered that if I even think I am being bullied, I quickly revert to the role of victim and shut everything down. End of story, I’m done, nice knowing ya folks, I’m outta here. In the words of Monty Python - run away, run away! Ouch. I hate being shown how much more I need to work on myself.

That’s what happened yesterday with this blog. I was sent a comment by an “anonymous” commentator that criticized what I write and why I write it. It made me question what the point is in writing something that puts me out there for personal attack. Do the benefits outweigh the negatives? I don’t write about easy pat topics and a lot of times, the topics that I do write about are as a result of personal angst.

Since pulling the blog briefly, I’ve had a lot of feedback in my support from people I didn’t even know followed it. I’ve even had my husband become very emphatic that I should continue to write and to continue to blog. If nothing else, it serves as a form of therapy for me (and I’ve learned it is therapeutic for some of you as well). I’ve done a lot of questioning as to what my purpose is and how I want to go about continuing. So I'm placing a boundary. I am going to leave area for comments but anonymous comments will not be accepted. If you can’t leave your name, don’t knock on the door. There’s no more room to rent space in my head.

In church this month, we are talking about God’s will and man’s will. I don’t know if God has anything to do with my writing or having it in a public forum but I am heartened by the support I have been shown.

When I opened my email this morning, I received a note from one of those sites you subscribe to that sends you a positive saying every week. This is what it said:

People believe what they want to believe, Lisa. And this, alone, explains what they have or don't have. Does that make your entire flippin' day, or what?!

signed The Universe

So, here we go. I’m going to continue to write. I'm going to continue to pull up rocks and expose the nasty, dirty slimey stuff that hides underneath. I’m not backing down and if you don’t like what I have to say or if it offends your sensitivities, take a look at your own shit. I’m trying to deal with mine.

Make my flippin’ day.

Creation

2011-07-19T21:06:00.001-07:00

Bright flashes of paint; pure joy,

smooth like butter flowing off the end of my brush.

Dark morose tones hiding secrets and telling stories I dare not speak.

Colors mixing, swirling, creating form.

Satisfying pressure against canvas,

positive space and negative space defining my vision.

With every brushstroke, I appreciate my given gifts.

I pray with thanks for each opportunity to create and express.

With every moment I stay in, I thank our Creator

for giving me life and his patience in teaching me how to live it well.

On the road not so less travelled.

2011-07-19T11:25:00.001-07:00

I am discovering that along the road to recovery (from addiction and abuse), there are always new potholes to navigate (once these potholes used to be unmanageable ravines and gorges, now they are just challenges). Someone once told me when I went into therapy that I would never be faced with more than I could handle. The problem with that statement is that as I travel along just getting comfortable on the road, suddenly some new challenge throws itself in front of my vehicle! Each new challenge presents new opportunity for growth (even though that growth is often still painful and messy… and sometimes I wonder if it is really worth the effort).

This week, I discovered that I have much more anger and resentment under the surface than I care to admit. A situation came up where someone I know is in an abusive relationship and it triggered so many emotions and feelings from my past that I have difficulty focusing on her situation. I have listened, I have said what I felt needed to be said and I have pointed her in the direction for further help. Now, I have had to remove myself completely from the situation because nothing I further say or do has any effect other than to stir up my own crap. She is still going to do what she wants until she recognizes that the whole situation is really not centered on the relationship or love but is about two very broken people who need to work on themselves. This brings up guilt for me because I cannot “fix” it for either of them. I recognize that much of this guilt and anger for me is residual.

Until my grandfather passed away last year, his marriage to my grandmother was mostly based on abuse and dysfunction. Some people would say that they “loved” each other but from my perspective, that type of love is not healthy for anybody involved. This is what I felt like every time he beat her or raped her or called her to the lowest. A chunk was torn out of my soul and my heart hid farther and farther into darkness. Every time I heard “but I love him” or “he was just drunk”, or every time she went back to him, it was like she was saying it’s ok. Not just ok for her to go through it but ok that we were being affected as well. It was like saying that it was ok that we were abused too. Abuse DOES NOT just affect the person who is being abused. It victimizes everyone around them to varying levels.

When I was in a similar abusive and destructive relationship, I did and said the EXACT same things. “He’s not that bad.” “He’s not always like this.” “I deserved it.” “If you only knew the real him.” In the end, it wasn’t about him at all. It was about how broken and damaged I was on the inside and completely terrified to take the risk to change. I didn’t think that I was hurting anyone else, after all I was the victim! But my friends suffered, my family suffered. My future suffered. Only when I was able to remove myself from the situation, could I move forward with my life. It was hard, it was painful and it was terrifying but being on the other side now, it truly was the only way.

So my friend, if you are reading this, know that I am handing it all over to God. I am not going to pray that your relationship improves but instead I will pray that each of you finds a way to do the work involved to love yourselves. I will not watch you destroy yourself for the sake of “love”. I’ve spent a lifetime watching it, doing it and trying to rescue others from it. I can’t do it any longer. It is not healthy for me or for you.

I don’t know how God heals but I have a feeling that he does it through these bumps in the road. We just need to allow him to help steer us around and through the potholes. This has shown me where I still need healing and roadwork (work on my own inner broken parts and character defects) and a GPS (God positioning system… aka prayer and meditation).

A slip in conversation

2011-07-16T21:33:00.001-07:00

I was having a conversation with someone yesterday and I was discussing how difficult it is for me to go to my grandparent’s original home. I find that being in the house, triggers many emotions and memories. Trying to explain why I go there to visit, I found myself saying “It’s not as if I owe anyone anything today… or maybe I do.” Wow. Where did that come from? Talk about realizing that I still have some issues to work out within myself. What or who do I owe?

When I first started going to therapy, I was struck with extreme amounts of guilt and feelings of disloyalty. When I bring up certain topics on this blog or talk to someone about the past, I still struggle with those same feelings and question whether or not I should go back to trying to bury it all under the rug.

Owe – meaning to be in debt to. A child should never feel indebted to his or her family for basic needs. However, in dysfunctional families, that is exactly what happens. “If you love me, you would do this…” “Don’t you know how much I have done for you?” “I only stay in this horrible situation because you kids need me.” “If he or she loved you, then why isn’t he or she here taking care of you?” I can’t tell you how many times I have heard these comments in the past.

I have always felt like I owed someone my life and was to blame for everyone else’s pains and problems. If I just tried harder, or behaved better, or did what someone wanted, then things might be alright. What I wanted or needed was not important. My worth was minimal. First, I was female which meant that I was not valued. Women were owned. Even my sexuality was not my own. I saw that women were the weaker sex. Physical, verbal and sexual abuse was not just permitted, it was accepted. Even financially, women had no rights. Second, I was a child, which meant that I was not important. I was weak, vulnerable and in the way. I was dependent on someone else for food and shelter. Even love was something that you had to earn. Emotionally, I had no rights, after all what did I have to whine about… lots of people had it worse than me.

Not much wonder I have had such a hard time understanding what love is or looks like in healthy relationships. Love is not meant to be conditional. Today, I still struggle with not putting everyone else’s needs and wants ahead of my own. I struggle with my own femininity because of my perceptions about what it means to be a woman. I still struggle with self-worth. These things are very evident in my challenges as a wife and as a mother. That brief slip in conversation showed me that I still act out of old beliefs and still have a lot of inner work to do.

Captured Innocence

2011-07-14T10:58:00.001-07:00

The photo is not of professional quality. It’s just a snapshot; a day-to-day documentation of life in the ‘70s. The edges are tattered and the white border shows a faint nicotine stain from repeated wear and tear of rubbing.

The image shows her four years old and grinning from ear to ear. Her blond hair falls straight in a cut ending just above her shoulders. Her blue eyes twinkle, telling tales of that day’s mischief and the mischief of days yet to come. The sun-kissed button nose has a smudge of dirt, possibly from helping dig in the backyard garden. Her arms tightly wrap around a ratty mouse ‘teddy-bear’ almost as tall as she is. It looks like the type of prize you got from the stands of the midway that rolled through every summer leaving memories of tilt-a-whirl rides and cotton candy. Stuffed animals provided so many roles; protector, playmate, explorer, confidante, friend. One mousey ear bends over crookedly, listening for childhood instruction. Her bell-bottom pants, a flowered top and tiny canvas sneakers complete the image of innocence and a childhood untainted.

Was that really me? Was I ever that tiny, that vulnerable, that innocent? The picture was taken before the nightmares. It was taken before the monsters closed in and fear took over. Somewhere, that little girl still exists. The body has grown but the soul is still child-like. She peers out cautiously, wondering what the world outside the photograph has to offer, wondering if the monsters are now within or without.

Good and Evil

2011-07-12T09:33:00.001-07:00

I just read a book called Engaging God’s World. A Christian Vision of Faith, Learning, and Living by Cornelius Plantinga Jr. In one portion of the book, it discusses good and evil. Plantinga Jr. says, “Given it’s source in God, goodness is original, normal, constructive. Evil is secondary, abnormal, destructive. In fact, evil needs good to be evil.” He goes on to say, “Here we can see that evil is a kind of parasite on goodness. The intelligence of Nazi commanders came from God. The truth portion of an effective lie (maybe 90 percent of it) makes the lie plausible. The physical power of a guilty assailant comes from the gift of good health. Badness can’t be very bad without tapping deeply into goodness. Badness is twisted goodness, polluted goodness, divided goodness. But even after the twisting, polluting, and dividing have happened, the goodness is still there.”

It has been easiest to look at some of the people in my past and think that they are or were completely and absolutely evil, that there is or was absolutely no goodness to them at all. This is because my perception of them is tinted by the pain and shame within me. It is coloured by the pain of their actions. To think that even those evil actions were a twisted use of goodness, allows me to accept that God does play a part in everything; that the original intent was for benevolence. Where abuse and neglect occurred, love and nurturing were supposed to occur using gifts originally given from God (such as patience, tolerance, understanding and love). Where I once blamed God for not playing an active part in helping those of us who suffered, I can focus on being grateful for the original gifts in each of us that he has provided. If it weren’t for some of those gifts within me (such as perseverance, creativity and humor), I wouldn’t have survived. We all have free will to choose how we are going to act and whether we are going to deny or follow God’s will; whether we will choose to follow goodness or not.

I grieve that those people did not act with right intention. I grieve the childhood that was lost and damaged. I am angered and still have to deal with that anger and resentment towards those people. I am learning to forgive myself for making some poor decisions and bad choices based on that brokenness. I am still learning that I am not responsible and did not deserve some of what happened. I acknowledge that the damage within me is not completely healed, that there are still copious amounts of shame and repressed emotions. But most of all, I see that God did not intend for these things to happen and was not responsible. I can stop being angry at him and start allowing him to assist in the healing process. I can move forward.

What's Changed?

2011-07-02T06:00:00.001-07:00

I realized that I haven’t talked or wrote about alcoholism in a long time. The reason is, it is not at the forefront of my mind anymore. For the first time in my life, it is not the thing I obsess about whenever things go wrong or I am faced with a crisis. It’s not that life has been perfect, because it isn’t. I am worrying more about finances than I ever have, I still worry about members of my family, my marriage is good but there are still big issues that I have to deal with personally that strain our marriage, and then there’s the day-to-day things. But the obsession is gone (at least for now). That is a miracle in itself. (However, I'm not overconfident that it can't go back to that way of life if I don't do the things necessary to maintain (and improve) this level of health.)

I’m not going to meetings every day of the week anymore and I’m not calling my sponsor daily (but note that I do still go to meetings consistently and keep in contact with my sponsor). So what is different?

I have changed the type of meeting I go to. Many of the meetings I used to go to never discussed the 12 steps, the big book or a higher power. Instead many of them focused on giving each other advice instead of relaying their own experiences (or if they did, they were ego-driven). I’ve met people who’ve claimed that they have never read the big book and have never done the steps but have been sober for years. They suggested that as long as you go to meetings and tell people your problems, you’ll stay sober. My response to that is bullshit… if you truly are an addict, you might stay sober for awhile but the problem will manifest itself in other ways. Alcohol is not the problem, it is a symptom of the disease. For me, if I quit drinking and didn’t relapse to drugs, then it came out in self-harm, emotional eating, workaholism, etc. When none of that worked, I always went back to the thing that I knew worked, if only for a short while - booze and drugs. The meeting I go to now is a discussion group but it focuses solely on the big book, the 12 steps and God.

This meeting also deals with all addictions instead of only alcoholism. It is important for me to remember that alcohol is not my only problem. Addiction is “cunning, baffling and powerful”. I have been to AA meetings where they refuse to allow you to talk about drug addiction because the sole purpose of AA is alcoholism. They are “afraid that some people will not be able to relate if you discuss other problems.” (Not all AA meetings are like this, I have also been to many that were tolerant of other addictions and welcoming. The key is to find groups you are comfortable at. Sometimes that involves searching.) I disagree with groups that exclude addicts and their problems. Things have changed since AA first began. There are many more young people hitting their bottom quickly today and the majority of them are cross-addicted. Drugs are much more prevalent and available than they ever were. Rehabs are not filled with old men with wet brain like in the 40’s but now have a huge cross-section of addicts and alcoholics with a huge range of issues. The solution to treatment for most of those people is still the big book, the 12 steps and God, all across the board.

So meetings are the answer? No. What I hear at meetings replenishes my soul for a short while. The people I see have become my friends and it is good to see them. I surround myself with people who build me up instead of tearing me down, inside the rooms and out. More importantly, I have been doing the work on the inside. I have worked through the 12 steps and am continually working on any number of those steps in a given day. I know the areas that I still need to work on and the areas where I am making huge progress.

The other thing that has changed is my acceptance of God in my life. I am continually seeking to improve my spiritual understanding and develop that relationship with a higher power. The people I surround myself with now may not all have the same beliefs but most of them keep a higher power at the center of their lives. If God is the center of my life, my ego is not. I don’t become co-dependent on others or focused on my own needs and issues. I don’t need to change the way I feel because I am comfortable with the belief that I will be provided for and have the things I need in life (note that this is a work in progress because I don’t always feel like this, some days not at all). I can be mindful of each day and the things in it.

We are given life to experience and develop relationships (with ourselves, with others and with God). Nothing comes with us when we leave this body and we leave behind nothing truly important and lasting but memories. If I die tomorrow, I don’t want my epitaph to read “She worried about money, success and power to the very end… but she stayed sober”. I want it to read “She lived well, loved well and was loved much.”

The Insidious Lie

2011-06-29T18:39:00.001-07:00

The lie was a cancer that ate away at my soul until nothing was left but a barren shell, ripe for the taking. The lie grew in silence, threatening to explode at any time.

You are not wanted. You were a mistake.

The lie dug into my soul with barbed hooks and refused to let go. It began to multiply as my own thinking betrayed me, and the lie started to look like the truth. It overcame every aspect of my being until the truth was no longer visible, the lie layered itself in thick heaping black gobs.

You are worthless. No matter what you do, you will never be worthy of love.

The lie propagated in my own actions. It needed to prove its truth through self-destruction; relationships doomed to failure, men that confirmed the lie, jobs that were unhealthy, behavior that was out of control. It wormed its way in through rape and more abuse. The lie eased its way in through depression and anxiety and shrouded my soul in fear.

You need to end this.

This was where the lie reached its pinnacle. There was nothing left to me but a barren shell filled to the brim with lies upon lies of worthlessness and self-loathing. Balancing on the razor’s edge, I listened hopefully.

Somewhere beneath all of those layers of hate and fear, a tiny whisper of a voice inside spoke divinely,

“No matter what, I will always love you.”

Boundaries don't require barb-wire fences.

2011-06-25T19:28:00.001-07:00

I’m currently at my in-laws for a party and there are lots of people and lots of alcohol flowing freely. When I say lots of people, I don’t mean like a dozen or so, I mean a houseful of standing room only (very big family). There is lots of live music (they are blessed with an abundance of talented musicians in the family) and everyone is having a good time. The laughter can be heard from the other side of the block, I’m sure. These are good people and I am constantly reminded how blessed I am to be part of this family.

While all of this is going on, I’m downstairs listening to everyone having a good time and instead of feeling lonely, it makes me happy. While the anxiety of being around that many people and that much alcohol was too much, I am very pleased that I am comfortable enough to do what I need to do. I am also very happy that they have all been extremely supportive of my choice to not drink. I said my “hellos” and “how are ya” ‘s and am now doing what makes me most comfortable – sitting where I feel the most safe and my son is in the next room, safely asleep.

I can remember parties happening when I was my son’s age. I also remember being afraid because it meant there were people in the house that I didn’t know or trust (and many were not really trustworthy). I remember being woken up in the middle of the night because some drunken “friend of the family” wanted to see how big Dad’s little girl was getting. Or having to sit in some smelly old man’s lap and kiss his disgustingly scratchy beard or hug someone who I didn’t like. I also remember the fights and the screaming matches and the chaos. Ugh... Bad memories. Alcohol did not mean good times and family fun back then (and if I were still drinking today, it would not be that now either. I seem to have inherited the inability to drink safely).

Today, I can be around people drinking but don't need to accept or tolerate abuse of any kind. I can even recognize that other people drinking alcohol is not something that needs to be feared or judged unless their actions prove it. I have the choice of how I want to take care of myself and my son (tonight, it is the choice to leave the situation). But more than anything, I am pleased to acknowledge that I have rights, boundaries and choices when it comes to parenting myself and my son. I guess that’s what personally being healthier and raising a healthy family looks like.

Learning to be a parent.

2011-06-23T06:46:00.001-07:00

Having a child constantly makes me aware of my own issues and the need to make changes in my own life. One of my biggest fears before and after my son was born, was that I would become an abuser; not as a sexual abuser, but to verbally, mentally and even possibly physically abuse my child. I was terrified to let people know my past and my addiction problems, for fear that they would instantly judge me as being unfit. When my son first came home from the hospital, the health nurse made regular visits to check his weight, if feeding was ok, etc. Before and during each visit, I would be a complete mental wreck because I was living in terror and I didn’t even know why it was having such an affect on me.

Parenting is tough at times. There are times that I find myself getting completely frustrated and hear myself saying things that I heard myself as a child and it appalls and disgusts me. Always, I sit down immediately and repair the damage and talk to my son apologizing where necessary and explaining as best as I can that what I did was wrong. I try really hard not to repeat it and if I do, my son tells me that what I said or did was wrong. I think that is pretty amazing that he is comfortable enough in our family to be able to confront me appropriately and knows his boundaries.

One of my largest personal issues is around intimacy and affection. I am not talking about sexual affection but simply that ‘hold my hand or get close to me on the couch’ kind of affection, even between a mother and child. Sometimes it comes more easily but there are times I just cannot stand to have anyone near me and I am emotionally distant. I know that during those times, it hurts those closest to me. That is a little more difficult to explain to a child. Inconsistency is damaging, whether it is about rules or whether it is in how someone reacts to you. So I try my hardest to make sure that I communicate openly with my son as appropriate to his age. I ask for a lot of help and advice when it comes to parenting; from my friends, from my pastor, my husband, etc.

Some things I am learning about parenting. I need to:

• be healthy to be the best parent I can be. I need to practice self-care physically, mentally and spiritually. I need my own time and my own friends. I need to have fun and relaxation.

• have a good network of people in my life. It is not my child’s responsibility to support me emotionally. If I don’t know something or am unsure, I am responsible to ask for help.

• show him that family is not just the people you are obligated to by birth. My family today now includes friends in recovery and friends that I have met through the church. They have been there for us in times when my family of origin could not be.

• communicate with my spouse effectively. Kids need to see that conflict does happen but it can be effectively resolved. Kids also need to see healthy affection between parents. Really, I am role-modeling what my child will become as a future parent himself. It is ok to hug my spouse, kiss him goodbye or hello, or hold hands (yes, I need to work on this!) in front of people.

• consciously work at being loving and affirming. I am always telling my son I love him (even though sometimes he rolls his eyes and says I KNOW!). I don’t think you can say it too much if you truly mean it. I hug him as much as I can. I try to be encouraging and affirming. We talk about what he is feeling.

• apologize immediately if I make a mistake. Kids need to see that parents are human and fallible and that it is okay to admit that you are wrong.

• not deny my feelings in front of my child. He needs to know if I am mad at or disappointed with him, those feelings are not permanent and they can be displayed in ways that don’t include yelling or hitting or ignoring. He (and I) need to know that feelings are just feelings and they are temporary and have no indication on how I love him.

• be consistent in rules. This is something I always find I need to work on, especially in the area of discipline. My husband is much better at consistent discipline and it is evident that his method is much more effective.

• never shame my child. Admittedly, I find this difficult when my own inner voice is constantly shaming me so I have to consciously work at not being sarcastic and being patient, tolerant and understanding. By working at not doing it to my own child, I am learning to parent myself as well.

• always differentiate behaviour from themselves as a person. He is never told he is “bad” for something he has done. His self-worth is developed by what he believes to be true about himself, whether it is true or not.

• allow my kid to be a kid. He does not need to be responsible for worrying about finances or his parents’ welfare or adult problems of any kind. If he does need to know because it is affecting us, it needs to be communicated in a way that he can understand appropriate to his age and that it is our job as the parents to take care of the adult things in our family.

• recognize that my child is not a small adult. Sometimes I find it helpful to read books on child development to see exactly what I should expect from a child his age. It is hard to acknowledge what a child truly is when you missed out on much of the experience.

• talk about life and spirituality. Allow him to ask questions and know that it is ok that I don’t have all the answers. Allowing my son to be part of my spiritual journey has only made it more enriching and worthwhile. He opens my eyes to new things.

• talk to him about what is happening as his body grows and changes. (This one I struggle with talking about and let his father do.) Both of us as parents make sure that our son knows that his body is his and no one, not even us, has the right to touch him inappropriately or uncomfortably. We are pleased to know that he feels safe enough to come to us with a problem, as it occurred at school with another child this year. He is never, ever forced to even hug a relative if he does not want to.

• as quoted by my pastor during a sermon “Never, ever, ever. Never! Never, ever, ever, never, absolutely, positively never, never, ever hit! Not acceptable!” Physical and verbal abuse is not tolerated. This includes hitting, throwing, pushing, swearing, name-calling, screaming or any other out of control behaviour.

I've only been a parent for six years thus far, and it has been the most challenging, yet most rewarding job I have ever had. It has helped me learn who I am in the process of helping my child discover who he is. I never would have believed it, but life truly is about relationships... and love. And I am learning that this is what my family is about today as well.

Instant @sshole- just add alcohol.

2011-06-11T21:47:00.001-07:00

Tonight I had an experience where I had a run-in with drunken teenagers. I was driving home at midnight when I came to 7 or 8 teenagers walking down the road. One of them walked intentionally in front of my vehicle so I stopped. I tried to proceed around him and he continued to position himself in front of the car. As I finally got beside him, he began beating on the side of the car and yelling obscenities in the window. My first emotion was intense rage. Fight or flight became definitely fight. I envisioned getting out and beating this little deviant to a pulp. Fortunately, my logical part of the brain told me that this was a bad idea and I drove away. I was grateful I was driving and not walking because it would not have been as easy to make that decision. As I got home and sat in the driveway, I shook with anger. I felt assaulted. I wanted to go back and run him down.

Then I started thinking about what I was like when I drank and drugged. It was not pretty by any means. I assaulted people. I endangered myself and others. I was essentially acting like an idiot, much like this young man. I was out of control every time I added alcohol to my system. After considering this tonight, I started to feel some type of compassion for this young man who potentially could be in for a very long, rough road ahead of him. I was still angry with him but I was also angry and ashamed of my own previous behaviour.

This experience served a purpose by reminding me what it was once like for me – believing I was only hurting myself when I was affecting those closest to me as well as people I didn’t even know. I have been on both sides of the violence coin. Violence does not require physical contact to affect others. Assault is an attack on one’s emotional state and well-being as well as a direct threat to their physical safety. I choose not to participate in this type of life anymore, neither as a victim nor as an assaulter. Tonight, I will concentrate on bringing my own emotional state back to level and try to diffuse the triggers that assault brings up. I hope that young man is safe for the night and wakes in his own bed without that intense guilt, fear and shame that I knew so well.Perhaps I will eventually get to the point where I will pray for this young man’s well-being, safety and that he does not need to go down the painful road of addiction.

In Her Father's Arms

2011-06-06T06:12:00.001-07:00

Yesterday in church, our pastor talked about the family unit and healthy relationships. He talked about how ‘family’ should be the place where you feel the safest, are comforted the most and you are strengthened and supported. He discussed how family is the place where you should be ‘depositing’ positive things into each other so the negative ‘withdrawals’ of the world outside do not overwhelm and overtake each of us. It takes approximately one positive ‘deposit’ into the soul to combat seven negative ‘withdrawals’. He also talked about hope and change and not having to continue repeating unhealthy family behaviours that may be carried throughout generations.

This was a hard topic to listen to because it stirred up a wealth of losses and grief for a childhood that I never received. Safety, trust and comfort were not our family norm despite my parent’s attempt at times to try to provide it for us. Life wasn’t all bad, but the ratio of positive deposits to negative withdrawals (it seemed like the opposite ratio of seven negatives to one positive) on my well-being was extremely disproportionate. I was afraid and ashamed at home as well as outside of the house. I didn’t trust my family and I didn’t trust my peers. And inevitably, I didn’t trust God.

As I sat there yesterday listening to the sermon, my chest tight with anxiety, I noticed a little girl with her daddy in our row. She was adorable, dressed in bows and a little dress and smiling from ear to ear as she bounced enthusiastically next to her father. I had an overwhelming moment of sadness and fear. “Cover her up, put pants on her… don’t you know that she is exposed to the world and all of its perversity?! Where is her mother?” I wanted to scream. I wanted to pull her close and protect her even though she was clearly in no danger. You could see her father truly adored her, holding her little hand and picking her up when she wanted attention. He didn’t shush her or shame her into good behavior, instead you could practically see the love emanating between the two of them. She was safe and she was happy.

I wonder if that was what God had intended for me at one time; to be that little girl comfortable in her own skin and safe in her Father’s arms. I wonder if I can still go there with God the Father.

Pushing through

2011-06-04T12:10:00.001-07:00

This week has been extremely intense. I have been to many new events and exposed myself to many new ideas and people, mostly around the church, its community and prayer. Within that, much of what I heard spoke to the broken, victimized part of me that is screaming to be healed. The problem with the healing process is that once the wounds are opened and exposed to the air, it becomes hard to think about much else. Suddenly you become very aware that everything about you is tinted by those experiences. You hear and see things that somehow touch on your emotions about those experiences everywhere. Anger, fear and grief have been prevalent all week. With open wounds, it becomes a full time job just not to get blood and gore all over everything you touch.

My focus has been on trying to acknowledge the lies the chattering monkeys tell me constantly (mostly about being worthless, unlovable and to blame for everything in my life) and combating them with the opposite ‘truth’ (notice I still can’t really even write the positive). A friend of mine calls it spiritual warfare.

CS Lewis has a character in The Great Divorce that has a lizard on his shoulder that whispers such lies to him. I think of this character often and how he is afraid to let go of this defect even though he knows it will benefit him greatly. He is afraid the pain of removing it will kill him and I think he fears that if the sick thing he always has known is gone, life will be unsure. That is kind of what it is like to deal with abuse issues. You want the issues dealt with but can’t imagine living through the pain of opening the wound up entirely and can’t picture life without them just under the surface.

So this week, having started to really talk about some of the past and how it has affected me (writing is one thing, actually voicing it is an entirely different beast) with my pastor and a few very close, trustworthy people has started peeling off those scabs to clean out the infection. And frankly, it sucks. Physically, I’m getting headaches and anxiety symptoms. I can’t sleep. I’m having difficulty focusing mentally (maybe it’s a good thing that work is slow). I’m questioning and railing at God. I’m seeing and hearing about assault and abuse on the radio, on tv, in sermons, in books and from other people even though I am not actively seeking it out. It is everywhere. I am experiencing memories and emotions that I tried for years to numb. Triggers set off a chain of feelings and it becomes nearly impossible to trace it back to one certain event. They are all jumbled together like a group of knotted strings; events, people, emotions of fear, guilt and shame. So many things that have blocked and stunted all relationships I have ever had with myself, with others and with God. Someone who loves me very much and hates to see my pain reassured me, “You don’t need to do this, you know.” I couldn’t explain to him then, was that “Yes, I do have to do it. What I can’t do is keep hiding in the darkness.”

The Broken Pot

2011-06-03T11:17:00.001-07:00

I first read this story when in rehab and it came up in conversation today. It is a great story and one that touches my heart.

The Broken Pot

A water bearer in India had two large pots, each hung on an end of a pole which he carried across his neck. One of the pots had a crack in it, and while the other pot was perfect and always delivered a full portion of water at the end of the long walk from the stream to the masters house, the cracked pot arrived only half full.

For a full two years this went on daily, with the bearer delivering only one and a half pots full of water in his masters house. Of course, the perfect pot was proud of its accomplishments, perfect to the end for which it was made. But the poor cracked pot was ashamed of its own imperfection, and miserable that it was able to accomplish only half of what it had been made to do. After two years of what it perceived to be a bitter failure, it spoke to the water bearer one day by the stream.

"I am ashamed of myself, and I want to apologize to you."

"Why?" asked the bearer. "What are you ashamed of?"

"I have been able, for these past two years, to deliver only half my load because this crack in my side causes water to leak out all the way back to your masters house. Because of my flaws, you have to do all of this work, and you don't get full value from your efforts." the pot said.

The water bearer felt sorry for the old cracked pot, and in his compassion he said, "As we return to the masters house, I want you to notice the beautiful flowers along the path."

Indeed, as they went up the hill, the old cracked pot took notice of the sun warming the beautiful wild flowers on the side of the path, and this cheered it some. But at the end of the trail, it still felt bad because it had leaked out half its load, and so again the Pot apologized to the bearer for its failure.

The bearer said to the pot, "Did you notice that there were flowers only on your side of your path, but not on the other pots side? That's because I have always known about your flaw, and I took advantage of it. I planted flower seeds on your side of the path, and every day while we walk back from the stream, you've watered them. For two years I have been able to pick these beautiful flowers to decorate my masters table. Without you being just the way you are, he would not have this beauty to grace his house."

Each of us has our own unique flaws. We're all cracked pots. But if we will allow it, the Lord will use our flaws to grace His Father's table. In Gods great economy, nothing goes to waste. Don't be afraid of your flaws.

Acknowledge them, and you too can be the cause of beauty. Know that in our weakness your strength is made perfect.

(2 Corinthians 12:9)

Don't plan the outcome

2011-06-01T08:09:00.001-07:00

“One day at a time”. I had been told this phrase hundreds of times, perhaps even thousands over the previous 5 years since coming into recovery from addiction. “Stay in the moment.” “You can plan ahead but don’t plan the outcome.” I tried to live my life treasuring the here and nows but I won’t lie, it was hard. Constantly, I found myself sucked into the vortex of the past or the smothering worries of the future. When I had been sober for two and a half years, my husband and I decided that it was time to have a child. After making this decision, terror would seize me by the throat at every opportune moment. “Can I be a good mother?” “Can we afford to raise a child?” “What if there are added complications?” “What if I’m not as healthy or prepared as I think I am?” So many ‘what-ifs’. This truly wasn’t living in the moment.

Then it happened. My period stopped. The first birth control test showed positive. “Go get another one, maybe it’s wrong”, I pleaded with my husband. This was the fourth positive in a row. It was really happening. We were going to be responsible for a life. The next six months were a blur of exhaustion and nausea, trying to live my life as normally as possible while my body waged this war with change.

It was a Monday evening. The work-day had been long and we were both tired. The dog nuzzled comfortably into my side on the couch when I suddenly felt the need to rush to the bathroom. She snorted in annoyance as I struggled to get off the couch. Too late… was I going to have to start getting adult ‘Depends’ for the remainder of this pregnancy? Three months seemed like an awful long time away. I went to bed early that night and felt horrible. The cramps came in waves doubling me over. Any time I have been in pain, I had a tendency to struggle through in silence, refusing to ask for help or sympathy. This time was no different.

Finally, when it seemed like I could handle no more and 8 hours had passed, I shook my husband awake. It was 6:30 a.m. and we had to go to work soon. Rush hour traffic ate up an hour of every morning getting into the city. “I can’t go to work, I’m sick”, I said. He woke in a panic, “What’s wrong? I’m calling the doctor.” “Come in right away”, they said. I was in a daze. What was going on? I was only 6 months pregnant and everything had been going fairly normal, or so I thought (with my life, there never was anything to measure normal against.). I was sure it was just a stomach flu or something that we didn’t need to bother the hospital with. The drive into the city was a whole new level of stress. My husband raged at the traffic, his fear showing in great bouts of anger. My physical discomfort increased. Pressure in my pelvis forced me to try to raise myself off of the seat. The hour dragged on in horrible ticking moments.

Once at the maternity hospital, I was whisked upstairs. The cramps came fast and furious. “We’re just going to check to see if your water broke”, assured the intern on duty. Things were starting to come together in my mind but I refused to believe that this could be happening. It was only six months along. The only thing I learned at the pregnancy course the week before was the name of the person sitting next to me. How was that going to be useful?

She raised the gown and sheet to expose my splayed legs. “Oh my! We have a foot!” What??? Excuse me? There were no feet down there the last time I looked! I looked into my husband’s eyes and was dismayed to see his fear. Suddenly, the room was filled with people preparing me for emergency surgery. The nurse assured me my doctor was on his way. They were going to have to put me under anesthetic. All access to control in my life was over, I was in their hands now.

When I awoke, my husband was sitting next to me. “Welcome back,” said a nurse I had never seen before, “your son’s birthday is today.” I struggled to beat back the haze of confusion. “No it’s not, it’s in March”, I argued.

Wheeling me down to the intensive care unit, my husband kept his hand supportively on my shoulder. This wee little child in the incubator was inside of me yesterday. Today, his life was dependent on i.v.’s and sensors and breathing apparatus. He was 3 and a half pounds. I examined his little foot, black and blue from being exposed prematurely. He had a cleft in his chin already, just like his daddy. He seemed so vulnerable and so separate from me.

After a week, I was released from the hospital. Our son was doing well but I had yet to do more than put a sterilized hand into the incubator to rub his back or hold his tiny fingers. I became very aware that he could be taken from us at any time. Although we had begun this journey into parenthood with visions of him growing from a baby into a boy, then into adulthood, ultimately we were faced with the clear truth that we really don’t have any control of the outcome. Every day, I went into the intensive care unit unsure of what I was going to face that day. There were a few serious scares and many tears but ultimately I was called to stay in each moment and treasure every second I could be with this child.

We have been given so many blessings with this child. He is now 6 years old and taller than everyone in his class. He is healthy, smart and funny and shows no evidence of ever having had such a tumultuous start to life. He constantly reminds me to stay in the moment and never to plan the outcome.

His Grave Site.

2011-05-31T08:45:00.001-07:00

The Island always seems to have a reaffirming wind. The breeze is cool this morning as I settle next to his grave. So many unanswered questions, so many things I want to say, to yell, to cry out at him. So many thoughts are rolling around in my head, each trying to sort themselves out through the knots and chaos of the past.

Floral Hills is a cemetery that is very serene despite its location next to the highway. Headstones are laid into the earth, not breaking up the calmness of the rolling hills. I can hear the wind rustling through the trees, God is breathing out his affirmations. Birds sing out, reminding me that I am safe today and the world can be a beautiful place. The future can be a beautiful place.

Someone has placed fake flowers on his grave. “How fitting,” I think, “false beauty to cover up the nightmare that lays beneath.” I want to tear them out and burn them but I remind myself that someone else has their own perspective and their own memories and I respect that. I look at my grandmother’s name next to his, the date of death still not set, and try to alter my perspective. I think of the flowers I will place there for her someday. Fields upon fields of bountiful colours and fragrance I would like to honour her with.

Memories flood back of the day we buried him. That day, I shed no tears. Sitting there this morning, I still feel no loss. There are so many emotions that well up but loss of his life is not one of them. I wish I could have buried so much more with him – my shame, my fear, my emotional baggage, the feelings of responsibility and worthlessness.

One tiny white flower pokes up from amongst the dandelions where I sit. It is probably a weed but it looks so out of place from the rest. I think of how it endures hardship and struggle to grow amongst the other weeds to get a tiny moment of life. It requires sunshine and water and nutrients just like the other plants. Then it only gets a brief glimpse of life before it dies and goes back to the earth. In that very short time frame, I got to experience its beauty. Despite all of the nightmares in life, I am fortunate enough to still be able to appreciate beauty in the tiniest of things. That one little white flower reminds me that nothing God makes is worthless.

Scars

2011-05-28T20:46:00.001-07:00

His six year old fingers trace the raised scars on my arms, some still freshly pink, others faded and light, too many to count. His questioning eyes break my heart, oh to be so sweetly naïve again. My nightmares began at his age. Every time I give him a hug, stare at his sweet smile and gentle ways, it tugs at each scar on my soul. Each scar bears shame, each scar a written story that I can never escape. “How come there are so many?” he asks. I ask God the same question every day.

Summer's End

2011-05-28T04:11:00.001-07:00

Mosquitoes buzzed about, a minor annoyance.

That summer began with beach parties and bonfires

Reminiscing with childhood friends,

Laughter and raucous joking filling night air

And the booze flowed freely.

Drunken fog shrouded reality

As I came to in the back of that car,

I trusted you, you were my friend,

But you and he laugh sickeningly.

Life’s summer ended as I came to again

Torn up and bloody in a backwood ditch

Trying to force memories of betrayal

Far, far down into the recesses of my mind.

Mosquitoes buzzed about, filling my mind with rage.

The poison in the box.

2011-05-27T21:44:00.001-07:00

The day held smiles and sheer contentment. The warmth of the sun bathed my face as I sat in the red island soil, my adult hands gripping weeds and tracing the path of an uncovered worm. The little girl in me relishes every moment. I study the veins of a leaf and examine how the light reflects off each curve and dip. It feels soft against my fingertips. A bird sings on the other side of the fence – chick-a-dee-dee-dee. My dog nuzzles her nose into the crook of my arm, sharing in a moment of joy. Life is good.

At supper, the news comes on the radio. The story is a Supreme Court case ruling about no consent in unconscious sex. Suddenly, a curtain slides across my mind, darkening everything about the day, darkening every conscious thought. Anger tries to force its way to the surface. My arms tingle with the need to punch something, to tear something or someone limb from limb. I push it back down. I am with my family. I am safe, they are safe and I will not let them see the rage. The rage can consume and destroy and rip apart lives.

When I drank, I blacked out… a lot. Many of those blackouts involved me becoming this raging lunatic who was a danger to herself and everyone around her. I broke knuckles punching concrete walls, cut myself up putting my fist through windows, I got in fights, I smashed things, I cut myself with razor blades. There was no end to the fury, or at least until I sobered up. Then the anger got shoved back into the box.

God, if you're out there, please don't let the poison in the box take over my world.

----

Night terrors.

boogeyman flits through dreamland

always a step behind me

blending in every shadow

caressing my calf as I trip up

consciousness pulls me into this world

slow and fuzzy

touches excite and terrify

- dream or real?

stark reality punches home

clenching eyes closed

i force reactions to touch

underground.

i said no. i meant no. but

alcohol permeates

a reminder I have no rights

no worth no value.

clench eyes shut tight

pray he is done soon

dreamland awaits, monster’s tracks still fresh

he keeps slipping through doors from there to here.

The path is changing.

2011-05-26T15:31:00.001-07:00

I have been doing a lot of thinking since the recent death of a friend, who walked a very similar journey as mine in that we both tried long and hard (and unsuccessfully) to ‘get recovery’ while maintaining a belief that God was just something people made up. No one controlled our journey except us (or so we thought). Then, we (my friend and I) both somehow found ourselves walking a different path of coming to believe and starting to gain some serenity in our individual recoveries. What I have been thinking about is why I refused to believe in God. And what do I believe now?

I’ve been thinking about how that initial concept of God developed for me, and why some people take to it easily and others don’t. It isn’t solely a matter of environment, because you can have two people who were in similar abusive situations and one becomes a devout Christian while the other becomes an Atheist. The same is true in family systems, with brothers and sisters having completely different beliefs despite the same teaching and background. While environment and teaching definitely play a part in developing a concept of God, individual personality comes into play somewhere in the mix.

I think in childhood, it seems like anyone older than you is a power greater than yourself. Your parents (or in my case my parents and my grandparents) appear to be the ultimate higher power. So you begin to equate God with the same qualities of your parents. This is great if you are surrounded by love and nurturing and healthy discipline, not so good if you are accustomed to an unhealthy, uncertain and frightening environment. Trust is damaged at the core level. Questions like “Why didn’t you protect me? How could you allow this to happen? Where were you?” are questions I find myself asking but not sure if it is my parents or God that I am directing the questions at. And then there is the fear of the answer being “I didn’t/don’t care. You were/are not worthy.” (I don’t believe this answer of my parents today but once I did. I still question God about these things.) So I refused to believe and trust in a power outside of myself that I thought would let me down or judge me worse than I already judged myself.

Once I realized that I had created this template for God based on the qualities of infallible people, it became easier to make a conscious decision to begin to reshape my beliefs. My perceptions about life, spirituality and God are changing as I grow in recovery, am learning to parent myself and allow others to love me. My belief now includes my parents and grandparents as being children of God who also needed guidance and love, just like I do. They were/are flawed human beings, just like me. God is not.

There is still anger (which I am realizing I am afraid to express) about how things were, and grief (which I also am afraid to express) at how things should have been. (But there is also gratitude for some things and for where I am today). Huge emotions and big questions with no satisfactory answers, so with God being the biggest thing I can think of, I turn it all in his direction. And I ask lots of questions; to God, to people at church, to people in recovery, in my writing, to my friends, to my therapist. I don’t know if I will ever get the answers I am looking for, but I know that I am beginning to feel more confident in my search by being true to myself. Trusting God and others comes with a risk of further disappointment but not trusting becomes a bigger risk of not living the life I deserve/want today. I still cannot define what God is but more importantly, the question is not “Who, what or where is God?” but “How does God play a part in my life today?” and I can answer that question with gratitude.

Teardrops

2011-05-23T04:24:00.001-07:00

This week, we lost a good friend. T. was in recovery and struggled for a long time. In the past 6 months, I watched him transform into a completely different human being. He began opening his heart to the concept of God (he was a devout atheist for a lifetime) and went through the 12 steps. A tense man prone to relapse began to blossom into this man who was gracious, seeking, excited about recovery, and actually beginning to show signs of peace and serenity. It truly was a miracle to watch.

T. and I bonded because we had a very similar experience and we talked to each other of it often. We both had spent years in 12 step programs trying to do it our way without God and were both prone to relapsing over and over. Neither of us could gain any type of serenity. Suddenly, life began to change and it was like we were living parallel recoveries. We attended the same groups and questioned the same things. We loved the same people. We both began to believe that perhaps there was something to this ‘prayer thing’.

T. was one of those rare people in life that you meet and instinctively know that there are no hidden motives. He was one of the few people that I truly felt safe and at ease around. He would greet me with a hug and a peck on the cheek (something that very, very few people are permitted to do – touch me). He was a dedicated member of my homegroup and was a constant fixture, opening the door and sitting in the same seat several times a week. It was noticed if he was missing.

Missing. When I think of his wonderful smile, his raspy voice and his determination, it feels like there is a section of my heart that is missing. I have cried many tears over the past few days and will cry many more. When I go to my meeting, there is a definite missing piece to the atmosphere. He was loved by all of us, even those he hardly knew. But we are all grateful that T. found some serenity and he found God. He died clean and sober. He left behind so many people who loved him (not just liked but truly loved) and will always cherish his memory. He did the best that any of us can hope to do before leaving this earth – he loved and was loved.

Teardrops from Heaven

I awake to the hollow sound of rain drops

falling from heaven,

Echoing my sorrow

as I know you are gone.

Your time was too short,

your struggles too long,

But you touched so many hearts

like few miracles can.

Travel well on your journey, my friend,

Here you were a bright light,

Improving a land of darkness,

There I know you will prosper and shine.

The healing sound of teardrops

falling from heaven,

Echo your laughter as we bask in your memory

and follow your steps.

-your friend, Lisa

Chattering Monkeys

2011-05-18T09:05:00.001-07:00

I often wonder what it must be like to be confident and comfortable in one’s own skin. To not wake up shrouded by doubt and uncertainty.

Last night, I had some friends over to share a meal and hang out. Everybody seemed to have a lot of fun, the food was good and there were a lot of laughs. I felt good. I went to bed feeling good.

I woke up this morning completely filled with fear. I replayed the evening over in my head… 'Did I say or do something to offend anyone?' 'Did everyone really have a good time?' 'Why do these people want to hang out with me?' 'What’s the catch?' The thousand monkeys start chattering their lies into my ear. ‘You don’t deserve friendships.’ ‘Who do you think you are?’ ‘They’re gonna run if they discover what you are really like.’ ‘You don’t deserve to have fun.’

The thing is, these people are getting to know me more than I have ever let anyone know me, and they still keep coming back. They know my fears, my doubts, much of my past, my weaknesses and my strengths and they still choose to be friends with me. How weird is that?

The nice thing about being where I am at in recovery today is that I know the chattering monkeys will subside. If I don’t let them get to me, they settle down again. Sometimes soothing them comes from writing, sometimes it takes talking to someone, sometimes it is the act of praying. They probably won’t go away entirely but they will go back to sleep. It’s when I give in to them and let them rattle the cage that they wake up the really big demons; the ones of addiction, depression, self-harm, panic attacks, and isolation.

Already I can feel the monkeys settling down, one at a time. That in itself is progress.

When the wolves are at the door.

2011-05-16T12:22:00.001-07:00

When the wolves are at the door, do you panic or take stock and have faith that you will be ok?

It is hard not to worry about money when the bills are coming in and everything seems to cost more. To top it off, my freelance business is slow, so stress builds. Fear wants to take over and a natural response is to panic… or at least that is a natural unhealthy response that I am trying to change. Experience has shown me that business is often feast or famine. Experience has also shown me that we can get by on very little and there is a huge difference between needs and wants. We tend to get spoiled by when life has been rich and easily forget where we were during more difficult days. At least that is so for me.

I can remember as a child, complaining to Mom that we hated when she watered down the milk. I didn’t understand at that time, the amount of stress she must have had trying to feed a family of four when the wolves were at the door. She did the things she needed to do to get us through. No matter how bleak things looked, we always got by.

When I had no place to live, many of my friends would take food from their residence cafeteria to feed me. The head of residence was compassionate enough to turn a blind eye. No matter how bleak things looked, I always got by.

When my husband and I first lived together, we survived on one person’s minimum wage salary in a small apartment. We slept on a 3 inch mattress on the floor and had stolen milk crates for furniture. Those were days of a lot of kraft dinner and mr. noodles. Sometimes we had to sell a few possessions to pay the rent. No matter how bleak things looked, we always got by.

In Matthew 6:25 – 34, Jesus talks about not worrying about everyday life – whether there is enough food, drink and clothes. That life is more than these things and that God will provide what is needed. Worrying does not help. He says, “So don’t worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring its own worries. Today’s trouble is enough for today.” In other words, as they say in AA, “One Day at a Time”.

It is difficult to have faith when fear wants to overcome but all I can do is what is available to me today. Being fiscally responsible according to the situation and living within our budget is one of those things. If there is a lesson to be learned such as looking for new contracts, then following through is one of those things. If things are bleak, I can have faith that God will provide and we will get by. That faith is truly based on previous experiences.

Fear of Intimacy

2011-05-16T04:15:00.001-07:00

I’ve been married for thirteen years to a wonderful man. He has proven to be kind, loyal, trustworthy, loving and dependable. He is a wonderful father. He teaches me the importance of maintaining family as a priority. (Don’t get me wrong, he is also not without his faults.) When we got married, the priest talked of the difficulties we would face in our commitment and how we would need family, friends, community and God (not in that order) if we were to be successful and happy in life and in marriage.

There are several areas in my life that I often struggle with in not feeling like an absolute failure (even though the reality is often quite the opposite, the feelings are real and painful. How I would love to just ‘snap out of it’ and match my insides to my outsides some days). Being a ‘good’ wife is one of those areas.

Fear of intimacy comes from fear of rejection, betrayal and abandonment (all things that I have experienced over and over in life). It is the fear of allowing another person to see who I truly am. That fear comes from feelings of being unworthy, unlovable, damaged and shame-filled. I react instantly to every touch as if it were the touch of each person of past hurts even though I love this man and trust him. I react to every argument as if it will end with violence despite never having him raise a hand in confrontation. Each time this happens, I ask myself how long this good man will wait for healing. I now understand what that priest meant when he said we would continue to need family, friends, community and God. It is God working through these people, teaching me how to allow myself to be loved and some don’t even know they are doing it.

Yesterday, I heard something in church that made me realize that I don’t get to choose how God feels about me. Despite how unworthy and unlovable I may feel about myself, I am small and God is big. His love is not dependent on my feelings or my past. Every time I find myself asking why people care about me when I FEEL unlovable, I will try to remember the same thing… I don’t get to choose for others what their feelings are for me. I don’t need to act out of my brokenness to push them away.

The Doorway to Living.

2011-05-13T11:13:00.001-07:00

Fear of vulnerability has shaped and/or hindered my concept of God. Not so long ago, I was adamant that there was no way this ‘God’ people spoke of was going to play a part in my life. I didn’t need him, I didn’t want him, and I didn’t trust him. In Ephesians 4 in the Bible, Paul talks about God ruling over us, working through us and being present within us. I always viewed God as being something outside of me, who really didn’t care about what happened to people. I likened God to a child who watches the activity of an anthill, every so often delighting in creating chaos by destroying a few lives with a magnifying glass. There was no way I was going to turn my life over to something outside of myself. That would leave me completely open and vulnerable. Almost everyone I had depended on or professed my love to in the past inevitably came with disappointment, conditions and pain; lots and lots of pain. I had no understanding of love and just the thought of allowing myself to be vulnerable through relationship terrified me (it still does most days).

Emotions were the gateway to inner pain and turmoil, so I blocked them all out (or shut them all in). Negative emotions had no way to go out and joy had no way to get in. I blocked the door to my heart and didn’t realize that it was the same door God requires to work through. I didn’t consider that God was within already. That same entry I bricked over, is the doorway where life begins and the price of admission is vulnerability. I still don’t understand this unconditional love from God (and perhaps much of the negative emotional sludge that has built up inside of me is still hindering that acceptance and self-worth) but I am willing to allow him to start disassembling some of the bricks in that doorway. I can’t do it on my own. I am relieved to see that he is doing it from within as well as from the outside. It seems a little less vulnerable and more manageable that way.

Thanks!

2011-05-09T09:21:00.001-07:00

I’ve been thinking a lot about why I have continued this blog for as long as I have and whether it is the ‘right’ thing to do. Thankfully, I have never gotten caught up in the egocentricity of following how many page hits I have or how many followers because that was never the original purpose or intent (plus that would be adding to the craziness already in my head). I hope that each time I write, it is out of humility (although I know I often fall short). I have disclosed much more than I ever believed possible, despite the constant fear of hurting those I love (in particular my parents, my brother and my grandmother), and of putting myself at risk of judgment or attack. I often ask and pray for answers on whether this is an appropriate forum for healing and growth. Each time I go back and write about what life was like, there is always the risk of people misjudging my intention. It would be easier and safer to just sweep it all under the rug but in the end, it just ends up being a huge bulge of skeletons under the rug that I keep tripping over in my daily living.

Much to my surprise, I have had tremendous support from the most surprising people. I have gained a new group of people in my life who are travelling the spiritual journey with me and who help keep me on the path. I have a wonderful recovery community, not just where I live now and where I used to live in Halifax, but also in people all over the world that the internet has made possible. I have had responses and emails from the U.S. as well as overseas (which completely blows my mind). I have had people respond positively by telling me that my story has helped them understand people close to them who are or have been struggling. I have had people respond who are struggling themselves; whether it be about abuse, addiction or spirituality. My husband and his family have been tremendously supportive. My parents have been incredibly supportive despite how difficult it has been for them to read some of what I write. My hope is that they will be able to gain something from this as well; as the doors to communication between myself and them has been damaged over the years. My intent is to always write with the love I have in my heart for them today, and not out of the pain from the past. This blog has given me a forum to tell my truth. Out of that comes incredible healing. What is incredible about that healing, is that this journey is not solely about me, it is about all of us. It is about relationships.

Thank you for your support!

Sincerely, Lisa

The First Lessons of Love - Motherhood.

2011-05-08T18:09:00.001-07:00

The first time I saw you, my son, you were so perfect, yet so fragile. You were so tiny and vulnerable to this harsh outside world, protected from all of its dangers only by the walls of an incubator. You seemed familiar but completely foreign, it was hard to believe that you grew inside me for six months. I hardly had the chance to feel you there. In those first days, I tried so hard not to display my fears and my insecurities. I didn’t believe I was capable of being a mother, you deserved so much more. You were a gift and one that I did not deserve. I was afraid that I had done something that caused this rough start to your life; that I was so damaged and impure that even this God they spoke of had the sense to repel you prematurely from me in those final three developing months. There were so many things that could go wrong with you outside, so many ways that you could be taken from us in the blink of an eye. So many times I entered that intensive care unit completely encased in fear that it would be the day they stopped us to tell us you had gone to a better place. But even the nurses said you were a fighter, I believe you got that from me. When I finally could feel your tiny heart beating against mine as I held you against my chest, I knew what it meant to be mother. I knew you were mine and I was yours.

Six years have passed and on this Mother's Day I recount every gift I have been given. Your first steps, your first words, each new lesson and I see everything new again through your eyes. Every time we argue, I see how you (and I) are learning new lessons. Every time you smile, I see God in you. Every time you smile, I feel God in me. I still have fears and insecurities about motherhood but I could never have asked for a better child to teach me how to be a mother. I could never have asked for a better way to learn about God's love.

Lancing the Wounds of Loneliness.

2011-05-06T05:50:00.001-07:00

Absolute loneliness is feeling like your whole world is upside down and there is no way you can fix it. It is feeling like you are completely alone and there is nothing in the universe that gives a damn. There is no hope for anything better. That to me is the true definition of loneliness. It is when you are unable to relate to anything or anyone. It is despair.

She is drunk again. The fight is over and he’s gone. Despite being fall down drunk, he has taken the truck and I hope he has gone somewhere to sleep it off. I hope he doesn’t kill anyone by getting in an accident but part of me wishes he would just kill himself. She is sitting on the couch crying, babbling and nursing the drink she hid under the couch. My 5 year old brother is crying beside her, snuggled into her side with his head on her lap. “I hate him, I will always hate him!” he yells. I am angry and want to hit someone. I am angry because my brother is taking her side. He always takes her side. I know that when she gets drunk, she makes it so much worse. I hate that her husband hits her and calls her horrible things but I also hate how she acts. She makes us choose her side and if we don’t, she says we don’t love her. I just want her to be sober and to not try to make us love her out of pity and fear. I don’t want to listen to how he is horrible he is and how our lives would be better if she just wasn’t alive. I don’t want to see her flirt with other men when she gets drunk and makes him fly into a rage. I don’t want to hear how horrible he is in bed or anything else children should not need to hear. I want to be a normal kid living a normal life. I feel so alone.

---

I am home alone while Mom and Dad are at work. School was horrible. I hate junior high. 'D.' and his friends made fun of me all day. “Tomboy”. “Freak”. “Ugly”. One of them tore my project off the wall in french class and destroyed it this week. I finally got angry enough to fight back and then got in trouble for fighting. Fighting back always seems to make things worse. Now, I can’t leave the house without being chased, and I don’t know what they will do if they catch me this time. The last time I ran, they used a pellet gun. I have been bullied for as long as I can remember. I don’t know what I do to make them hate me but I know that there is no one who can help me. I feel so alone.

---

My head feels like it is trying to pull apart in a thousand directions. I woke with the sick feeling of being still partly drunk and I'm having a hard time staying on my feet. No one can understand how ashamed I am of having gotten drunk again after saying I would quit. I have no idea where I am right now. I don’t know what happened last night or yesterday (I'm hoping it has only been a day this time) and I don’t know why my clothes are torn. I don’t know if the dried blood on my clothes is mine or someone else’s and truly I am afraid to find out. I feel so alone.

---

He says he loves me. It was the last thing he said before he left this morning, before I discovered he stole all of my bus money from my pockets while I was in the shower. It’s what he said when I confronted him about spending the money I sent him with to pay the power bill. It’s what he says when confronted with every lie, every deception, every betrayal. It’s what he says when I say no and it means nothing. I don’t know how I got to this place and I don’t know where to turn to get out. No one will understand because it is my own fault for trusting him. I feel so alone.

I have spent a lot of my life feeling completely and utterly alone and in that place of despair. Even times when I had friends and co-workers and family who cared for me and were there, I have been in that desperate and bleak place. I have carried my past with me like a dirty burlap sack, setting it down for a short while and often picking it up again. I am learning to empty the sack piece by piece but sometimes the pain of the process reminds me of that lonely place that is still there if I want to visit.

I feel it most in periods of doubt and uncertainty, when I am in foreign territory outside of my comfort zone. I feel it when I question God and the people in my life. I feel it when the thousand chattering monkeys are whispering lies in my ear and feeding the doubt, mistrust and fear. Loneliness is still very present at times but I can see how it is being pushed out of my soul with every step forward, like a wound being lanced. Some days I just have to push forward and push through, trying to maintain faith and trust. Today, the loneliness is much less despairing. Instead of a blinding pain that threatens to topple me into the abyss, it is more like an intermittent dull ache.

Snippets of Memories.

2011-04-28T07:40:00.001-07:00

The range of emotions with every visit is not like peeling an onion, it is more like grating an onion; ripping and tearing into every layer at once.

I look around at my grandparent's house and the yard and memories come flooding back. Some are good, some are painful. The tree in the backyard that I ran into with the skidoo is now much larger. I remember feeling special as my uncle would take me with him for snowmobile drives in the winter and how proud I was when I was old enough that he let me go on my own... then the shame as I drove into the tree. The same uncle taught me to ride my bike when I was my son’s age. I lost control then too, driving erratically into the ditch, landing in a tree in my parent’s yard (the tree is no longer there). “Don't cry! It doesn’t help anything”, he scolded me as I nursed my sore arm and bruised pride. I can laugh at these things now… and I can cry at some.

The bushes have grown larger, in the field behind the house where we used to play hide and seek, and where I was often beaten up and terrorized by the neighbourhood bully. I imagine children still play there, away from parent's watchful eyes. I see the step where my grandmother's dog was tied up every day. I could always be safe from neighbourhood bullies if I could make it to Benji, she protected me fiercely. The park is still there, just a stones throw from my parent’s house. The swing sets are still the same, even the one that my brother jumped from, broke his wrist and my father refused to believe it was broken until 3 days later. The field where we spent so many hours playing softball now has a large sign where home plate used to be. Perhaps this summer I will play Frisbee with my son there.

My parent’s old house next door is now completely different from new owner’s renovations, even the colour has been changed from yellow to grey. I am glad that it is different, I no longer have to see the deck where a boy made me hide from the view of people who might have helped stop him. The same deck where I beat up my own little brother during a sibling argument. The same deck where I drunkenly vomited over the side after ditching afternoon classes and consumed a pint of jack daniels and several beer. I see the ditch between our houses where she parked the truck in after drunkenly missing the driveway and remember the horrific fight that ensued. I see the field between our houses and remember her staggering barefoot and drunk through knee deep winter snow sporting a black eye. I remember her passing out on the lawn and how terrified I was that the neighbours would see her, terrified not for her but for my own shame and embarrassment. I also remember flying kites in that field and jumping ramps with our bicycles. The woods are still there behind the back field, my refuge and the place where I learned to be comforted by nature. Where we built forts and had campfires and played capture the flag and kick the can. Some day soon I will take my son for a walk on the trails through those woods.

The storm door is still the same one; the one that I slammed so hard that the glass shattered, after he called me names when I tried to defend her. The stove is not the same but the kitchen layout is; I can practically smell the smoke from the time I tried to put out the fire when she passed out with a meal still cooking. The living room and the couch where I walked in on her rape in the middle of the day, her too drunk to even comprehend his rage and how he didn’t care that I was there. I remember the basement and the barn but have no interest in exploring them or their memories today. The barn has been completely rebuilt anyway, only his tools remain. The backyard seems much smaller, it is hard to believe that he built the lobster boat there. I remember the pride I felt that he allowed me to sand down the wood and paint what he had built with his own two hands. He had so much talent and skill for building things and working with his hands. It amazed me that hands that could cause so much pain could also build things so beautiful.

Memories. Sometimes we relish in them, other times we wish they could be erased from time. Sometimes we learn from them, others times we just soak in self-pity for awhile. In any case, they really are as much a gift as being able to enjoy the present today. Those events are what brought us to today. What we take from them makes us who we are today. If I didn’t have the good and the bad from my past, I would not be where I am and who I am today; the good and the bad. Perhaps as I grow spiritually, my perception and emotions regarding certain events will change and thus I will continue to change as a result. The sting of the bad memories will not be so harsh and good memories will become more important. I have learned that today becomes memories for the tomorrows to come. It hasn’t been an easy lesson, but it is an important one. I’m still going to make mistakes and have regrets but I can live knowing that I am doing the best I can and am making amends immediately when I screw up. The Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous promises “we will not regret the past, nor wish to shut the door on it.” I didn’t believe this promise was possible for me but I am starting to see where there is hope.

Keep the Faith??

2011-04-27T06:54:00.001-07:00

On Easter, we heard about rebirth and new life in church. We heard about love requiring justice. We heard about forgiveness and redemption. So many things that I question God with daily. In so many ways, I can see how my life is taking on a new form; how the past is being shed like an old skin. But like any new skin being formed under a scab, it is tender and raw and somewhat vulnerable. There is pain involved and I am discovering that the equivalent mental and spiritual pain is this thing called doubt. There is so much that I know God and I have to continue to work on in my life and I wonder if further change is even possible.

Every time I am faced with the reality of the past, whether it be a trip back to old stomping grounds or even the joy of being with family today, it comes with a twinge or a tug back to old thinking and emotions. There is pain of knowing what life was like and what could have or should have been like. There is sadness in knowing that we all have to go through our own process of growth and for most of us, that process is painful. The sadness comes not just in accepting my own pain but seeing the continuing pain in those people I love. It is in these times that I experience the most doubt about God’s love and care. I feel a disconnect with everything in the universe and want to retreat into the painful comfort of what I know. It is those times of being vulnerable and remembering vulnerability that all of those old defence mechanisms rear up and it is more difficult to maintain faith that this new way of life is the right direction. Mistrust and fear try to worm their way in and undermine the good that has been developing.

However, I do know that this is a temporary place in my spiritual journey. I have been here before and have previously come out to a better place. Still, it is hard wondering “Is this it? Is this the time that any faith I have attained will just disappear?” Hmmm… I wonder if there is such a condition as spiritual bipolar disorder.

Good Friday

2011-04-22T21:12:00.001-07:00

It is Good Friday. This is the first year that I’ve ever really thought about what that actually means. This is the day that Jesus of Nazareth was hung on a cross. I have been thinking about why he was put there, why he allowed himself to die such a horrible and shameful death, and what it must have been like. Despite how little I understand about Christianity, I am in complete awe and gratitude for the life and death of Jesus.

I have seen images of Christ on the cross for years in paintings and trinkets and jewellery and never put any thought into it. We become immune to the reality of what actually happened and its meaning. Despite his divinity and faith that God would restore him to life, a real man hung crucified on that piece of wood. Someone with flesh, blood, muscle, tears and feelings of exhaustion and pain, just like me. And that someone was beaten and flogged, then had real spikes driven through flesh and bone and hoisted up to be left to die, exposed naked to the elements and left to asphyxiate once he could no longer support his body weight. Someone with real fears, real suffering, real emotions just like me. That someone had to carry his own means of death to the place he would die; past a mob of people who scorned him, past people who hated him, past those who loved him and supported him, past those who betrayed him and past those who denied him. Christ had every opportunity to flee before being betrayed by Judas, judged by the Jewish high priests and condemned by the Romans to death. He could have lied to Pilates and denied being the son of God. Despite how much fear he must have had, he maintained a faith that this was the necessary way he must die. Despite knowing that his friends and disciples would deny their loyalty in his time of need, he would hoist that cross and walk the long walk to certain death.

Jesus had so much faith in his purpose and his father God that he was willing to die. He overcame his fears and his doubts and his own humanity. He faced inevitable pain, torture, humiliation and death because of his love for God and for all of humanity.

Even though I have so many questions about Christianity, I cannot even begin to comprehend the love of a God that is willing to die for me. I do not deserve his love or his grace but I’m grateful for it. Eternally grateful. I will never see a cross the same way again. Whatever my pain and suffering, it can never compare. I will never see life the same way again.

Challenging old beliefs

2011-04-21T05:23:00.001-07:00

This week, I’ve been trying to challenge my thinking by confronting “old ideas”. In AA’s step 10, we do a “daily inventory and when we were wrong promptly admit it”. It is really quite amazing once you start looking at your thinking and beliefs, to see how flawed one actually is as a human being... and that it is ok.

I still struggle with anxiety and a large part of that anxiety is the belief that people are judging me. Twice this week, politicians came to the door canvassing our neighbourhood. Both times, I found myself hiding from the windows and telling my son to be quiet until they went away. My son thought I had lost my mind and informed me that it was silly and I should just answer the door. He is six! Then I realized my mother used to do the same thing to us growing up, always hiding from the outside world. I looked at why I chose to do the same thing and realized that I was afraid of somebody coming into my personal space. Perhaps they would ask me something I didn’t know and I would in turn feel stupid. Perhaps they would ask me for financial contribution and I would feel less than. Perhaps they would see inside the house and think it was messy, and I would feel judged. All false thinking. When I go into a public place, I still feel paranoid and that people are looking at me, judging me for the way I look and that they see the shame inside me. It is a constant struggle to confront the “thousand monkeys chattering inside my head”, telling me that I am no good, I look funny, I am stupid, I will never be worth anything.

I am trying to challenge those thoughts and replace them with “you are ok.” (I’m not in a place yet where I can tell myself I am great and even come close to believing it.) I am still trying to believe the statement that God loves me just as I am. It seems to completely go against everything I have been told and have told myself for 38 years. The biggest help I have found in trying to shatter that self-loathing is looking at my son and how much I love him, knowing how much I want him to know he is truly loved and that those thousand chattering monkeys will lie. It is seeing that once I was as young and innocent as he is today that convinces me even a little bit that I was and am loved.

For the Love of God

2011-04-13T05:36:00.001-07:00

The sun is shining and I can hear birds outside. There is still a chill in the air but spring is definitely here. When I go out my front door, I can see the perennial sprouts starting to push their way out of the earth. New life. This morning I smiled as I watched my husband and son rough-house in fun before they went off to work and school. Their laughter warmed my heart.

It is easy to see God’s love on days like today. When the warmth of the sun is pressing upon my face, I rejoice in the fact that I have been shown grace time and time again. I am alive to enjoy this moment. I have overcome all odds and survived over and over for no good reason other than perhaps God’s grace. Why did I survive suicide attempts, alcohol poisoning, black-outs, homelessness? Why do I sit here today with a good life in recovery with a wonderful family when abuse, addiction, perversion, financial hardship, mental health problems and crime so easily could have taken me to a much different place? Looking at my history, it is nothing short of a miracle that I am not in a prison, institution or morgue today.

This week, I have railed at God, wanting to know where was his love when I suffered, when I saw others I love suffer and could do nothing about it. I have wondered what the point is in believing in a God that appears apathetic in the face of atrocity. Then I started thinking about grace. I started thinking about the positive things that I have been given in the midst of it all – strength and perseverance to carry on, talents and gifts to enjoy and share, humor, deep friendships, family, compassion, humility, gratitude and an intense desire to deepen my spiritual relationship. Tomorrow I may doubt my beliefs again but today, while the sun is shining I think I’ll bask in God’s love for just a little while.

Skeletons in the closet.

2011-04-10T20:49:00.001-07:00

Eighteen years have passed and still the thought of running into him on the street makes me nauseous. Sometimes I see someone who resembles him, even though he is in another province, and I want to hide… or hit him with my truck.

That year and a half of my life took me to a low that I never could have imagined. The relationship began with pain and ended with pain. That’s what I believed love was about. “I’m only trying to help you,” he said as he took my dignity, leaving me unsure of what really happened. With every lie, came an “I love you.” With every “I love you” came another lie. The entire relationship was built upon lies, manipulation, theft and deception. With each event of humiliation, shame entrenched my entire personality, making it more and more difficult to find a way out. As my confusion grew and my self-confidence shrank, I pushed more and more people away. I became the woman I swore I would never become. I gave up all control and allowed him to take over my life until I had no soul left, I was merely an object for him to use.

I won’t even begin to describe the events that made up that time but finally, after all of my financial resources were used up and most of my friends pushed away, I packed my few remaining belongings and moved home. I was a nervous wreck and I thought of suicide often. I spoke to no one about what my life had been like during that time. No one could know how full of shame I was. I allowed myself to be financially, emotionally, mentally and sexually used and abused over and over. I didn’t even care enough to try to fight back, all because of three little words: “I love you.” I was so desperate to have anybody care about me and I had no idea what love or even a healthy relationship looked like.

When I did finally gather enough strength to move back to that city and not go back to him, a new level of misery began: the phone calls I refused were endless, the harassing of my friends to find out where I was, the constant appearances at the school until I had him banned from premises, the debts that appeared in my name. Now I had fear to add to the shame and felt as if no one could understand. I was alone.

Eighteen years later, I am just starting to talk about what happened that year that I was twenty. I see now that he was/is a pathological liar and a sociopath that really needed psychiatric help. I see my part in how dysfunctional the relationship truly was. But none of that knowledge erases the memories, the hurts, the shame and the anger. It doesn’t provide comfort when my husband comes behind me to caress me and I want to crawl into a little ball and cry because I can’t differentiate now from then. It doesn’t make it any easier to find forgiveness in my heart… but the question I keep getting faced with is: Is it him or me that I cannot forgive?