Archive for the Family Category

New England Trip

By on June 20, 2022

The trip was originally planned for my 50th birthday back in 2019. Not only did I turn 50, but I had just finished all my courses for my 2nd Associates. I felt I needed to celebrate graduating with a 4.0 after working full time and college full time while also going through a divorce and a significant job change. I should note that is why I fell into a deep depressive burnout which was exacerbated by the pandemic. But I digress. I never went on the trip because my bank account told me no.

I’d been sitting here unemployed since mid-January. I wasn’t actually sitting as I finished and started a lot of projects. I decluttered, I cleaned, I cussed a blue streak every time I worked on cleaning out the shed. I knew when my kids and all the pets started annoying me that I needed a break, and so I planned and executed last minute the trip I originally planned over 2 years ago.

The original plan was to travel to Stamford, CT where my 8th great grandfather Rev John Bishop is buried. He was the first of the Bishops to come to the colonies. His burial site is unknown, but it is in Stamford along with his 2 wives. The original memorial made by his sons was replaced in 1865 by one made by a great grandson and sits in the cemetery behind St Andrew’s Episcopal in Stamford.

Rev. John Bishop came to Stamford from Massachusetts Bay in 1644 and officiated as minister of the congregational church in this place to the time of his death 1694
St. Andrew’s Episcopal Church

I had decided since I was that far north, I might as well make a trek through the remaining northeastern states I’ve never been to. Thanks to genealogy research, I knew 8th great grandfather Rev John first settled in Taunton, MA. I used that as a stop on my northeast circuit traveling from Stamford to Taunton through Rhode Island, stopping in RI long enough to pee. (This won’t be the last reference to bathroom stops.)

Taunton, MA

From Taunton, MA, I traveled through Boston (and downtown Boston thanks to Google rerouting me around traffic) up to Kittery, ME.

Fort McClary State Historical Site, Kittery, ME

From there I drove in the rain to Hillsboro, NH to stop at President Franklin Pierce’s Homestead. I ended up in Hillsboro town center where I lost signal to my phone and hence my gps and panicked. Thank GOD I can memorize maps and knew where to backtrack to so I could at least continue to Vermont. (I did make it to Pierce’s place before dark though it was closed.)

Pierce Homestead, Hillsboro, NH

I managed to finally get signal as it got dark and got guided in the pouring rain to eventually arrive at a rest stop just south of Brattlesboro, VT 10 min before it closed. I was in Vermont just long enough to pee.

Rest stop just south of Brattlesboro, VT

On my way home I stopped in Pluckemin, NJ where my 6th great Eoff grandparents are buried. Hans’ grave is either unmarked or eroded beyond reading (as most of the stones are), but Maria’s headstone is partially readable. They were the first Eoffs (German Öff) to come to the colonies. I went to the wrong cemetery first, though there are Eoffs buried there as well.

Pluckemin Presbyterian Church Cemetery, NJ

I did a drive-by through Philadelphia by the Liberty Bell before heading home without going through DC again. I took no pictures, but I did check in to the Liberty Bell on Facebook as I sat at a red light.

.With the rundown of the trip out of the way, 3 days of all day driving gave me a lot of time to think. Granted, I got caught up on my podcasts and listened to 2.5 audiobooks, but my mind wanders. There were a couple of things I kept mulling over.

1. I have undergone a great deal of change in my lifetime. Granted this is how life works, but when you grow up in religious and cultural fundamentalism, any changes in your way of thinking could be the slippery slope to backsliding or hell or worse, ostracization for no longer conforming to whatever the dominant culture mandates for inclusion.

Anyway, old me would never have just gone on that kind of trip spur of the moment and by myself. Old me certainly wouldn’t have admired the beauty of New England even in the dead of winter and pouring rain and fog. But also, old me would have been afraid of ending up in “the bad part of town” and would have been paying extra attention to the “feriners” (pronounce it like I spelled it) who “want to kill us because we are free and Christian.” (I’m still a bit angry that I fell for the right-wing propaganda and held it as truth for so long.) Lots of change.

2. I am extremely privileged to be able to trace my family ancestry back to Europe through multiple branches. I have visited every place the Bishops settled since leaving England AND was able to visit the village of Cattistock where Rev John was baptized and his parents are buried when I was stationed in the UK. I’ve visited most of the places the Eoffs settled after coming from Germany. I can also trace back the Hills, the Polks, the Vanhooks, and I think the Allens. That’s privilege. Almost all were colonists. Many of my colonist ancestors were slave holders which throws in a big old batch of conflicted feelings. That is not a legacy I can take pride in, but it is one to which I am still heir nonetheless. I believe American slavery was an evil practice. Period.

Yet I carry perpetrator DNA. Both sides.

I know I am not responsible for the actions of my forebears. Lord knows I’ve dealt with carrying other’s sins as if I was responsible for theirs enough in therapy over my dad. However, to refuse to acknowledge it for the evil it was, or to excuse it away as being a “product of their time,” is to support it after the fact. It was just as evil then as it is today because it required dehumanization of a group of people made in the same image of God as the slaveholders. That dehumanization required Christians reject the reconciling work of Jesus. The refusal to rectify the wrong done is also to reject the reconciling work of Jesus. I am just one person, but I refuse to excuse away the evil of my ancestors because I have my “get out of Hell free card.” Because as I once heard from a Black Baptist pastor (and I’m paraphrasing), if your heart and life doesn’t change after believing Jesus, you haven’t really believed.

This entry is filed under 500 Words, Confessional, Contemplation, Family, History, Photos, Politics.

That time a light shined into the dark

By on January 27, 2019

I have a little story to tell.

My therapist asked me a question a couple of weeks ago, and I gave her a partial story which answered her question but did not get to the rest of the story which would have resulted in an ugly cry. Last week I read a blog post that included a story which reminded me of this one I had just told my therapist. And so I decided I’m ready to share it.

It was 6th grade. A lot of awful crap happened that year. Like the cut finger incident I wrote about before and significantly toned down Daddy’s response. But anyway, one morning I was waiting for the bus, and Mom had to make a long distance phone call for something. This was back in the dark ages when we were on a party line and you had to call the operator to call the operator to call long distance. At least you couldn’t direct dial. Daddy had told her exactly what to do because of course he did. She did not follow his instructions exactly as she began to talk to the operator and he began screaming at her and saying awful, hateful things.

And I fell apart.

When Mom finished with the call, she turned on him and asked him if he was happy for how that affected me. And that’s the extent I remember of their interaction as the bus came and I could leave.

That’s all I told my therapist. Which that was all that was relevant to her question.

What I remember of the bus ride to school that morning was trying to will myself away. Just away. Away from everybody. I didn’t want to deal with anybody and I sure didn’t want to melt down in front of anybody and have to explain. I just wanted to be completely invisible. And it pretty much worked on the bus. But then we got to school.

When I walked in the door to the building, 2 girls from my class were in the hallway outside the door to our classroom. Now these girls picked on me a lot, but I normally didn’t mind because they did it in a way that didn’t feel malicious, and was almost always funny. That morning, however, was not the time, not that they knew. I could see it on their faces and knew it was coming, and they started in. On a normal day, it would not have bothered me in the least. But that morning, I lashed out at them, ran into the classroom, and put my head down on my desk and started crying. Which again, I didn’t want to cry and have to explain.

Those 2 girls immediately came over asking me what was wrong with genuine concern. I gave them the oversimplified short version and they proceeded to try to convince me it was going to be okay. They were the light that I needed in that moment of darkness.

“You are the light of the world. A town built on a hill cannot be hidden. Neither do people light a lamp and put it under a bowl. Instead they put it on its stand, and it gives light to everyone in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your Father in heaven.” Matthew 5:14-16 NIV

via GIPHY

This entry is filed under 500 Words, Abuse, Dysfunctional, Family, Life, Thankful.

It’s been a while

By on October 16, 2017

I was told today that I haven’t blogged in months. Technically that’s true, but it’s only been two and half months. These things happen when you go back to school full time while you’re working full time. Ain’t nobody got time for blogging! But I have gotten caught up(ish), and I’m going to take a few minutes to throw out some non-pot stirring things.

These boys crossed the rainbow bridge at the end of July. I fully expected one or the other of them to not come back from the vet. I did not expect neither to come home. I haven’t cried over an animal since I was very young. I didn’t even shed a tear a few years ago when I found Darci in the road, and she was my girl. I cried over these boys for 2 days, and decided I finally grew all of my emotions.

I went to DC in August. I promised my family for years that I would take them, and this was me fulfilling that promise. Chad backed out a couple days before, so I will probably still take him sometime. Or send him if his friend can meet him there. This wasn’t my first time, though, and I made Jamie take a picture with me at the Marine Corps Memorial just as I had done with my mom in 2000.

We went Arlington National Cemetery, but I ended up going to JFK’s grave and the Tomb of the Unknown by myself. As I was walking up that last hill to the Tomb of the Unknown, I realized I had made a huge mistake. I was sure I would make it up there, but that I would never make it back to the entry. As I was walking up to the Tomb, I heard a bunch of clicking and I knew what it was that I was hearing, and stepped up my pace. I just happened to get there for the end of the changing of the guard. That was pretty stinking cool!

If you’ve never been, you can’t grasp the size of Arlington unless you are there in it. And I was able to make it back without having to find a ranger to rescue me.

I took the above photo from the WW2 Memorial and thought to myself, “Jenny ran though this?!?”

I got to have dinner with my friends Michele, Heidi, and Todd while I was there. Darrel couldn’t make it because I forgot to tell them all until the week of and he already had plans.

Labor Day weekend I flew home to AR for a birthday celebration. There were 3 “big” birthdays right together and my cousin Sharon (who turned the big 50) threw a shindig. It was really nice for so many of us to get together without it being for a funeral. Our parents came from large families that came from large families so there are a bunch of us. This is just a few of the girls:

I’m not sure who took that, but I stole it from Sharon’s Facebook.

Almost a month ago, Evie started having seizures out of the blue. I took her to the emergency vet, dropped way more money than I ever thought I would drop on an old dog, and she was in such bad shape, we let her go. I cried after talking to the day vet the next day (before we made the decision). I cried a little bit every day after that for 3 or 4 days. And then I melted down when I went to pick up her ashes.

She was a puker, but aside from that, she was the absolutely sweetest dog ever.

Chad finally got his driver’s license, so now when he writes “milk” on the white board, I give him $5 and tell him to go get it himself. Unlike Jamie, he is quite happy to go get stuff I send him for.

And back to that whole thing about going to school full time while I’m working full time?

I will NOT take 4 classes next semester. I spend a crazy amount of time at Starbucks because I cannot get homework done at home. I have never wanted to clean and organize so much as I have since school started.

Oh, and I got a tattoo.

This entry is filed under 500 Words, Family, Life, Ramble.

Dreaming #nablopomo

By on November 7, 2016

I tend not to put too much stock in dreams. I blame my parents for dismissing relative’s dreams. Plus I have really weird dreams, and they are usually vivid so I often remember them. Back in the spring I had a dream that was so disturbing, I had to call someone about it to stop dwelling on it. Just last week I had one that I had to tell another friend about. I wasn’t so disturbed after waking up, but I was pretty disturbed in the dream.

But then there is the dream Chad had back in May. He said to me, “Hey, I dreamed that Granny died.” I told him that she had been sick and was in the nursing home for rehab, but that she was going home the next day. 2 days later she died.

I have had several dreams about Mom since she died. I dreamed that I was packing up her stuff, and had most of the truck loaded, but then there she was in the kitchen, and I panicked as I thought, “What’s she going to do when I have all of her stuff?” Another dream, I was home for the funeral, and on the way to the funeral home, but she was actually still alive and in the hospital. Still another, I went home for the funeral, and at no point did I find it odd that we were in the house in Morrilton, but then Mom was there, and was asking me where her car was. I remember feeling angry that she couldn’t remember I had the car, and then guilty that I was angry because she couldn’t remember. (I think maybe that’s something I haven’t really worked though yet.)

The other night I had one of my typical “out there” dreams. For some reason I had to fake fight Rachel from Friends in order to fight some dude that I think I know, but all I can think is that he looked like a cross between Danny Bonaduce and Sammy Hagar. Took forever to choke him out, too, but he finally tapped out right before losing consciousness.

Following this, I was feeling like honey badger, and decided to go tell Mom who was on the porch. I walked out and said, “Mother,” in that same way that Jamie says it to me. Mom was sitting in Aunt Becky’s green chair with Aunt Pearl. Aunt Violet was laying on a bed beside them, only that woman looked nothing like Aunt Violet and more like Aunt Dude. Granny was sitting beside the door, and I woke up before I could assess who else was out there. Essentially, I think I was on that porch with a lot of my deceased aunts plus Mom and Granny. Just so odd, but neat.

This entry is filed under 500 Words, Family, Life, nablopomo, Ramble. | 4 Comments

Sexual abuse is not a joke

By on October 14, 2016

I kept sitting and looking at my screen wondering how I was going to start this. There is just no good way to start a post that’s going to expose a family skeleton. But I cannot sit silently by while otherwise good people excuse and normalize Donald Trump’s lewd and crass statements, which weren’t surprising to me given the totality of his reprehensible character which he has displayed since early in the primaries. It is a testimony to the condition of his heart, and not a good testimony.

And for the record, my rejection of Trump is NOT an endorsement of Hillary.

Shortly after I turned 15, my dad was caught engaging in beastiality. He would go to our church on Saturdays and clean the building, and as if it wasn’t bad enough what he did, it happened on church grounds. I heard the original phone call. I heard the plea not to tell anyone. But the membership of our church was told, and that was the end of Daddy’s membership there, and also his service as a deacon. This prompted a hasty move which would have me transfer to a new school and thereby give me some protection from any trickle-down effects of that news reaching the ears of other kids.

No one outside of my parents ever spoke of that incident around me, so I have no idea who outside of that church and the reporter of the incident knew about it. I’m not entirely sure who in the family knows besides those who also went to church there. To be honest, I could have largely convinced myself that nothing ever happened had my dad not brought it up from time to time. He never truly acknowledged the deviancy of his behavior, but never failed to paint himself as the victim.

Nearly 5 years later, he was arrested for rape of two 12-year-old boys. I was 19. This was not an incident that was covered up. His arrest was announced on the local radio station’s news. It was reported on the front page of the local newspaper. I still remember like it was yesterday when my best friend called me because she had heard about it from someone who heard it on the radio. She could not believe it, and was ready to set the record straight. I had to tell her, “Yes, the report is true.” Meanwhile, my mom was beside me saying “No, it’s not true.” I was confirming that Daddy really had been arrested for rape. She was denying rape had occurred.

But I would later read his written statement. Written by his own hand, he gave his account, and he was guilty. Yet he maintained for years and years that what he did wasn’t wrong. My mom stood beside him and supported him. A friend of theirs came to offer support and called those boys “just trash.”

Daddy plead guilty to avoid what would have been an ugly trial. The judge gave him the minimum sentence, but that was still 7 years. It would be another year after sentencing before there was a bed available in one of the state penitentiaries. He went to prison shortly after I turned 21, and served 5 years before being granted parole.

To give a little more perspective to this, the beastiality event occurred when he was 61 years old. The rape incident shortly before his 66th birthday. He was by no means a young man. We were Landmark Missionary Baptists – a sect that considered (and probably still does, to an extent) Southern Baptists too liberal.

I listened to him as time went on from the arrest, conviction, and incarceration make himself out to be the victim. He claimed he was “set up” because he was speaking out about the drugs in our neighborhood. By “speaking out” I mean talking loudly. He never assumed full responsibility for his actions, and absolutely never repented. Once I had children, especially a son, I had to watch him like a hawk because I knew he could not be trusted not to molest him.

Because I read the statement and listened to him make himself the victim instead of the perpetrator.

I have looked back at his behavior in the years leading up to the rape, and I can see the predatory signs in retrospect. The grooming. I have often wondered how many more victims there are. I carried guilt and shame that I was unable to stop him. Unable to protect those boys. Unable to protect any of them. I didn’t know how to recognize the signs beforehand. But to be honest, at that age, particularly given the fear I had of my dad’s wrath, I was powerless. Because I had been beaten and berated into submission my whole life. “Honor thy father…” And with the skewed view of sex I was raised with, it is no wonder that I have always been able to sexualize anything.

dirtymind

Aside from being collateral damage from my dad’s sexual deviancy and abuse, I have been the recipient of unwanted and unwelcome lewd comments, touching, kissing, and propositions. As a married woman, I have had married men who not only knew I was married but also knew I knew were married try to pursue sex with me. I remember hearing a group of guys I was stationed with talking about Faith Hill. “She has legs all the way up to her ass!” I knew what that meant. And I also knew that as a tall, slim woman with long legs, that I also had “legs all the way up to my ass.”

“Locker room talk” is demeaning, degrading, and disrespectful. It shows at best a seared conscience and at worst a lack of conscience to treat another human being in this manner. It is not simply a “potty mouth.” I have a potty mouth (which I learned primarily at home growing up), and there is a big difference between dropping the s-bomb, d-bomb, or even f-bomb as an expletive and bragging about or fantasizing aloud about forcing yourself onto another person. Sexual abuse is not a joke. Sexual abuse is evil. To dismiss it as less than that is to condone and enable evil – no matter which wing you identify with.

The good man out of the good treasure of his heart brings forth what is good; and the evil man out of the evil treasure brings forth what is evil; for his mouth speaks from that which fills his heart. Luke 6:45 NASB

This entry is filed under 500 Words, Confessional, Family, Life, Politics, Rant, Totally Judging. | 6 Comments

A farewell for now

By on June 4, 2016

MomMePetFluffy81-WM

I now belong to an “elite club,” as my cousin Carolyn Jo put it. My mom passed away May 4, and I now belong to that “elite club” of having lost both of my parents. As I said when my dad died nearly 9 years ago, you might think you have prepared yourself for that phone call, but when you get that call, you realize that you can’t ever be emotionally prepared. I say that as someone who does not like emotional pain, and whose default response to a negative emotion is to shut down. This becomes particularly true for someone like me who gets that call while I am out with a friend. Despite the fact that my therapist told me (as I melted down multiple times on her in one session) that it is okay to cry in front of Petra.

But I almost cried in front of Petra as she witnessed that phone call I got from Sharon.

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It’s been a whole month now. There is still a lot of emotion. No matter how certain I am of the eternal resting place of her soul, I still miss her. Much. With the Alzheimer’s and it’s associated dementia, I’ve been losing her for a few years. I am grateful that those years were few. When my Aunt Florabel started losing her memory, I remember Mom telling me that she was afraid that would happen to her. And then it did. She never completely lost her memory, and she never lost her core kind and humorous personality. She didn’t suffer from pain, and she considered the complications from the COPD (recurring pneumonia) a mere annoyance.

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There’s a story behind this next picture. One year just before Christmas, Mom asked me more than once if I had gotten a Christmas card from Carolyn Jo. I thought it odd that she asked me more than once, but didn’t dwell on it. Then I got the card, and died laughing! A couple months prior my cousin Jill (Carolyn’s daughter) had gotten married. Mom got picked on over all the beer (which she didn’t partake of because she didn’t drink), and someone made the remark to her that she couldn’t even bring herself to pick up a bottle. So, Mom being Mom, showed them, and picked up and empty bottle and posed. Carolyn took the photo and made Christmas cards. Of course, Mom about died, but the entire rest of the family LOVED it! I framed mine, and Mom gave me the stink eye over it.

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Not a day goes by that I don’t miss her. Her wisdom, her laughter, and her love. It’s farewell for now, but I know one day I will see her again.

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This entry is filed under Family, Life, Photos, Remembrance, Sad. | 17 Comments

Onions and old wounds

By on November 18, 2015

“I’m so afraid of the way I feel.” – Lindsey Buckingham

StairsToNothing-WM

Some days are rough. When they string together into a season, it really sucks. Some days I just want to stop feeling. Except I don’t. Lord knows I’ve done enough numbing.

I know that healing is painful, and slow. I know that sometimes you have to push yourself through the pain because that is part of the healing process too. Like when I had my appendix taken out. I was sick as a dog for a week prior to the surgery. I mean, it ruptured, so, yeah. I was BAD sick by the time I had emergency surgery. It is a miracle that I wasn’t sicker. I was exhausted, hungry, and sore after the surgery. I didn’t want to do a thing except lay there drugged up wishing someone would leave a donut close enough for me to reach even though I wasn’t allowed to eat. But my mom made the nurses make me get up out of bed and walk no matter how much I complained about the pain. Not because she wanted me to hurt, but because that was just part of the healing process – getting up and moving forward.

Once upon a time, I broke my wrist. I was in 5th or 6th grade. It was a playground accident, and it was a complete accident. I would even go so far as to call it a freak accident on a seesaw. I told no one because I knew that if my dad caught wind, I would be held solely responsible for both cause and effect. Obviously it wasn’t a bad break, but I found it really hard to get through basketball practice with minimal use of my left hand. The physical pain was mild compared to the emotional pain I expected to receive. It’s probably why I have such a high tolerance for physical pain now.

Hiding an injury from a parent out of fear of punishment for getting hurt in an accident is not normal.

The kids and I were heading home from the dentist last week, and I had some road rage going on. Big surprise to anyone who’s ever had to ride in the car with me. Anyway, Jamie says, “I don’t think I have ever experienced road rage.” I said, “Good. I hope you don’t.” After a bit more discussion she said, “Well, it is a lot easier to be mad and yell at someone when you aren’t face to face with them.” Could it be that a childhood of helplessness and unresolved anger is behind my road rage?

I had to get the pimp car fixed last week. It was something I didn’t think I could fix, but the tow truck driver was confident I could have done it myself. Anyway, after fixing the harmonic balancer (fancy name for crankshaft pulley), they recommended an oil change (it was really low), and coolant flush (coolant was really dirty). I declined having them do it because 1) I already had the oil and filter purchased to change the oil, 2) I’ve flushed coolant before and can do it myself, and 3) I look for any ways I can to save some cash. Well #2 was a huge mistake. I managed to break the petcock. Not so bad that I can’t work around it, and it still works, but still. It was frustrating and I bitched to Petra who proceeded to tell me that I don’t have to do everything myself even though I am capable because I don’t have anything to prove. Um, yes, I do. It’s irrational and insane, but yes, it is almost a compulsive need to prove that I am capable of doing it all and am not “stupid” and “irresponsible.”

I’ve reached a point where I have gained back all the weight I had lost and now need to either lose some weight or buy bigger clothes. I am opting for the former. I went to the doctor Monday because I had some paperwork for him to fill out for my insurance, and I needed a couple of prescriptions redone. Especially when the nurse reminded me I have asthma and I looked at my inhaler that expired over a year ago. My doc told me not to beat myself up over the weight gain as it is a normal reaction (physically and mentally) to what has gone on over the past few months. And now I can rein myself back in and “eat an apple and go for a walk” instead of binging on carbs and sugar.

4 years ago, he suggested a 30 day no-starch diet to break my addiction to carbs. Of course, I was also running regularly then too. So I decided to put myself back on a healthy diet high in vegetables and fruits. And running when the weather is nice enough. Twice in the past week I have gotten a bunch of veggies to roast. (Fiber is my friend. Seriously.) But my veggie prep time is slow. I am clumsy with a knife, so I can’t rush. My left hand has enough scars. But, I digress. Jamie decides she is hungry whenever I am doing this slow prep work and gets in the way while bitching about how slow I am and how I’m doing it wrong, and blah blah. And it really, really pisses me off.

It’s a trigger.

Once upon a time, I decided to make a bologna sandwich. I was maybe 12 or 13. Old enough to do it myself. It was during summertime so we had fresh tomatoes, and I was going to slice a tomato for my sandwich. Well, Daddy peeled everything, including tomatoes, so I proceeded to peel the tomato as that is what you do when it’s all you know. He walked in as I was doing it and had a conniption over how much of the tomato I was taking off with the peel. He went on and on and on until I melted down and just grabbed my sandwich and ran out to the barn sobbing with the sandwich I no longer wanted.

I vowed to never ever peel another tomato again.

And when Jamie starts bitching while I’m prepping, I relive that tomato incident all over again, which of course means I am very snippy with her.

Sometimes I wonder if I am ever going to heal from all those old wounds, not to mention how on earth do you?

You may believe that if you begin to cry you will never stop.1

I remember wondering “How broken do I have to be?” Now I am wondering just how broken I really am. I like fixing things. When I fix a light, a car, mower, or appliance, I feel empowered as if I do have some semblance of control over the world around me. There has been so much helplessness that fixing material things makes the broken parts of me not seem so terrifying. I can look at myself and say, “You know what? You’re not stupid. You can fix stuff. Not everything, but a lot of things. You pay your bills on time, and when you don’t, it’s not intentional. You’re not a failure.” And that works until I get tired from going wide open like I’m Superwoman.

That’s when I feel the wounds of that broken little girl.

That’s when the that old familiar voice starts in. “You’re in over your head. You’re a fraud. You’re about to fail big in front of everyone and they are going to point and jeer.”

I know it’s a lie. It’s just hard to fight your mind when you’re already tired and worn down – when you’re still hurt.

Psalm 13 New International Version (NIV)

For the director of music. A psalm of David.

1 How long, Lord? Will you forget me forever?
How long will you hide your face from me?
2 How long must I wrestle with my thoughts
and day after day have sorrow in my heart?
How long will my enemy triumph over me?

3 Look on me and answer, Lord my God.
Give light to my eyes, or I will sleep in death,
4 and my enemy will say, “I have overcome him,”
and my foes will rejoice when I fall.

5 But I trust in your unfailing love;
my heart rejoices in your salvation.
6 I will sing the Lord’s praise,
for he has been good to me.

1 Woititz, Janet G. (1983). Adult Children of Alcoholics. Deerfield Beach, FL: Health Communications, Inc p198

This entry is filed under 500 Words, Contemplation, Family, Life, Recovery, Semi-confessional. | 2 Comments

The pain of letting go

By on July 28, 2015

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I made the decision. I didn’t like it. I don’t like it. I knew I wouldn’t be “happy” with either option. I also know that keeping things status quo is not healthy for anyone involved.

I feel like I ripped out a big chunk of my heart and punted it.

I told that to my therapist and also that I felt kind of numb. Also that I felt like I needed a meltdown but that it would probably wait until the most inopportune time to strike. You know, like at work, because no one wants that. By “no one” I mean me.

I continually find myself wondering if I am doing the right thing. Did I make the right decision? And thus goes the rationalization process. Slogans fall flat as trite cliche. The doctrine of my youth fails from one-sidedness and does nothing but cover me in guilt and shame.

There comes a point when you realize you are the only one that is even remotely providing accountability to your husband. You can see that he is avoiding everyone but the friends who enable his behavior. You can see that he is not being honest with himself let alone anyone else. You see him walking around in that same facade you yourself used to walk in while keeping your addictions securely hidden away from view of anyone who might call you out on them.

You know that as long as nothing changes, nothing is going to change because that is what has been happening for years.

As I have been recovering, I have been seeing that I had few boundaries, and didn’t enforce the few I had. It was easy to overlook because I was numbing/escaping myself so as not to have to deal with much of anything. It has been something like coming out of unconsciousness into consciousness and seeing how things really are and realizing this is not the lifestyle I want to continue in. So I tried setting boundaries, but they were not respected. I tried pointing out what was really going on, and was dismissed and told I am the one with the issues.

But I’m not the only one with issues. I’m just the only one working on mine. And I have had enough of the insanity of addiction in my life.

So after the latest incident of craziness, I retained an attorney and am filing separation in a way to enforce separation. There is no violence or threat thereof, so I can’t get a restraining order. But since I am the only one working consistently and have been the only one paying the mortgage and utilities, I’m not the one who is going to leave the house.

And our children have dealt with the dysfunction long enough.

I’ve been told that he’s never going to hit bottom as long as I’m cushioning it. To be true, my lack of boundaries and lack of enforcing boundaries has certainly been enabling. But I finally had enough. So I took the opportunity while I had it to put up a legally enforceable boundary.

And it freaking hurts.

I feel like the pain is going to consume me in an implosion. As if my soul is collapsing in on itself.

But I am not going to cave in. I will not continue to live with the insanity of active addiction. I will not continue to subject my children to continued dysfunction.

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This entry is filed under 500 Words, Confessional, Family, Life, Photos. | 13 Comments

“The needs of the many…”

By on July 9, 2015

I am really struggling right now. When stuff hits the fan, it really hits the fan. I’m not struggling in isolation, though. I’ve shared with several close friends what is going on. I’ve even shared it with my co-workers because that morning I wasn’t coming to work until my daughter was home, I felt I needed to tell them why.

I have been put into the position – again – where I have to step up and take charge. Only this time, I have had a little taste of sanity, and I can see how life has become unmanageable again. I’ve had enough of the insanity and uncertainty and dysfunction. I am now in a position where I am forced to make some big decisions, all of which are going to involve uncomfortable (at best) confrontation.

I also struggle with how much is too much to share publicly. I absolutely won’t put this stuff on Facebook, but technically if I put it out here on my blog, I am putting on Facebook since I auto-publish to Facebook. There’s also the little matter of not having shared what happened with family except for one cousin.

Above all, I don’t want unsolicited advice nor do I want a big outpouring of sympathy. I’ve played my own role in the dysfunction that does not leave me a completely innocent victim. There has been complicity on my part in the past that enabled things to progress to the point they have. However, that does not mean that I must maintain status quo out of misguided duty whose purpose is to keep up appearances.

Sooner or later you can no longer hide the effects and consequences that accompany the disease of alcoholism and addiction. Then you are left with decisions on whether to let things continue to spiral in a way that sucks your family down with it or to protect the truly innocent from further harm from a disease none of you can control.

This is where I am. Facing a decision that I don’t want to make. Do nothing knowing things are going to continue to get worse (as they have been) while sucking multiple people down, or I can take a stand with the knowledge that the stand itself has the potential for loss. Yet I keep hearing the voice of Spock, “The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few – or the one.”

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This entry is filed under Family, Life, Recovery, Semi-confessional, Video.

Let it flow

By on May 17, 2015

I never had a clear understanding of the Holy Spirit. I believed there is one, and I believed the doctrine of the Trinity of which the Holy Spirit is a member. But functionally, I believed in the Father, the Son, and personal effort.

To be perfectly honest, I still can’t grasp the concept of the Trinity. I don’t understand the three in one. I choose to believe anyway. It would appear on the surface to be blind faith. But it’s not, even though I can’t point to anything visibly to “prove” it. In my personal experience it has all been internal.

My daughter went to a birthday party a few years ago for one of her friends. I went and hung out with her friend’s mom and another lady while the kids hung out together without moms hovering over them. At the time, we weren’t going to church. But I saw something in Jamie’s friend’s mom when she talked about Jesus. There was such unabashed joy and gratitude that she got a little emotionally overwhelmed and had to sit down. I had never seen anything like that in person.

I wanted that.

I prayed for that.

And nothing much happened — for 6 years.

It didn’t seem like anything was happening. I went to church, I read my bible, I read Christian books, and I read Christian blogs. I looked at my theology and doctrine with “grown up” eyes challenging what I believed to make sure I really believed what I believed because I believed it was true according to scripture or because I was told it was true. Most of my beliefs remain intact, and what changed was all secondary and tertiary doctrine that have no bearing on the foundation of the Gospel.

All those years, my faith was evolving, and growing. God would give me a little taste, and I would want more. I learned to be thankful and grateful for trials because He opened my eyes finally to the truth that we grow through trials, even though it is painful growth. The trials strip away our self-sufficiency, and teach us that we can trust God. I finally reached the point that I trust enough to stop taking my anti-depressant. Just like my childhood coping skills, it served it’s purpose, but I need to let it go.

I need to feel.

I talked to my sponsor about it, and my therapist. I talked a lot more about it with my therapist than I cared to. I have a program now to help me deal with life on life’s terms. I do not wish to continue numbing, even with a prescription. I have to feel my full range of emotions if I want to be emotional healthy.

That thing I prayed for 6 years ago? About halfway through the second song this morning at church, I felt the tears start to well up as I had my hand raised and trying to belt out the song louder than Stacey as she led. The dam broke during the 3rd song and I had to get a Kleenex. The hubby looked at me and asked, “Are you crying?” I laughed and answered, “Yes. I’m off my meds.” I was destroyed before the sermon even started, but as Pastor Nate ended the sermon with prayer, it hit me.

God answered my prayer.

For the first time today, I realized that I was responding emotionally with appropriate emotion. There was a lot of crying (a lot for me), but it was the right kind of tears each time they fell.

It felt cleansing.

Things like this are why I believe the Holy Spirit is the one who does the changing in us, and not our own efforts to change. The Spirit was given to us as followers of Jesus, children of God the Father to guide and comfort us. The Spirit took me on a path I never would have chosen to have my prayer answered. Left to my own, I would still be self-medicating and wondering why nothing was changing,

John 3:8 NIV

The wind blows wherever it pleases. You hear its sound, but you cannot tell where it comes from or where it is going. So it is with everyone born of the Spirit.”

You can’t put God in a box. You can’t neatly package him up. All you can really do is say like Job,

Job 42:2-3 NIV

“I know that you can do all things; no purpose of yours can be thwarted. You asked, ‘Who is this that obscures my plans without knowledge?’ Surely I spoke of things I did not understand, things too wonderful for me to know.”

Let it flow.

This entry is filed under 500 Words, Confessional, Family, Life, Recovery, Trust. | 3 Comments

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