“Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink, or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothing?” Matthew 6:25
“If I say, “Surely the darkness shall cover me, and night wraps itself around me,” even the darkness is not dark to you; the night is as bright as the day, for darkness is as light to you. For it was you who formed my inward parts; you who knit me together in my mother's womb. I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Wonderful are your works; that I know very well.” Psalm 139:11-14
“They don’t make dresses for sausages.” That’s what a dear old lady in my Mom’s church choir used to say. When I was a teenager, I thought she was a cute, little Finn lady with a great sense of humour. She was short and looked ordinary enough to me – but I get it now. She was right. They DON’T make dresses for sausages. I have entered my SAUSAGE ERA. I’m a jumbo sausage. More specifically, I am a HOT Jumbo, Great Canadian Meat, Gluten Free, HIGH protein sausage.
I should say I’ve been here before. I had a brief reprieve from jumbo life when my health required a very restrictive diet. For a few years, I was more of a CHIPOLATA sausage – small and skinny. However, I have reentered the Jumbo arena, and let me tell you, it sucks.
Body dysmorphia is a terrible LIAR. When I was super thin, I was convinced I should be even thinner. Whenever my pants size goes up, I think I’m too heavy. Either way, SHAME has me in its grip. I wish I could take what Jesus says to heart and not give a crap about what my body looks like or, like King David, be grateful to be living in it for the gift that IT IS.
Sometimes, okay – NEVER I think about my body as a gift from God. It’s hard to imagine why the DIVINE would find it a pleasing place to dwell, but God chooses it ANYWAY. It doesn’t work as well as other bodies. It IS worse for wear. I’ve treated it poorly. There are accumulated and genetic health issues I simply can not fix. Most days, I am angry at my body, actually angry at MYSELF, and I’m a very long way from forgiveness and healing.
A couple of months ago, while trying on my spring and summer clothes, I realized I had gained considerable weight over the preceding two years. They were times filled with EXTRA STRESS that affected my self-worth, my family life, my social life, and my work. I’d given up alcohol (long story) several years before, so I distracted myself with FOOD instead. Apparently, eating a WHOLE chocolate bar every night adds up, and menopause weight is no JOKE, especially when it comes to stress eating.
Depression is a reality in my little life. It ebbs and flows in currents that start as an ACHE in my heart that quickly takes hold of my brain. It turns me into an actress. I stop living and fall into the shadows of despair and self-loathing. It’s HARD to remember that the blanket of darkness that enshrouds me is NOT as it seems. The weight is a cosmic hug and a warmth emanating from heavenly light. This ISN’T just Bible Study stuff or things I HAVE to say because I’m in the God business. God REALLY knows me and you too. God loves me and God loves YOU. We don’t have to act, or change, or do ANYTHING at all. Be yourself! I am a living, breathing, hot, sweating, extra large creation OF GOD.
I’m good enough. I’m strong enough. And gosh darn it, people like me – (SNL – anyone? Personal affirmations in the mirror? Nevermind)
I’m an agent of my Maker. Even if I’m a shape-shifter like the blobby Barbapapas, I used to watch on TV. ‘Clickety Click, Barba trick’- their bodies morph into whatever is needed – thin, thick, tall, short, big, small, narrow, or wide. Who cares. God doesn’t.
The world needs us so very much to be loving. Love yourself so you can dig deep and find joy and peace in loving others with everything you are. No holds barred.
PS. I’m still going on a diet and beginning a new exercise routine. It’s a way to love my body. Chin up.
7 Where can I go from your spirit? Or where can I flee from your presence?
13 For it was you who formed my inward parts; you knit me together in my mother’s womb. 14 I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Wonderful are your works; that I know very well.
23 Search me, O God, and know my heart; test me and know my thoughts. 24 See if there is any wicked way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting.
There’s a part of myself I’d like to befriend, I empathize with her, but I don’t like her. It’s too hard. I haven’t forgiven her for the mayhem she causes, unaware, the relationships she destroys, the judgment she invites. These are irreparable damages.
She isn’t all bad. I mean, there are some wonderful and happy memories- and I’ve done the hard work to remember her innocence, her goodness. I get her. I underwent the testing, I did the research, I have weighed and analyzed my mental health issues. I talk about her in therapy – I understand – but it’s hard to accept all the things she did and does that I did and do that hurt and continue to hurt. It’s hard to shoulder this responsibility.
She feels so betrayed, used, and less than enough. She is always a part of me. She is inside my mind, and my gut- she reminds me how I routinely dissociate. She brings shame to the forefront. She is inconsolable. She takes me down to the depths, and part of me remains suffocated there. She tells me I did this to myself. She begs me to see her, to acknowledge her, to love her, to affirm and absorb her pain as it seeps through my mind at inopportune moments.
She is me, and I just come short of embracing her. I am not whole – because she needs my help to heal. That lonely, confused, misguided young woman who can’t find herself is still me. She is the me who feels worthless, who begs for attention. Who makes life altering choices in desperation. When I fall into depression, she washes over me. I succumb to regret. I believe the lies she takes for truth. I believe I have failed, I’m insignificant, unlovable, and too selfish to be dignified and respected. Even with evidence that this can’t be true, I still spiral down like a kite who has suddenly lost its supporting wind.
My hope: Isaiah 43:18-19
18 “Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. 19 See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland.
I was called back by a VERY pleasant lady who looked me up and down as she absently sorted through a clothes rack. She was fitting me with my DIGNITY. She removed a gown from its hanger. “THIS looks like it will work,” she smiled. “Well, that’s not REALLY a gown, now IS IT?” I scoffed. “She smiled, “well no, it’s a shirt.” “FINE.” I sighed. She pointed to a hole in the wall and directed me to, “Just step in there and STRIP everything OFF from the waist up. Then cover up with your gow–umm–shirt. You can leave your other things with your clothes.” She walked away and left me alone to stew.
My thoughts raced. “Leave my purse which holds EVERYTHING that I could ever need to survive outside of my home? Set it UNATTENDED in a cubicle, on a bench almost TOO tiny to sit on?!’’ There was no lock, No Bolt, NO HOOK ON THE DOOR. I’d have to trust there were no cubicle THIEVES lurking about. “Oh God, I hope no one LOOKS behind this little door.” I cringed. I had worn my most comfortable, stretched out, ratty, stained, sports bra – because I didn’t want to FUSS around with anything more complicated. If someone peeked in they would SEE IT, dangling sadly from beneath my equally worn out t-shirt. And no doubt, they’d eye up my precious purse, my SHIELD that keeps my anxiety from bubbling over. Whomever looks would SURELY judge MY beloved bag as overstuffed and beat up. “What if they unpack it?! What if they SEE? What if some stranger I will NEVER see again FINDS OUT that I am most certainly weird with all my doodads and thingamajigs, first aid and crafting supplies, and chocolate, and some cookies for EMERGENCIES!” I was beginning to have an anxiety attack so I shuffled through my purse to find my happy pills for quick relief. (nothing illegal)
I put on the shirt. It was sufficiently LARGE. It took some time to do it, but I buttoned it right to the top. “Oh good. I get to stay hidden,” I thought. Then I stepped out and crossed over into the room with the MACHINE. The clamp, squoosh, and contort your boobies machine. “There you are,” sang an anxiety free voice. Come on over and stand here. I’ll need your right arm to come OUT of the sleeve so your whole right side is ACCESSIBLE. “So I should UNBUTTON the shirt, then?” “Yes, please UNBUTTON the shirt.” It took what felt like TOO MUCH time, it felt like undoing the buttons on my wedding gown. So MANY tedious buttons. I pulled out my arm. “Okay dear, come forward, get really close, put your arm around this side of the machine to BOOST you up a bit. Now I’ll just scoop you up,” that’s what she said, “I’ll just SCOOP you up,” like it was nothing, like this wasn’t embarrassing at all. She moved me around and let the machine grab me a few too many times. After we repeated the sequence with my other side, through which she repeated her cute little phrase THREE more times, “Now I’ll just SCOOP you up,” the procedure was complete. I sniffled.
“Okay. It’s time to button up. You’re done.” I frowned. “Why do you suppose these gown-shirts have buttons?” I asked. “Things would go much more QUICKLY and EASILY without them, don’t you think?” She laughed. “You’re right! I never really thought of it THAT way before. I guess it is to PRESERVE your PRIVACY as you cross the hall.” I was NOT smiling. I buttoned ALL the way up AGAIN and returned to my designated hole in the wall.
It looked like everything was STILL in order. I carefully UNBUTTONED that darn shirt one more time and slipped on my topside clothing and walked out, hooping the shirt into the laundry trolley and trying to look DIGNIFIED . “Oh the humanity!” I thought to myself. “Why did I have to struggle to button up and button down, and button up and button down in order to endure such a simple (and important) routine test. I mean, I could have just been given a regular hospital gown or a buttonless wrap-around to hold against myself as I crossed the hall, and from which my arms could be easily released. Fiddling with buttons with NERVOUS hands was NOT comfortable. But don’t worry, it’s OKAY. I re-emerged relatively undamaged. It’s cool. I’m cool. I survived. “Me, over here, I am COMPLETELY FINE with everything!”
Being UNBUTTONED is neither LESS than or EQUAL to being unhinged, unfastened, undone, unbound, uncaged, unfettered, UNLEASHED. The breeze was alarmingly TIT-illating (heh heh) under that stupid gown-shirt. My upper body felt a fleeting and awkward freedom. Isn’t that the nature of FREEDOM? It is a slightly UNCOMFORTABLE adjustment, not unlike exposing your highly personal BITS, only to be squeezed back into realizing the weight of what you are doing, and then the RELIEF of being released by from the vice of the mammography machine?
Being Canadian, I know I am particularly blessed that I CAN take a physical test that could be life saving. Upsetting as it may feel, access to doctors, nurses, technicians, equipment and medicine is part of our collective Canadian freedom. Being given the ALL CLEAR, or maybe more so, NAMING a problem, ultimately UNCAGES you. When you realize that YOU have been UNLEASHED you suddenly feel like you can rise to ANY challenge. “You see that machine? I CONQUERED that. You see that misogynistic barbarian over there? I will beat him, TOO. Any taste of freedom is a welcome one, be it personal, communal, national, or global. For me, being UNBUTTONED at my little appointment reminded me of all that I have to be thankful for. [insert awkward segue] As a Christitan, it reminded me of all that I want to heal and all the hurt I wish to unburden from you, from everyone. It’s easy to SEE the injustice in the world – we have moments when our FIGURATIVE restrictive clothing is unbuttoned and our bodies are freed – your boobs, your bellies, your appendages are TEMPORARILY LOOSED to hang as they are meant to. In the presence of others, our personal freedom can feel weird and uncomfortable. Sometimes following Jesus’ example is uncomfortable. He doesn’t tell us to FLASH people with shocking skin reveals. He simply invites us to walk with them. To steer each other toward the freedom of knowing we are worthy, valued, and loved whether we can unbutton quickly and effectively or not! This is good news! Can you see the potential our freedom has to free OTHERS? Jesus doesn’t promise that we will be spared from ALL discomfort, worry, or pain. He promises to SEE US THROUGH. To be our protective wrap as we cross the hall and the cover we need after any blow. We are invited to leave our satchels and extra shoes behind, abandon our baggage to travel light, to walk in THE light.
Maybe, one day, the gown shirts will be fitted with velcro strips and the process will become less humiliating. Maybe, one day I’ll be strong enough to just REMAIN metaphorically unbuttoned and OPEN to whatever is coming and be UNAPOLOGETICALLY MYSELF, a beloved and precious child of God. I want to be an advocate for all who are bound. I want to preach the need for us to take care, and I seriously just want to SCOOP you all up so that you can see where you’ve been fettered and where there is room to LOOSEN the grip and be free.
PS. You are supposed to be weird. That’s how God made you.
Casual pleasantries are NOT my thing. I’d rather hold my breath and pretend I’m invisible than fill the silence with EMPTY words. I’ve been feeling super uncomfortable lately. For many months, actually. It’s just my present state of being. My inner and outer selves are exchanging blows. It’s QUITE messy.
When someone makes socially acceptable, lighthearted banter in my direction, perhaps cheerfully saying, “Hello. How are you?” I usually respond with an “I’M fine, how are YOU?” That should suffice, but it feels like I’m lying.
I feel uncomfortable, spiritless. I don’t know why. I just do. “Hello, how are you?” “ME? I am NUMB. How are you?”
13th century English is FUN. ‘Numbness’, is described by the word, ‘TOPOR’ (Latin: torpōr/verb torpēre) – to lack sensation. This word sounds UGLY and DIRTY, and just AWKWARD enough to express my spiritual and intellectual inertia. Torpid, torpidus, torpitude, torpidity, torpify. These word forms refer to the idea of tending or serving to MAKE something or someone NUMB.
“Hello, how are you?”
“I am in topor.
I am torpid.
I have been torpified.
I am in the depths of torpidity.
I am overcome with torpidtude.”
Or my favorite, “I TORP”.
I feel like a torpid frog. I am benumbed and stupefied. How are YOU?
We used to have a bearded dragon named Lightning. He spent weeks in biological dormancy. He stopped hunting, eating, and bathing. IN FACT, he stopped MOVING altogether and appeared NOT to breathe. In reptiles, this is called brumation. In other animals, it is hibernation. In the wild, it happens to protect certain animals from weather and starvation.
I feel like I AM a wild beast who has been forced into domestic living. I didn’t choose to torp, it’s just a part of how I SURVIVE. Numbness is often a part of mental disorders. It can be a part of dissociation, depersonalization, and derealization, or in my case, emotional dysregulation. It’s a COPING mechanism. It’s OKAY to feel torpid sometimes. Take some extra time for yourself. Focus on rest and goodness and trust that ‘HEALING WILL COME ON THE WINGS OF THE SPIRIT AND WE SHALL GO OUT LEAPING LIKE CALVES FROM THE STALL’. (Malachi 4:2) Too much? It’s okay. God holds you in times of joy and in torpidity.
“We are afflicted in every way, but not crushed; perplexed, but not driven to despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed.”
These could be the words to my theme song. I don’t have one, of course, but, if I did, it would be sung to tune 878787 PRAISE, MY SOUL, THE KING OF HEAVEN. Google it to hear the melody! It’s also Hymn #864 in the Evangelical Lutheran Worship book, if you have it.
MY EVER-PLAYING THEME SONG:
“Praise, my soul, the God of Heav-en; when af-flict-ed, struck down, scared. My soul shines since I am liv-ing, even when my heart despairs. Per-se-cut-ed, not for-sak-en, fazed I rise a-gain to praise.“
Catchy, ain’t it? Doesn’t it scream REALITY to you? I’ve done some family history, and I think I truly identify with the MANY women in my heritage who were lumped into the category of “LONG SUFFERING.”
Somehow they LIVED. They ran the race. They overcame, they carried on. When I feel the bone weariness of another depression washing over me, maybe I could sing a few lines and snap out of it. I CAN’T ACTUALLY SNAP OUT OF IT. Depression is UNSTOPPABLE even when you are managing it with lifestyle and medication. I have to sing this while I’m feeling OKAY to lay the BEDROCK for when I AM NOT.
BREATHE. Remind yourself that so far in your life, and so far today, you have NOT been CRUSHED into oblivion. Your worry and anxiety has not utterly DEFEATED your spirit. Despair is tempered because, LOOK, here you are – NOT forsaken and NOT destroyed. It’s good news EVEN if you feel like a truck has just hit you and there’s an elephant sitting on your chest. That sadness that separates you from strength and holds apart from relationships and community – it WILL eventually lessen and WHEN it does, you can sing my theme song with me. It will be the shield we wield on this earthly walk TOGETHER.
God shines glorious light into OUR hearts so we can see the divine TREASURE that is planted there, so we can know that even though death is always at work in us, we are also AFLAME with the extraordinary life of Christ.
I’ve been DOWN on myself through these many weeks of Christmastide. But a good friend reminded me that the judgement of others DOESN’T MATTER. It’s LOVE that matters. GOD is LOVE. Sharing love is good for what ails ya. Onward and Upward, friends.
I’ve been spending a lot of time in the passenger seat as my son learns to drive. I am NOT fond of driving. I don’t feel like I’m in control behind the wheel. It’s complicated. Although I trust my son, implicitly, riding in cars augments my ALREADY heightened feeling of vulnerability. I’m not an ideal driving teacher, so I sit quietly and try not to freak out unless, of course, we are about to die.
I was 17 when I was learning to drive. My FATHER thought I was doing well enough to give highway 401, the then BUSIEST and WIDEST freeway in North America, a go. Thankfully, G1/learner permit drivers are no longer permitted to take this RISK. We began navigating through the city of Peterborough, where we lived. I drove us down Highway 7, which had 2 lanes. Then I continued driving on Highway 115, which had 4 lanes. Then, I turned off onto Highway 401, which had 8 lanes. With each highway, my fear increased with the SPEED limit.
Once on the 401, I panicked. I desperately wanted to pull over. There is NO ‘safe’ place to sit on the shoulder of the 401. I started crying and screaming, and swerving. My Mom and my sister (it’s unfortunate they’d come along on THIS adventure) also began to shout. Somehow, my Dad talked me through it. (I’ve blocked out the memory). My panic, dissociation and almost total shutdown could have killed ALL of us. I avoid highway 401 as much as possible.
It’s little wonder that I took up pastoring in RURAL settings. I do okay in the country on the back roads, as long as they’re paved. Once, while driving a parishioner home, I crashed my car into a tree while TRYING to power through freshly laid gravel with my sports car. (Sunfire) Fun times. Night time driving in the country presents the constant danger of deer crossing. I hit actually HIT one and have avoided driving after sundown ever since. And then there is snow. Snow is ALWAYS scary.
Once, early in my ministry, BEFORE becoming a mother (I think this matters to my state of mind), I was driving through a rural, winter storm and slid off the road. That’s not accurate. I BARRELLED off the road, jumping the ditch and landing in a farmer’s field, just inches from a large tree. I’d been making pastoral calls and was not dressed appropriately for winter. Since this was a time BEFORE I had a cell phone, I got out and trudged through the deep snow to the nearest farmhouse.
There were little kids outside. The mother was wary of ME – wearing frozen blacks and a clergy collar. I steeled myself to IMPOSE until help arrived. I used her phone. I didn’t call the police but a nearby parishioner who pulled my car out with his tractor. My car thawed for HOURS in his heated barn. It was terribly humiliating.
This accident could EASILY have been avoided. I COULD have stopped pressing the gas. I could have TRIED to steer into the skid. But I JUST gave up. What possessed me? How could I NOT care? In a single second, I made a decision that ran contrary to anything I dreamed I would do in similar circumstances. I didn’t think about it for many years because, well, accidents happen. Only AFTER being diagnosed with depression and mental health deficits after years of ministry, after having children, after MY child was diagnosed with mental health disorders – then the UNRAVELING began.
Do we know what is in our hearts, hidden in our minds? What weighs on our subconscious? When I was a child I used to think SO hard about what ‘FOREVER’means that it made my head hurt. Still does. The idea of forever and, by extension, the idea of ‘NEVER ’, torment me. Forever and never are impossible to quantify. If I’m honest, the idea of eternity is FRIGHTENING. Will my racing thoughts EVER end? Ending permanently is just as terrifying. How can my thoughts STOP? How can I just disappear, just stop BEING?
Somehow, something in me knows it IS eternal. This sense grew exponentially when my brother died 13 years ago (today, actually). I can feel eternity IN myself, and it brings both comfort and fear. It’s hard enough to open ourselves to trust in the goodness of creaturely living, let alone the eternal life of our souls! WHEN will it be well with our souls? Do we, as we are, have to END to embrace it?
Science says that electricity, energy NEVER burns out. I imagine that means THIS aspect of our little lives remains viable in the universe. THAT part is recycled. Stardust. Our bodies decay and contribute to NEW life on EARTH. But what of our soul? What happens to our individuality, our thoughts, our loves – are they simply LET GO? As a Christian, I look to Jesus, but he doesn’t give ANY satisfying answers, just more puzzlement. He says things like: there will be NO marriage, we will be like angels and belong ONLY to LOVE(God). After bodily death, being with family won’t be the primary activity. Worshipping Love ITSELF will fill our time, and ALL will be ONE family. We’ll even meet NEW family. (Matthew 22-30) St. Paul says that we will be closer to one another than we are NOW, but not in the same way. (1 Corinthians 2:9) So – we won’t be alone, but all of this still scares me. Also, the relief of letting go, giving my brain a rest, equally entices me.
The decision I made in that snowstorm was probably LESS a decision than it was a product of my Borderline Personality- emotional dysregulation. I can be overwhelmed, impulsive, and reckless when I feel threatened. That was a recipe for disaster BEFORE starting medication to curb these symptoms. I take better care of myself now. Our personal self care has benefits for EVERYONE we love.
Our brains are wired to survive, even in trauma. There is an INNATE awareness that life now IS important. It is important to LIVE IT. FEEL IT. SAVOUR IT. The richness and depth of ALL human emotion come from opening our hearts to love a little bit each day. Because of our capacity for love, I trust that WHATEVER is next is GOOD- because LOVE is good. I believe that Love will embrace the best of us UNTO eternity. All this confusion, learning, joy, and shit, ALL of it – is somehow WORTH the effort.
I work hard to remember to weigh my thoughts before acting. Every day, I give thanks for the GRACE to live THIS life. Life leads all of us into a deeper knowing of our souls that will somehow transform us into ONE and give us the PEACE that surpasses all of our current understanding.
My grown kids scoff whenever I remind them that I could fly. Not airplanes. I am NOT a pilot. What I am is accident prone, CLUMSY. My kids often tease me that ‘it’s too bad I’ve forgotten how to fly, maybe then I’d save myself some bumps and bruises’. Funny. Laugh as they might, it IS true, I COULD fly … I really BELIEVED it was true, once.
I clearly remember having to run to work up some speed and then DIVING forward into a flying hover, just a few feet above the ground. I’d fly like that ALL the way to school, eating cherry tomatoes from a sandwich bag while my head and chest kept me on a steady course. No one around me seemed to care, or maybe they didn’t notice. It was GLORIOUS. I could reach down and touch the dirt. I could put my arms out and feel the rush of the wind on my skin and through my hair. It was a fantastic feeling. FREEDOM. I also remember failing the take off, hitting the ground and feeling the road burn – so what does that tell you?
I doubt I’m the only person who thought they could do it. Flying memories must be pretty common because the experience so often turns up in literature and media. Flying is a wonderful escape to another world for Peter Pan and the Darling children. In the magical world of Harry Potter, flying was a given in the game of Quidditch. Flying is COOL and EXCITING. Kids’ imaginations are limitless and so vivid that the veil between memory and fanciful tales can be hard to discern.
BEFORE I knew about Narnia or even what a ‘wardrobe’ was, my closet was a special place. Actually, it wasn’t a closet at all. It opened into a vast, ever-changing space that belonged ONLY to me. Sometimes it looked like one of those sunken living rooms, an entertainment area from the 70s (it WAS the 70s after all) – but bigger – expansive. It kept going and going, like a vista of memories mixed with hope and glimpses of freedom beyond my wildest dreams. It had EVERYTHING I could ever need or want. It was delightfully different each time I visited – something new, something exciting, something GOOD. Having a secret place or an imaginary world – provides a safe place to practice being grown up, to try out new skills, and to build self esteem. Make believe is an important piece of childhood learning. It’s an escape, a respite from being too little, too weak, too quiet, too undereducated, or too inexperienced to do mysterious grown up stuff like being in charge.
In my closet I had a variety of my ACTUAL special dresses on hangers – I would carefully choose which one to wear whenever I took a ride in my flying machine. OH YES! My flying machine! It was docked SOMEWHERE in that secret place, ready to take me wherever my heart desired. It was rectangular and stood upright. It was made of dark wood, and had carved spindles binding each corner. It had a tiered, rounded roof with a ball and spire on top. It was open to the air, and there were two little benches facing one another. My flying machine wasn’t much larger than a telephone booth. I SWEAR that this was BEFORE I knew about Dr. Who or the Great Glass Elevator in Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory!
MY flying machine would take me over parades, over people I knew from school who would look up in admiration and wave, and CHEER, “There goes NADINE! She looks like a PRINCESS in that dress!” I could EVEN bring someone aboard if I wanted to. I could welcome kids who usually paid me NO mind and gain their friendship because of my secret room. I could come and go whenever I wanted. I could do whatever I wanted. I got to make ALL the decisions. People really, really LIKED ME. I felt FREE as a bird. It was sensationally FUN.
I never invited my family to see it, though. It was ONLY for me, myself. It felt safe and affirming, a place where I wasn’t ever teased, humiliated, or alone. Where I wasn’t ever angry, or afraid.
Often, when I left the closet, I could hear voices out in the kitchen. I’d get excited, thinking my family was having a hoot of a good time and I didn’t want to MISS it. But, then I’d wonder – WHY didn’t anyone tell ME? Didn’t they notice I wasn’t there? I’d run out to look. ‘Here I am!’ But EVERYONE was tucked into bed and asleep. It was the middle of the night. It confused me terribly. How LONG had I been in the closet? What DID I miss? WAS I missed? Did they forget about me and go to bed? Did they hear me coming and DISAPPEAR on purpose? I still wonder about those voices.
This is where everything gets a BIT uncomfortable. Even the wonder of my imaginary world, full of freedom, acceptance, and friends would not console the feeling that I had been somehow ABANDONED. It was clear that NO ONE really cared about me. These persistent feelings, no doubt, sprouted from something unpleasant and unfair that happened to me and have haunted me my entire life.
If you’ve read any of my stuff, you know I’m the queen of OVERSHARING. Here it comes. Beginning at a very young age, my self-worth has always been based on the APPROVAL and ACCEPTANCE of others. I’m prone to intense DEPENDENCE on my select favourite people. I have terrible, sometimes debilitating ANXIETY. I am petulant, some might say I’m a little self-destructive. It’s true, I am easily frustrated, I CAN be convinced that the world might be more cruel than it is kind, I often ooze with self-LOATHING. My moods and emotions are unpredictable. I struggle with feelings of EMPTINESS, SHAME, PARANOIA, and ABANDONMENT. I am impulsive, I need acceptance and attention. Can you guess my DIAGNOSIS? I don’t think any LABEL is a perfect fit, but in mental health language, I have Borderline Personality Disorder. No two cases are ever the same, so this unique MANIFESTATION is mine alone – even so, I’m sure there are points that will resonate with others for whom emotional or mood dysregulation are everyday concerns.
My memory tells me I had a wonderful childhood. On most counts, I REALLY did. My parents, my whole family, were the BEST. No family is perfect and we aren’t, by a long shot. But, I thought we really set the standard for how families SHOULD function. That’s the narrative, to this day. We love each other. We set the bar. I was loved, I was cared for. I still needed a safe place to be alone. I longed for understanding, freedom and acceptance. I had MASSIVE tantrums, I felt injustice wielded against me. I worried about death and, I worried about going to HELL – A LOT. I was angry, sad, and fearful about being left alone. My imagination was a soft place to land.
I recently took a course about trauma informed care in which the instructor suggested that Borderline Personality Disorder as well as several other mood and emotional dysregulation disorders might fall under a NEW umbrella called Complicated Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. CPTSD. As you know, PTSD can develop from an ACUTE trauma, something that happens to you or something you witness, maybe a car accident or a shooting – a SINGULAR event beyond your control. CPTSD can develop from ONGOING trauma, something that repeatedly happened to you over a long period, or something that CONTINUES to happen to you or something you witness over and over again, including physical and emotional abuse, and ESPECIALLY in early development and adolescent years. I find this new blanket term less negative. It carries HOPE. Maybe it ISN’T my fault. Maybe I can accept who I AM a little bit more, maybe confusion can be relieved, and inner conflict resolved. Maybe I DON’T HAVE TO FEEL so alone, ashamed, and consumed by my disorder.
Trauma responses vary greatly between people, even between those who share the SAME experiences. Why do some of us develop disorderly symptoms? It’s a good question! CPTSD is caused through a combination of genetic, neurobiological, psychological and psychosocial factors. I learned this in “The Neurobiology of Everyday Life” course I found online. It taught me so much about the way our brains work. Our brains are uniquely influenced by these categories and each category in a disordered condition can factor in at different levels of responsibility. In a trauma workbook, I discovered that my disorderly mind is a result of roughly 30% neurobiological/genetic and 70% psychosocial. I don’t know if the numbers really mean anything – but it takes some of the onus off me, personally.
Does mental illness run in your family? Maybe you have a genetic predisposition. Did you know that depressive disorders, eating, and substance abuse disorders often coexist? This is true for people with CPTSD symptoms. How does your brain manage emotion? Behaviour? Long Term memory? Motivation? Learning? How does your brain deal with the effect of substance use? Brains that display mental health stress develop symptoms in the limbic system (which processes and regulates our emotions and memory) . Did you have adverse childhood experiences that you may have been unable to process in a healthy way?
When I was seven years old my family moved to a new town. My closet didn’t come with me and I NEVER felt it’s magic again. I had memories of my time in my sanctuary, but had nowhere new to turn for comfort. My life became more and more difficult for me, until, ‘KABLOOIE’ – I was a young adult, loose in the world with all the same old shame weighing me down. I was impulsive. I felt empty and angry. I did things that could have caused me great harm. My closest relationships were terribly unstable. (I hate you, don’t leave me!) My sense of self was largely distorted toward the negative. My emotions were so intense I would dissociate, completely detaching myself from them. Girding this all up was my fear of abandonment.
Too HEAVY? Yup, sure. There’s an upside. My children helped me to REIGNITE that sense of wonder and trust in myself that I used to find in my bedroom closet. Creativity is an outlet for taking what’s locked up inside and letting it out by expressing it. It’s a safe way to rehearse and address difficult thoughts and emotions. Try something new sometimes. Take some small risks. LEARN your heart. SPEAK with your soul.
Psalm 139 is one of my very favorites. Did you forget that I’m CHURCHY? Here’s a small sermon for you. Although I CAN’T escape who I THINK I am or think I HAVE to be, I also cannot escape from God’s LOVE. God’s love is inescapable both on my best days and on my very worst days. I tell myself to BREATHE about it – for me breath is the same as prayer. Maybe these words will be helpful to you, too. Note that the word ‘Sheol’ means something like ‘darkness- as found in what, for some, is the presumed abode of the dead’. Okay, From Psalm 139:
1 O Lord, you have searched me and known me. 3 You…are acquainted with all my ways. 7 Where can I go from your spirit? Or where can I flee from your presence? 8 If I ascend to heaven, you are there; if I make my bed in Sheol, you are there. 9 If I take the wings of the morning and settle at the farthest limits of the sea, 10 even there your hand shall lead me, and your right hand shall hold me fast.11 If I say, “Surely the darkness shall cover me, and night wraps itself around me,” 12 even the darkness is not dark to you; the night is as bright as the day, 13 For it was you who formed my inward parts; you knit me together in my mother’s womb. 14 I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Wonderful are your works; that I know very well. 16 Your eyes beheld my unformed substance. 17 How weighty to me are your thoughts, O God! How vast is the sum of them! 18 I try to count them—they are more than the sand; I come to the end—I am still with you.
Whoever you ARE, whoever you THINK you are, God, LOVE, the Ground of ALL BEING, the Creator, knows YOU and loves YOU. You were made in LOVE’S own eternal image. God knew you before any chaos, trauma, disorder, or illness entered your life. LOVE knows your whole Self – the physical and the spiritual. And, God is with you NOW, dwelling in your heart, and will remain with you ALWAYS. You are NEVER alone. God will NOT abandon or shame you. You are worth EVERYTHING. Our task is to walk in this truth, this hope, and this meaning that compels us to KEEP ON trucking on, and bring light into the lives of all who suffer likewise – because everyone is touched by human pain. The good news is that everyone is also touched by eternal JOY.
As an adult, I realize that all the make believe and imagination in my young life was a gift. Today, when I’m not daydreaming, I have found comfort within myself, the self I know best in solitude and in nature. My BEST self whom God already knows. Self-care is soul-care. Be well my friends, and walk in peace.
“The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands. 2 Day after day they pour forth speech; night after night they reveal knowledge. 3 They have no speech, they use no words; no sound is heard from them. 4 Yet their voice goes out into all the earth, their words to the ends of the world.”
Psalm 19:1-4 NIV
My husband GINGERLY tows our LARGE travel trailer so that our family can go camping with ‘the comforts of home’. By ‘COMFORTS’, I mean, bringing many of our furry friends. Andy removed the dining table and bench as well as the couch to make room for animal enclosures and adult sized bodies to sleep on the floor. As we careen down hills, and barrel around curves WAY too fast, my hubby swears and, I pray. Our kids (all over 18 except for 1) sit squished together in our F-150, which is VERY difficult for our daughter who lives with severe OCD ETC. Everyone is packed in like sardines. The twins and their youngest brother in the back, Andy and my oldest son in the front, with me between them. I have to keep my feet up on the console with my knees way up in the air – it’s like doing a 6 hour abdominal CRUNCH. Man, my knees ache, and my belly gets sore! The 3 guinea pigs are stuffed under the back seat. The gerbils are in two carriers at the feet of one of my daughters. The dog sits ON TOP of my other daughter and son. It is GRUELING. But we have collectively decided that it IS worth it.
Do you watch ‘The Chosen’ series on TV? It’s not for everyone, but I enjoy the visual and the literary license taken to depict ‘A’ story about the ministry of Jesus the Christ. MY CHRIST. There is an episode in season one, illustrating Jesus BEFORE the onset of his public life, BEFORE he calls his disciples or any of that. In it, Jesus pitches camp – FOR REAL. He sets up a cloth shelter, makes a fire pit surrounded by rocks, collects wood, forages food, builds a wooden table, a work bench for tools he carries with him, and a hanging rack. He cooks over the fire with clay pots, and eats from homemade bowls. He sleepswith his body on the GROUND. He washes his face in a stream. He prays and exercises. He sits and CARVES MANY things. He hums and sings and EVEN tells campfire stories to children who visit him.
It resonates. I was raised by AVID, RUSTIC style campers. I have given up some of THAT experience to accommodate the unique needs of MY children that would otherwise have prevented us from camping AT ALL. But I can speak this language of minimalistic, nomadic, nature exposed, and nature dependent circumstances.
The wallpaper on my phone is my FAVORITE icon of Jesus, “Christ in the Wilderness” by artist Kelly Latimore. She pictures Jesus sitting alone in the wilderness, under a starry sky, next to a campfire. He looks run down, in need of a rest. He gazes at the galaxies above, perhaps pondering HIS HUMAN SMALLNESS. The way he sits suggests he is cold or maybe shielding his legs from biting flies. It is meant to represent his 40 days of temptation by the devil. He is removed from all the ‘comforts’ of civilization and faced with the discomfort of CREATURELY living. To me, it speaks of reorienting oneself to the earth, the enormity of creation, and solidarity with lions and tigers and bears, OH MY! In my camping experience there have been bears, yes. Chipmunks, racoons, skunks, deer, and the damn mosquitoes are the norm.
A funny thing happens when we settle into our campsite. My son who has led the life of a HERMIT since Covid, emerges from the trailer to sit by the fire. To go for hikes with the dog. To visit with extended family. To smile and laugh, I can see his eyes and it fills me with RELIEF and JOY. He worries me, SO.
My neurodiverse daughter ALSO gladly emerges. She hunts for all things living, capturing frogs, snails, millipedes, aphids, salamanders, moths, isopods (roley poley/pill bugs), spiders and Daddy Longlegs (did YOU know they ARE NOT spiders? I still don’t like them). She admires them ALL and thoroughly researches them on her tablet. She takes tons of pictures and then releases them back where she found them. Her OCD seems to vanish as she treks through the bush, off the path, searching through rotten logs, under rocks, and in the dirt. She loves seeing nature in action. Ants moving their larva. The variety of mushrooms. How the chipmunks taunt the dog and steal her kibble. She doesn’t realize how much exercise she is getting. Like my son, she has exerted little energy since Covid.
The rest of us drink in as much of the beauty and serenity each day brings, even as it rains, as our pets get sick, and the trailer breaks. Being outside ignites energy. It lights a fire in our weary souls. We suddenly feel the urge to move, to explore, to create, and to EAT. All that fresh air makes us VERY hungry!
In Jesus time, I don’t suppose the smells and stuffiness of being indoors was very appealing. Going outside and breathing deeply is therapy for a life so congested with STUFF and overscheduling. It allows a moment to taste and see that the Lord is good. Look up, look down, look around, look within. God is everywhere. Nature opens us to receive the gifts of energy renewed, hearts filled, and the hope of living unto death.
No matter what your position on the spectrum of mental health, I prescribe for you to GET OUTSIDE! Creation speaks not a word. Creation enfolds, inspires, energizes, and teaches us how this planet is good. The animals – mammals, reptiles, amphibians, birds, fish, insects, arachnids, molluscs- vertebrates and invertabrates, they are GOOD! Trees, shrubs, grasses, flowers, weeds – ALL GOOD! Dirt, soil, rocks, and sand, moss, fungi – so very GOOD! Each with a God-given gift to serve the earth and EACH OTHER! WE are a part of this circle of GOODNESS! The same SPIRIT is where we live and move and have our being. (Acts 17:28).
Maybe Jesus wasn’t REALLY a camper, but he appreciated the created world. Maybe you aren’t a camper EITHER. You can STILL enjoy the fragrance of a beautiful garden, the breeze on your skin, the sound of the wind through the trees, the taste of the fresh bounty from the earth, birdsong, chipmunk chatter, the cry of a loon, the touch of soft grass on your toes, the smell and pitter patter of the rain. Nature embraces you just as the Spirit embraces you, wherever you are, whoever you are, however you are. These natural things are available to us to seek out, to nurture, and to visit. Serenity is found in hearts that listen for the ‘ground of all being’ that sings the rythm of the universe into the foundation of our humanity, into our Godspark, our very soul. What a BLESSING to belong to this GOODNESS.
It didn’t go according to plan. ‘IT’, being, reducing my meds. The decision was made by me, MYSELF, in the presence of my psychiatrist. He wasn’t convinced but went along with it – maybe to spare my feelings or to let me really SEE. Maybe he thought it would be funny. Let me just say, I was monumentally wrong.
Allow me to share a recent, fairly harmless example.
Here’s what would have happened IF I had been on a proper dose of meds:
I walk into the bathroom expecting everything to be in order but the toilet is plugged. AGAIN. How annoying. Puzzlingly, the plunger is MISSING. How inconvenient. Being lazy and thinking I can just handle it using the toilet brush, albeit less effective, it will probably pump enough water to dislodge whatever is stuck. (EEW)
I quickly grab the handle of the brush and pull it from its holding container. I say, ‘OH SHIT’ (literally) as the container is right FULL of nasty, dirty toilet water which propels forth across the entire half bath and makes an ugly puddle on the floor.
I still need to use the bathroom. I squeeze my legs together, submerge the brush in the almost overflowing toilet to swish it around and rinse off the offensive crap (HA HA). I complete the rigorous pumping action and am rewarded by the glorious flush of the tank. “Oh good, the toilet isn’t broken.”
Now, I pick up the toilet brush container, dump (Heh heh) its contents in the toilet. FLUSH. Put the container in the FRESH toilet water and use the brush to ‘CLEAN’ it. While Container and brush chill in the toilet, I spray and wipe down the floor, the walls, the mirror, the pedestal sink, the windowsill, the window, the blinds, the picture frames, and the cat’s litter box. “Gee, I hope I got it all.” I finish by giving the toilet a quick clean and putting the container and brush back on the floor beside the toilet. THEN, I use the bathroom and carry on.
How it really went down – me on reduced meds:
I walk into the bathroom expecting everything to be in order but the toilet is plugged. AGAIN. I scream, ‘BLOODY HELL! WHO PLUGGED THE TOILET AND WALKED AWAY? WHO PLUGGED THE TOILET AND FAILED TO REPORT IT IS OUT OF ORDER? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE?” Puzzlingly, the plunger is MISSING. “O MY GOD! WHERE IN THE HOLY HELL IS THE PLUNGER? WHO TOOK THE PLUNGER? WHY WOULD ANYONE TAKE IT? AND DIDN’T WHY DIDN’T THEY RETURN IT? WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE?”
In a frenzied rage, I grab the handle of the brush and pull it from its holding container. “OH SHIT!” The container is right full of nasty, dirty toilet water which propels forth across the entire half bath and makes an ugly puddle on the floor. “UUUUUGH!!! YOU BASTARDS!” I still need to use the bathroom. I squeeze my legs together, and hastily submerge the brush in the almost overflowing toilet. I VIOLENTLY pump it against the drain with superhuman force until it flushes.
Now, I pick up the toilet brush container, causing spillage and swearing under my breath. I dump its contents in the toilet. FLUSH. I angrily force the container into the FRESH toilet water and use the brush to ‘CLEAN’ it. Leaving the container and brush in the toilet, I yell, “I GUESS I HAVE TO CLEAN THE WHOLE BATHROOM TOO! WHY IS THIS ALWAYS MY JOB? CAN ANYONE HEAR ME? I’M NEVER DOING THIS AGAIN! NEXT TIME SOMEONE PLUGS THE TOILET, IT IS STAYING EFF-ING PLUGGED UNTIL THEY FIX IT THEMSELVES!” I spray and wipe down the floor, the walls, the mirror, the pedestal sink, the windowsill, the window, the blinds, the picture frames, and the cat’s litter box. “F***. I probably missed some. We just have to live in FILTH.” I finish by giving the toilet a quick clean and putting the container and brush back on the floor beside the toilet. THEN, I use the bathroom and carry on. Everytime I meet someone in the house, I stop them and list ALL the UNPLEASANT things I HAVE TO DO EVERYDAY and how I’m not the ONLY ADULT in the HOUSE who is capable of cleaning. I continue to passive aggressively return to this subject FOREVER.
STOP.
I often question whether taking medication is stifling or ACTUALLY helpful. The process of weaning off, changing my mind, and then slowly increasing the meds again until I reached a state of lessened anxiety, was a SIGNIFICANT struggle. It was worth it just to discover that my spirit stays intact. My essence remains with or without medication.
I officially take medications to curb the symptoms of borderline personality disorder. Personally, I think ‘Borderline Personality Disorder’ is a misnomer. It’s more of an EMOTIONAL disorder. Without meds, I am unable to regulate my emotions and trend toward intense, catastrophic anxiety, inflexibility, negativity, and depression. It is really hard WORK to check myself, especially as a pastor who is, by nature, expected to be humble, accepting, and loving. IF a trigger IS hit, it’s a challenge to reel it in. I’m a bit of a walking emotional time bomb. IF I feel ignored, abandoned, or disliked, I react emotionally to quell the overwhelm of anxiety. My behaviour CHANGES to protect, numb, or distract myself from the discomfort of extreme stress. Shielding my fragile self-image sometimes spells personal sabotage and destruction. It can be AWKWARD.
Without the meds, my whole bathroom saga felt like a personal attack on my ability to parent and keep house. As if the clogged toilet was a CALCULATED demonstration of what I have FAILED to teach my children and how terrible I am for letting the ‘yuck factor’ in cleaning get OUT OF HAND. It triggered a subconscious cascade of unwanted thoughts and memories about EVERY failure I have perceived in my motherhood and marriage. My self-judgment spurred the loud cursing that was designed to rouse the attention of my family, name myself as the victim and BLAME everyone else to take the pressure off of my isolated position in the story.
I don’t think this is unique to BPD, but I experience splitting, which is a marked division between my ‘NORMAL SELF’ and my ‘UNHEALED SELF.’ As a result, my mood swings are unpredictable. I have issues with identity confusion and internal conflict. Insert [Imposter Syndrome]. Depression overtakes me with a deep sense of ongoing emptiness. It is in THESE moments that I need MORE than medication. I need to look inward, embrace mystery, and trust GOODNESS to prevail.
Once, when I was feeling pathetically helpless, I prayed for something very specific to cheer me up. “God,” I said, “I never REALLY ask you for anything tangible. It would help me enormously to know you ARE listening.” Then, as if God works like some kind of magical Santa Claus, I asked, “Please, please, please let the clothing I ordered arrive TODAY.” I’m not usually so desperate about clothes, but these were clergy garments that would refresh my wardrobe after many years of body dysmorphia and clothes that just didn’t fit right and detracted from my professionalism. When I finished I scolded myself for being SO petty. I went on with my day. When I got home THE BOX was on the table. I began to do the math – “what day did I place the order? Has it been 6-8, or maybe 12 weeks? Was this MY intuition or did GOD really just DO that for ME?” The crust around my soul began to crumble. (sounds Grinchy) “What IF God just did that?”….. “Um, God, okay, thank you for showing me that you ARE real and you HEAR me. I’m so sorry that I put you to the test… So…hey…you’ll deliver my package when I ask – what then will you do with my REAL problems?”
This is an experience I often return to when I’m in distress. God cares about ME. God loves ME. God looks out for ME, myself. The missing toilet plunger doesn’t matter. The mess has no enduring consequence. My family is not to blame, no one is plotting against me or abandoning me. The toilet is JUST clogged and there IS NO plunger. It’s an inconvenience. Nothing more. The goal of treatment for emotional/personality disorders is differentiation of self – having the ability to maintain one’s true self in anxiety and in emotional situations. My healing work is focused on changing my relationship between how I THINK and how I EXPRESS my EMOTIONS. It leads me through the storms of life to find my center calm, my connection to the ground of all being, my Christ-heart, my godspark, my soul.
I’m a work in progress. Aren’t we ALL? Dr. Richard Schwartz’ theory of ‘Internal Family Systems,’ takes Dr. Bowen’s ‘Family Systems Theory’ which is concerned with the different interdependent roles assumed within healthy AND dysfunctional families, and APPLIES IT to an individual person and their many ‘parts’. This resonates. I don’t feel that I have a bunch of different personalities inside of me that fight for leadership. But, I do feel like I have distinct PARTS.
In IFS the ‘parts’ include EXILES, the parts of yourself that your ‘system’ works to keep hidden and out of trouble. They carry your burdens like shame, fear, grief, anger, dependency, and loneliness. They also long to be healed and freed. MANAGERS are your parts that protect ‘the whole system’ from feelings of hurt and rejection. They maintain control by creating an illusion of safety by being super competent, and utilizing your self-critic to prevent humiliation and abandonment. FIREFIGHTERS serve and protect ‘the system’ when triggers hit too close to home. They react, attack, and create diversions (like addictions, eating and sleep disorders, extra work, self-harm, and dissociation), all to keep your exiles from seeing the light of day.
My favorite part is the CORE SELF. When you can uncover this part and maintain it, it becomes the active and compassionate LEADER of all the other parts. It takes away their ‘jobs’ and replaces them with pleasant, and positive, productive roles. It is your natural essence, that has been sheltered from damage by all the other parts. Your Core Self acts with spontaneity, and creativity. It emerges when you feel centered and truly safe and calm. Your confident core self is Playful, Curious, Adventurous, and Stable. It is your BEST SELF. When it is uncovered, it needs NO improvement, because it’s already perfect the way it is…..the way God made you.
As a Christian, the core self, my best self, fits the concept of my soul – which I believe is beyond the limits of the physical body or the human psyche. The soul is the essence, energy, electricity, everlasting part of you that IS accessible during this earthly walk and contains ALL the wisdom and strength you need to find peace and healing WITHIN yourself. I’m not talking about a cure-all. I am talking about a state of being that is calm, knowing, and in fact, a little piece of God’s all encompassing love that has settled in you no matter what else is happening in your life.
People are complicated. When you are faced with dirty toilet brushes and stuff that’s stuck, BREATHE. Center yourself. Ask all your managers and firefighters to give you some room, to step aside. Hug your exiles and draw on your CORE – the being that God meant for you to be – be filled with THAT light. Bathroom drama, I think most dramas, CAN be navigated with improved self-awareness and the courage to be vulnerable. We can live as we die and die as we live within our personal ‘system’ and in interconnection with and care for the ‘systems’ of OTHERS, even if they expect you to clean the toilet.
Requiem is Latin for REST. But you ALREADY knew that, didn’t you? You were always so well read, so smart, and so articulate. Are you resting now? Requiem aeternam dona eis Domine. ‘Eternal rest grant them, O Lord’ – has eternal rest been granted to YOU? You were forty-four when your otherworldly quest for peace began. It was your birthday this week. I thought of you. You would’ve been fifty-six. You’ve missed 11 earthly birthdays. Still life rolls forward even though there are many things left unsaid.
Do you know that ALL I ever wanted from you was approval? A smile, a nod, a kind word. I understand that you were deeply troubled. I’ve become QUITE familiar with mental health derailment. When you and I were kids the labels and the help DIDN’T exist. Eleven years ago it wasn’t much better. Today it seems EVERYBODY wants a piece and it makes it difficult to get proper care – until you REALLY lose your mind or cause harm. There are no neat categories. No definitive diagnosis or prognosis. But if you are willing to jump through the hoops, endure all the chaos, allow the endless poking and prodding, eventually, if you are lucky – perhaps only by God’s grace, someone FINALLY stamps your hand and gives you passage into the shakey world of treatment and accommodations.
The medical and psychological powers never did nail down YOUR disease. Granted, from what I understand, the process of your personal detangling didn’t start until you were well into adulthood. Nevertheless, bi-polar or whatever you were, I ALWAYS sensed it. My angry, hurtful, terrifying big brother. Although you just could NOT like me, I adored you. Even when you screamed in my face, threatened me, thwarted me, squashed the caterpillar I was admiring, and said vile, hateful things to me, I loved you and I wanted you to care. But you couldn’t.
You were so kind and so funny, and obliging to EVERYONE else, even to my silly friends who thought you were the coolest. I thought you were the coolest – but you left me in the shadows. You didn’t know it, but I watched you from a distance, longing to sit close. Even so, I peeked out to marvel at your radiance.
I built a wall around myself once. It protected me. I needed SOMETHING to guard me, to buffer the insults – to muffle the direct and horrible hits to my self-worth, to block out the overwhelming question about whether I DESERVED to draw air, to be in YOUR presence. EVERYDAY you were alive, I clung to the hope that ONE DAY YOU WOULD CHANGE YOUR MIND. You’d LET ME be a part of YOUR amazing life. You’d show me the art you created and let me listen with you to your favorite music, you’d tell me about the best books you’d read, about your wilderness adventures, you’d laugh and tease and appreciate me – your reverent little sister.
When you died that hope was LOST. Our children would never benefit from the carefree days of cousinhood and you and I would never enjoy a comfortable, unspoken, unconditional bond, as many siblings do. There would be NO camping trips, NO Christmas dinners, NO friendly check ins, NO growing relationship. To this day, I am reinventing myself as someone who doesn’t NEED your APPROVAL, or anyone else’s for that matter. It’s funny how much of my identity was threatened when the wall became IRRELEVANT. I kept it, out of habit, I suppose. My perception of myself broke into a thousand bits that I’m STILL struggling to put back together. The wall looks different now – parts of it have crumbled and fallen, but
I still hide behind it sometimes.
You had your 10 year chip. A HUGE accomplishment. The autopsy confirmed you were not drinking. You were working SO hard on yourself. I’m proud of your valiant efforts. I’m not sure who you chose to make amends with when you did your ninth step. Did you DO your ninth step? It’s none of my business…but I can’t help but wonder, WAS IT TOO MUCH for me to wish that you’d acknowledge the damage you’d inflicted upon ME? DIDN’T YOU KNOW THAT YOU HURT ME over and over and over again? Did you have any faith, REALLY? The AA steps are steeped in God language – regardless of changing the words to ‘higher power’ and ‘making amends’ – faith in something bigger and benevolent is the undertone. [that’s my uninformed impression – I don’t really know anything – just that it confuses me] Anyway, it doesn’t seem to fit with who I THOUGHT you were. Well, YOU didn’t know ME EITHER. So here we are.
I sound angry. I AM angry. I can be angry and still love you. I can be hurt and still forgive you. I forgive you. I love you.
Were you scared, big brother? Did you have second thoughts? Were you sad? Did you make your peace? Were you anxious for whatever would come next? You should know that you highly UNDERESTIMATED the IMPACT your death would have on all of us still left to this life. Thank you for including my name in your final note, listed with the people you loved. It provided great comfort. I understand liking and loving are different. I can accept that. I’m so sorry that you were just SO exhausted by the WORK of living that relief, even death, was a welcome companion. I hope that in your last moments you didn’t feel alone. I hope LOVE held you and holds you STILL.
Nuanced Niddy 