Colors

Down deep in the pit, I strain my eyes upward, hoping for even a sliver of light to penetrate. I hold my hand in front of my face, trying in vain to make out the shapes of my fingers but it is useless. My back is against the wall, knees drawn up close to my chest. Arms wrapped around them, hair falling into my face as I lay my cheek against the soft fabric of my jeans. There are no tears but a choking tightness stretches across my chest. A knot twists in my stomach and panic rises within me. God feels so very far away. 

Depression. Chronic depression. Debilitating. Painful. It clouds my mind, it steals my joy. I slouch in the recliner, playing endless games of solitaire on my laptop. I open a word doc and stare at a blank page, the cursor taunting me. I pick up a book to read but cannot focus. I wander into the kitchen and stare at pantry shelves, looking without seeing. Mindless eating, then feeling ill, I stare at my reflection in the mirror. I turn with a shudder. Maybe I really am as worthless as I feel.

Days pass. Desperation claws at me and I know I have to do something to break this cycle. It takes every ounce of strength within me to pick up the phone and make the appointment. Still, it will take weeks before the antidepressant kicks in and any change is noticed. In the meanwhile, more solitaire, more mindless eating, more staring at the walls.

There comes a day when something different happens. It's subtle, it's small but I find myself thinking about what is going in my mouth, in my head. I can read a whole chapter instead of quitting two or three sentences in. I think about cooking something for dinner instead of a last minute can of soup being opened.

But life is... beige. There is no other word for it. Black has faded and I can see my hand in front of my face now but there is no kaleidoscope of colors bursting on my horizon. Just beige....a calm, smooth beige, but beige none the less. Like an uninterrupted ride down a flat road, no bumps, no highs, no lows. And I am grateful. Because, right now beige is painless.

My back is against the wall, knees drawn up close to my chest. Arms wrapped around them, hair falling into my face as I lay my cheek against the soft fabric of my jeans. I rest in the moment, letting solitude comfort me. There are no tears and I feel my chest relaxing. A knot unfurls in my stomach and my breathing has slowed. I sense God's presence and the calm envelops me. 

The day I decide to find my walking shoes and venture outside for no other reason than to walk, is the day I know a change has occurred. I make note of it; to me this signifies something is working. My world is still monochromatic but its lighter. Brighter. I can wear a pink shirt and not feel like the rosy hue is hurting my skin. I can look at my reflection and see some spark in those eyes that once were hooded.  Maybe I'm not as worthless as I thought.

It takes a long time to get there and maybe I don't really know when it arrived it's been so gradual, but I can see that the tints have grown in depth. I can make out the tones and see the varying shades. Beige has been replaced by pale pinks and soft yellows. I can make out a shade akin to orange on the very edges and I feel a warm earthy red rising with in me. I feel like singing.

My back is straight and I stand tall. Arms wrapped around my bible, hair brushed back so that the sun may kiss my cheek, I lean into the vibrancy that surrounds me. A bubble rises, slowly--champagne released by the cork-- it works its way to the surface and then EXPLODES into a poly-chrome, a rainbow, its palette expanding, mounting, sustaining me as it fills me. God is alive within me and I find all my worth in Him. 

A Broken Hallelujah

"I believe God wants to wreck you."

The words, spoken in a gentle voice, shake me. I understand immediately that 'wrecked' is not being used in a bad way. Not in a way that would leave me more damaged than I already feel. I understand what it isn’t, but I’m not sure I understand what it is.

I am sitting on a small couch in a cozy room. Cream colored walls decorated with peaceful paintings designed to soothe, enhanced by soft lighting and backed by melodic instrumentals mingled with the sounds of water trickling over rocks. I know the ambiance aimed for is working to some degree, for I feel lulled, almost heavy with a longing to sleep. But the part of me that wants, no, NEEDS, to be in control is fighting against sinking deeper into the couch and letting go.

I am a recently divorced, 36 year old mother of two. I come every week to this room to meet with my counselor where I emotionally vomit all the pent up secrets of my past, in hopes that bringing the wrongs into the light will somehow help me put my life back together. So far, I don’t think its working. I leave each week feeling fragile, exposed, raw. I worked so hard in the 10 years of marriage to hide everything. To put on the mask of perfection, to play make believe about our marriage. To say to the world that we were blissfully happy, that my life was charmed and blessed and wonderful. But now, with no reason to lie anymore, the truth can come out. It needs to come out.

So each week, I come and I talk, unpacking a trunk full of ugliness. My counselor helps me sort through the wreckage and prays for me but when the hour is done, the trunk has to be repacked until the next time. I have learned how to place the trunk in a closet for safe keeping until the next session but it’s not been easy. I must admit that the trunk seems less full now. Little by little, each week as we sort, I find more things I can toss. Perhaps good things are happening.

But now, I hear my counselor telling me she believes God wants to wreck me. I came to her already wrecked. After the years of physical abuse, emotional manipulation, and psychological blackmail, I was little more than a shell of a woman, held together by a tenuous thread. But slowly, slowly, the strong-willed child that had been buried under the violence was making a comeback.

When I first started seeing Carolyn, I would sit tightly on the couch, my hands balled up into fists. I didn’t cry. Crying was something I did not do. It was one small thing I had control over. He could beat me, belittle me, shame, or humiliate me, but I had managed to turn off the faucet inside where the tears were stored. One small victory in the face of defeat. So, no tears for me. Instead I just shredded the Kleenex she always provided for me.

I had built a solid wall around my heart in the years I was married. A wall to protect myself, to keep some small part of me sane in the midst of the insanity we lived in. It was my only protection but now, living in a safe place, surrounded with a good, healthy support team of family and friends, Carolyn was trying to get me to see that the wall wasn’t needed anymore. It would be OK to let the wall down so others could get close. So that God could get close.

I wasn’t so sure. It felt very risky. Yet I longed to feel love and give love in return and I knew that as long as I kept that wall around me, relationships in my life would remain superficial at best. I had had enough of superficial living. I wanted, needed, authenticity in my life. I was tired of lies and pretending everything was fine. I wanted to live and live fully.

I knew God loved me. I had asked Jesus into my heart when I was a little girl. I had wandered away from the teachings of my youth however when I reached my teen years. I had decided sneaking out and dating boys my parents didn’t approve us was much more fun than going to bible studies. Still, the biblical truths I had been raised on and the knowledge that God was there for me held me together in my darkest hours. When I cowered in fear as my husband raged over me, when I hid in the closet to escape a beating, when I lay on my back, choking back screams as he raped me, what was going through my mind but cries to God. I prayed. Oh, how I prayed. I prayed for the abuse to stop. I prayed for a miracle to occur. I prayed for escape. I prayed for someone to discover the truth of my life and rescue me.

There were times when I felt I was crying out to no one. I never stopped believing in God. I just thought I got myself into this mess and eventually it would be up to me to get myself out of it. And I did. I somehow managed, with all the courage I possessed, to leave.

And now, here I am, week after week, working hard to rebuild my life, regain my self esteem,and renew my faith in mankind.

Carolyn smiles as she pushes the Kleenex box closer to me. I take one out of the box and return the smile. We both know it will end up shredded but she keeps hoping. She believes eventually the faucet will be turned back on and that it will be a good thing. A healing thing. I’m not sure but if anything has happened over the past several months, it’s coming to know I can trust Carolyn and I am starting to trust myself.

A part of me would like to cry. I know I don’t need this tool anymore. For a long time having that one small thing I could control was a lifeline. As long as there was one thing I had control over, it meant I hadn’t completely disappeared. But I’m tired. Tired of holding everything back. I do want to feel. Survival in the past meant not feeling. But I want to know how to laugh—deep belly laughs that go on till I’m breathless. I want to know how to play again—without fear of consequence. And most of all, I want to know love. Love as it was meant to be. Pure. Respectful. Free.

“I believe God wants to wreck you.” Carolyn says and I nod.

I sense this means being rendered helpless before God, on my face, desperate for His Presence. I sense it means wrecked as in breaking down any and all walls that stand between me and The Creator of the Universe. I sense there are things I need to confess, choices I made that I need to own. That until I allow surrender to take place, full healing will not. I understand what God wants is a broken spirit. That like David in the book of Psalms discovered, God will not reject a broken and repentant heart. (Psalm 51.17)

The chorus from one of my favorite songs starts playing in my head.

"We pour out our miseries,

God just hears a melody,

Beautiful, the mess we are,

The honest cries of breaking hearts,

Are better than a Hallelujah,

Better than a Hallelujah, sometimes."*

I nod again and Carolyn places a loving hand on my bowed head. She begins to pray over me and suddenly I am overwhelmed with exhaustion. I wonder what would happen if I took the risk and let go. She prays some more and I am overwhelmed with an ache that threatens to split me wide open. A gasp escapes. And another.

And, I let go.

 I let go and as I do I feel a crack in the wall. I let go and I feel the wall begin to crumble. I let go and something rises up deep inside me. I can’t hold it back. I don’t want to hold it back. I let go of everything. Everything that is still in the trunk. All the emotions that have been stuffed away, all the hurts and fear, the hatred, the self loathing, the disgust-- it all comes rushing out. A tidal wave, a tsunami of emotions that have been locked away all this time. Carried on a wave of tears.

For I am crying. After all this time, I am crying. I am on the floor, on my face, desperate for God.

And then I fully, completely, understand “wrecked.”  

* Better than a Hallelujah" ~ Amy Grant. Lyrics by Chapin Hartford & Sarah Hart

**based on a true story. 

Let It Be Now

She holds in her hand a check for $100. Made out to her. One hundred dollars is not a fortune but it is more money than she has had access to in all her 12 years of married life. She was surprised when she opened the mailbox and found the letter addressed to her. Stunned when she ripped open the envelope and the check slipped out. The accompanying note simple said "Thank you for blessing us with your music." and she'd flushed as she thought about last weekend and the anniversary party for the older couple from church. Twenty five years was an accomplishment and she'd been shocked with the wife had called and asked if she would sing at their open house celebration. She liked singing, was able to carry a tune and not cause harm to anyone's eardrums but she never thought of herself as a singer. Still, she had enjoyed the moment of fame as she sang to the Wilsons and their room full of guests. Had flushed with pleasure as they politely and some, even enthusiastically, applauded when she'd finished her song. It wasn't till they were in the car driving home that Jim attacking her with his words, had methodically destroyed any pleasure she'd taken in her performance.

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She sighs and lays the check on the table. Brushes her hair back from her face and stares hard out the window. Jim is outside with the children. She needs to get dinner started but she can't bring herself to move. She picks the check up again and allows herself a brief moment to think about what she would do with $100 if  allowed. Because she knows that once Jim learns about the money he'll be taking the check to the bank to cash it and use for his own selfish purposes. She contemplates tucking the check away and destroying the note and envelope. Jim doesn't need to know about the money, does he? Could she keep it hidden, a secret, a little insurance for a "some day"?

Her heart pounds in her chest at the thought of keeping a secret  from her husband. She hasn't been able to do that sort of thing very successfully. Jim has an uncanny way of ferreting information from her. She bows her head in a moment of frustration and shame as she recalls some of the thoughts and feelings he's gotten her to share with him over the years, only to turn around and use it against her when she least expects it.

She knows it is wrong when Jim hits her but the subtle ways he abuses through the twisting of words is often harder to recognize. Manipulation seems to be something Jim excels at and she never seems to be strong enough or smart enough to combat it.

Defeated from her thoughts she lays the check back on the table and makes herself walk away. Jim will come in, see the check, demand answers and then will calmly put the check in his wallet and tomorrow they'll go to the bank, cash the check and that will be that. She'll never see the money, never experience the joy of spending something she's been gifted. It will just be one more way in which Jim reigns in their relationship and she shrinks once again.

As she pulls out pans from the cupboard the memory of a trip to town without Jim's permission rises up inside her. She'd impulsively decided to run to the store and pick up a few things to make a special dessert one afternoon but Jim had come home early. Of all days to come home unexpectedly, he'd come the one time she'd dared to go somewhere without his approval. Adrenalin pumps furiously as she recalls his seething anger when he met her in the driveway upon her return. She cringes as she remembers his face so close to hers, yelling, accusing, blaming. Her stomach turns as she remembers him throwing the sack of groceries to the ground and stomping on it, she flinches as her memory brings back the pain of the blows to her side and head as he drug her into the house. Punished for daring to do something on her own. For thinking she was clever.

That fear, that crippling fear is what makes her leave the check on the table. Let Jim decide to do with it as he sees fit. She knows she doesn't have the strength or courage to defy him or his wants and needs. Too many times of being beaten down over the years, experiencing that shrinking feeling when he wins has left her wrung out, helpless. Every time Jim succeeds in the wielding of power, she diminishes more. Some day she imagines she will just disappear altogether and a small part of her thinks this might be a relief. To not care anymore might be safer.

But as she watches her husband of 12 years walking towards the house, the children scrambling to try and keep up, something flickers inside her. Something akin to hope and that puzzles her.  She watches in bewilderment as their 10 year old son trips his younger sister in an effort to make it to his daddy's side before her. Watches how Jim chuckles as he realizes what the boy has done. With her heart in her throat she watches their 7 year old daughter fighting back tears as she struggles to her feet. Continues to watch as Jim picks her up and plunks her on his shoulders. Her heart aches for she knows-- Jim knows!-- her daughter dislikes heights and she watches her little girls face struggle with emotions. Jim has offered no comfort for the fall she's taken, now he's effectively robbed her of the decision to walk on her own.

She is thunderstruck then with the realization of how Jim isn't just controlling her life but also the lives of their children. Teaching them values she's never intended her children to learn. The abuse Jim dishes out on her is one thing but she sees clearly for perhaps the first time what he is also instilling in their kids.

It frightens her. Chills her. She knows what Jim's doing is wrong. Wrong and needs to be stopped. She feels powerless as she always does in the face of Jim's control.

And yet.

She walks back to the table where the check lays. What could she possibly do with just $100? Would it put gas in the tank and propel her down the road to freedom perhaps? Wouldn't  it at least get her as far as a shelter for women and children? She thinks about what she has done to 'earn' this monetary gift and shudders. The sense of empowerment is so foreign it overwhelms her. Does she have the courage to take charge of her life and make changes? The strength?

She stares at the check, hardly breathing, knowing her moments are limited. Fingers crawling nervously on the table,fresh fear bringing a binding pain across her chest. It's now or never. Watching surreptitiously through the window, she snatches up the check,  tucking it into the waist band of her jeans and gathers the envelope and note. Can she really do this? 

It is only $100 but it is more money than she'd ever had access to in the 12 years of marriage. It's now or never had been her thought. And with determination that she's forgotten she possesses she tells herself let it be now.

In Denial

I love reading Jan Ackerson's blog  One Hundred Words. I have tried a few times to do as she does, capture a character in 100 words, to suggest in just a few sentences,an entire plot. It's a challenge to be sure. But a fun one!  

The following is based on a true experience (not mine). One thing I have learned as a survivor: when such things are brought into the light, it loses it's power. Here's to breaking the bond of silence and letting the truth be told in order to be set free! 

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When Nellie was 14, and you didn’t talk about such things, she was raped. Once Nellie's mother realized Nellie was pregnant, she whisked her away to a home for girls in such condition. 

When the baby was born, Nellie turned her face away. She returned home, her mother firmly stating, it didn't happen. 

Her father long dead, today, Nellie greets people following her mother's memorial. At 64, silver hair neatly coiffed, Nellie looks regal, strong, unflappable. But for those paying attention, Nellie is heard to repeatedly murmur, "My father raped me when I was a girl. My father raped me." 

the class of 1977

quiet little girl
who liked books best
shy and insecure
just wanted to be accepted
and liked.

it didn't take much to make her cry
but she never let them see it.
the butterflies in her tummy
were from fear, not excitement
and when other kids laughed
at her and her clothes
she knew, she KNEW
they were laughing at her.

she developed thicker skin
as she got older
and a sense of humor;
be a clown and that way
be more in control of why people laugh.

but books were still her BFF.

grade school, high school
such a difference
the lines were clearer
who is popular
who is not.
if a boy walks with you in the hallway and he is one of the 'in' ones
it could change your life.

the clown got braver
'if you don't like my peaches, don't shake my tree'
love me or hate me
but let me be.

she buried herself in her writing.

she had her circle of friends but she was always looking
looking over at the other circles
the ones with the pretty girls and boys
cheerleaders, prom queens, studs.
ached to be liked, ached to belong.
never suspecting they each carried their own insecure demons.

class reunions, over the years
did nothing to erase the lines of division
that she felt each day in school.
until this one....

this one we finally got it right.
we are not prom queens or cheerleaders or football stars
we are not losers or deadbeats or drop outs
we're not the girl who got knocked up
the boy who got busted for drinking
or the one we suspected was gay.

we are simply..... people.
all the same age, with a journey through life
that has taken twists and turns,
some ugly and some not.

we've faced cancer and divorce
DUI's and custody battles
we've moved and graduated and been fired and been beaten.
we've battled addictions and some times we've won and sometimes we've lost.
but we are still just people.

we've had promotions and raised families
switched careers, taken trips.
built houses, built businesses
found religion, found God.
increased our faith, been tested.

We've been celebrating life.
crossing lines because they don't matter anymore.
as they never should have existed.

we are the class of 1977.