Forgiveness As a Choice—Not a Feeling

 

Forgiveness As a Choice—Not a Feeling

I’ve been struggling with an inability to forgive and I found a study with a completely new perspective. What if I chose to forgive now, instead of waiting until I felt like I was ready to forgive?

God sent Christ to die for my sins BEFORE I was sorry. God made a choice to forgive me. God canceled the debt, releasing me from anything I owed him. That’s what real forgiveness looks like.

True forgiveness is a total release from anything we are owed or they deserve as a punishment.

Make allowance for each other’s faults, and forgive anyone who offends you. Remember, the Lord forgave you, so you must forgive others. Col 3:13 NLT

Forgiveness is a choice, not a feeling. It’s choosing to cancel a debt owed to us. Our feelings may cry out against the whole idea of forgiveness. Still, we can choose. This mirrors what God did when he chose to forgive us.

The divine sequence God has given us is: think, choose, then feel.

1)      We can set our minds on the truth of what needs to be done.

2)      We can choose to forgive and release someone from the debt owed to us.

3)      We can remember the choice we made from then on.

4)      We can live in agreement with the choice we made.

We don’t have to wait for our emotions to line up with our choice.

When we choose to forgive someone, it’s mostly for us, the person we’re forgiving may never know we’re forgiving them; they may not even be alive anymore!

Do we pretend our anger and pain don’t exist or matter? No! Get alone with God and talk to Him. Be honest, He can handle it! You might want to talk to a trusted friend or sponsor too. Then tell God you’re choosing to forgive the person and releasing them from the debt they owe you. Ask God for help when you need it.  

It’s a sin to let my emotions control me rather than holding onto the unchanging truths of God.

Abba Father, thank You for showing me how to forgive, I choose to forgive Richard Eugene Dowden for molesting me when I was a child. I choose to forgive him for making me feel like it was my fault. I choose to forgive him for making it so hard for me to trust You. I choose to forgive him for making it so hard to trust people, including myself. I choose to forgive him for making me feel unloved and unloving and unlovable. I choose to forgive him for awakening evil desires in my mind. I choose to forgive him for demeaning my mother, myself, and my siblings. Lord, I release him from all debts he owes me in this life and in the afterlife. Dad, when I start to fall back into old habits, I ask You to remind me of the choice I’m making today to forgive Richard Eugene Dowden and help me stand firm in my decision to let go once and for all. Thank You for the healing You’ve already given me. Amen.   

Shifting the Blame or Avoiding Responsibility

Another characteristic of abusers is denial of responsibility. The abuser actively and constantly attempts to shift the blame for their actions or thoughts, from themselves to others. Abusers are unwilling to accept responsibility for their actions.

They minimize their actions and the aftermath. When I confronted my evil step-father Dick (by letter) about his abusive ways during my childhood (I didn’t have the courage to truthfully and concisely discuss the abuse, so my accusations were somewhat vague), he wrote back that he had “bittersweet” memories too.

Abusers claim others “made them do it” or “made them mad”. Dick was constantly talking to me about girls who were loose based on their appearance and walk. He made it clear that kind of girl deserved whatever she got. And all women are alike, so they all deserved maltreatment.

Abusers are rarely remorseful. Dick seemed quite uncomfortable with any show of emotion, except anger. I was encouraged to be angry with my siblings. When I was laughing or smiling, his demand was, “Why are you smiling?” When he didn’t approve of the emotion showing on my face, it was “Wipe that look off your face!” When I cried, he’d mock me or spank me longer. When I was bleeding due to an injury and crying, Dick threatened to let me bleed to death if I didn’t stop crying. I learned to deny my feelings for so long that eventually I couldn’t even recognize my feelings.

The abuser tries to make the victim feel responsible.

The victim is often expected to meet needs which are not their responsibility and often beyond their ability.  I never did anything to Dick’s satisfaction, my best efforts were always lacking. 

Once abusers are successful at making their victims feel responsible, the victims carry around an overwhelming sense of shame which makes them feel worthless. The abuser can then use that shame to manipulate and control the victim.

Often, other family members encourage lying or denial in dealing with the abuser; which reinforces to child victims that the abuser is somehow justified. When a victim tries to tell an authority figure about the abuse and is either not believed or encouraged to keep it a secret, they are led to believe they are somehow culpable for the abuse.

This is what the Bible says God feels about blame-shifting and the treatment of victims:

“Acquitting the guilty and condemning the innocent – the LORD detests them both.”                         Proverbs 17:15

Prince of Deception

My evil step-father Dick was a liar. Everything about him was a lie. He didn’t complete grade school, but he would use large words which he thought he understood. Often enough to make him sound ignorant, he would use them inappropriately. He didn’t want to be corrected: I tried.

We were told repeatedly that “we don’t air our dirty laundry in public.” We were taught to keep family secrets; at the same time, we were being told that God considers lying a sin. It is extremely common for abusive families to lie to hide the abuse.

Dick told me repeatedly that I was ugly, unlovable, stupid, of no value, etcetera, etcetera. These were all lies! Unfortunately, I entered adulthood believing all his lies.

Both of my parents and the church told me that a good girl would be a virgin on her wedding day. Dick took my virginity and when I realized it, I knew it meant I was no longer a “good girl” but I was confused because everyone talked like I had a choice in whether or not I was a virgin. I also had to continue lying to my mother because she didn’t know, and I felt a fierce need to protect her. I was profoundly confused.

As I got older, the sexual abuse stopped. When I began working, Dick knew when I got paid and would be waiting for me to arrive home. He would tell me he needed a favor; then ask to borrow my entire paycheck to pay a household utility. I lent him money every time he asked (I would have done anything for my mother and siblings); and he never paid me back. Once I realized what he was doing, I began going and spending my paycheck for what I wanted before I took it home. It didn’t occur to me until I was an adult looking back, but how did he pay the utilities before I started earning a paycheck?

As a teen, I purchased a vehicle using a bank loan. Either, I couldn’t have a title in my name or I couldn’t get a bank loan in my name due to my age. I did go pay on the bank loan every time I got paid until it was paid off. I was so excited. Until I saw my car on the corner with a For Sale sign in the window. (I had been grounded for breaking curfew and was riding the bus.) I asked Dick about it when I got home, and he told me he was selling. When the car was no longer there a little while later, I asked Dick if he’d moved it. He’d sold it. I asked him where my money was from the sale. His reply was “What money?” Lying, stealing, manipulative, abusive, evil man sold the car I paid for and kept the money. (Just when I think I’ve forgiven him, I feel angry all over again!)

I’m still confused by the level of lying in my childhood home. As a child, I lied all the time. I lied about my home. I lied about my step-father. I lied about my siblings. I lied to my step-father. I lied to my mother. If my lips were moving…I was most likely lying.

At some point, I stopped lying. I think it happened when I started to realize that Dick was evil. I think this was when I stopped overtly lying and began learning to deny the reality of the bad things that had happened in my life.

I became more and more verbally honest as time went by and even flipped too far the other direction; using the guise of honesty to say very hurtful things to people I claimed to love.

My mother (who has a pure, loving heart) doesn’t always embrace the truth. She often shades reality by suggesting it’s better than it is. I don’t know if she was in denial or if she was afraid that by facing the problems honestly, she would make them worse. This added to my confusion about lying and honesty.

Today, I hate lying, I pride myself on honesty; however, I’ve learned to be more loving in my approach. Every day, I’m conscious of the fact that I lived most of my adult life in denial of my reality and I need to be wary of doing it now.

I can’t stand a liar. I just figured out why today. What can I say? Sometimes I’m slow on the uptake.

My Experience with ADHD

I was gifted this amazing little boy from God.  His name is Fergus.  He has these amazing eyes, the color of almonds.  The sparkle with mischief and gleam with intelligence.  He is full of compassion for others and he’s curious about everything.  He doesn’t stop moving but he’s capable of slipping into super, super slow-motion when someone is waiting. 

For his first 4 1/2 years, it was just he and I.  Experiencing the world through his eyes with fresh curiosity and amazement was like a rebirth of sorts.  I didn’t have a radio in my car, so anytime we drove anywhere (which was often); we talked.  We talked like two adults.  Fergus had a very large vocabulary and an inquisitive mind when he started school. 

We didn’t have a lot of behavior problems prior to school.  He went through a biting phase and gave himself a concussion when he fell off the coat hook he was hanging on. 

His “behavior” problems started when he started school and my take on it is the schools had and have an expectation problem.  It is unreasonable to expect children as young as three years old to sit still, pay attention and behave perfectly for hours on end.  My opinion is that it’s unnatural.  Preschool was a nightmare. 

His Kindergarten teach was an amazing, loving and creative woman.  She called me to tell me he’d had a good day and I burst into tears of relief and joy.  She gave him a carpet square to use as an island and the classroom carpet was an ocean he couldn’t go into without drowning or being eaten by sharks.  It kept him from moving around her classroom and putting his hands on the other children. 

Fergus has always been a loyal person.  If you were his friend, he took that seriously and defended you if he deemed it necessary.  Which is how I got a phone call telling me he’d pushed another child off the top of the school’s playground slide.  That child had pushed his friend, so Fergus pushed him.  Off the slide.  Onto the ground, breaking the child’s backpack strap (when he tried and failed to catch him) but not injuring the child (thank God!).  I offered to pay for the backpack.

I took Fergus in to a mental health professional to be evaluated and he was diagnosed with Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD), which I’d never heard of previously.  I tend to question things and I seek out knowledge and proof.  I went to my local library and read everything they had on ADHD and ADD. 

As I read, I realized my son was being described and I was devastated that my perfect child wasn’t perfect.  Moreover, to my surprise, I realized that I fit the description even more readily than my child!  At the time, they believed there was a genetic component but it hadn’t been proved yet.  I’m convinced it’s genetic. 

Throughout the years, Fergus’ teachers would go on and on about how polite and likable he was.  Then, they started with the buts.  He can’t hold still.  He’s always touching others.  He doesn’t pay attention in class.  He doesn’t turn in his assignments.  He distracts the other students. 

Over the years, I’ve become convinced that ADHD and ADD run rampant in my family.  My mother and father both have associated behaviors.  Most of my siblings have characteristics of it.  Both of my sons have it.  Fergus has ADHD and Samson has Attention Deficit Disorder (ADD), which is basically the thought problems without the hyperactive movements. 

I’ve never been diagnosed and I learned some great coping skills as a child.  Fergus had to be medicated before he was able to realize any kind of scholastic (behaviorally) success. 

All of the books I’d read told me not to expect a miracle pill, so I didn’t.  Imagine my surprise and sorrow when we switched medications and found a combination with dramatic results.  One after another, at the next parent-teacher conference; Fergus’ teachers remarked on what a difference there was in his behaviors.  It was PFM (Pure Fucking Magic).

At this point, I don’t think having ADHD is going to negatively affect my life. 

Red Flags to Avoid

As pervasive as abuse is, it’s important that we’re aware of red flags while we’re selecting our life partners. Better to completely avoid becoming entangled with an abuser. Survivors can easily connect with an abuser because we’re comfortable with the relationship dynamics with them. It’s what we know.

According to “Mending the Soul: Understanding and Healing Abuse” by Steven R. Tracy, the general characteristics of abusers include denial of responsibility, deceitfulness, harshly judgmental of others and calculated intimidation. I agree with this conclusion as it’s what I experienced at the hands of my abuser.

My evil step-father Dick was extremely judgmental. He seemed to hate everyone. He was misogynistic. He had nothing nice to say about women ever. He was also racist. Basically, it seems he hated everyone but himself and other pasty-faced white men. Yes, I still have a lot of animosity toward him. In retrospect, I think he was comparing himself to others and finding reasons so he could believe he was superior to them. At some level, he may have known his behaviors were wrong; however, he never had to look at his own shortcomings because he was busy badmouthing others for what he perceived as their problems.

We moved to a town which had a sign on its border which said (I apologize profusely) “No niggers, spicks, or chinks allowed.” He would say the “n*****” were trying to take over the world by interbreeding with white women. I was astounded by his ignorance. He would see a girl walking down the street and proclaim she was a whore and he could tell by the way she walked and dressed. He would tell me all women were alike if you turned them upside down.

My evil step-father Dick also used intimidation to keep myself and my siblings in line. I don’t remember Dick making any direct threats: I just felt this constant, overwhelming sense of dread. I knew I was going to be subjected to more abuse because my best was never good enough. I’m in a constant state of alert because I’m always expecting more suffering to come my way.

When it was time for a spanking, Dick would send me to get his belt. If I was crying, he would spank me until I stopped. If I was not crying when the beating began, he would spank me until I cried.

I wasn’t allowed normal emotions. I was allowed anger.

I split my knee open playing tag in the dark and was crying when I came inside the house. Dick was there and told me to stop crying or he’d let me bleed to death. I stopped. He put rubbing alcohol on my open wound; and I passed out from the pain.

He was always threatening to “wipe that look off your face” or “give you something to cry about.”

Abusers are master manipulators and use all kinds of strategies to trap their victims for as long as possible. I believed I had little to no power as a child. At 11 years old, I began planning my escape by trying to save up enough money to leave my childhood home. I believed that was the only solution.

People were always complimenting my parents for how well-behaved their children were in public. We were terrified of being beaten by Dick when we got home.

No one knew the truth. I didn’t know how to ask for help. When I finally tried, I was dismissed by a health care “professional” as a dramatic teen. My maternal grandmother sensed something was wrong but didn’t know how to ferret out the truth. What my childhood family showed the world was a lie.

Blaming the Child Victim

Something I struggle with nearly every day is the belief that I’m not enough, that I’m defective, that I’m responsible for every bad thing in my life and the lives of everyone else.

Intellectually, I know it’s not my fault there’s a war in Syria or racism or a myriad of other evils but the soul damage I suffered at the hands of my evil step-father Dick has caused what seems to be permanent damage (unless God decides to miraculously remove it).

Ironically, I even feel like it’s my fault I can’t figure out how to overcome the belief that I’m to blame; this is a perfect example of my “stinking thinking”.

As I read “Mending the Soul: Understanding and Healing Abuse” by Steven R. Tracy, my dilemma was explained at long last.

Abusers blame their victims. My step-father believed everything was my fault and told me so every day of my childhood.

I believed the abuse was my fault. I believed it happened because I wasn’t good enough. I believed that if I was good enough, my evil step-father Dick would finally approve of and love me. I believed that I had the power to stop the abuse if I was just good enough. The abuse didn’t stop until I moved away as a young adult. I was never good enough in Dick’s eyes.

Rather than conclude that a parent is wrong or evil, children decide they must be bad and at fault for their parent’s abuse.

Children come to believe they deserve the abuse.

My reaction is common among victims of child abuse. They falsely believe the parent is good and they are bad. They believe their own bad behavior brought on the abuse and they can stop the abuse by being good. This gives them a sense of hope and power. They hold on to this belief tenaciously.

I had requested counseling because I thought I had a sexual dysfunction. We discussed the sexual abuse I suffered as a child in the broadest terms. The counselor asked if I felt ashamed of what had happened, and I burst into tears. Of course, I did, and I thought it was because some of it felt good to a child. Sexual touch was designed by God to feel good and it’s good for us when done within the boundaries of God’s plan for us. Now, I understand it was also because my evil step-father Dick had blamed me as a child, and I believed him.

I was attending Celebrate Recovery meetings for abuse survivors in Washington State. The first meeting, the facilitator stated if anyone was abused as a child, they were NOT to blame. I cried as if I was a child again. I needed to hear that so badly and didn’t even know it.

I would love to leave this habit I have of blaming myself for anything that goes wrong behind; however, I’m certain I’m not capable of leaving this shortcoming behind on my own. I’m totally willing to let God remove it from my life. I’m also totally okay with having God use this about me to help another person who has survived childhood abuse. What man intended for my harm, God will put to good use.

“You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good to accomplish what is now being done, the saving of many lives.”     Genesis 50:20

The Image of God Distorted and Mended

Recently finished reading “Mending the Soul: Understanding and Healing Abuse” by Steven R. Tracy. It was excellent and now I’m trying to distill what I learned to a shareable form.

My step-father Dick was abusive. He abused me physically, emotionally, spiritually, verbally, and sexually. Satan used my step-father’s abuse to separate me from God’s love and nearly destroy me. I’ve always believed in God, but I couldn’t trust him. I thought he was like my step-father.

God’s design is for children to learn about him through their experiences with their parents. My step-father taught me what Satan is like, but it has taken me decades to understand this. My mother is a godly woman, but she was unaware of the extent of the abuse and she was unable to protect me from her husband. My step-father convinced me that I was all wrong, stupid, sinful, unlovable, good for only one thing-being a virgin when I married. I believed I was unforgivable and hopeless. My step-father blamed me for his actions and I believed him.

I attended church faithfully throughout my childhood and on and off as an adult, but I was trying to earn God’s favor. Every time I heard the following verse, I again felt like the abuse had to be my fault, because what kind of father…?

“Which of you fathers, if your son asks for a fish, will give him a snake instead? Or if he asks for an egg, will give him a scorpion? If you then, though you are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give the Holy Spirit to those who ask him!” Luke 11:11-13

If evil, human fathers give their children food when they ask, why was mine abusive? Why was he angry all the time? Why did he ravage my soul with his nasty, hurtful words? Why did he touch me inappropriately?

I believed in God and I had accepted Christ as my Savior, but I had no trust in God, so I ran from him, and was disobedient (I trusted my way more than I trusted him). I had very little joy in my life. I couldn’t accept that anyone could love the real me, so I was separate from my spouse and children.

Some of the common distortions abuse survivors battle are: God isn’t big enough, God isn’t good enough, God is mean and untrustworthy, God isn’t safe, and God’s love and approval must be earned.

It was almost impossible for me to believe God loved me. I’d feel it for a moment, then it was gone again. It wasn’t until a Christian woman loved me with Christ’s love (not sexual) that I could finally accept that God loved and accepted me as I was. This is what God says about me and all his children.

“The LORD your God is with you, the Mighty Warrior who saves. He will take great delight in you; in his love he will no longer rebuke you, but will rejoice over you with singing.” Zephaniah 3:17

It was not part of God’s plan that I suffer abuse at the hands of my step-father. Dick made sinful choices which created consequences for me. Jesus chose to be abused in order to save my eternal soul, so he understands my hurt. God is sad when his children are hurt. Here is what God says about abusers who cause children to stumble.

“If anyone causes one of these little ones-those who believe in me-to stumble, it would be better for them to have a large millstone hung around their neck and to be drowned in the depths of the sea.” Matthew 18:6

Today, I’m convinced God, my heavenly Father, my Creator loves me!

My First Library Card

I’ve always loved to read. 

My mother read to me while I was still in the womb.  She heard or read that by doing that, she would teach her child to love reading.  It worked for me. 

I don’t remember my exact age, but I do remember when I was allowed to get my first library card.  I was so excited!  My mom had been taking me to the library, but now I could walk to the library on my own and check out books with the help of the librarian. 

I felt so grown up!

I wasn’t allowed to choose a book from any section of the library, but I had access to as much as I could read. 

I was voracious. 

I visited the library frequently and read many, many books. 

The books opened up the whole world to me.  I could read about other cultures.  I could read about other countries.  I could read about subjects that piqued my curiosity. 

Books became a way for me to escape the reality of my abusive step-father Dick.  I would become so entranced in a book, he could stand right next to the chair I was sitting in and I wouldn’t hear him talking to me. 

I love to sit in the stacks and peruse the book covers for interesting titles.  Then I pare down my choices to a few select for me to take home and savor.  I can spend hours in the library.   

I’ve lived all over the country and had library cards everywhere I’ve lived.  In Georgia, I had no money so reading was inexpensive entertainment.  I read about Egyptian President Nasser and the Suez Canal.  When I lived in California, the library was an inexpensive source of entertainment for myself and my sons.  I enjoyed Stephen King, Aldous Huxley, and Nevada Barr,  We also read many African folktales including some narrated by James Earl Jones.   When I lived in Nebraska, I found books that taught me how to can produce from my garden.  When I lived in Washington state, I loved to wander the beautiful libraries looking for random reading material.  Since returning to Arizona, I’ve mostly read books to increase my knowledge about different topics, rather than purely for pleasure.  Unfortunately, my vertigo makes it very difficult to:  get to the library, see clearly enough to read, stay focused long enough to get past a page or two, and retain any new information learned.  Oh well.  I had a really good, really long run at one of my most favorite things to do. 

Thanks Mom.  Thanks for walking me up the stairs to the library entrance and allowing me to get my first library card.  Thanks for trusting me enough to allow me to walk myself to the library often.  Thank you for a gift of reading that I’ve cherished. 

“Mending the Soul” Book Review

An important part of my relationship with God is connecting with Him each morning. I read out of a daily 12-step inspirational book, and out of whatever book I’m studying (either the Bible, a bible study book, or a topical book by a Christian author), and I pray. If I don’t start my day on this solid grounding, I’ve pretty much screwed myself. I’ll end up behaving in a way I’m not proud of or I’ll have to endure something alone when I could’ve had help from my Father.

Anyway.

I’ve been reading “Mending the Soul: Understanding and Healing Abuse” by Steven R. Tracy. He and his wife are the founders of Mending the Soul Ministries.

This is an excellent book. I recommend it to anyone who has survived abuse or works with people who are abuse survivors.

I don’t remember how the book came to be on my radar. I may have read about it in another book or I may have had friends who were reading it and talked about it on Facebook. Either way, the book made it into my bible study material.

I’m a survivor of childhood abuse at the hands of my step-father Dick. I spent decades trying to heal myself. I didn’t trust God because I thought he was like Dick. My life was a hot mess when an atheist friend suggested a 12-step program. God used that program to begin healing me and our relationship. He continues to improve me.

I know a lot of people at various stages in their healing process and I have a lot of compassion for them. This book seemed like a good fit for me.

The book outlines what abuse is and how it colors our perception of God. It describes abusers and their families. It discusses the extent of abuse and the origins. The author also talks about how abuse affects the lives of abuse survivors. He also goes into detail about how to seek healing and how to help others on their journey to recovery.

I’ve read a lot of self-help books over the years and received a substantial amount of counseling. This is the first book I’ve read that discusses abuse within the Christian community honestly. He doesn’t dismiss counseling, he explains how to help abuse survivors in a spiritually sound way that will help rather than further traumatize them.

There were some specific areas of interest for me, including: guilt versus shame, feeling like it was my fault, minimization, repressed memories, learning from the past, wrestling with God, how God feels about abusers, and forgiveness.

I plan to discuss this in greater detail and would love to hear your thoughts on the subject.

School Dreams

I’ve had the most vivid dreams throughout my life and often remember them.  I enjoy most of my dreams, so I will lay in bed some mornings trying to remember them.  I believe dreams are a way for the mind to figure out how to cope or solve problems.  I dream in color.  Some of my dreams are repetitious. 

Here are three dreams I’ve had repeatedly about school. 

The first dream is about a tall, thin, white man who’s driving a model-T Ford.  The car is black and basic.  The top is down.  It has a lot of clearance between the ground and the chassis.  The man who’s driving the car reminds me of President Lincoln due to his build and attire.  He occasionally gets out of the car, runs around it and gets back in. 

The entire dream has the feel of a black and white silent movie without the dialogue screens or the herky-jerky motion of the camera. 

I’m dressed up and headed for school but the car keeps chasing me.  I fall down (I’m clumsy.) and the car runs over me.  I’m terrified I’ll die when the car runs over me but the clearance is so high, it doesn’t hurt me. 

I dreamed this over and over as a child.  My mother and my youngest son have both had dreams with a similar theme; only the cars and drivers were different. 

A second dream I had around the same time was that it was my first day of school, ever.  In actuality, I believe it was the first time I was going to be riding the bus to school.  In my dream, I was all dressed up and ready for school when I walked out of my home.  When I begin to step up into the bus, I realize I’m stark naked!  Horrors!

This one happened for a short period of time.

The third dream started when I was a bit older.  I would dream I was on my way to the bus stop when one of two things happened.  One, I would forget something important at home and have to run back to get it or I would see the bus arriving at the bus stop early.  In either scenario, I ended up missing the bus.  Then, I would run to the next bus stop to try to get ahead of the bus and not miss it entirely.  Often, I would see the bus arrive at stop after stop, then drive away, with me running at full speed, frantically trying to catch it!  I dreamed this again and again until I obtained my driver’s license and purchased my first car.

One of the things dreams one and three taught me was that I could somewhat control the ending of my dreams by thinking about a different way to handle the problem while I was lying awake in between the dreams.  I would then fall back asleep and dream it again, and dream the ending differently.  

She Was a Doozy!

Where to begin?

I’ve had many jobs: babysitting, Dairy Queen, gas station, McDonald’s, county treasurer’s office, yogurt shop, Army National Guard, convenience store, Montgomery Ward, regular Air Force, bagging groceries, waitressing, and a major insurance company. I stayed at the insurance company 19 years. I left because I was returning to my hometown to marry and it wasn’t possible to transfer.

I’ve never been fired from a job. I’ve always exceeded the expectations of my supervisors. I’ve had many, many supervisors. Some were great, some weren’t. I figured out what each of them wanted and how to get along with all of them. Except one. The last one. Oh, and she was a doozy!

Her name is Shenehneh Booker. She’s a beautiful, intense, opinionated, vocal, intelligent, passionate woman. She spent the first year telling me what to do, do this, do that, do this, do that. Yes, I was learning how to do things, but I had no understanding of why I was doing it or how it fit into the grand scheme of what we were supposed to be doing. Protecting children.

I’m passionate about children. They are vulnerable and should be protected. They are our future. I was a child once and no one saved me from my step-father Dick. I wish someone had. I’ve been wanting to do something like this since my early 20s.

She seemed to enjoy making other people look small. She would reprimand and ridicule people in public. She would call you into her office, shut the door, get so close your knees were almost touching, then tell you how angry she was about a mistake you’d made. She would tell you how no one was going to have your back if you made a mistake. She would come to your desk and berate you for not doing whatever was currently the thing she wanted from you most. Other people told me she called them stupid and told them they’d never succeed. Other people told me to beware. Other people told me she would choose a victim and then systematically ruin them. I chose to hope for the best.

I was disappointed.

She was the only person who complained about my efforts and my results. Every other person had nothing but positive notes and encouragement for me.

Too many children, not enough time. Too many time-sensitive criteria, not enough time. Too vague training, not enough time. Too many late reports, not enough time. Too many unasked questions, not enough time. Too little help and change, not enough time.

I often wondered if we were doing more harm than good. Sometimes it was evident that intervention was needed. The gray areas seemed to outnumber the black and white.

I would wake up in the middle of the night wondering if a particular child was okay or if I needed to do something more. I would wake up in the middle of the night with my stomach in knots and my heart in my throat; physically sick at the thought of what I had seen and what might happen next and that I had to get up in a few hours and do it all over again.

I had to do it. I believe God brought me to this position. I believe I was obedient to Him. I believe He taught me a lot about myself and others. I believe he put me in situations where I was able to love others on His behalf. I believe if I hadn’t done it, I’d always have regretted it and wished I’d had the opportunity.

All my childhood, I heard how stupid and ugly and worthless I was. I believed it. I spent most of my adulthood trying to heal myself. I couldn’t. I learned to trust God through a 12-step program. I’m surrendered to God. God has healed me. I have serenity, a full range of emotions, the ability to have a loving intimate relationship, healthy boundaries with my family and friend, hope and positivity, gratefulness, and joy.

I no longer live in denial.

Shenehneh is abusing her direct reports verbally and emotionally. She has created an unsafe work environment. She enjoys demeaning and hurting vulnerable adults. She provoked the same emotional and physical responses in me that I felt as a child being abused by my step-dad. She told me to take better emotional care of myself and mocked my recovery on one hand, while verbally attacking me on the other.

I lasted a year and a half, much longer than the average. I did my job to the best of my abilities and training. I treated everyone with respect. I treated myself with love, honesty, kindness, and respect. I did not allow another person’s actions to cause me to lower my personal standards.

I’m Not an Effing Chair!

***WARNING: There is cursing in this one.***

It was early days in my 12 step meetings. I had gone from tentatively attending one each week; to attending multiple meetings a week on several different nights of the week. It may have been during a time when I was so desperate for change and serenity, that I was attending multiple meetings on the same day.

One person kept saying the same thing at meeting after meeting. (Over time, I realized I’m a slow learner when it comes to major insights into myself and God frequently uses at least three various avenues to teach me something or to get my attention.) I thought what he was saying was cute but not real helpful. Here’s the gist of it, “Just because someone calls you a chair, doesn’t make you a chair.”

And it finally hit me!

Just because my evil step-father called me stupid, ugly, unlovable, lacking in common sense, etcetera, did not make it true! All those years (and I’m talking decades) had passed, he had passed on, and I was still hearing his voice in my head saying those awful things to me.

I went home and thought about it. Was there any truth to the things he’d say about me? No. I got a three by five index card and a colorful marker and I wrote “I’m Not a Fucking Chair!” I taped the card to my bathroom mirror where I’d see it every day when I brushed my teeth.

I left it there for a year. Long enough for it to sink into my being. I rarely hear his voice anymore, but when I do, I respond to my step-dad like this, “I’m not a fucking chair and I never was.”

We Want a Different Outcome

I’m spending a lot of time with my nephews while they do schoolwork for their online charter school. It’s a blessing. They are 7 and 10 years old. They were not succeeding in a traditional brick and mortar school. I’m disabled due to vertigo and unable to work. I don’t have to run around chasing them, so it’s working out well.

I keep remembering my brother Adam at the age of 10. He would sit at our huge picnic-style dining room table working on his math homework. He would have tears streaming down his face. No matter how much time he spent working on it, it wasn’t good enough.

I don’t know why he was unsuccessful at picking up math concepts. I couldn’t see inside his mind. Did he have dyslexia? Were the numbers jumbled up? Did he miss a simpler concept prior to this, and therefore didn’t have the basics to support more complicated concepts? I don’t know.

My step-father Dick’s approach was to ridicule my brother. Ridicule is not quite right. He tormented my brother Adam. He told my brother he was stupid and wouldn’t amount to anything. He would pressure him to stop looking at the paper and just answer the question already. Dick told Adam he was lazy and that’s why he couldn’t do it, if he just put in the effort… It would go on and on.

All this from a man who dropped out of elementary school. He was uneducated and sounded like it. He was constantly using words he didn’t understand inappropriately.

I have no memories of trying to help Adam with his homework and I don’t know why. I could have tried to help him when Dick wasn’t around.

To try to help in the midst of Dick grinding Adam down verbally? No way! That would be putting a target on yourself and saying to Dick, “Me next! Be mean and hateful to me next!” We’d each had enough of that to last a lifetime.

I really wish I’d been able to do more to protect my siblings from Dick.

My 10-year-old nephew Nathan is struggling with math right now. He’s so frustrated and hopeless when it comes to schoolwork. I’ve had to explain to him that I love him, and I’m not trying to trick him or make him look stupid. He expects to be mistreated by me because I’m in the role of teacher. I continue to tell him I’m confident his grades can improve because they don’t currently reflect what he’s capable of doing. I DO NOT want to add to his frustrations. I don’t want to add to his negative self-talk.

He’s a great kid with an awesome sense of humor and a desire to please people. He loves his little brother fiercely.

I would like to help build his confidence in his ability to succeed. I’d like to step back and figure out why he isn’t getting it, so we can fill the gaps in his current education and continue to learn. I would like to encourage him to pursue learning new information about stuff that interests him.

Pray for me as I interact with this precious young man. Pray that I’ll do no harm to him in my imperfection. Pray that I’ll have eyes to see what he needs most each day.

I do NOT want to see the same defeat in Nathan’s eyes, which I witnessed in his father’s eyes.

How Could a Loving God Allow This?

I understand why people ask this question.  I asked this question repeatedly, as a child. I was being victimized at the hands of my step-dad Dick.

Here’s the answer: 

The Lord is not slow in keeping his promise, as some understand slowness.  Instead he is patient with you, not wanting anyone to perish, but everyone to come to repentance.                                 2 Peter 3:9

God hasn’t returned because he’s giving us more time to get right with him. He wants every single one of us to spend eternity with him in heaven. Heaven will be the perfect place so many of us long for now.

He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.       Revelation 21:4

When God created Earth and everything in it, it was perfect. Man was perfect too. God created Adam and Eve and they lived in the Garden of Eden. They were naked but they felt no shame. They didn’t have to work to satisfy their needs. There was no pain. It didn’t last long because Satan twisted God’s words. Adam and Eve both chose to disobey God (sin) and ate the fruit God told them not to eat. Each subsequent human has had to decide whether to obey God.

Everything that’s wrong with the world is a result of our individual choices to sin.

Yes, God could have created mankind without the ability to sin. However, without the ability to choose, we become robots without the ability to have a relationship with another. That’s what God wants. A personal, individual relationship with each of his children.

I’m not going to lie.

I still wish I hadn’t gone through the bad parts of my childhood. I wish I hadn’t been so broken when I entered adulthood. I wish life was fair. I wish no child anywhere was ever cold, hungry, abused, hurt or hopeless. I don’t completely understand God’s plan, just a small portion. I fall into the trap of believing I would do things different (better) if I were God. And that’s just it! I’m not God. It’s sinful to put myself (or attempt to) above God. I’m a part of his creation. I have limits. I can’t see the future, I haven’t existed outside of time, I don’t know everything.

God is God and I trust him!

I also struggle at times. What if my step-father Dick is in heaven when I get there? Ugh! I don’t want him to be. I want him to be punished. Yet he may be and that’s between him and God. He may have repented of his sins before he died.

I’ve made some pretty awful mistakes (sins) in life. I’ve hurt people. What if they don’t want me to be in heaven when they get there? What if God listened to us and made his decisions about their eternal destination based on what we want? I might not be welcome. God knows our hearts in ways no one else can. I’m glad he’s the one who has the final say about my eternal home.

I choose to obey him in this area too. When I struggle with a desire to punish those who’ve sinned against me, I ask God to fix that shortcoming in me.

Do not take revenge, my dear friends, but leave room for God’s wrath, for it is written: “It is mine to avenge; I will repay,” says the Lord.                     Romans 12:19

A Piece of Western History

There is a small town within field trip range of the town I grew up in. It’s nestled in the hills and you must brave a narrow, windy road to get there. Okay, okay, there are two other directions you can approach from, which are not as scary as the twisty road one. However, the twisty road has the added benefit of having stone stairs that lead up one side of the road to a tiny pond with gold fish in it.

There was a mine in the area, not active when I was a child. In 1915, more than $10 million in gold was discovered by two miners. By the 1960s, the town was nearly a ghost town. It’s now a tourist attraction. There’s still a mine but it doesn’t run all the time; only when it makes economic sense to do so.

Wild burros roam the streets and you can purchase food to feed them. When I was younger, you could feed them carrots; however, they now have a type of diabetes and are only fed special pellets. When my youngest was just a few years old, we bought some carrots and were walking around town when a burrow attempted to take the carrots right out of the backpack he was carrying. The burros are descended from animals turned loose by prospectors. The animals are ranging further and further away; and they eat everything right down to the roots. They’re also dangerous to indigenous animals in the area. They also travel onto the highways and are struck by unsuspecting drivers. Local sportsmen are not allowed to hunt them.

I had to take my children to see this tourist town because it’s a part of my history and I’m part of its history. You see, the hotel has a second story which has been closed off to tourists because it’s no longer structurally sound; however, when I was in grade school, I visited this establishment and sent them a thank you note a few days later. My thank you was hung on the wall upstairs and the next handful of times I visited; there was my letter.

The hotel has cold, delicious sarsaparilla soda. The menu is all American and you can even get burro ears (homemade potato chips). The restaurant is always packed and there’s usually live music. There are dollar bills tacked to every available surface from thousands of diners over the years.

Today, when I visit, I like to have photos taken with my ass (my much-loved husband) and any family brave enough to join us.

What’s In a Name?

I’ve always been fascinated with names.

When I was a little girl, I went through a period of time when I asked my mom to call me by a different name each week. I love my name. It’s been a bit awkward through the years as people assume I’m Latina and a fluent Spanish speaker. This often occurs in telephone conversations. It happens less frequently in person as I’m not Latina and don’t look Latina.

I remember when my brother decided he needed to be called Doug instead of Dougie (his name is Douglas). It was a matter of him needing his name to match his level of maturity. It was hard to switch, but I worked at it diligently as I wanted to show him respect.

I remember another time teasing my little sister Rhonda about her middle name. She was named after our Aunt Ellen and at the moment we thought Aunt Ellen was mean for disciplining us. “Rhonda Ellen Jones, Rhonda Ellen Jones” we chanted again and again, while she pleaded for us to stop.

My mother and I share the same middle name, Sue. I love that I’m named after her. Today, I have a niece and a granddaughter who are also named after myself and my mom.

I’ve heard surnames I would change if they were mine: Roach, Hiscock (or any variation with cock in it), Peanisbreath, Butt, Goodenough, etcetera. I’ve also heard first names which made me think the person’s mother didn’t love them: at the top of that list is Vagina (pronounced Va.jean.uh…right).

Parents, be good to your kids before they even arrive, think through what you name them.  Think about the acronym the first letters of your child’s name will spell. If your last name is Smith, don’t name your baby girl Amanda Sue! Be careful, even a presidential name like Bush can become problematic when combined with the wrong first name, like Vagina!

When I was naming my sons, I wanted them to have choices. I chose unusual first names and common middle names, so they could decide what they preferred. My oldest went by Fergus until the first grade, then switched to Anthony, then back to Fergus when he enrolled in college, his Aunt Tammi still calls him Anthony.

Fergus helped me choose Samson’s middle name.  He was a Ninja Turtle fan, so he wanted Donatello.  We compromised with Donald.  Samson decided he wanted a completely different name altogether and began using a nickname his friends chose for him.

Names mean something.  Throughout the Bible the meanings of names are given and there are many times when a person’s name is changed after they make a fundamental change.  The bible says Christians will be given a white stone with a new name on it. I’m looking forward to it, as I believe it will mark a fundamental change in who I’m going to be for the rest of eternity.

“Whoever has ears, let them hear what the Spirit says to the churches. To the one who is victorious, I will give some of the hidden manna. I will also give that person a white stone with a new name written on it, known only to the one who receives it.”               Revelation 2:17

Disability Exam

Last Friday, my husband drove me an hour away to have a disability exam by a mental health professional.

I applied for disability when months had passed since the onset of vertigo without a diagnosis or treatment which will allow me to return to work.  One of the questions asks you to list all conditions which might interfere with your ability to work (or something along those lines).  I don’t want to get in trouble for lying, misrepresenting, or not providing full information, so although the big reason is vertigo, I included nausea (caused by the vertigo), migraines (because I’m having headaches virtually every day and migraines a couple times a month and one of the specialists said the vertigo may be caused by vestibular migraines), and anxiety (because I was under a great deal of stress when the vertigo came on and I believe the mind and body are inextricably linked; I’ve also experienced some pretty strong negative emotions since the vertigo began).  I was being seen by a mental health professional to address the stress prior to the vertigo.   

I’d had a rough week, with lots of vertigo attacks and I was feeling worn down. 

We stopped at McDonald’s on the way out of town and I ate a full meal.  This is the second time I left my town on a full stomach, with the same result.  I have nausea due to the vertigo and the effect is even worse when my stomach is full. 

On the way to my appointment, there is a significant change in altitude and sometimes it plays havoc with my ears.  I had an absurd amount of pressure in my ears and I couldn’t relieve it.  I tried holding my nose and blowing air with my mouth closed.  It didn’t work. 

I was overcome with nausea and discomfort and began to weep.  I desperately wanted to ask my husband to pull over, but how would that help?  We still needed to get to my appointment and it would only make matters worse to be late. 

We got to town and followed the doctor’s directions (down an alley) and arrived at my appointment. 

She asked me a lot of questions and I can’t remember them all but she did ask me the basics.  Name, date of birth, place of birth, state we were in, city we were in, current president and last.  She asked me to repeat three words and to remember them to tell them to her again later.  The words were house, boat and shoe.  We were in a town near water, so houseboat, and shoe.  I tapped my shoe through the rest of the interview.

She asked about my childhood, which was the first crying jag as I told her my step-father Dick was abusive physically, mentally, emotionally and sexually. 

She asked about my education:  three associate degrees and a bachelor’s degree. 

She asked me to explain what the idiom “strike while the iron’s hot” means.  For the life of me, I had no idea and I knew I should know and I was beyond frustrated.  It was one of the three times I started crying and couldn’t stop. 

She asked me if I’m worried about having vertigo.  No, worrying about it isn’t going to change a thing.  I want my old life back.  I want to drive and work and do normal things.  There was a brief period of time when I was really freaked out about not having any income, but we prayed about it, sold some things and covered our debts.  God has met all our needs. 

She asked about my military service and my work history.  The last place I worked was in child safety and it has left me traumatized.  I can’t talk about it without crying.  I cried when I told her I’d worked there a year and a half.  She didn’t ask any follow up questions. 

She asked about the feelings I’ve experienced since the onset of the vertigo.  I named a bunch:  confusion, frustration, worry, fear, dread, anger, embarrassment, depression, sorrow, hope, grief.  I could have gone on.   

At the end of the interview, she told me her husband had a three month bout of vertigo and it was definitely scary but he has since recovered. 

My husband and I got in our car and I started crying again.  He asked what was wrong.  I covered my face with my hands and tried to tell him through my tears.  I leaned over on his shoulder and just let it out.  He was just there.  Loving me.  Supporting me.  Not trying to fix anything, just reassuring me. 

A Summer in Georgia

After the break up with Willie, I was out of control.  My mom didn’t know what to do.  I felt worthless, unlovable, used up.  I began sleeping around and drinking to numb the pain.  My mom called my biodad and arranged for my sister Tammi and I to go visit him for the summer.   

My biodad lived in Georgia with his new wife Mini and their four children: Earl, Lizzie, Susan and Tommy.  They lived in governmental subsidized housing.  Beautiful brick homes in a lush, green setting with a wooded area where the neighborhood children played. 

Biodad left the house most days and I assume he went to work.  His wife stayed home with the children.  There wasn’t a lot of adult supervision. 

My sister Tammi and I stayed in the same room.  One morning Mini came into the room and breathlessly asked if we wanted to smoke a Thai stick.  I said sure.  She told me to go ask the garbageman for a lighter.  I ran off to catch the garbage truck before it left the neighborhood. 

I spent a lot of time that summer with siblings, new and old.  We hung out together in the woods.  Other teens were there pressuring Tammi into trying marijuana for the first time.  I took her aside and counseled her.  I told her if she wanted to try it, that’s one thing, go ahead but if she was just doing it because the others were telling her to, she didn’t have to and shouldn’t give in to peer pressure. 

I dated a young man in the neighborhood.  We hung out together and began having sex.  He gave me pills to take and I did, without knowing what they were.  He took me to the next state over to a seedy motel and tried to talk me into marrying him.  Thank God I chickened out. 

I was at my boyfriend’s house when the younger children came running to get me because my biodad was beating his wife Mini up.  I ran back to their house.  My biodad had Mini cornered in the living room and was punching her in the face.  I brought the children back outside and waited for the police to do their thing.  My biodad was arrested.  I’ll never forget Mini asking me, her 16 year old step-daughter what she should do.  I told her I’d never let a man beat me like that.  She replied that she loved him.  He had knocked her two front teeth through the flesh of her chin and she had a ragged, bloody gash from it. 

Grandma Pearl, biodad’s mom, came to get us and take us back to Indiana with her.  She took the girls, myself, Tammi, Lizzie and Susan.  She left the boys.  At some point, Mini spoke with my mother and told her I was out of control and could no longer stay there!  Grandma’s home was completely different, full of love and laughter, well kept, with family photos covering the living room wall. 

The first time Aunt Lizzie came to see us at Grandma’s, I asked her to check Susan’s hair for lice and told her that Susan frequently scratched her head.  Aunt Lizzie was a beautician and one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever known.  Aunt Lizzie checked but didn’t see anything.  Later, we were all watching television and Susan fell asleep on the floor in front of us.  She started scratching in her sleep.  I pointed it out to Aunt Lizzie.  When Aunt Lizzie checked again, she found them.  Hordes of them.  Tammi and I had them too. 

Grandma Pearl called Mini and told her about the lice.  Mini told Grandma it was no big deal, the kids get them every year.  Her solution was to shave the boys’ heads and put mayonnaise on the girls.  Lizzie and Susan went back home.  I remember sitting on the floor with newspaper in my lap while I ran the fine-toothed comb that came with the Quell shampoo.  The lice would fall onto the paper unmoving and after a little bit, they’d start to squirm.  Blech!  I cried and cried. 

I didn’t see my biological father again for 10 years. 

Love / Hate Relationship

Grandma Jones lived in the farmhouse where she raised three sons and two daughters with Grandpa Jones. Grandpa died when I was two years old. I was his only granddaughter at the time, many more were born after me. The farmhouse was large; two stories. You entered by the side door into a “mud” room, then up a step and to the right into the kitchen. There was a large bathroom off the kitchen. If you turned left at the entrance, there was a large dining room with a coal furnace, a record player and a treadle sewing machine. I spent hours listening to the records other people had left, including The Beatles album my biodad left. To the left was the coat closet directly across from the front door. Grandma’s closet was full of gallon containers with the spouts cut off to form large scoops. They were full to the brim with dominos, marbles, army men, etcetera. If you continued straight through the dining room, there was a living room with a piano in it and lots of knickknacks behind glass doors in cupboards. To the right of the living room were two doors. The door on the left led into Grandma’s bedroom, which was on the small side. The door to the right was a wide staircase up to the second floor.

The room at the top of the stairs was painted bright white and had a fringed chenille bedspread on it. The walls were lined with toy refrigerator, sink, cupboards, etc. There were plastic meats, vegetables, and fruit. It was a room for two little girls (my Mom and Aunt) to play at being grownup. We spent many bad weather days riding blankets and sheets down the stairs and into the door at the bottom of the staircase. I don’t remember ever getting in trouble for that activity. The upstairs room were accessible one after another, so the two in the middle had to be entered via another room. The next room was another girl’s room with a matching bedspread in a different color in it. This was the room where we napped. The next room had apparently been a boy’s bedroom at one time; however, there were no beds in it then. This was the biggest room in the house, you could easily fit six twin size beds in it. When I was a child, there were some steamer trunks lining a wall and there were loads of dress up clothes in them. In the center of the room, there sat an enormous table that took up most of the room. It was covered from one end to the other with railroad tracks, miniature trees and buildings. There were tunnels through mountains. There was a frozen lake. It was magnificent. The last room was another boy’s room. The walls were covered by pennants from various colleges. This room was dark; and it seemed the sun never shone into it. I didn’t spend much time in this room as it was uninteresting to me and more than a little creepy. There was a railing along one side of the room along one side of the narrow, dark stairway. Along the outer wall, running the length of the stairwell were bookcases. These bookcases were stuffed full of books. There were: “Nancy Drew”, “The Hardy Boys”, and “Reader’s Digest Condensed Books”. The only place I’ve ever seen more books is the library. I spent many hours sitting on the steps, in the twilight in that stairwell, reading.

I loved that stairwell and its treasure trove of books. I hated that stairwell because it was dark and creepy. I believed there was a witch who lived in the room at the top of the stairs. I believed she hid in the corner closet during the day. I had many nightmares where somehow I ended up staying too late in the stairwell and she came out and nearly got me before I woke up terrified.

My Understanding Keeps Changing, He Doesn’t

I’ve believed in God for as long as I can remember.  My step-father taught me not to trust Him.

As a child, I understood God to be an angry man who hated me and wanted to punish me because He believed I was unlovable and unworthy. I believed this because my step-father was this way and he claimed to be a Christian.

In my mind’s eye, God was an old white man with a white beard and sandals.  He was red-faced with fury, hate and retribution.  He was looking forward to punishing. I was a sinner.  My best wasn’t good enough and He enjoyed tormenting me before He punished me.  I couldn’t trust Him.

After I started working a 12 step program, and had heard others describe their “Higher Power” as a tree or a group, I felt encouraged by God to see “My Higher Power” as a big, dark-skinned woman who gave the best hugs.  She smelled of yeast, cinnamon, vanilla and honeysuckle.  She was waiting for me in the kitchen, ready to listen to me pour out my troubles. She always had enough time.  She loved my sense of humor and was quick to laugh with me.  She made me feel loved and accepted.  She created me to be uniquely me.  I could trust Her.

I later read a copy of “The Shack” by William P. Young and was moved to tears by the author’s description of God.  I took it as confirmation that I was on the right path in my own journey toward learning to trust God again.

Today, God is my loving Creator who created everything out of nothing.  He desires a relationship with me, and every other human being.  God is love.  I am a sinner.  He has redeemed me by providing a plan for his son, Jesus Christ to die for me and all other sinners. 

My understanding of God continues to change and I trust the longer I seek His will for my life and read His scriptures, the more He will reveal about who He is and the more I’ll be able to comprehend.  He is not changing.  I can trust Him forever because He doesn’t change; however, my understanding keeps on growing.

“God is not human, that he should lie, not a human being, that he should change his mind. Does he speak and then not act?  Does he promise and not fulfill?” Numbers 23:19

“Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever.” Hebrews 13:8 

I pray for the same for you.