Healing

“I did not speak in secret, in a land of darkness; I did not say to the offspring of  Jacob, ‘Seek me in vain.’  I the Lord speak the truth; I declare what is right.” ~ Isaiah 45:19 Lately, I’ve been feeling listless, restless, uneasy, empty, aimless and out-of-sorts. I’ve felt this way at other times in life, usually in relation to fleeting or unfortunate circumstances; a temporary downturn. We all have them. But as I look more closely at this moody word list, it begins to resemble a quiver of arrows, all pointing toward one, encompassing, emotional theme: purposelessness. Or so it seems. I know I was not created without purpose, and neither were you, but honestly it is how I’ve been feeling for longer than I care to. Pondering this thought a little further, I sadly determine I’ve hit on something significant. I’ve battled depression most of my adult life, probably longer, with subtle signs evident as early as high school. I see this only now, looking back. I wish I’d known then what I know now (don’t we all), as I could have interpreted the world around me, and those in it, differently. I would have understood that my terrifying fear of abandonment was a perfectly expected reaction to the periodic silent treatment I endured in my youth, and the on again-off again absence of affirmation, conversation, and relationship that was utilized as a form of discipline. Silence effectively told me I’d been a disappointment, although I didn’t always know why. But emotional abandonment isn’t discipline. It is wrong, plain and simple. Routinely cutting the lines of communication in a valued relationship, especially with a young child, is traumatizing. In my case, it laid the groundwork for developing a mindset that emotional control over my life belonged to others, not me; toying with my emotions became permissible and ripe for the taking. Further, it set the stage for my people-pleasing propensity and this became my mission, because I would do almost anything to make the pain of silence and rejection end. Every human being comes into this world with a need for love, affection and acceptance, and being ignored by a significant other isn’t conducive to any of that. By school age the silent treatment was a well-established form of “communication” that grew more frequent as I entered my teen years. I learned early that communication can happen with a voice…or with no voice at all. (Something occurred to me just this very minute: I have loved the written word since my youth. I prefer it over verbal communication a thousand fold. I find that ironic; isn’t it amazing how, even late in life, the lightbulb can suddenly come on?) Anyway, growing up, there were other instances of implied abandonment, or the outright-stated-threat of leaving that I won’t go into at this time, but never-the-less they escalated my fears. As time marched into adulthood and I left home, this nearly-all-consuming fear of losing loved ones kept me chained to a controlling spouse, who did his homework and learned well how to keep me tethered. He studied the people-pleasing aspects of my personality and took full advantage. Ironically, it was the laying open of my heart and soul that taught him where I was vulnerable. He learned well the lessons that I unwittingly divulged as I shared stories of my youth. I thought in confiding in him that I was running to safety, a harbor in the storm. I naively believed my purpose was to take care of him and love all his demons away. If I could somehow make up for everything he lacked or lost in boyhood, then he would be happy, and by extension, I could be happy. But once he learned this about me, he began to expect that his happiness was my purpose. Just as in childhood, my job, my purpose, was to appease certain others, and in this case, him. I was to be present and accounted for, even if he wasn’t (and he often wasn’t).  If I failed to be pleasing in any way (perish the thought), then his sadness or anger or other myriad emotions became my fault. I shouldered the blame and the punishment: silence, shouting, shoving and leaving. And that, my friends, isn’t simply an unkind person; it is the essence of betrayal by a master manipulator impersonating a “husband”. It’s an insidious malignancy of torture that eats away a person’s soul until they feel so small and empty the only thing alive is a heart, faintly beating in the chest, and lungs that weakly breathe in and out. Consequently, I would often recite to him this old Mother Goose rhyme: Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater, Had a wife and couldn’t keep her, Put her in a pumpkin shell, And there he kept her very well. It was a favorite nursery rhyme of mine as a child because I loved pumpkins, but in truth, I had no idea what it meant. Later I came to realize I was once again held captive under a heavy hand, this time by a controlling, alcoholic, narcissistic abuser who reeled in the catch of his life, gutted me and put my carcass on the mantle above the fire; the trophy wife he could display like a prized, hunted, and very dead animal. And from the outside no one could see that I, indeed, was hollow. Bottom-line, I’ve made some poor decisions in my life. Not all of them, but when I did, they were significant. For instance, why did I marry this man in the first place? The answer is important (and I hope this saves even one person from misery!)  The reason was to flee a perceived lack of control over my life as a young, single woman. The root that took hold so long ago from the punishing silence was now bearing fruit. I was living at home in my early twenty’s, and still under (perceived) authority even at that age.

“Then the Lord answered me and said, ‘Write the vision and make it plain on tablets.’” ~ Habakkuk 2:2 I love a blank page: A new journal never written in; a new binder with crisp, white pages begging to be filled. For most of us, January feels like the time to begin something new. For me, it’s always the same; I long to fill the pages of my notebook from the pages of real life. It’s all well and good at this point; fun and games and pie in the sky dreams. Then reality hits. I’m the one who’s supposed to offer up the ink, to form the words, to weave the story that fills these pages with tales, and lessons learned from daily life. But without fail fear begins its nagging whispers, and panic hangs heavy, until it enshrouds me and I succumb to literary paralysis. I have fallen prey to this tactic of the enemy for many years. It became a stronghold long ago, and this isn’t the first resolve I’ve made to change my trajectory. I do, however, hope it’s my final resolve. Somehow, this year, this season of my life, seems more urgent and the call to obedience is absolutely non-negotiable. Is it because my age literally stares me in the face on a daily basis? If we’re given three-score and ten years of life on this earth, or four-score if we’re lucky, then I’m on my last “score”, and I’m acutely reminded that the dead cannot proclaim the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. The issue, aside from age, is disobedience. I’ve known since I was 12 years old I was to be a writer and share the love of God through my creativity with words. We don’t get to be “creative” with the Word of God, but if words are our area of art and giftedness, then we are to use this gift “as unto the Lord.” I am guilty of allowing fear to limit my efforts, and without that effort there are no results. Seeds of life planted, watered and nurtured by reflection and study are for the purpose of teaching others, lifting up our fellow man and communicating Jesus’ Gospel of love to the ends of the earth. But if we leave the ripened fruit (our gifts) unharvested, withering on the vine or rotting on the ground, never shared with the world or those in need, then what good is that? I don’t want to go to my grave, taking with me all I’ve learned, to be buried with me there. I want to share it now, today, in this life in the hopes that God will take my tiny offering and multiply it as only He can. Just as He did when He blessed the little boy’s lunch of fish and bread, or like He did with the widow’s two mites. They gave all they had, unreservedly. After three-score on this earth, I am ready to release my fears to the only One who can calm them, and get in line with the boy and his brown-bag lunch, and the poor widow with only two cents to her name, and trust Jesus to multiply my words for the sake of others who are hurting like me. I am curious about what I will write in this coming year, and wonder about where it will lead and what works it might accomplish. And while those musings are all well and good, it will continue to be for nothing if I don’t relinquish my fear daily, push up my sleeves and dig around in the dirt (water, prune and feed), so that in time a healthy harvest can nourish those in need, rather than going to waste in the fields of my own mind where no one benefits. It is my prayer that you will join me on this venture, walking with me on a road I’ve never really braved before, as we focus on the joy of togetherness for the journey, more than simply a final destination. “I will take my stand at my watchpost and station myself on the tower, and look out to see what He will say to me, and what I will answer concerning my complaint. And the LORD answered me: ‘Write the vision; make it plain on tablets, so he may run who reads it.’ For still the vision awaits its appointed time; it hastens to the end—it will not lie. If it seems slow, wait for it; it will surely come; it will not delay.’” ~ Habakkuk 2:1-3