Will You Promise Too?

Each morning anew I promise to feel;

Not turn things askew, nor hardened as steel.

I open my heart, whate're each day brings,

To anger and hurt and sadness that stings.

I promised to wed with my being—whole—

Let's forsake this dread and press for the goal:

Through each painful dearth, we'll discover new mirth. 

As I Am Taken Out

I thought I held together

My microcosmic world—

Thought Peace was all that mattered

To make us each feel Whole—

I held up sprightly flowers

To link them with the bees.

Perhaps I was the Nectar—

That tryst necessity.

But Harken—leaves a rustling—

Wind warns untimely Frost—

Will these bright bees keep buzzing—

Or will my Springtime—lapse—

Whispers in the Afterlight

Look at the stars—
See how they Shine for you.
Study the waves—
Hear them Crash on your Shore.
Ponder the insect—
Your flying Companion.

You gotta let it go—
—But not This—
You hold Tight to my World.

How Long?

How long

will I keep telling myself,

"This too shall pass"?

How long

will I continue seeking

distractions from my mind?

How long

will I keep silent

in order to stifle screams?

How long

will I pace the bedroom,

exhausting my way to sleep?

How long

until I decide to stop

fighting this unending battle?

How long

until I take control

of this life that is my own?

The Assessment

Today’s Assignment: Self-Acceptance

You are             gorgeous

                        neurotic

                        fun

                        depressing

                        intelligent

                        exploited

                        strong

                        fragile

                        improved

                        in need of major help.

 I don’t understand why you struggle to love you for you!

You get an F. I hope to see some more effort next time.

Who Knows Best?

When I was a little girl, I wanted to be a Doctor. Not necessarily the healing kind. In fact, I just wanted the title. That was my plan: no matter what field I go into, go all the way. Be the best. Be a Doctor.

But something took that away from me. My academic castle was swept away by a psychological wave. I thought it was punishment for rising too high. I had made myself a god, and that tends to evoke jealousy.

I learned to settle into humble life—hid myself away where the temptation to be great was naught. Once came the response: “What if you get the chance to go back?” Honestly, I doubted I would. Pride is hard to destroy and, therefore, restrictions eternal.

But then the doors opened wide, and I trembled in fear. A trap it seemed to send me back into Hell. But I stepped through the door, hoping that mercy was something real. To my relief and to my horror, my pride had indeed been shot.

It wasn’t what I expected. Pain much outweighing pleasure. And yet self-contradicting, I moved forward. The girl who has the potential but is crippled by self-doubt. It is the struggle to be a perfect god, when a god I am most definitely not.

Now here I am again. The next door opened. This one promising to lead to my childhood dream. And par with self-contradicting me, I both desire and loathe it. I no longer think it is a trick or a trap. I’m just beginning to doubt that a child knows best.

Grip 'n Grim

I watched as the leaf fell toward me; slowly, elegantly, dancing with the wind; its vermilion hue shimmering in the evening sunset. As I grasped it, cold wetness splashed upon my chilled hand. The misty air broke into a soaking downpour, as the sky released her tears. The sun was laid to rest, and the darkness rolled upon the earth.

I came to on the bathroom floor. The garbage can had been knocked over, and trash littered the floor around me. My head was throbbing. I shakily picked myself up and cleaned the floor. Then I snuck back to my room, hoping no one had seen or heard anything.

The tiny cell screamed in agony. Its nucleus tried to think—tried to figure out what was happening. More ATP! it would yell. But the mitochondria were unable to produce. More glucose! they demanded back. But glucose was not to be had. Deliveries had become sparse. The cell knew there was a famine in the universe, yet for a while the fat reserves had sustained life as usual. But recently an intercellular rumor had begun to spread. It was easy to discredit the basophils; after all, they were always overreacting. But despair began to set in once the lymphocytes confirmed: the great fat stores had been depleted.

I lay huddled on the couch, feeling naked and abandoned and cold. So cold—and exhausted. I finally garnered enough energy to ask for my ragged, oversized, flannel jacket. My belongings hadn’t been approved yet, but perhaps the nurse was moved to pity me. She retrieved my jacket from the back room, and I returned to the couch. I curled myself into a ball—the jacket covering my entire body. Behind my eyelids, my muddied brain recalled a vision I had seen upon arrival. A woman. And tubes. Tubes on her body. Tubes going into her body. She was being fed through tubes. I don’t want to be that bad, I thought. I pulled my body even tighter, trying to disappear. So cold.

I tried to leave the city. A man in white: white suit, white hood, white boots, white gloves, white mask, black gun. A man in white held a black gun to my face. Get back, was all he said. I stood for a moment, looking at the line of other white men around him, and then I turned around. As I walked the dirt road, I could hear moaning from every direction. The stench clung to me: vomit, defecation, blood. The entire city was being consumed. I entered the shack. My sister lay on the floor facing the wall. I listened to her strained breathing, relieved that she was able to escape death through unconsciousness. My head began to throb. I sank to the ground next to my sister and placed my hand on her arm. It was cold—colder than her skin should’ve been in the summer heat. I shook her. She didn’t wake. I could still hear the strained breathing, but her chest wasn’t following rhythm. Agitated and confused, I shook her again. Tears filled my eyes, and I felt my nose begin to run. Tremors convulsed my body. I brushed my trembling hand against my nose, and then reached again for my sister. But I stopped when I saw the red on my hand. Copper and iron coagulated before my mind. I coughed and painted my sister crimson.

“You look like death.” “Your body is eating itself.” “Your heart is so weak; it will eventually stop beating.” “You are killing yourself.” “Maybe you should write your own obituary.”

Look away from me.

I don’t want you to see.

I know I’m on my own, but I wish—

I wish you'd call me home.

Speaking Silently Screaming

“Hey! Come out of there! You’re being ridiculous!” I jam my fingers in my ears and squeeze my eyes tight. With each bang on the wall, I slide further to the ground.

Then it stops. I open my eyes. The frosted walls surround me, paling the light from without to a soft dimness. I exhale slowly. I can see my smoky breath. I shiver and hug my knees to my chest. The sounds from without are muffled. My heart beats thunderously against my chest.

Another voice approaches; this one is calmer. It is the voice of reason. “Let me come in and help you. We can fix this.” I watch the shadowy figure through the wall. He taps gently.

But the thunder in my chest does not cease. I hug myself tighter, willing him to go away. He won’t understand.

"Use your words."

I slam my head back against the wall. I can’t! I scream inside. I don’t have any words—they are gone!

The man on the other side of the wall stops tapping and walks away. I close my eyes in the silence.

I have only emptiness where words have abandoned me.

“I’m sorry I’m in such a negative mood,” I said, avoiding his eyes.

“Alcohol usually helps with that,” he replied, a smile dancing on his words.

No alcohol—not now.  It will only crack the dam holding back the flood of tears.

“Do you have any suggestions for helping one get out of a bad mood?” I asked.

“Well, drugs seem to be the path of choice for most young Americans these days,” he replied, a twinkle in his eye—reminding me of the smile on another man’s words.  

I have already thought of that; already rummaged my memory in search of those pills. I am sure I did not throw them out. It’s been years since I’ve taken them, but it’s been years since I’ve felt so silent.

 In the silence I hear a soft voice slowly whisper, “Thankfulness.” I open my eyes. There is a misty wisp gliding in front of my eyes. I reach out to grasp it, but my hand hits the wall and the wisp vanishes.

I continue to look through the frosted wall. I see distant figures moving to and fro. A shiver runs through my body. I sit back and pull myself as closely as possible. I look around my small enclosure. The silence is overwhelming, but the emptiness is worse.

I know what I want to happen. I want someone to come into my silence and join me there. I want someone to come into my emptiness and join me there.

I stare at the bareness beside me, willing such a figure to appear. “Hold me,” I whisper. But only silence and emptiness reply. I drop my head to my knees and let the dam break.

A Winsome Web of Tangles

Everything is black. I rest there in the stillness, focusing on my breath—each inhale, each exhale.

But then there is something else. Not all is stillness. Though my world is engulfed in black, it is far from silent. I pause my breath and listen.

I hear the crashing of the waves, steady as a heartbeat. It is accompanied by the call of not-so-distant gulls. The wind picks up strands of hair to whisper in my ear.

As the wind tickles with straying hairs, I sense the warmth of the sun on my legs, my back, my arms. I wiggle my fingers and find them stroking grains of heated sand.

I gently open my eyes. Through wind-swept wisps, my eyes find and rest upon the ocean’s frolicking surface.

I prop myself on one arm, throwing waves of hair upon my bare shoulders. I twist my body to glance away from the shoreline. Behind me is a pale blue house. A beam of warmth bursts deep within my abdomen. I pick myself up, absent-mindedly brushing the sand from my dress. As I take a step toward the house, I glance at my sand-scrubbed toes—and halt.

There, below me, is a woman. There, below me, is me. Before the terror has a chance to rise to my throat, I clench my eyes shut.

Everything is black.

“I don’t really know much about you,” he said. “Other than what you write. And there is not very much ‘happy’ in there.”

“Well, it’s just where I am right now,” I replied.

“Don’t you have some happy memories that you can tap into?”

I open my eyes. This time I am behind the house. This is how I am used to entering the scene. The blue house is perhaps fifty yards before me. I must walk up a slight hill, as the grass shifts to soft sand. As I crest the hill, I glance out to the ocean. The figure in the white dress is still lying in the sand. It is odd. I have been to this place many times, and yet this is the first time I have been able to see myself.

“Few of my memories are happy,” I explained.

As I mount the back steps and reach for the door, I pause to reflect upon the house. The pale blue building is only one story tall. I glance around the corner and catch a glimpse of the front porch. I notice that all of the windows are thrown open to the breeze, allowing the white curtains to billow freely. I smile, acknowledging its warm invitation.

This place is far from Memory; I have never been here. It is not even a picture. Though I am quite sure I have seen each and every isolated element of this scene at some point in my life, it is my creativity that has placed them together. This is my Safe Place.

I pull open the back door and step inside. The air is light.

“Try to write about something different—write about desire,” he urged.

I am in the bedroom. There used to be a Man here. He was supposed to be waiting in the bed for me. But I have never slept with him. I have never even seen him, truthfully—only felt his presence. Regardless, he is not here now. Perhaps he was killed by the Man-in-Black.

I developed Safe Place years ago. It was my first assignment as part of EMDR therapy. I began and ended every session in Safe Place. It is, therefore, still perplexing to me how the Man-in-Black ended up in my house.

I glance hesitantly at the bedroom chair. He is gone. The Man-in-Black is gone. I am blissfully—and safely—alone.

The last time I had tried to come to this house I was scared. I was being taunted by witches, and werewolves, and demons. It was always the eyes. Red eyes gleaming at me in the darkness. And so I ran. I ran to this house. I yanked open the door; dashed into this room. And then I saw him. Or, rather, I saw a black-cloaked arm and a leather-gloved hand. So I ran back out. I thought I would never be able to come back. But for some reason I awoke on the sand today.

I walk from the living room to the kitchen. There is a pot of coffee still setting. I pick up a half-emptied mug and smile. I learned to drink coffee in Safe Place long before I tried it in real life. I glance through the window over the sink and spot the woman once more. She is lying still bathed in the afternoon sun. Her hair is a winsome web of tangles falling around her face, shoulders, and back. Her head is resting on an arm. Her white sun dress is wrapped around her hips and upper legs. I glance down at myself to see the same white dress. Yes, it is exceedingly odd to encounter myself here. This has never happened before.

I step through the open front door and onto the wooden porch. I rest my arm on a similarly wooden swing, and close my eyes.

“Just try to write something giddily insane. No purpose to it—just happiness.”

“I don’t think I can do that,” I stutter. “It’s—it feels like free-falling.”

I open my eyes, and, for the first time ever, they focus on a cliff in the distance.  I can see it drop off into the ocean. I smile. It’s funny how things appear purely through imagination.

I step off the porch and onto the sandy ground. I begin the trek to the cliff—the voices inside my head propelling me.

“Don’t say you can’t do it. You haven’t even tried. Think of it this way: I want to fly, but I have never jumped off anything tall in order to try. Who knows?—If I jump I might just fly. And to fly is my greatest desire. Just try for me, okay?”

“Okay.”

Then there is another voice.

“What IS it that you desire?”

I closed my eyes—searching my heart for an answer. When I finally found it, the answer surprised me. I opened my eyes and stared at the man before me. I wondered if he would understand. “To fly,” I said.

It is intriguing, the webs of desire that tangle us together. 

I am nearly to the edge of the cliff. The wind is whipping my hair around my face and causing my dress to billow as the white billowing curtains. I step to the edge of the cliff and look down.

“It’s like free falling,” I say to myself. I step off. The girl on the beach continues to bask in the sunshine. Our hair is a winsome web of tangles falling around our face.

Give Me Wings

I haven’t been nicely put together since June 29, 2008. You know what that day was? High School graduation. I was on top of the world. I had been with my first boyfriend for 9 months; had my first genuine best friend; had been in a musical; ran track for the first time, and had made it to post-season; been accepted to the Honor’s College at Stony Brook University; and on that very day—June 29, 2008—I graduated valedictorian, breaking the school’s record for highest average. I was a damn fine pot.

But then June 30 hit. You’ve heard the cliché, “Once you hit rock bottom, there is nowhere else to go but up.” Well, the formula works in the opposite direction as well. Once you hit mountain top there is nowhere to go but down. The cracks began. And then the cracks began to spread.

I was away from my best friend. I broke up with my boyfriend a month into college. I was no longer the smartest student. I gained weight. I held it together for about a year. But a pot can only sustain so many cracks. Mid-August 2009 I crumbled—my first experience of potsherds.

I was admitted.

Rebellion.

Secrecy.

Deception.

Relapse.

Finally, momentum.

After a year of potsherds, I thought I was well enough to rebuild.

Vanity of vanities!

All I did was fall

apart

again.

And so I quite.

I gave up.

God hid me away at Davis.

I didn’t push.

I sat quietly for three years.

Letting God slowly put little tiny pieces back together.

But now it’s time. Now there needs to be more. Now I need to be a full pot again. God isn’t moving fast enough.

And so others are trying to put me together.

Ask me if I’m mad. Go for it. Ask me.

YES, I’M MAD!!

I’m mad at me. I’m mad at you. I’m mad at him. I’m mad at her.

Am I mad at God?

Probably.

But not really.

What I want most is for everyone to be quiet—including myself—so I can hear. I want the world to stop turning.

But see, that is impractical. The world doesn’t stop. People don’t go away. And my mind doesn’t shut off.

Am I bound to be potsherds forever?

How long, O God??

“How long, O Lord? Will you forget me forever?

How long will you hide your face from me?

How long must I take counsel in my soul

and have sorrow in my heart all the day?

How long shall my enemy be exalted over me?

Consider and answer me, O Lord my God;

light up my eyes, lest I sleep the sleep of death,

lest my enemy say, ‘I have prevailed over him.’

lest my foes rejoice because I am shaken.”

David finished it. I cannot.

“Sometimes we heal by living life.”

I remember what it took for me to let go of my anorexia. I threw everything to the wind. And I ate. I ate with abandon.

Can I live like that? Live with reckless abandon?

I want to.

Forget the pot that I formerly was.

I want to spread my wings. And fly.

(Will God be the wind that carries me?)

The Glue Dries Clear

He touched me. Not in an inappropriate way. I’m old enough to know the difference. He probably thought it was harmless, friendly, carefree touching. No. He touched me. I didn’t ask him to touch me. I didn’t want him to touch me. I don’t feel safe. He touched me. And then he was gone.

But me—I was still there. Fractured pieces, crumbling to the floor. Fragmented. Disintegrated. Potsherds.

I shared my broken self once. I revealed myself. I exposed myself. And I got a slap in the face. “That’s dangerous,” was the only consolation I received. And up went a wall.

I felt the wall when she talked with me. I want to connect. I want to love. I want the exchange of warmth. But it’s that wall—it stands in the way. Isn’t this supposed to be safe?

“All I saw was a black hole.” He could have stolen the words from my mouth. Didn’t I say that a few days before? Perhaps— “This is my family,” he said. No. It’s not possible. The walls are still too high.

Reconciliation.

Such a foreign word. Supposedly, God has given me that ministry. But how can I minister to others when all I am is potsherds?

See I know it in my head. I know I need to reconcile myself to God. But then I can hear the repercussions: “Perhaps you haven’t given your life to Christ!” Well, in a way you would be right. But it’s not that simple!!

R

         E

                 C

                         O

                                   N

                                           C

                                                  I

                                                            L

                                                                     I

                                                                              A

                                                                                      T

                                                                                              I

                                                                                                      O

                                                                                                                 N

Remember who you were.

I’m drowning!

Remember what it was like.

I can’t breathe!

You are not there now.

I can’t reach you!

I am here.

I am going to die!

Trust me.

Why are you not pulling me out?!

I am here.

I can’t stand!

Wait.

No! The water is too—

There.

I can stand!

Yes.

I can breathe!

Yes.

You didn’t pull me out.

You didn’t need to be.

But—

You could stand the entire time.

I can breathe!

Remember how it was.

I can stand!

Remember who you were.

I’m alive!

You are no longer she.

Reconciliation.

Such a foreign concept when I feel I am falling apart.

It overwhelms me; these potsherds that I am.

Look to me, says God.

Look where? I can’t see you.

I’m drowning.

Remembering: The act that brings thanksgiving, praise, faith, and trust

I have been in a highly reflective mood lately.

My assumption is that this is due primarily to the fact that I am writing again. Although I have not been posting regularly to my blog, I am taking a creative writing class, as well as leading a writer's small group. These two groups require me to dig into my life for material, and as a result I have been regularly experiencing flashbacks.

Compounding these flashbacks, is my physical body. Normally, paying attention to my body is a negative force. Today, however, it led to thankfulness. I realized today that my weight is equal to what it was prior to running track my senior year of high school. Now, by no means, am I implying that running track led to my anorexia. But I do believe that losing weight in track (combined with dating my first boyfriend) brought an awareness of my physical body that had been shut down. This realization of my stabilized weight has brought a wave of thankfulness upon me. For the first time in five years, I am neither losing nor gaining ridiculous amounts of weight. Sure, my anorexic-trained mind will probably always want to be skinnier than I am now, but I am finally treating my body well--refusing to push it in either direction. I am not restricting; I am not binging; I am not compulsively exercising. I feel at peace.

It is this peace that allows me to tip-toe through the memories brought up by my flashbacks.

The act of remembering occurs often in the Bible. The Passover, which is arguably the most important holy observance for both Jews and Christians, is rooted in the act of remembering. The book of Deuteronomy is Moses's repetition of the Israelite history and the laws that have been given to them. Many songs of the Bible (especially the Psalms--see Psalm 105) are purposefully reminding the singers and listeners of past works and deliverances of God. Even the New Testament exercises remembering (think of Stephen's speech before he was martyred).

Not only does remembering bring Thanksgiving and Praise to God, but it also renews Faith and Trust in the God who has proven Himself trustworthy.

My flashbacks are doing this for me.

I am surprised to be where I am today. I shouldn't be alive. I shouldn't be alive physically. I shouldn't be alive emotionally. I shouldn't be alive physically. (Heck, I even almost killed my intellectual self, as well.)

I have mentioned the following quote by Bonhoeffer before, but it seems especially pertinent today: "He is a prisoner and he has to follow. His path is prescribed. It is the path of the man whom God will not let go, who will never be rid of God." Bonhoeffer described the prophet Jeremiah, thus. But it became a description of himself, as well. And now, it has become a description I (cautiously) apply to myself.

I tried to rid myself of God. I think back to everything I went through and put myself through. I tried to push God out. There is no reasonable explanation as to why I am still walking with Him. The only explanation I have is that it was God who refused to let go of me. He refused to let anything stand between me and Himself. "For I am sure that neither death nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come, nor powers, nor height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord" (Romans 8:38-9 ESV). God has kept His grip on me. And He did this by placing perfectly, hand-picked people into my life at the times that I needed them the most.

So, today, I want to recognize a few individuals. There are many who have walked along side of me during this journey, but the individuals I am about to list rose to challenges far beyond what is required of a normal relationship. So if you see your name (I will only give first names, since I don't have anyone's permission to give more), I just want to say, "Thank you for being available. God used you. Thank you for loving me. You were God's arms embracing me. Thank you for sacrificing your time and energy. Without you, I would not be alive today."

My thanks go out to:
Janet, Sue, Mike, Ashley, Courtney, Bruce, Amy, Ericka, Anna, Barry, Lindsay, Natalie, Kaitlin, Kristin, Kristina, Sue, Joseph.

Thank YOU. And thanks be to God for placing you in my life and for never letting me go.

Reconciliation to Myself: thoughts on fictionalizing the self

The first major creative piece that I wrote was an attempt to recount and then understand my own decent into anorexia. The piece, entitled “Hope,” was written as my final project for a class on autobiographies. To add to the mayhem, I was concurrently going through my most vicious relapse. As part of the assignment, I was required to attach a more specific genre to “Hope”—for “autobiography” includes a wide variety of subgenres. My chosen subgenre was that of scriptotherapy. In their book, Reading Autobiography: A Guide for Interpreting Life Narratives, Sidonie Smith and Julia Watson include the following description of a scriptotherapy:

A term proposed by Suzette Henke to signal the ways in which autobiographical writing functions as a mode of self-healing, scriptotherapy includes the process of both “writing out and writing through traumatic experience in the mode of therapeutic reenactment” (xii). Henke attends to several twentieth-century women’s life narratives that focus on such childhood trauma as incest and abuse, which adult narrators—for example, Anaїs Nin and Sylvia Fraser—record in order to both heal themselves and reconfigure selves deformed by earlier abuse. Some theorists, however, dispute that writing is always a form of healing from abuse or loss. (279)

Although “Hope” was initially an attempt to heal from anorexia, it also opened the door to addressing the sexual abuse that was deeply hidden in my past.

I have written much since (and even before) “Hope,” and, although not all of my writings are attempts to self-heal, the motivations of self-awareness and healing are never far-removed from any outflow of my pencil or keyboard.

I am finding this to be painfully true in my most recent writing attempt. For this piece—which I have not even begun to formally write—I am fictionalizing four different parts of myself. More specifically, I am fictionalizing myself at four different stages of my life. This task is proving to be extremely difficult—mentally, emotionally, and spiritually.

While working on my characters, I have discovered an extreme revulsion to one of the girls. This, naturally, means that I have a revulsion toward that part of myself—which, although a “past me,” is still very much a part of who I am today.

The theme of this past week—as per a sermon series by the pastor at Union Center Christian Church—has been “I am reconciled.” It was easy for me to assume that the end of this phrase is “. . . to Christ;” however, while discovering this aversion to part of myself, the following end can also be added: “. . . to myself.” This is difficult for me to swallow.

As a writer, I must make this unwanted character come alive to my reader. However, this cannot be done until I can see through her eyes. And seeing through her eyes is the last thing I want to do. (This isn’t helped by the fact that my third character hates her—I am much better at seeing through this third character’s eyes.)
A further realization was made a few days ago: reconciliation is not possible without forgiveness; and forgiveness is not possible without grace. Can I have grace for this girl that I am so angry with? Can I forgive her? Can I reconcile myself to her?

Today, in church, was the closing of the series (as well as the focus on reconciliation). As part of the closing, we were to take communion and then receive a name tag that says, “Hello, I am ____”. The blank had a few predetermined options: more, special, important, loved, reconciled, and free. I thought about which one I wanted. I wanted “Hello, I am loved” because of a previous writing encounter I had had with God (see my post “The Song”). I was consumed with the moral dilemma of whether or not to specifically choose this one—the other option being: close my eyes and reach in blindly. When it came my time to receive my tag, I was surprised to find that they were being handed out—I would not have a choice in which one I received. I received communion and then put out my hand to the smiling woman. When I looked down, I was pleasantly surprised to see the words, “Hello, I am loved.” I walked back to my seat thinking about what God had taught me a few weeks ago. But as I was remembering this, God shoved my unlovable character into my thoughts—I had not been writing this new piece at the time of the love theme. Suddenly, I was forced to apply this love to her, as well. If God loves me—all of me; past and present me—then He must also love this fictionalized me that I was struggling to love.

Can I love this girl? I ask myself. I admit that I certainly cannot feel love for her in this moment. But perhaps, I can allow God to show me His love for her. And then there is the one thing that I can and must do for her: give her grace.

Reframing

There is something wrong with me.

Have I said this before?
Yes, of course I have said this before.
It is as if every morning I wake up and say to myself, "There is something wrong with me."

Why do I do this to myself??

What were the triggers today?
1) I was terrified to get out of bed, because I was convinced that today could have been the day that God would slam a door in my face.
2) Someone asked me a question that I have asked myself multiple times. I didn't want to answer. But my lack of answer confimed his--and my--suspicions.
3) I have been struggling with food again. Dealing with an unquentionable emotional hunger.

These triggers make me feel like there is something wrong with me.
Why am I struggling?
Why am I failing?

Because the next statement which follows is, "I am getting fat."
Then, "I am a failure."
"I am hopeless."
"I am going to be miserable forever."

Yes, the negative thoughts compound that quickly.
(Talk about an interest rate to be envied! Oh, wait . . . wrong area of my life.)

Why have I taught my brain to think this way?
*Insert some psycho-hyped quote by Albert Ellis here.*

The answers to why and how are not as important as figuring out a way to stop.

Do I dare stop saying that there is something wrong with me?
Do I dare accept who I am? Who God made me to be?

God made me to have dreams . . . dreams that have the potential to be crushed.
God made me with specific likes and dislikes, and then He uses those in order to determine the types of people that I will most naturally connect with.
God made me with desires (and needs)--emotional desires, intellectual desires, physical desires, spiritual desires. When these desires and needs are not met, I experience a hunger. I am finally feeling my hunger--which is a good thing. I have just mistaught myself the method for identifying and satisfying the source of the hunger.

So is there really something wrong with me?

Can I really trash a creation of God like that?
Psalm 139:13-15
"For You formed my inward parts;
You wove me in my mother’s womb.
I will give thanks to You, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made;
Wonderful are Your works,
And my soul knows it very well.
My frame was not hidden from You,
When I was made in secret,
And skillfully wrought in the depths of the earth;"

No, I can't.

Say it, Jaime.
Say it. . .

Okay.
There is not something wrong with me.
I am created by God.
I am created to be me.
I am beautiful.

Distant

"God knows exactly how and when to turn us in the right direction, and the more we study His Word and His nature, the easier it becomes to recognize and trust His voice."

This is a quote that I have hanging on my wall. I have been staring at it quite a bit the last few days, and slowly coming to grips with the fact that I have no idea what God's voice sounds like. It is a sobbering realization.

I have come to depend so much upon people. Which is not a bad thing, in and of itself. I am a strong advocate in encountering God through is people. That is the purpose of the Body, the Church, and community. But the problem, in my case, is that I have lost touch with God myself. So I can no longer discern who among me is speaking the words of God--if anyone.

My mother reminded me today that my grandfather is only human. My response: "So is my pastor." I wrote in my journal during the service today this reflection: "Am I hearing God, or only a man?" I don't know.

Then my mother crowned her advice with this: "I was wrong in my advice for you to talk to people; I should have told you to go back to God."

I have failed miserably at this.

Alright, maybe it is not that bad. I have talked a lot with God about this. Have I downright asked Him? Well, yes, actually. But that brings me back to my previous post (A Sign . . . Haven't We Already Been Through This?). How do I know what God is saying? I don't know because I can no longer understand His voice.

Do I have the time to learn to understand His voice again? Ha. I feel so dumb asking that question. So many retorts pop into my head. . . . "God doesn't live in time;" "Isn't that demanding of you, Jaime?" "God works in His own time;" "Learning to understand God's voice and reconnecting with Him is much more important than any of the decisions you are trying to make." "You run the risk of making the wrong decision if you don't learn first."

So does this mean my priorities are wrong?

Yes.

Is it even worth it to think about this stuff then?
Should I just throw in the white flag, and give up all over again? Go back to being floormat-Jaime?

This SUCKS!
But it is my own fault.

My grandfather said something that stung yesterday: "Maybe if you had figured this out a year ago and had been more healthy. . . "
Those words make me think that I have lost my chance. I have run out of time to live my dream.

I thought things were working out. . . .

Finally--A Rare Moment of....Happiness

After spending two weeks swirling in a vortex of anger, pain, fear, and shame, I found myself the last couple of days quietly trying to numb myself--just slightly. Not the deadening numbness that removes me from reality. But the quiet numbness that muddies my emotions just enough that I can't recognize them unless I stare intently at them. Perhaps I was successfully doing what my therapist suggested: focusing on Christ instead of focusing on my emotions. Maybe. But I am not that optimistic--I'm assuming there was some numbing going on. Especially since both God and my best friend asked me what my feelings were, and I couldn't tell either of them because I was afraid to remove the veil and peek in.

But last night, a feeling of happiness overtook me quite unexpectedly.

I was in the lounge of my very small college surrounded by people. I was sitting on the couch, comfortably tired after a game of ultimate frisbee (which, by the way, is something totally out of my comfort zone, but which was totally worth it). My boyfriend was sitting next to me, sometimes just looking at me, sometimes talking with me (....sometimes looking at Facebook on his phone). A friend of ours was playing songs he had written on an acoustic guitar. Seven other of my friends--or at least acquaintances--were scattered around tables working on various assignments (or perhaps just relaxing). Two young children were in the room while their parents studied else where. The young boy was sitting next to me playing a video game, and begging me to watch him play. The young girl was dancing to the music of the guitar, asking me to watch her as she twirled. There was quiet banter and subtle giggles. Every once in a while laughter would ring out above the other sounds.

I found myself smiling. I found myself thankful that I could be sitting in this room with these people. I found myself wondering at the idea that my life has brought me to this place. I found myself inexpressibly happy.

I have heard it said that happiness occurs when things go perfectly in an imperfect world. I guess I could call that moment perfect. But my may day certainly was not perfect. I had been nervous to go to Hebrew. I had gotten angry with myself during frisbee. I had argued with my boyfriend. I had struggled with food. And yet, this happiness seeped through.

Is it possible this was something more? Is it possible that this could have been a manifestation of Joy? Can one experience happiness without Joy? I suppose. But that happiness would be fleeting.

This morning I felt a twinge in my stomach. Usually twinges in my stomach mean fear or anger. I stopped and I listened. I had been thinking about a request from my former roommate. She wants to interview me infront of our Abnormal Psychology class today as part of her presentation on anorexia nervosa. The twinge made me wonder if I am feeling fear or shame or anger concerning this request and my subsequent assent. But no. The twinge was something different. It is excitement. I am excited to be real in front of my classmates. I have been sitting in this Abnormal Psychology for about four months now--keeping my own abnormal past a secret. Now is the chance to be real. And I am excited.

Look at that! Two emotions that I have not felt in so long: happiness and excitement.

Maybe--just maybe--the Joy of my salvation is being restored to me.

Through Disillusionment

"In all true discipleship, and in the true spiritual development of each disciple, there is first the wonder and the joy of first acquaintance, then comes the long plain stretch of lesson-learning and discipline....
Joy is of two kinds. The Joy born of Love and Wonder, and the Joy born of Love and Knowledge, and between the experience of the two Joys lie discipline, disappointment, almost disillusion.
But combat these in My Strength, persevere in obeying My Will, accept My discipline, and the second Joy will follow.
And of this second Joy it was that I said, 'Your joy no man taketh from you.'
Do not regret the first, the second is the greater gift."

"Joy is a state of being; not an emotion." My therapist's words shocked me. I guess deep in my brain I knew that I had heard this before. But at the moment, it shocked me. "Happiness is the emotion that comes when things seem 'perfect' in an imperfect world. Happiness comes and goes. But joy is the solid hope that has the ability to keep you going."

I was not sure I was even going to make it to my therapist's house in one piece today. She seemed like a life-line that was slowly drifting away from me--that I would miss if I didn't grab it quickly enough.

Before getting to her, there was a litany of "religious" commands running through my head:
"Just let your emotions go--lay them down to God."
"You need God not a therapist."
"You are running away from God."
"Just go back to God."
"Give up your control."

I just wanted the world to stop moving for a bit. I wanted everything to become calm and silent.
So I could figure out what was wrong with me.

I shared my screaming emotions with my therapist.
The fear.
The anger.
The pain.
The shame.
And the horrible numbness.

I think the numbness is the worst.

Someone asked me why I don't just go back to that.
Numbing and avoiding everything.
It is tempting--believe me.
But it feels so fake.
I have numbed and forsaken and layed aside my emotions for 18 years.
I am not doing it any more.
They are mine. As painful as they are--I feel they are something that is genuinely mine for the first time.


And yet these emotions are terrifying.
They are powerful.
Destructive.
Dramatic.
Exciting.
Chaotic.
I feel alive finally.

But they are also addicting.

That is what my therapist said.

She said more, too. But instead of trying to quote her, I am going to give my own synopsis:

I have spent much of my life ignoring my emotions and creating a false identity with which to function "perfectly" in this painful and stressful world. When Christ pulled out that core shame of the abuse victim, this false identity was torn down in the process. So I was left without an identity (so it felt) and extremely empty. God finally did something with this emptiness last week. He poured emotions into me--He poured my emotions into me. Only He poured the yucky emotions that I have been avoiding all of these years. This is where I sit today.

And where do I go from here? Forward. However, my therapist warned me of the temptation to stay moving forward in the addictiveness of my powerful, dramatic emotions, rather than moving foward in Christ. Because my emotions will run the show if I allow them to, and I will lose many things in the process (relationships, my ability to function well, God's greater purpose for my life...).

"But, how do I lay down my emotions?" I asked desperately.
"You need to own them first, Jaime. You are not ready to lay down your emotions, because you have not owned them yet. Only once you accept them as your own can you offer them to God. And you will know when you are ready. Because you will be sick of your own shit. When you are sick of your own shit, you will lay them down. But not before then."
"But, what if I get addicted to them? What if I won't want to lay them down?"
"Oh, you will lay them down. I know you too well. You will lay them down."

My therapist told me to keep focusing on Christ rather than on my emotions or problems.
"Therefore, if you have been raised up with Christ, keep seeking the things above, where Christ is, seated at the right hand of God. Set your mind on the things above, not on the things that are on earth. For you have died and your life is hidden with Christ in God." (Col. 3:1-3)
"let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of faith, who for the joy set before Him endured the cross, despising the shame, and has sat down at the right hand of the throne of God. For consider Him who has endured such hostility by sinners against Himself, so that you will not grow weary and lose heart. You have not yet resisted to the point of shedding blood in your striving against sin; and you have forgotten the exhortation which is addressed to you as sons, 'My son, do not regard lightly the discipline of the Lord, nor faint when you are reproved by Him; for those whom the Lord loves He disciplines, and He scourges every son whom He receives.'" (Heb. 12:1a-6).

"You are being disciplined, Jaime. But remember, God suffered first. He created Adam and Eve knowing they would reject Him. He leads the way in suffering. And Christianity is the only religion with a suffering Savior."

"The Lord your God will clear away these nations before you little by little; you will not be able to put an end to them quickly, for the wild beasts would grow too numerous for you." (Deut. 7:22) God knew that my emotions would overwhelm me if He gave them to me right away. But He has now given them to me--there is no doubt about that. However, as the presenter said to me last weekend, "God must think you are strong enough to deal with the emotions now."

Am I really strong enough, God?

Once again, I must choose to trust that God knows what He is doing. And I must choose to follow in His path of suffering--believing that He will guide me through it. And on the other side I will understand. "For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face; now I know in part, but then I will know fully just as I also have been fully known." (1 Cor. 13:12)

Keep moving forward, Jaime. Keep getting up. Keep focusing on Christ. Keep feeling your feelings, but don't focus on them--focus on Christ. Seek to understand what your feeling are telling you about wants, needs, attacks--but don't let them define you. Differentiate between your emotions and your identity. Keep walking. On the other side will be the Joy of Love and Knowledge--a Joy held in both your head and your heart.

P.S. I looked up the definition for "disillusion" on Merriam-Webster: "to cause to lose naive faith and trust." I think I can genuinely say, "Amen," to that.

Let the Angry Tears Flow--I Can Handle Them

If I try to think too much with my brain, I will not be able to write this post. I am just going to speak from my heart. So if you find something illogical.....I'm sorry ahead of time. Leave a comment, and I will address it in another blog. For now, it's just my heart. (And as of right now, my faith is a gift that requires me to tell my logical, analytical, doubtful brain to shut up.) (Sorry, might be some resentment there....again...topic for another post...)

My God
is quite patient.
My God
is pretty strong.
My God
is indescribable.
My God
is unmeasurable.
My God
is so personal
that He is going to relate to you
differently than He is going to relate to me.
And that
is a gift.

I was angry with God.
If you have read any of my previous posts,
you are very aware of this.
I was so angry with God.
But I didn't know what to do with that anger.
Because my logical, analytical, Bible College influenced brain
told me that it was a horrible sin to be mad at God,
and I had to cover myself with ashes like Job
or else God might smite me within the hour.
So I wrestled with my anger
in guilt
and even more anger.
Angry with God for not letting me be angry with Him!
Angry with myself for being angry with God in the first place!
Any reference to yeilding,
submission,
our purpose of glorifying God,
God's love,
God's trustworthiness,
the healing of God,
God's redeption,
God's salvation--
any of it--
I CRINGED!
How can I trust a God
who has let me get hurt so much?!
God wouldn't need to save me
if He didn't let sin exist in the first place!
He wouldn't have to build me up,
if He hadn't torn me down!
This was the attitude that I went to the conference with this weekend.

My notes from Friday night and Saturday morning are littered with angry accusations and doubts.
I feared that I might be losing my faith in God.
Are angry conversations considered communing with God?
Thankfully, I felt compelled to go to the first sexual abuse workshop.
Title: When Life Hurts.
Perfect.
It was about the life of Job.
Even more perfect.
I spent most of the session holding in my anger and my tears.
I dialogued with God for most of it.
Jaime: Crap, God! What are you doing?! I saw you carried me through stuff. But why did you do it in the first place? Why did you decide to "bless" me with suffering?
God: To make you like, Christ, Jaime.
Jaime: (Ignoring God's previous comment...) You took the shame upon Yourself. You didn't give it back to him. That is why I'm not mad at him. You have forgiven him and me. Are You going to punish him? I don't want You to. Do I? No. I am able to love him. I am not mad at him. I am mad at You! What do I do with my anger?!
God: Forgive.
Jaime: What do I do with my pain?
God: Forgive.
Jaime: Forgive who? You? I don't understand!!
God: Do you have to understand, Jaime? It's wearing you out. Why can't you just accept it?
Presenter: God doesn't have a purpose in the sin; but He has a purpose for us.
Jaime: What?!
God: Jaime, I let you suffer because I wanted to make you beautiful.
The air deflated out of me.
Tears streaming down my cheeks
in silence.
Finally, I spoke up:
"You talked about struggling to trust God,
and I can relate to that;
but right now I am so angry with God,
and I don't know what to do about it."
The responses were simple and straight forward--
and breathed life into my dry bones:
"It's okay to be angry at God."
"He can handle your anger."
"Anger is a normal step in the healing process."
As the two presenters entered into prayer,
I let my angry, painful tears flow,
uninhibited.
When I finally reemerged,
two women came to me.
They hugged me.
They listened to me.
They reassured me.

Not only did God use His body--
women who have gone before me
on this painful path--
to reassure the
power
strength
love
and faithfulness
of my God;
but He also gave me a personal token
directly from Himself.
"I let you suffer because I wanted to make you
beautiful."
Notice He said "wanted"
instead of "want."
That is past tense.
That means.....
I am already
beautiful.

Who ever said,
I can't bring God out of Living Waters?
Granted I had to search.
And granted God provided a Self-saturated place
in which to seek Him.
But still...
He got through to me.
Or maybe I got through to Him.
Well....really it doesn't matter.
All that matters,
is I felt validated in my anger--
free to feel it--
no longer condemned.
And I was able to reconnect
to my God.

Do I think everything will be perfect
from here on out?
No.
But God reminded me that
He is faithful
and He won't let me go--
no matter how much I try to shove Him out of my face.
My God is relentless.
And I am immeasurably thankful for that.

The Rumblings of Anger

I've been thinking a lot about the emotion of anger lately. Maybe it is because my best friend asks me repeatedly why I am such an angry person.

The latest chapter I read in Hope, Help & Healing for Eating Disorders by Dr. Jantz was titled "The Price of Anger." This is where I am in my own healing journey.
Even before devoting an entire chapter to topic, Dr. Jantz makes the following comment about anger: "Anger is often the emotion of choice for parents in families in which eating disorders develop. Anger is expressed in a variety of forms as a response to the majority of life's situations. . . . Though the parent can and does express anger freely in this type of family situation, the child soon learns it is unsafe to express his or her own anger, for fear it will trigger an even greater outpouring of anger by the parent. So anger, hurt feelings, and frustration must be locked away inside, expressed only in private, furtive ways."

I learned a while back from my counselor that anger is a secondary emotion, which covers the emotion of hurt or pain. (The tertiary emotion, which comes after anger, is hatred.) However, if pain is to be covered up by anger, and if anger cannot be expressed, then the solution is to control the anger. This is done by numbing it out (along with every other emotion), and the numbing agent of choice for me was food (or abstinence from food). By controlling my food intake and my body, I was controlling my anger. And if I could control my anger, I never had to deal with the pain.

So if one thinks of an onion, the core is pain, the second layer is anger, and the third layer is a desire for numbness (which is related to hatred), and the fourth layer is an eating disorder. I am finally down to the second layer. I am feeling my feelings. Unfortunately, I find a lot of anger.

Thankfully, God is working on my anger. A lot of anger came up during my time in Living Waters. And the protective environment allowed me to get past the anger and allow the pain to come up. However, there is still a lot of work to be done.

At the end of Dr. Jantz's chapter on anger, he included an anger questionnaire. I am going to share my answers for a few of the questions:
7. What pleasure do you get from anger?
Answer: Anger is power.
9. How do you use anger as a weapon against others?
Answer: Anger gives me the strength to lash out at others instead of allowing myself to be lashed out against.
16. Complete this sentence: I feel angry when others __________.
Answer: try to correct or change me.
17. Complete this sentence: I feel that my anger is _________.
Answer: protective.
18. Complete this sentence: When others express their anger, I feel _________.
Answer: threatened and scared.
19. Complete this sentence: I feel that the anger of others is ___________.
Answer: dangerous.

These responses betray the fact that I am still looking at anger from a childish perspective. The adult in me says: "Jaime, anger is only an emotion that you and others feel."

Dr. Jantz ended his chapter with this statement: "Anger is powerful, yes, but God is more powerful. He is able to handle your anger--it is safe with him." I honestly still have to sit with this statement. I still have to digest it.

Next, I read out of Ephesians. I found this specific statement on anger: "Be angry, and yet do not sin; do not let the sun go down on your anger, and do not give the devil an opportunity" (Eph. 4:26-27).

The statement on anger tells me a couple of things: 1) It is possible to be angry and yet not sin. Anger--once again--is an emotion. It has the potential to become sin when we allow our anger to control our thoughts and/or our actions. 2) We are encouraged to work out our anger as soon as possible. This is because anger is powerful. Anger is dangerous. Anger has the potential to lead to sin. Anger has the power to destroy (ie. work against unity). 3) Satan likes to take our anger and twist it. Therefore, the longer we let anger fester, the more opportunity Satan has. Remember I said that the tertiary emotion of pain/anger is hatred? Hatred is a callousness of the heart. Although God can hate things (read Proverbs), I am not sure it is possible for a human being to hate something without sinfulness being present. Hatred is almost always in the control of Satan rather than of God.
Ephesians 4:26-27 is surrounded by verses about transitioning from the old man to the new man, and about unity in the body of Christ. At the risk of oversimplifying God's Word, the argument could be made that the book of Ephesians is about the power of love.

I look back at Dr. Jantz's statement: "Anger is powerful, yes, but God is more powerful." God is love. The book of Ephesians tells me that love has the power to unify....anything.

One way of looking at this concept that helped me was comparing the emotion of anger to the sexuality of humanity. Sex is a gift from God--it is a powerful gift from God. And yet, because it is so powerful, it is what Satan loves to target for His own twisted purposes. So now we have a world where the battle between Light and Darkness is taking place in the sexuality of mankind. We have a world that has become desolated by perverted sexuality. A similar scenario is occurring with the emotion of anger. Anger is a gift from God in that He created it--intended mankind to experience it. Anger has its purpose: it points out where we have been wronged--where division has occurred--to that we can pursue reconciliation. Yet Satan knows that anger is powerful, so he looks out for it, and he seeks to take control of it when we feel it. We now have a world torn into disunity through anger.
And yet I must remember: "God is more powerful." God is more powerful than my anger. God is more powerful than Satan, who seeks to control my anger. God is more powerful. Period.

What does this mean for me? It means that I am free to feel anger. But it also means that I have the responsibility to submit my anger to God. This implies that 1) I cannot act out of my anger and use it as a weapon, 2) I cannot let my anger fester into hatred, and 3) I will have to work through my anger in order to feel the pain that is at its root.

Once more, what does this mean for me? What does this mean for you?

Next time you feel angry.... Don't try to escape the anger by suppressing it, ignoring it, or numbing it out. Feel your anger. But then think critically about it. Why are you angry? What or who caused your anger? Were you hurt in some way? If you were hurt (which most likely you were), then you must allow yourself to feel the pain. (It is important to note here, that it is probably wise to get alone--just yourself and God--while you are processing your anger and hurt. Or if you have a trusted, Godly, unbiased community, then you can get together with one or more of these individuals--only be sure that you are free to process.) Ask yourself questions. Why does this hurt? Is there some sort of void in my life? Do I feel wronged? Then next step after feeling pain, is submitting that pain to Christ as well. Once you give it to him, He can heal you or fill the void that has been exposed. Then--and only then--can you move toward forgiveness. I use the word "toward" intentionally--because full forgiveness may not be immediate, and it may be a more complex process than you first believed.

However, as always, you will have someone to travel the journey with you--our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.

So.....anger. The rumblings may be scary. But you and I have a God who is infinitely more powerful. And anger, whether it is our anger or the anger of another, is safe in His hands.

The Journey of Healing

When I first sat down to write this testimony, I was going to try to include as much as possible—make it comprehensive. This was going to be an exercise for me more than for you. But for some reason, I found that I could never sit down to write it. I would sit down, and then feel completely uncompelled to continue. So….I’m going to scrap that idea and start from scratch. Here are the words from my heart:

I was sexually abused as a child. I am not going to tell you how long or how badly or by whom. Because—to a certain extent—that doesn’t matter. What matters is the pain and destruction that continued to fester into my adulthood.

If I hadn’t been diagnosed with an eating disorder my first year of college, I would have never looked back at what had happened to me—I would have kept it buried for life. But psychiatric intake interviews don’t leave sexual abuse uncovered.

However, although I didn’t deny the abuse, I did not let it surface either. In fact I refused to talk about it with multiple therapists. It was not until I relapsed the third time, and God rescued me with a call to life—a true life; not the lie that I had been living—did I submit to the need for healing of this deep wound.

I mentioned my intention to my therapist, with whom I had been working for about a year. However, it took another year and a half—and lingering (albeit easier to hide) enslavement to my eating disorder—before I finally decided to jump into intentional healing from my abuse. I joined an intensive healing ministry at my church called Living Waters.

Living Waters was a ministry originally founded for those struggling with same-sex attraction; however, over the years it developed into a ministry for those desiring freedom from sexual abuse and sexual addiction, and now the program involves relational healing as well.  I joined this program, which is six months long, with the specific purpose of dealing with my sexual abuse, and in turn getting rid of my eating disorder once and for all.

Little was I prepared for what Living Waters introduced into my spiritual relationship with God. The ministry involves teaching and a heavy emphasis on prayer—through which, one comes into contact with the Holy Spirit of the Living God. The lesson on abuse came about half-way through the program. I knew it was coming; my leaders and small group knew my testimony—they knew it was coming; long story short: EVERYONE knew it was coming. However, in the weeks and months prior to this night, I merely skimmed the surface of what was really deep in my heart. The abuse was actually touched on twice before that night, but I was too afraid to go any further.

One of the times that I could have addressed the abuse, my leader said to me, “Jaime, that has to come up and out.” Although I backed down, those words stuck with me. To my ears, they were eating disordered words (purging). Her words made me realize that it was this very thing in the pit of my stomach that I was trying to push down with food. And once it was “up and out,” I would no longer feel compelled to stuff things down my throat anymore.

The night to pray finally came. There was another woman in my small group who had a history of sexual abuse and she went first. This caused me to fear, because I needed to go that night—I had already asked to see the one who had wounded me the next day—fully intending to make this a finished work. However, God had everything under control. Because this woman went before me, she was able to lead me on the path to healing with God. She had already asked Jesus for a memory in which she could pursue healing. I had not thought of this. So I asked Jesus for a memory. And he gave me one immediately. Now, I have many memories from the abuse; however, this one confused me because nothing was actually happening in the memory—it was a memory of waiting for something to happen. However, all of the feelings were in that memory: the fear, the shame, the dirtiness, the guilt. Outside of my memory, one of the leaders in my group told the woman praying to invite Jesus into her memory. Doubtful that this was even possible for me, I invited Jesus into my memory. And to my shock, Jesus appeared, standing at the foot of my bed. At this point I began questioning what Jesus would really be able to do for me. Sure He was in my memory, but this was a memory—there is no way He can change what has already happened. He cannot alter my life. He cannot say, “Oh, Jaime. I will protect you. What is about to happen will not really going to happen.” No, Jesus cannot do that. With this realization, I began to panic—I would be stuck with my shame and dirtiness forever! In my memory, I rushed toward Jesus, clutched His legs, and began sobbing, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” By now, the sobs in my memory were my sobs in the present time. The pain was too much to endure without my small group praying with me, so I pulled myself out of memory and began to focus on the prayer of the other woman.

This still was in God’s plan because I was able to see this woman achieve healing for herself, and it gave me hope—hope that Jesus could do something for me too. So I told the women in my group what had happened thus far in my memory, then they went with me back into the memory—back to clinging to Jesus’s legs—back to sobbing, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Only this time, Jesus did something. Jesus reached down, stroked my hair, and said, “It’s not yours.” Although Jesus did not verbalize it, I knew in my heart He was saying that the guilt was not mine. I thought about the guilt going back to the one who wounded me, but that was not what He was implying. Jesus was taking the guilt from me, and putting it on Himself—He was taking my guilt, regardless of who had given it to me. Slowly my sobs stopped, as the shame was extracted from my heart. Then I was able to pray a prayer of breaking the sexual union between me and my wounder. Then I prayed forgiveness over him—and I meant it—I could feel it in my heart.  

The next day, I traveled to see this man. I was able to interact with him out of freedom for the first time that I can remember. I realized that he had been trying to love me for quite a while. Perhaps he had been trying to express his remorse. But I had been keeping up a solid wall between the two of us in self-protection. This particular day, though, I was able to take the wall down—to see him as a real person—to receive love from him. Before the end of the visit, I had spoken of the abuse verbally to him, received affirmation from him that it did in fact happen, told him that Christ has taken most of my shame, given him my forgiveness, and received his apology. We ended the visit with a hug—for the first time, it was a genuine hug—and an exchange of the words “I love you”—once again, genuine for the first time.

I drove home that day, a new person. No longer a girl; but a woman.

However, my story doesn’t end there. That encounter happened about three months ago. Living Waters ended last night. And my life is not perfect.

The abuse that I endured as a child spread out into many areas of my life. I have lived for so many years with a core of shame that it became the foundation of my very identity. Now that that piece of me is “up and out” I no longer know who I am. I spent my life trying to construct a perfect identity that would cover up the dirtiness deep within me. But now, God keeps whispering, “Jaime, you don’t need to be that way anymore.” Now, don’t get me wrong, it is nice to hear God whispering it, but it is also completely terrifying. Because I seriously don’t know what to do with myself. And the problem is that I am tempted daily to take on aspects of my old self. I still struggle with food. I still struggle with my self-image. I still tend to cling to perfectionism. My moods oscillate between normal and depressed. I still don’t have a grip on what healthy boundaries look like. And besides all this, I am noticing other relationships in my life that are broken.

My life is not magically better because I “dealt” with the sexual abuse. To be honest, I was hoping it would be. But such is not the case. I still have a lot of work to do. Healing is never complete. It is never going to be finished until we are perfected in our resurrection. However, I do want to state that Christ did a “finished work” when he met with me that night in my memory. My core shame concerning the abuse is gone. I have flashbacks still, but the paralyzing shame is no longer there. But because the abuse went unhealed for so long, it set me up for more wounding throughout my life. This is the healing that Christ will continually do in my life.

Tonight, I was on the way home from a difficult singing practice. I was thinking about all the work that I have to do—that in a childish way I simply don’t want to do—and I felt myself swinging into a depressed mood. But then this song, came through my stereo, “My Victory” by Jimmy Needham:

Never turning back to the way things were
I'm stronger now than I was before
I hear the sound that freedom brings
It's ringing loud
Now I am free to lift my eyes
For grace is alive

You are the hope that broke the dark in me
You are the light that shines when I can't see
You are, You are, You are my victory

My weakness Yours, Your mercy mine
My God You're not the leaving kind
I sing the song that freedom brings
It's ringing loud
Now I am free to lift my eyes
My God is alive

In times of trouble
When I'm not able
You are, my God, You are
My chains are broken
Your gates are open
Hallelujah

You are the hope that broke the dark in me
You are the light that shines when I can't see
You are, You are, You are

You are the hope that broke the dark in me
You are the light that shines when I can't see
You are, You are, You are my victory
You are my victory, God You deliver me, You are my victory

This song reminded me that I am truly free. My freedom in Christ is not dependent upon how “healed” I am or how “perfected” I am. I am free to choose Joy. My mood does not have to be enslaved to the little ups and downs in my life. And furthermore, I no longer have to live a lie. This is a scary thought, because it means that I must trust someone else for my freedom. But this is where faith comes in. I no longer have to manufacture a fake form of victory. I am free to struggle, but I am not struggling to be free (from “The Struggle” by Tenth Avenue North). Healing IS possible—just be prepared for it to be a lifelong process. Thankfully we have a Savior to travel along that road with us. Thanks be to God.

Psalm 149:4

“For the Lord takes pleasure in His people;
He will beautify the afflicted ones with salvation.”