Digging Deeper

PC: gkrphoto

My body thrummed in response to the text notification.  The name alone elicited the reaction. I let out a weary breath. 

Seated with my therapist, she asked me what just happened. 

I tend to keep my phone on silent.  Being constantly connected, even to family, can at times bring significant stress. Especially group texts.  The barrage of texts that morning had left me feeling weary, distressed, and frustrated. 

The texts resumed that afternoon.  I usually ignore my phone when in therapy.  I’m not even sure why I looked at my phone. 

The words tumbled out.   “She reminds me of my mother.  I could help, but she doesn’t really want to hear the truth about how things could get better.  Not that I know ALL truth, but in this situation, there are things that I do know that could make a huge difference.”

“That sounds quite a bit like your mother,” responded the therapist.  “She knew the truth and did nothing to protect and change things, for you.  She did not welcome your words.”

Silence.

“What is going on in your body?” she asked. 

“I have this energy vibrating within my core.  My head hurts, there’s a pit in my stomach, and I feel trapped in the drama and chaos she creates.  Nothing is going to get better.  She doesn’t hear me, just like my mother. What’s even the point of communicating?” 

“Do you feel powerless?”

BINGO! 

Logically I know that there is nothing that I can do or say to change this person that I care about.  It is up to them.  I can only invite change.  And I was triggered on some deeper level by the text exchange.  The thrumming in my body was old and familiar.

When I was 13, I had told my mother that I had been sexually abused by a family member.  Some of you know the story, but bottom line… she did not want to hear me.  I tried to help her understand by explaining it several times.  Nothing was done to protect me, and the abuse continued.  I was powerless to change my circumstances.  My “no” meant nothing.

“I think this is one of those deeper still healing moments for the powerlessness you felt growing up,” said my therapist.  “Maybe this is where you get to hold your no.” 

Goodness gracious, yes!  Of course I had choices.  I wasn’t powerless like I was at thirteen with no resources, loss of voice, disillusioned by the system, where hope felt foolish. And yet, my thirteen year old self was being reminded of the past and needed care.

Sometimes we unconsciously recreate similar past relational experiences into our lives.  It is our minds way of trying to produce a different outcome from the previous trauma.  At times we don’t create, it comes to us in relationships with a sibling, a sibling’s spouse, or even one of our children.    

“Robyn, you are not creating the drama and chaos.  And I wonder what deeper healing is to be had for you in this season.” 

I am curious too!

In the past I might have just closed off my heart in the relationship in an attempt to just survive. Believe me… I have been tempted. That is not what I want for me or her. I know that my body needs rest from this rollercoaster relationship. I have some ideas of what that might look like.  All involve holding my “no” in the form of increased healthy boundaries to care for my heart and wellbeing.  And that feels really kind to me and kind to her. 

So, I guess I am going deeper still. 

How appropriate while all of nature is coming alive from deep spaces. During the winter days, resurrection can seem distant.  It can be easy to lose hope or think it foolish.  Yet faith whispers that somewhere in the depths is life.   While love tells me the boundaries will provide order to the chaos. 

Recently I was out planting flowers which required getting rid of winter’s debris and preparing the soil.  As I dug to transfer each plant into the ground, I was reminded that going to deeper places of healing does not negate any healing I’ve already gained.  I did not get rid of all the soil in the flower bed before I planted the new flowers.  The soil was rich from previous garden work.  The bed only needed cleared of additional debris and minimal soil enrichment. 

My desire is for something different for me and for the author of the texts.  I can imagine what is beautiful and expose what is not.  I don’t have to be afraid to let go of what has died for new life to spring forth. 

I am being invited to the deeper still. There with the kindness of God, I will revisit the place of my soul where beauty was marred in relationship. Where He will hold my hurt and anger without running away or punishing me.  I will find more healing, more freedom from my past.  My hope is to walk more fully into my intended glory.     

And my texter… who knows… perhaps she will hear and welcome the invitation to imagine a different future. 

A Both/And Kind of Year

       

Credit:Nuthawut Somsuk

“What stands out about 2023 for you?” my husband asked as we rang out the old year in a crowded restaurant.

Inside my eyes rolled.  Okay, maybe even on the outside.  I was all set to respond, then abruptly stopped.  What initially came to mind were all the negative, difficult, or traumatic experiences of 2023.  And there were many.

Here we are in the third week of the New Year, and I continue to hear from people that 2023 was a year of some hefty emotional lifting.  Many shared experiences that they described as a year of “you just can’t make this stuff up.’’  While others shared ongoing uncertainty that left them with waves of anxiety and fear – even depression.  “This past year seemed worse than 2020.”

Their sentiments about the passing of 2023 could be summed up by these lines from Lord Alfred Tennyson’s poem:

The year is dying in the night.

Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

                                                               ~Ring Out, Wild Bells (1850)

I’ve certainly had similar thoughts myself.  Good riddance.  Let the year die!

Research has found that we remember the negative times better than the positive.  It is because our emotions influence how we process memories.  We remember more accurately the details of experiences that caused negative emotional reactions. 

Why?  The short answer: If your body believes it’s in trouble, it will focus your attention on details that will enhance your survival.  Don’t take my word for it – research it for yourself. 

My husband gave me a quizzical look.  He knows I don’t usually lack for words.  Not wanting to be a downer, I was struggling with where to start.

Like many of you, our past year was full.  Negative/positive, sorrow/joy, fear/confidence, death/life, trauma/calm, etc…  It seemed to hold more negative events than in years past.  We certainly felt the waves around here! 

So, I do tend towards pessimism.  A childhood of complex trauma taught me that to survive you need to always be ready for the next shoe to drop. Old ways of survival can be automatic and difficult to break. But that night, I made a conscious decision to start by honoring the positive.  Remembering times that brought me an overall sense of well-being that came from being happy.  These memories included moments like being curled up by the fire reading to literal mountain top experiences.  

Remembering good memories can release dopamine,  a neurotransmitter associated with feelings of pleasure.  Happy memories can positively affect our mental health.  My earlier eye roll sure needed some good care. 

Yes, we honored the negative.  But because we had named the positive, we were able to remember and not relive the negative.  Although, some of our negative experiences are fresh.  When I felt my body ramp up (which is my go-to), I named it and then asked myself,  “Where is my sadness?”  And when I felt my body shutting down, I asked myself, “Where is my anger.”   These questions helped me stay engaged (regulated) by accessing both reason and emotion; instead of being ruled by the emotions of our more recent experiences and reliving them. 

If you read Tennyson’s poem, he does speak of casting aside all that is sad and bad about the year.  More deeply he speaks of his hope that better characteristics of human nature will emerge in the new year.  We all hope for better, in ourselves and in others.  Although difficult, the sad and negative experiences also taught me some things about myself. Now, I certainly don’t want to repeat those experiences! They were painful and I do wish I could have learned differently.  But I don’t want to completely throw out those sad and negative experiences.  I believe they have made me a better human and I am grateful for the growth. Yes… that has come with some acceptance (which I am better at on some days than others) and perspective. 

Absolutely, there were experiences in 2023 that I wish I could change. But the negative does not wipe out the whole year as bad.  Living more authentically has meant appreciating the good things while also recognizing and dealing with the challenges or drawbacks. I am learning more each year how to hold that tension with honor.  Even in years where the negative seems to outweigh the positive.

There is one thing that I am certain about, 2024 will be yet another both/and kind of year. 

Body Memories

Image by vilmosvarga on Freepik

I felt nauseous with chills and a headache.  It seemed to come on suddenly with no apparent reason.  I made my way to our pantry where we keep some ginger Dramamine chews and shuffled my way to bed.  Tucked deep into my covers, the chew did its work.  The headache lingered, but I eventually drifted off to sleep. 

I awoke several times during the night.  A few times I made trips to the bathroom to relieve the pressure I felt in my abdomen.  Did I really drink that much water?  My second trip is when I remembered it was the 40-year anniversary date of a trauma experience.  An experience that happened over several hours during that December morning. 

The wee hours of that December day were fretful, with several trips in the dark to the bathroom. I was a young woman with zero knowledge of how violent a miscarriage could be.  Oh, I had heard the older women talk about miscarriages when I was a teenager.  They made it sound routine.

The next morning my husband asked how I was feeling.  I felt a bit crazy, but I mentioned what I was thinking.

“I wonder if what I experienced last night was a body memory of the miscarriage 40 years ago.” 

Surely not!  It must have been something that I ate.  After all, I had done the cognitive and emotional grief work related to the miscarriage decades ago. 

Believe it or not, our bodies remember everything.  The memory is not held in your mind (explicit memory), it is held somewhere way down at the cellular level.  Every sound, smell, touch, taste, and sight. 

This type of memory is called implicit memory and can’t be put into words.  It helps us ride a bike, or drive a car, without actively thinking about what we need to do.  Implicit memories are experienced in the body, and can be triggered by something, such as a smell, sight, or sound.  Yes, even an anniversary date.

Could it be that I was remembering the miscarriage in the form of physical sensations and automatic responses.  And if so, why so many years later?  I wasn’t even thinking about the miscarriage date the day before; had not experienced my usual December reminder. It feels a little crazy making that my body was remembering it at a different time from when my mind remembered the incident. 

Was it the smell of the Christmas tree?

My husband responded, “I was wondering if that might be the case.”

Was my body trying to get my attention? 

The miscarriage was in mid December; full swing into the holiday season and fast approaching Christmas day. I could not bear to hear or sing Silent Night that year. 

“Silent night, holy night. All is calm, all is bright. Round yon Virgin, Mother and Child, Holy Infant so tender and mild. Sleep in Heavenly peace…” (Joseph Franz Mohr)

There would be no child. There would be no tender and mild. Our child ‘slept’ forever. 

The traditional Christmas carol would be a reminder for decades of the explicit memories my brain held. Each year I have honored that experience and allowed grief to wash briefly over me once again. These memories will always be sad. The work of honoring has provided my mind the care it needed to not be transported back into the trauma, but to heal those explicit memories. I can be sad without being traumatised.  

I read somewhere that body memories can take a long time to heal, because they are the last memories to be addressed. 

That makes sense to me.  In the past, I have been notorious for ignoring my body.   Ask anyone who knows me. Often it has had to scream at me to give it the care that it needs. 

So, is it crazy?  Maybe…  It would be easy to turn my back on the trauma my body remembers.  To call it nuts. And, I have never honored my body in this trauma experience.  No wonder my body got so loud.  

“Hello good body of mine.  I understand that you know something needs healing. Thank you for letting me know.  I also want to tell you something important.  I know you were afraid and in pain. You survived the miscarriage.  It’s over.  We’re going to make it and we thrive.” 

With this naming, the healing has begun. 

<a href=”https://www.freepik.com/free-vector/human-body-shape-background-design_1042834.htm#query=body&position=4&from_view=search&track=sph&uuid=29265652-a561-4b2d-8761-31ba784c6119″>Image by vilmosvarga</a> on Freepik

More than Red Lipstick

My body felt restless, on edge. The anxious cascade began.   

Who am I? 

What is my calling?

Am I doing the right thing?

Questions that send me on a familiar quest.  Trying to understand who I am from an outside source.

Can’t someone just tell me?

Facebook quizzes, personality tests, and podcasts.  Not to mention the money I have spent on numerous coaches, books, intensives, and seminars over the years.

The promise… “Discover who you truly are.” 

We all experience feelings of self-doubt from time to time.  That is perfectly normal.  For me, it seems to run deeper.  It is more than a lack of confidence or taming Gremlins.

It is also healthy to occasionally evaluate where you are in life.  Yet, perhaps more often than others, I find myself accessing if I am doing the right thing.  “Is this what I am supposed to be doing?” “Is this who I am?”  “Is there something else?”

Just this week I found myself thinking, “Robyn, you just haven’t found the right coach.”  I’ll admit that I even did the ‘flip your Bible open and put a finger down’ method hoping for a personal message.  Although I have been blessed often by this method, it rarely has provided guidance to my questions. 

Maybe I need to get my PhD. 

Oh my gosh… What?!?!

I can even start diagnosing myself.  Maybe I have ADHD and just can’t stick with anything long enough. Which by the way is not true, I can be responsible to a fault. But it feels like it might be true in the cascade. 

“Good grief Robyn, stop it!  What is wrong with you?  A woman of your age should already have this down.”

One thing I do know, being harsh only makes matters worse.  There has been a lot going on in my life.  My anxiety was trying to tell me something. 

Can I just get a little guidance please!

And there it was, my answer as to why I have these ongoing questions.

As a daughter, I watched my mother for clues about how to be a woman. 

Maternal love is our first experience of what love feels like, and the maternal care we receive informs how we feel about ourselves throughout life.

― Kelly McDaniel, Mother Hunger

I remember loving to watch her get ready for special occasions with my father.  Leaning on the bathroom counter my little feet balanced tippy-toed on the toilet seat… every sweep of her lipstick tube and tease of her hair filled my hunger.  I watched with giggles at the “girdle grunt,” that would ease her curves into a form fitting dress.  My father’s help with her zipper, feet adorned in heels, and the tilt of her head with every turn in front of the mirror.  All done in precise order. 

I didn’t miss a thing. 

Fingernail polish, makeup, bras, girdles, stockings, dresses, perfume, high heels,  jewelry…  She was beautiful.

And I just knew that the day I got to wear red lipstick would mean I had become a woman. 

Yet, I don’t remember having much guidance from my mother about being a woman… much less a girl.  Maybe she just didn’t have the tools for loving guidance. 

Oh, I had plenty of parental rules designed to control my behavior and how I presented myself/our family to the world.  Even before my mother and stepfather were married, he added psychological control to the mix.  

But control is not guidance.  It only teaches compliance and fear.

In my family of origin story, lack of guidance is compounded by the lack of maternal nurturance and protection.  My mother’s men were abusive – she was too.  So, this isn’t an easy one, two, three fix.  Healing has been a nonlinear fluid process.  There are many layers that I cannot include in this brief post. 

As I grew, I needed someone to nurture, protect, and guide.  Someone to provide healthy affection and tenderness.  Someone to have my back.  Someone to teach me by example how to be gentle and strong, to love others without giving myself away, and to care for my female body. 

It’s way more than red lipstick. 

Over the decades I waited and hoped for my mother to act like a mother.  Even with ample evidence that change was not coming, I held on and put myself to task.  If I said the right thing and did the right thing she would change.  Many years of trying to figure it out myself.  Afraid I was doing it wrong, which was the cause of abandonment, betrayal, and lack of love.

Waiting and hoping helped me survive when young.  It helped me endure the unbearable feelings of maternal abuse – even as an adult.  It also kept me in a heartbreaking cycle of pretending I was okay – when I wasn’t okay.  Sadly, all that pain just oozed out in other relationships.  Avoiding pain never works long term. 

It was life changing when I understood that I did not need my mother’s change or apology to heal.  But it sure would have made things a whole lot easier. 

At times I have reacted to life with the mind of someone much younger and afraid.  This is the legacy of abuse; not something wrong with me.  I need care, not shame.

Attachment injuries are painful.  They can keep us searching many years for a way to fill the ache.  Healing begins when we know and name what we are missing.  For me, it has been the difficult process of uncovering many layers of harm. 

Even as I write I am aware of words my mother spoke over me as a young wife.  “You will be just like me marrying young.  You’ll never finish college and have babies right away.”  There was more said that day about my future state as a woman who married young.  None of it offered the care that I needed.

Hmm… I am curious.  I wonder what agreement with her words  I made that might be affecting the here and now?  Does it have anything to do with my restlessness?  An attempt to find the new thing to prove her wrong?  Maybe…

There’s not a whole lot of support out there for the loss of maternal care and love.  As a culture we expect people to quickly brush off emotional pain.  I experienced loss that has not always been appropriate to openly acknowledge. 

We can’t heal what we don’t know, and if we can’t talk about it, we can’t do much with it.

― Kelly McDaniel

I know I am not alone.

I’ve spent a good bit of time naming and grieving lack of nurturance and protection, while finding ways to reclaim that care.  It’s time to honor the lack of maternal guidance in the same way. 

Because the truth is… even at my age, I still need a trustworthy motherly guide. 

Umbrella of Protection

The large seminar binders from the Institute of Basic Youth Conflicts were prominently displayed on the living room bookcase of my childhood home.  They were often taken out during my teen years, my mother or stepfather thumbing through the pages with furrowed brow, to name my depravity and determine my punishment.

One of the foundational truths of my family of origin was the “umbrella of protection” from the Basic Youth Conflicts seminar teachings taught by founder Bill Gothard.  My stepfather was under God’s protection and rule to protect my mother, who then in turn with my stepfather protected me, and my younger sister from Satan’s attacks and God’s judgments.  If you stepped out from under that authority, you would face temptations and wrath. 

This movement appealed to conservative Christians who had grown up in the cultural upheaval of the 1960’s and 70’s.  These Christians mistrusted secular authorities to help them raise their families.  The good?  People wanted something different for their children. 

The harm…

However, for young women, the umbrella of protection comes with no expiration.  Only in marriage does the umbrella transfer from the father to a husband.  This authoritarian approach forced the fear of both God and parents to become the main reason for obedience. 

Obedience without question…  My stepfather was the undisputed leader of the family, and his word was final.  We were to defer to him in almost every circumstance.  

No voice.

If I followed the rules, I would make God happy and thereby would be protected.  Believe me, there were a lot of rules.  If I violated the rules, then I was out from under the umbrella and in rebellion of authority resulting in God’s judgment against me. 

Ironically, this system offered me no protection.  It fostered abuse.

My mother and stepfather were the first to attend the seminar.  Later my sister and I would attend, as well as my future husband as a requirement of marriage.  Over 30 hours that taught attendees how to live successful lives by following the seminar founder’s interpretation of Biblical principles.  I have read that over 2.5 million people have taken the basic seminar.  That does not count the many children raised by these principles. 

Gone were the freedoms I had enjoyed as a child.  Riding my bike freely through the neighborhood, playing until dark when my mother called us with a cow bell, dancing to our favorite songs on our neighbor’s patio, kickball in the street with friends; permission needed for everything.  And the list of rules was lengthy – what I ate, who could be my friends, what I read, what I watched, what I did for free time, when I went to bed, how long I could stay out (even as a college student), how long we could sleep in, what I could wear, (clothes were inspected with a “fashion show” in front of my stepfather – bending over to see if items were too short), who I dated (and what they needed to believe)…  Yes, even how many times I washed my hair a week.  And there is so much more!

My body was not my own.

It took me some time to figure out that this was here to stay – the abuse as well.  Some of the guidelines made sense.  Of course, I wanted protection and wanted to please Jesus.  But most of it seemed “whack-a-doodle” to my teen heart, mind, and body. I voiced my questions and objections loudly and frequently.  Punished always.  I eventually realized to have the few “privileges” available, I just needed to be quiet and endure the rules and the abuse. 

I was trapped.

Recently, it made me sick to my stomach to watch a documentary that named a system that set me up for abuse in the name of Jesus.  I used to say, “if your own mother does not believe you who will?” But this system set me up to be quiet and to not tell anyone else. 

So, I am paying attention to my stomach.  It is telling me something needs to be released.  Maybe literally thrown up…

As of this writing… I am still trying to understand exactly what that is…

Perhaps this narrative is a part of it.     

abuse, Gothard, women

abuse, Gothard, women

abuse, Gothard, women

Fear

“I can’t take it anymore!  I’m leaving!”  With a suitcase full of Barbies in tow, my five-year-old stocking footed, no coat self was out the door that late fall day. My father opened the door while my mother stood silent.  I was going to the church.  The kind priest who came to our home a few times just might listen and things would change. 

Or would they?

Doubts of change swirled in my tiny frame. I looked back to see if anyone was following me.  Nope.  Not even anyone in the window watching as I marched up the hill.  Were they really going to let me go and tell all that goes on behind our doors? 

I often feel like things depend on me.  Logically I can tell you that this is not true.  However, because of painful life experiences my body speaks loudly that this is true.   

I MUST have the right words, do the right things, figure it out, be the responsible one…

Here is where I become steeped in an old message that to survive there is something that I must do.  And if I cannot “get it right”, it heightens my fear that there is something wrong with me, that I am stupid, that I don’t belong, and that I am not loved. 

I am a capable woman.  There are a lot of things that I do get right.  I’m also a responsible woman.  But the above belief places me in ownership of many things that are not mine to own.  Fear keeps me pinned to false beliefs.  And when fear rules me, it creates false conclusions about the world around me and my identity. 

And I know exactly where this came from.

As a child, to survive stressful or traumatic circumstances, I compensated by creating a false version of myself.  My younger self quickly took the blame – the chaos and harm were my fault.  There is something wrong with me.  I was bad.  I was selfish.  I was stupid.  I had a big mouth.  I couldn’t sit still.  I couldn’t stop crying.  I was bad and needed punished.  This explained why things were happening to me and around me.

You see, it was too much for my young heart to place blame where it belonged.

Those causing the harm were people in whom I depended.  I wanted to pull away.  Yet I needed to stay connected to the offenders.  The choice: appoint blame and jeopardize my wellbeing or take on the guilt and try to maintain the status quo. 

You’ll be the one in trouble Robyn.  Don’t tell the priest.

So, after about an hour hiding in the neighbor’s bushes and no one coming, I reluctantly turned my five-year-old self back to my house.  Even at five, I knew on some level that nothing had changed.  Nothing but me.

Blaming myself, ended that dilemma.

Now, as a child I did not just wake up one morning and come to that conclusion.  For the most part, it was a subconscious choice to stick with a pain that was familiar.  Even as a little one, I preferred the known pain over the unpredictable. Believing my painful experiences were because I was flawed led me to believe lies about myself.  Lies that had been verbally and nonverbally communicated to me through the actions and responses of others.   

I began living a false identity – one of fear that the lies might be true. 

I’ve spent many years engaging the particularities of my childhood complex trauma.  I can tell you my story accurately naming the harm, my shame, how I use contempt, the agreements/vows I have made to protect myself, and my war with desire. I know when younger parts of me are triggered and feeling powerless and try to offer kind care.  I’ve also let go of much of the childlike ownership of the reasons why the abuse occurred.  I was bad, stupid, ugly, different, talked too much, too curious, etc…

I believe there is always a deeper still, and something essential was missing in my healing journey. 

I have never addressed core fears.

As young as five I began coping with fear and powerlessness by trying to be strong, independent, and in control.  As an adult, I dismissed fear by calling it stress, anxiety, or overwhelm.  If I am not attending to the core fears and feelings behind my behaviors, then I will not experience change on a deeper level.  I’m just managing – not changing. 

I am no longer five years old.

It is time for  “deeper still” work and to let go of my false identity based on fear.  Attending to my core fears has been difficult good work.  I have acknowledged my deeper fears, named where I learned to be afraid and what I need to know about that fear, recognized the false identities I took on myself in that fear, asked myself what is true about me, then what does that look like and how I am to bring that forward into my life/world. 

At my age I have been managing fear for decades. Things are slowly changing.  I’ll be patient. 

I am also a woman of faith in Jesus.  Who is it that you say that I am?  When you talk about me, what is it that you say? 

As I attend, Jesus is redeeming my belief system.  When my beliefs are in alignment with His love, my fear and shame transform into security and truth.  Then my mind can begin to focus on my true identity and who it is that I was always meant to be.  Who is it that you say that I am? 

It’s not that I will never fear again…

This week I have had to attend to core fears.  But I am not living in fear.  You see, telling myself the truth, changes my mindset, transforms my life, and brings a new courage in the face of all that life throws at me.  It frees me to be the person God created me to be. 

I am living more each day in what is real and experiencing a new measure of freedom and feeling more alive.  Sounds like an awesome way to start the New Year.

And I know a five-year-old part of me who is relieved of her burden and delighted to be seen and taken care of in truth.

It swirls in her tiny frame…

I feel it.    

Walking Away…

“Oh my goodness, I thought you were a Christian!” she gasped.  “I wish I could just cut people out of my life as easily as you seem to be able to do. It must be nice.  How do you look at yourself in the mirror?”

People don’t just up and leave their families.  Our social and religious culture hardly even allows for this when there is a good reason to leave your family.  So, it’s not something people choose to do on a whim. 

Contrary to popular belief, estrangement from family stems from ongoing issues rather than a single fight. In my case, abuse.  Perhaps the misconceptions arise because people don’t talk about it. For me, the journey involved decades of invitations for change that they refuted over and over again.  I considered estrangement for years, and carefully so.  I was not acting on impulse, out of punishment, being flaky, or ungrateful.  I clearly articulated the reasons why estrangement was initiated and what was needed to move forward.  Sadly, to date, there has been no ownership of their actions that led to the separation. 

As the woman above spoke to me, I could hear other voices from the past echo in my head.   “You are such a liar.”  “Why are you so dramatic?”  “Was it that bad?”  “You must have done something to deserve it.”  “You wanted it.” For a moment, I felt my face burn with shame, and I wanted to hide. 

Am I still a good person?

Our society is not very accepting of estrangement.  We want parents and children to be together, which is fantastic.  Ironically, if one of your friends left an abusive relationship, you’d say, ‘You’re so brave.  Good for you!’  But when someone leaves an abusive family relationship, we say, ‘You need to forgive them; families should be together.’ 

“The good Lord tells us to honor our parents.” She continued.  

Let me be clear.  There is nothing more honoring than truth. And when a relationship with a family member is not healthy – meaning it is emotionally, physically, or financially abusive and causing you suffering – the victim has every right to stop interacting with that person.  You should not have to tolerate unacceptable behavior just because someone is related to you. 

Yes, I walked away.  It was not okay to subject my husband and children to the continued manipulations and abuses.  I apologized to my husband and children, continue the work to correct my dysfunctional behaviors, and now live with much different relationships with my husband and children. 

For me, estrangement was the right thing to do.  Although it brought a measure of relief, it also brought much sorrow.  I was not naïve about the significant impact my separation from family members would have on the extended family.  Abuse does not endure in a vacuum.  But I had hoped for something different – a new way forward for my family of origin. That was not the case.

I wish the woman who spoke to me that day had been curious instead of judgmental.  She might have discovered that I wasn’t a cruel and heartless daughter but a woman refusing to pass along generational dysfunction.   

So I say to myself as I look in the mirror, “Gosh Robyn, you were so brave to try and stop it.  I am so sad they have refused.”

In Remembrance

My mother died two years ago this September.  The news came from a former family member.  So, I was not given the sacred opportunity to be with her in death, preparing her body to expire, or saying goodbye well.  I know the song I would have sung over her, but I was not invited.   I did not make an announcement on social media as many did not know of my relationship with my mother.  We had been estranged for many years.  So, there were few condolences.  I am grateful for those who knew the story and walked with me.  

Contrary to popular belief, estrangement was something that came as a last ditch effort towards repair and reconciliation. It was not done in a fit of anger; or on the spur of the moment.  For me, it was not forever.  I truly just needed a space to breathe.  The door was shut, but not locked.  I spent decades trying to avoid it preceded by trying to set boundaries, initiates discussion, and limit contact in significant ways.  I thought that if I just found a different way to say it, to invite repair and new fellowship, that they (she) would hear the truth, engage, and own harm.  Doesn’t everyone want to know the truth?  After all, regardless of who she was married to she was my mother. We were blood. That should count for something.  Right? 

We live in a culture where motherhood is exonerated. A parent who initiates no contact is presumed to have good reasons and is widely supported, while an adult child is labeled as disloyal, selfish, difficult, a bad person, and just plain crazy.  Likewise, often labeled sinful in their “dishonor.”  Yet, my agony filled with worries and misgivings also contained a hope for repair and connection.  I knew she could not, but I so hoped that she could.  I always hoped that she would.  

I believe she couldn’t, because what I was inviting my mother to do – she could not do for herself.  Boundaries were met with defensiveness and threats, gaslighting, with denial and refusal to take responsibility.  There was a lack of respect towards me, with a response of filial duty. 

Yes… my estrangement was a last ditch effort to stop parental abuse and invite a new fellowship with my mother and her husband.  Something I desired for me, my husband, and my daughters.  Sadly it did not happen. 

Her death brought grief for what could have been.  Truly, in my life our mother/daughter fellowhship had died years ago.  Yet, an eventual relief settled as time passed.  I no longer had to invite and endure rejection, betrayal, with hope deferred.  Something else that is rarely spoken of with a death of an estranged parent.  Yet, I do believe that wherever she is, she now knows the truth.  And, one day we will sit together and all things will be made right.  

Gypsy

There is a cottage away from the suburbs gently nestled within rolling hills, wide-open spaces, and a canopy of stars at night.  I feel my heart and body settle as we pull through the gate and head to the vine-covered sanctuary. For almost 15 years we have journeyed here to rest, write, or romance.  It has become a sacred space of ritual and play; where deep calls to deep with the howls of coyote, the movement of deer, and the calls of the owl.  I could not wait to introduce this retreat to our 5-month-old puppy, Gypsy.

One morning, just before sunrise, Gypsy and I took off over the hills to explore. She excitedly devoured all the scents from the previous night. We watched the deer run across the field, navigated the cattle guard, stayed far away from the donkeys, and chased a few bees gathering their morning pollen. At one point, I wasn’t sure who was walking who.

Suddenly she came to a halt on the crest of a hill. Unhurried, I watched as she stood regally surveying the dotted wildflower expanse. In the breeze, a strand of DNA whipped around her nostrils, pricked her ears, and stirred perhaps forgotten things or a memory from long ago. Her lanky body settled into the earth wrapping her in a wild yet ordered beauty. The moment became luminous. My heart quickened.

I stood and wept.

One look and anyone can see that Gypsy is a beautiful rescue dog. She is a mix that includes great white Pyrenees; unbeknownst to us when she became a part of our family. She is made to survey and guard the land and its inhabitants from sheep-stealing wolves.  Gypsy’s Retriever side loves her people and the water while her lanky poodle legs are active, and that nose can flush out the biggest rat.  Yet, her home with us is in the suburbs.

Gypsy, like all creation, is an expression of a divine idea.  The hillside perspective brought clarity to Gypsy’s true identity.  Standing in the breeze she appeared to possess a fullness of life that took my breath away. It seemed that Gypsy knew who she was – and it called to her in the primal melody of the wind.

My tears?

Untangled from suburbia, I was able to see more clearly.  Gypsy’s beauty unfolded before me, stirred my soul, and called forth my presence.  The gentle tune opened forgotten sanctuaries in my heart and neglected voices became audible.  Once again reminding me that I am alive, not here by accident and that I am on a journey to become fully who the Divine has created me to be. Ironically, the shadow of living as if I had forgotten contrasted with its opposite highlighted the beauty of the moment.

I am not sure how long Gypsy and I stood on that hillside.  It seemed like hours, while in reality, it was but a twinkle of time.  It grieved me to leave the awe of some eternal embrace.  And I grieved for my pup who would return to a life in the suburbs.

I hope that in a world that so easily entangles my heart, that blindness and habit will not dull my mind to the possibilities and richness that each moment offers.  Nor may I fail to see and be amazed by beauty.

5 Saltines

Fretting is in my DNA with a gene variation that predicts a tendency to ruminate.  In fact, parts of the brain associated with planning, reason, and impulse control show increased activity in worriers.  Without getting into the science, our genetic makeup interacts with the environment, causing some of us to be more susceptible to fear and anxiety.

My childhood was bathed in the fear and anxiety of my mother and grandmother.  Worse-case scenarios dripped through my growing mind and body with little rest.  As a young child, I was unable to choose how to respond to their anxiety and would be swept away by the current of fear.  Even as a tiny little girl, I was expected to calm them down.

Considering this fact, I was doing well navigating the Corona Virus panic.  I was concerned but my body was calm, and my thoughts were logical.  Even the hoarding and empty grocery store shelves did not send me into outer space.  I laughed at the absurdity of the amounts of toilet paper, bottled water, canned goods, and charcoal leaving the stores.  Often times in one person’s cart!  In my eyes, people were definitely over-reacting.  I used words such as selfish or ridiculous to name their hoarding actions.  Then during one trip to the grocery something shifted in my body, and I felt very young and afraid.

They say trauma begets trauma.

When I was 14 years old, we had moved, and I was in a new school.  This was not new for me.  I had moved 26 times and had been to 11 different schools by the time I was a senior year in high school.  A superpower of hypervigilance enabled me to assess quickly the cultural differences between Southern California and my new home in Missouri.  Over the years, I had learned how to quickly adapt and survive to diminish the painful “new girl” label.

Missouri was not California.  Some adjustments were easy, while others seemed out of my control.  The lunch hour proved to be one of those challenges.

In California the outside courtyard provided an atmosphere of communal eating where students mingled freely.  Lunches in white paper bags decorated with fruits sat dappled amongst the beige lunch trays.  At this new school, I learned the hard way that bringing your lunch signified you were “white trash.”  A table in the far corner was for brown bags.  And as I stepped into the lunchroom, there was no way of hiding my brightly adorned lemon lunch bag.

The cruel taunts were relentless and lashed at my soul.  I thought I might die right then and there.  Added to the lunch pressure, I was a varsity volleyball player.  All athletes ate at a group of tables.  None of them brought their lunches.

I went home begging my mother and stepfather to allow me to buy my lunch at school.  I explained the situation – more than once over several weeks.  No matter how I appealed my case, the answer was a firm no.  My mother’s pursuit to be a Proverbs 31 woman was to be respected.  I did not understand.  In spite of my mother keeping a running tally of available money in her wallet, I was pretty sure that we had the money to buy a school lunch.  If not, we were a military family and I knew my school lunch could be provided for free.  I felt trapped.

School was important to me.  Since kindergarten it had been my only safe place.  A refuge from abuse.

So, I weighed the cost.  I was already not eating breakfast due to nausea in the mornings (a story for another time), but survival at this new school meant adhering to cultural norms. It was possible that I could stretch my coin purse stash until I could find the right words to persuade my mother and stepfather.  Thus, the first of many lunches was thrown into the trash as I entered the school building.

Then I got caught.

Eventually, people on the bus started making fun of my sack lunch.  So I began hiding my lunch in my dresser until I could get rid of it unnoticed.  Unfortunately, I forgot about two of them and my mother found the lunches.  I was punished because of the disrespect I had shown to my mother.  Going forward, my mother would control the food I ate – from after school snacks to dinner portions.  Also, if I did not want my mother’s lunch, there would be no lunch.  While my already meager allowance was cut to fifty cents a week.

I never complained about the punishment because I thought that I had deserved it – after all, I did throw away the lunches made by my mother.  And besides, by my own choice I had already not been eating lunch.  I did continue to ask off and on for a school lunch.  The answer was always the same.

For about 4 years of high school, with volleyball practices and after-school games, I made it through most days on a ten-cent ice cream sandwich.  Once home, I was allowed 5 saltine crackers for an after-school snack.  Then dinner portions were strictly monitored.

I cannot tell you how good those 5 saltine crackers tasted!  My undernourished body soaked up their goodness and found a measure of rest.  To this day, crackers still provide a sense of comfort.  My body remembers and calms with each bite.

So, what triggered the shift in my mind and body at the grocery store?  The signs limiting purchases.  Scarcity! In an instant, I was no longer a 50-something woman, I was a ravenous 14-year-old girl who did not know how she would survive.  All logic went out the door and the rumination began.  How would I survive?  We are going to die!  I must gather resources before they are all gone!  I remember thinking, “Good grief Robyn, what’s going on?  Get a grip woman!” 

When I returned home, it was evident that a 14-year-old’s very real fear of scarcity had influenced my shopping.  You guessed it; the bags contained more than a few selections of crackers. My 50-something-self chose not to open any of the boxes.  Instead I made the choice to honor that long-ago teenage girl and seek the generous care of a kind man she has known for most of her life.  My husband listened to my fears and provided me with the much needed comfort of his words and arms. The world did not change, but my mind and body began to calm.

Perhaps during this collective time of trauma, it would benefit us all to recognize that trauma begets trauma.  Let us bear our stories with much kindness – not only for ourselves but for the sake of others.  Because you never know how old a person might be feeling who is standing 6 feet away from you in the grocery store.

As a friend stated after reading this blog, “I believe kindness begets kindness.”