I know in my intellect that when I gave my heart to Christ I gave him permission to heal it, change it and reside in it. I guess I was hoping there would be ultimate healing.
In many ways, God and Jesus have healed a lot of the brokenness. I'm no longer being abused, I have control over who I let into my life and for how long, I'm learning how to keep myself safe and I have just a smidge of self-blame remaining for what happened to me at the hands of an addict.
My wounds are being bound up in all sorts of ways.
I picture gauze bandages being wrapped around my head as my mind heals.
Maybe there's a big flat frozen pack resting on my chest to heal the burns of lies.
God placed a metal cage around my private areas so no one can get in.
I wear a flannel shirt that smells like my Dad and I'm okay with that.
I wear jeans and gym shoes.
I look normal on the outside.
That's how it always was.
The brokenness was covered up, never talked about, hidden beneath clothing.
The brokenness happened at night, in the anger, in the storm of alcoholism.
The brokenness became my cross to carry.
To protect my sisters and my Mom.
Sometimes I would get in between Mom and Dad.
Sometimes I would pick a fight with Dad just to get it over with.
In either case, I protected my family.
How old was I? 10-14
I knew I could take it.
He didn't scare me anymore.
I'd grown cold to his threats, his eye to eye staring, him shoving me against the wall by my neck.
I had ice in my veins and knew one day I would punch him so hard he'd be knocked out cold on the floor. I had thoughts of killing him. Even though he's been dead for six years, when I think about stuff like this, I still want to kill him.
God's had a lot of wounds to bind up.
I'm glad He hasn't stopped yet.
I have a feeling I won't be completely healed
until I'm in heaven.
Today, I'm okay with that.
