Pacing Yourself

In writing about the death of my Dad six years ago, I knew some of the memories would be hard and stir up a lot of emotions.

I put together a plan that is working out very well.

1. I have a goal to write a little bit every day.
2. I do not write when my anxiety is too high.
3. I write later in the day when I'm more relaxed.
4. I give myself permission to take an anxiety pill.
5. I write only as much as I'm able.
6. I don't push myself to do more than I can.
7. I don't have any noise on in the house.
8. I take a break for petting the cats.
9. I drink water while I'm working.
10. I pray for God to help me remember stuff.

I'm amazed at how many details I remember.  Colors, textures, things I said, how I was notified, who I told, all the stuff that matters.

I've already had such encouraging and eye opening responses from my friends.  They are truly Godly women who empathize with the trauma and disappointments and abuse I've had to get through in this life.

Without God, I never would have made it.

Dad's Death

Our weather has been very cold with lots of snow.  The frigid temperatures continue and thankfully we are having a break from precipitation.  It's a chance to sit back and relax.

Two days ago was the sixth year anniversary of my Dad's death.  I wasn't going to write about it on my blog because I didn't think it would effect me that much.  Wishful thinking.

I started to feel panic and anxiety at the beginning of last weekend.  I called my therapist and asked if she had a cancellation to call me.  I told her it wasn't an emergency.

I could feel myself slipping away.  By the time I got to her office I was gone - emotionally.  I was flat in talking but felt rage inside.

She was going to hand me a glass ball to toss in my hands but I told her I felt like throwing it through the glass window.  It was a way to get me reconnected.  I was still checked out.

I told her the one thing I've never talked about was the morning at the funeral home.  Actually, I haven't talked about the day he died, the viewing of his body, the obituary and the garbage.  There were some things I kept to myself.

This year, it's all coming up like a volcano.  I felt it would be good to write it since writing is my primary outlet.  I could work on it each day then bring it to my next session.  She agreed.

She made a few suggestions.  She asked me to visit his grave.  I told her there wasn't one.  I suggested I could go to where my Dad and I used to fish if I needed to get out some anger.  She thought that was a good idea.

She asked me to go to my safe place - a marina where I live - so I can soak in some good feelings. I told her I could try.  Truth is, with the writing I would be doing, I'd be more inclined to stay indoors but I'm not closed to the idea.

When I got home, I started writing.  I emailed my four closest friends to let them know what I'd be doing.  Each of them gave me so much love and insight.

One of them wisely used the word "trauma."  Another was horrified at the presentation of my Dad. Yet another loves my heart for doing this.  The final one reminded me that this is another writing that is going to help people.

I found two pages from my 2011 blog and I've written two more pages.  The toughest part of the writing will start today.  I'm not looking forward to it but I know it has to be written.

Whenever I think about his death,
I also think about his life.

In the end, my Dad died the way he lived.

He cut himself off from his children,
from me three years before he died.

He chose not to see his other daughters,
sons-in-law or grandchildren.

He died a lonely, miserable, selfish man.

Everything Will Be Okay

Some days I need to remind myself that everything is going to be okay.

My day can be filled with many little problems.  I move from one problem to the next.  I don't have time to catch my breath. 

My day can be filled with one big problem.  I try many solutions.  Maybe I find one that works.  Maybe I don't.

My day can be filled with familiar emotions from a childhood trauma.  Post traumatic stress syndrome.  I do my best to get through it.

My day can have a hard therapy session.  One where I talk about something I've never shared.  I leave feeling exposed and vulnerable.

These are just a few examples over the past couple of months.

For most women who have been abused, recovery leads us down a road that is both familiar yet scary.  We have flashbacks of the abuse, we dream about it and the abuser, we feel body sensations and often times our senses are on high alert.

I've had all of those happen plus feeling certain the abuser was in the bathroom with me when I was getting ready to step into the shower.  I actually felt him breathe on me.  

Nowadays I still have some of those triggers.  I still cry tears of sadness.  I still feel rage at what they did to me.  I still long to be put back together.

Being patient with the process, staying honest with my therapist and doing the hard work God has set before me to do will (I believe) fill in the deep cracks of my life.

My Mom once said to God, "I have all of these broken pieces I'd like to have fixed."

God said, "I intend to."

That's my heart's cry.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          

God's Gentleness

When I was growing up, the only gentleness I received was from my Mom.  But then my Dad's alcoholism stole her from me.  I was abandoned emotionally and left to fight on my own.

It wasn't until I attended vacation bible school a couple of times and Sunday school off and on that I learned about God's love. Even though I was being taught "God loves you," I knew different.  God never visited my house.

My house was filled with yelling, violence, loneliness, abuse, neglect and constant fear.  God was nowhere to be found.  Besides, I wasn't the type of kid God loved.  He loved good little girls who weren't stained with physical and sexual abuse, bruises and blood, tears and torment.  I was a tomboy, tough on the outside, tougher on the inside.

And yet there was a yearning inside that wanted to believe God loved me like they said He did.  I longed to be loved.  I longed to be protected from the abuse.  Instead the hurt and sadness I felt turned into rage and I became the protector for my mom and sisters.

I developed a survivor mentality.  I put my body in between my dad and a family member.  I inserted myself in arguments so that I'd get the abuse and not my family.  I developed such a tough exterior I could handle it.  If I sensed him to be in a violent mood, I'd pick a fight to get it over with so no one else would get hurt by him.

I love my family.  I'd do anything to keep them safe.  Anything.

When I started going to Alateen, I learned about God.  I learned He was here to help me.  He wanted to be an active part of my life.  Not a by stander.

They said God loved me just as I was.  I didn't have to perform for Him.  I didn't have to be perfect.  He loved me, warts and all.  I didn't have to pretend I was something I wasn't.

When I became a Christian, I learned God's love was a gift I did not have to earn.  It was freely given through Jesus' sacrifice on the cross.  No one or nothing could ever take it away.

They said God's love is gentle and kind.  It is not dependent on anything I do.  His love will take my hand and lead me down the path He wants me to go.  He will never lead me astray.

I've learned God's gentleness is good, everlasting, never fails, thoughtful, loving, eternal, never changes, encouraging, safe, satisfies.

Isn't it great to have a God who loves us so completely?

Why Does It Take Some Longer to Recover?

That's my latest question in the journey of recovery.

Why?  Because today is the six year anniversary of one of my abuser's death.  Six years of not having to deal with dysfunctional birthdays, holidays and father's days.  Six years of not having to wonder whether or not I matter to him.  Six years of seeing the man, then not drinking, saying he's a good guy, never admitting any wrong doing.

Three years before his death he never spoke to me.  To this day I don't know why.  He was diagnosed with colon cancer.  Then he went blind.  I called to let him know if he needed anything to call me.  Nothing.  The last time I saw him was at my nieces birthday party and even then he never looked at me.  To him, even at that time, I no longer existed.

No more birthday cards, no more Christmas cards.
We lived a half mile from each other.
It's as if I had never been born.

A few months before his death, my sister was planning her wedding.  I was working and going to counseling with Carol at Meier Clinics in Wheaton.  When my sister asked how I was feeling about my dad being at the wedding, I immediately tensed up.  I told her I didn't want to be the reason she wouldn't invite him.  She said she already had issues of her own and she would rather have me there and feel safe.  My other sister agreed.

How wonderful it felt to have my sisters support me especially because it was very awkward to ask for what I needed.  Can you imagine asking the bride not to invite her father?  My sisters knew what he'd done to me.  The secret was out.

Because the decision was not an easy one for any of us, we jokingly said, "You know what would be nice?  If Dad died so we didn't have to deal with this."  And that's exactly what happened!

My sister never had to tell him not to come, I never had to feel the reality of how his abuse effected my family until later and my Mom didn't have to look at the man who abused her daughter.

We were living lives in recovery as best we could.
He chose to stay behind and live in the disease.

That's why it takes some people longer to recover.