Christianity and People

Lent 2019 – Living Life, Moment by Moment

Reflecting on Lent today, I found myself thinking of living life, each day, every day, moment by moment, action by action. Until a few years ago I did not know what Lent was. Growing up in a Pentecostal Church and then 10 years in a Baptist Church, Lent was not a part of our teachings or traditions. As social media became more prevalent I saw friends giving up things for Lent. You can Google ‘Top 10 Things to Give up for Lent’ and find some great, beneficial and even interesting, ideas. Typically I see: Sweets in general, Chocolate, Alcohol, TV, and now the ever popular, Social Media.

A few years ago, I attended an Ash Service at Luther Memorial Church in Broadview with my friend, Maggie. It was my first year going to a service, receiving ashes, and giving something up for Lent. The previous year, I read up on Lent and spent time exploring the story of Easter in the bible. This year my focus will be on giving up what I am holding on to. Most likely not tangible possession, although I did post a few things on ‘Buy Nothing’ just this afternoon, so that may play a role as well. More importantly, thoughts I am holding on to, irritations, opinions, attitudes, worries and fears. Troubles from the past, the present and things to come that I cannot predict or control. Things that have happened whose ill effects linger still, bearing weight upon my heart, these too I shall let go.

Today as I sat thinking about Lent and reading my Bible I decided I would go to the service in my neighborhood once again. I carried with me no expectation other than for the service to set my mind and heart on the upcoming Easter holiday. As I walked up the street the darkness covering my view of what lingered above and beyond the trees, I felt the cool mist in the air about me settle on my skin. Silence surrounded me, other than the clomping of my boots on the wet pavement. I saw my daughter’s car in her driveway and decided to knock and see if she would join me.

We walked together the short two blocks to the church and found our way in (after asking a woman for directions as to where to enter). There was an NA meeting about to start in the lobby of the church. The room they will meet in is under construction. We found it was necessary to walk right through their meeting as we entered and later, as we left. The solid wood doors to the sanctuary were closed. I reached out to pull one open. Our ears greeted by the low tones of a lone cello lovingly stroked by the bow held in hand. Candles lit. Participants sat, two in this row, five in that row, one in the last. We took a seat amongst them. The clergy and her assistant sat up front, robes reaching the floor, resting on their shoes. The cellist along with the pianist painting a picture with melody and harmony.

The service, ritualistic in nature, soothed my soul as my spirit was drawn into reflection of what Christ did. I responded as directed by the pamphlet given to us after we had sat down by the lone man in the last row. Later we would find he, and the five sitting together, along with the clergy, were the choir which would sing at the end. We listened to scripture, sang along with the hymns, soaked in the Homily (message), confessed our sins and sought forgiveness, before receiving the ashes.

Reminded we are dust and to dust we shall return. A cross gently drawn on our foreheads by the clergy and her assistant. We agreed in prayer for others near and far, a song of thanks rang out. After a final prayer from the clergy we were given communion. I dipped the wafer placed in my hand into the cup of wine. Words were spoken, I do not recall. I nodded and partook of the emblems. My heart in tune to the meaning. The bread, His body, broken for my sins. The price, the penalty He paid for me. His blood, shed, covered, cleansed me from all unrighteousness. Washing me white as snow in His Father’s eyes. For this, I am ever grateful.

The choir sang as the five of us left in our seats looked upon, listening to their voices in unity, in harmony, sing of His wondrous love for us. The song ended. The clergy stepped out a side door into the unknown. All was silent. We looked about, and then down at our pamphlet.

As the service ends, you are invited to visit a pastoral prayer station for individual prayer, remain in the worship space in meditation and reflection, or go in peace.

Peace be with you.

And also with you.

Christianity and People

Living My True Life

I sat in the one place I felt truth was of utmost importance, listening to yet another man of God tell me to hide my sin. It was all I could do to bite my tongue, pressing my lips together holding my voice inside, tight within my throat. A hollow ringing began in my ears, this seemed to happen when my mind battled to believe what it was hearing was in fact real and not a dream. Maybe this is what anxiety felt like. I had yet to experience a panic attack. Those were yet to come.

Image result for thou shalt not lie

“Let me get this straight Pastor Wayne, If Tom sits on one side of the church and I sit all the way across on the other side of the church so people think we are not together, then we can keep attending your church? But, if we are open and honest before God and Man, sit next to each other as the couple we are, then we are not welcome in your church?” I turned to look the Pastor in the eye.

“Well, I mean, we can’t condone a married man coming to church with his girlfriend? So you can either sit apart until he is divorced or go find another church to attend.”

I don’t think he understood what he was in fact saying. Just that morning in worship we had all sung this song together, Come Just as You Are. Having grown up in church I had heard the verses, ‘Cast all your care upon Him, for he careth for you.’ And, ‘There is non righteous, no not one.’ I knew no matter what I said or did, I couldn’t hide it. God already knew. Pretending was only fooling man, not God.

Psalm 139:3-7 “You know where I go and where I lie down. You know everything I do. Lord, even before I say a word, you already know it.”

“I made a promise to God after I left my husband. One promise, to live my life honestly. No more lying. No more pretending I am something I am not. No more walking into the house of God in my Sunday best, painted on smile, prim and proper, eyes looking down upon others as though I had it all together when they did not. If I was going to walk into His house, it was going to be on one condition, I come as I am. My sins, my brokenness, my past, my present, my sadness, my flaws, my pain, my fear, all together, me.” He sat looking at me without comment.

I was done lying. I was done pretending. I was done being who I was not. I had spent over a decade living a facade of the perfect Christian life, all the while my marriage was anything but perfect. Lying, fighting, over our heads in debt, pornography, cheating people we owed money to, our employers, sin so great I was in depth of dispair and wanted nothing more than to die. I nearly got my wish. But God had spared my life. Sin and all.

And so, here I was, in His house facing the one thing I had promised to leave behind. Lying. To God and to man. The thing is, you can’t lie to God. He knows your heart, your thoughts, your actions and your deeds. You can hide, but even Adam and Eve, will tell you, He will find you, every time. What’s the point? If I lie to man, He still knows. And so, I had determined I would not lie. I would come to his house, in my sin and listen. Listen to His word. Listen to His spirit. Listen to my heart breaking, melting and re-shaping. In His time, in His way.

“I’m sorry, I can’t do that. I won’t lie. Not to you, and not for you.” I sat next to this Pastor, my hands gently folded in my lap, my eyes cast down at the carpet before me. My feet resting on the carpet. It led to the altar, where people could come and confess their sins to God. It also led up the aisle and out the door. Away from the House of God.

“I’ll have to ask you to leave then.” His face lacked emotion, he looked tired. I wondered the number of times he had asked people to lie or leave. To give up there stronghold or get out. To confess or walk away.

“You know, I can’t help but think, if you were to stand up there next Sunday, behind that pulpit and ask for every person here who has had pre marital sex, who has lived in sin not having been married to the person they were sleeping with at night, who had cheated or were cheating at that moment, any person who had feasted their eyes upon pornography and had yet to confess it, to stand up and leave. I wonder how many would remain?” Silence.

And these were just the sins based on sex, what about all the other sins? The ones nobody knows about, but so many are living in? It’s easy to live in sin and hide it. It’s much harder to come before God, honest, broken, sin and all, and not be changed.

I walked away from the church that day.

 

I had long talks with God while out for a walk or in the silence of my home over the years. Seven years to be exact. It took nearly six years for me to step through doors to a church again. My belief in my creator never changed. It may have waivered as I asked questions of God and myself. As answers trickled in, I found it wasn’t my faith in God that I was questioning. It was my faith and trust in man. In Christians.

I stuck to my commitment. I would live my life out in truth. Not perfectly, not without sin, not without mistakes, but in them. Messing up, trying again. Accepting responsibility and apologizing for my screw ups, time and again. Realizing some mistakes hold a longer reaping than others. Still walking in my truth, the good and the bad. Still believing in and talking to God. He listens.

 

Christianity and People, Life After Cancer

Live Out Loud

My post yesterday has been running through my head. I am in the process of writing a memoir. Part of that process is reading other people’s memoirs and articles about memoirs. One interesting point that has stuck out to me in my reading went something like this:

“If a family consisted of four siblings and all four siblings wrote a memoir about their childhood, you would most likely end up with four very different books. ”

That leads to the question, Who is lying? The article went on to say that quite possibly, none of them are in fact lying. They each have their recollection of what their upbringing was. Each have cherished or not so cherished memories, a different perspective or point of view of holidays celebrated, family vacations and daily life. Who’s to say that one’s perception or memory is more right than another?

Over the years I have shared different parts of my story. Sometimes in private conversations with friends, or with strangers when the opportunity arose, or in a group setting such as a teen girls group or women’s group. Each time I have shared the response has been positive and taken me by surprise. More than once a woman has come to me after to share her story or tell me that what I ha to say has inspired her to move forward in a direction in her life that she had been contemplating but lacked confidence or the strength to go ahead, take a risk on herself. Often I have been asked, why haven’t you written a book?

Years ago, I contemplated writing a book and even began the first few pages. As the words hit the paper shame clouded my view and covered my head. The heaviness overwhelmed me. Through much counseling, soul-searching and heart healing I came to a place where my past no longer brought on shame, nor did it bring on anger, instead it filled me with confidence. As powerful as that felt it was also intimidating. Where had this inner strength come from? Was it there all along, only stifled, pressed down, hidden under the pain and shame? Or was it new? A result of overcoming all that had suppressed and oppressed me over the years of my life. Whatever it was, and however it came to be, I welcomed it with open, albeit reserved arms.

No sooner had I come to grips with who I was and who I was becoming to be when I found my body had succumbed to cancer. Just as I had welcomed this new-found strength I welcomed the cancer within my body. That may sound strange to you. For me, it seemed right. Cancer was a way of slowing myself down. After an abusive childhood, I entered an abusive marriage at the young age of 17 1/2 years old. It took just over 10 years to admit, come to grips with and then find a way out of that relationship, not only for me, but for the small innocent child we had brought into the world. Then it took years of living life, going to therapy, and plenty of conversations with myself and God to bring to the point of self forgiveness and empowerment to use my past to help others if at all possible.

When cancer hit, I thought, “Okay, this is the perfect opportunity for me to take some time to rest, reflect and write.” Little did I know that there would be much rest, a great deal of reflection and little to no writing. The writing I did do, centered around cancer and how I was doing. There were days that this brought me down. I battled with my brain as I wanted to use every minute of this ‘down time’ to the best of my ability. I’d love to say I learned quickly, but honestly it took a good portion of my treatment to get through my thick skull that this was to be a time of rest and reflection, a time to soak up the love and affection of friends and family, something I always had a hard time doing. That alone was therapy for me.

As my treatment ended and I saw the light at the end of rest tunnel, I became afraid. Had I really wasted the time that had been given to me? It seemed as though I had. I had nothing to show for it in the way of evidence of having used the time wisely. Thankfully, many good friends, my husband and my daughter told me over and over again, I had done with the time as I should have. I had cherished every moment with them, allowed my body to rest, spent time with friends new and old, near and far, sitting, chatting, listening and soaking in their love and affection through word, food and deed. I have come to accept that my time of cancer, treatment, surgeries and healing was for more than physical healing, it has also attributed to my mental and emotional well-being as well.

As I have returned to the ‘real world’ or life post cancer, of work and family activities, I do so with a renewed heart and an even greater balance of life. I love my work in real estate, I love my time with family and friends, and I love my time writing. As I write I wonder at times what life would be like if we were more real, more honest with who we are. If you know me well, you have heard me say, “Did I just think that out loud?” The idea that my honesty, my truth would come out of my mouth and not be held in, in order to keep the peace or be politically correct. I am not referring to saying things that are hurtful to others without filter or compassion. I am speaking of saying the things that are held back when they should be said, seek justice, love mercy, walk humbly. Stand up for what is right. Speak up when an injustice is occurring rather than watching silently, shaking your head as you walk away. Or sharing your mistakes, your past, your failures as a parent, or wife, mother or father, sister or daughter in order to help another realize they are not alone.

And so it is with that heart, that I write and I share. Not to shame anyone, but to help others, whether that be to help them find an answer, or help them realize they are not alone. I am here. Real. Raw. Living. Thinking. Writing.

Christianity and People, Family and Pets, Writing For The Moment

Do as I Do, Not as I Say

How often do we give an instruction to a child, our child or someone else’s child that we have influence over, that in actuality we do not follow ourselves? I was raised by two Christian parents. Married for over 35 years before they both passed away. They never divorced although they had plenty of reasons that would have satisfied most anyone’s curiosity and conviction as to a justifiable divorce. They stayed true to their vows, at least that is what everyone thought that sat at their funerals, separated by only a matter of months. Many good memories, anecdotes and accolades were shared as guests, friends, family and co-workers, reminisced about each of them at their perspective memorial service.

I sat their listening at my mother’s funeral with tears pouring down my cheeks brought on by the memory of who she was to them, of who I wished she had been for me. Believe me, I loved my mother. I longed for many more years with her. I felt cheated out of time I assumed I would have with her and only her when my father passed. The biggest problem lay in the fact that she passed first and far too soon. The memories shared expressed who my heart knew my mother was, the love she had to give, the attention and generosity of time, talent and compassion. The unconditional understanding she had for those around her. I knew that is who she was, had always known this. And yet, the thought kept creeping into my mind again and again although I tried to brush it off, that they didn’t know her, not all of her.

I sat at my father’s memorial and listened as people spoke about him and the ways he had touched their lives. Most if not all commending him for his tenacious spirit that never quit even under the weight of many health set backs year after year that were debilitating, life changing and never-ending. And all I could think as I sat there was, that they didn’t know him. Not how I knew him.

Even before Facebook my family, like many others I am sure, had mastered the art of putting on a good face. Posting only the happy moments of our life for all to see. Anything else, anything disparaging, anything questionable, of poor taste, that would leave a sour taste in your mouth or worse yet make you vomit, was hidden, left unsaid. On any given Sunday we would dawn our best, put on our freshly shined fake patent leather shoes, and walk into church, mom and dad hand in hand, each of us kids with a smile or at least a smirk on our faces. I should probably note (and commend) my older brothers that there did come a time that they finally refused this ruse. Our parents swayed and allowed them to stay home rather than stir the pot and cause a scene at church. Although I never went to work with my parents, I can imagine the conversations between them and their co-workers as they shared tales of their families. Oh, the webs they must have woven, beautiful and intricate in design to show off the cohesive and loving family they created with their own words.

As a child I was told a magnitude of times enduring countless hours of church, Christian school and conversations at home, to tell the truth.

Thou shalt not lie.

Put on the full armor of God……Stand firm then, with the belt of truth buckled around your waist….

You shall not give false testimony [lie] against your neighbor.

For the Lord your God detests anyone who does these things, anyone who deals with dishonesty.

The truth shall set you free!

Just tell the truth, you will feel better if you do.

Tell the truth…. We may be disappointed but if you lie you will be sinning.

Confession is good for the soul.

On, and on, the teaching went. Tell the truth. And yet, as I sit here and reflect as I have done over and over again, so much of my upbringing and years of my first marriage were nothing more than lies. Outright lies. I was lied to. I was lied about. I listened as lies were told. I listened as my family was told by their Pastor to lie. I listened as the truth was withheld in order to protect the family, the church, anyone they deemed in need of protection by those lies, themselves. I told lies to protect them, him, my daughter, me. I lied to be who others wanted, expected me to be. They taught me well.

Tell the truth, just not about this.

Tell the truth, just not now.

Tell the truth, about other things.

This truth would be better left unsaid.

Confess your sins, but do it in private.

Be honest in everything, except the things that are embarrassing, will hurt the church, will affect yours and our reputation.

Tell the truth….some other time.

Do as I Do, Not as I Say, Tell the truth, Just not today.

 

 

 

 

Christianity and People, Family and Pets

The Truth Shall Set You Free, or Not

The Truth Shall Set You Free, or Not.

After very minimal research I am amazed to see how many people post on blogs or boards that they are or were in an abusive relationship. The type of relationship runs the gamut. From dating to decade long marriages, heterosexual to gay, young to old, the make-up may be different but the dynamic is quite similar. One partner abuses the other or in some cases both abuse each other almost equally. During my brief online research I also learned a new abuse type. There are the ones we think of most often physical abuse, mental abuse and emotional abuse. The new term I learned was Financial Abuse. This type of abuse was described as a partner who either drains the finances or keeps them hidden from the abused partner so that the partner cannot leave.

After leaving my husband in late 2002 it took a lot of time and therapy to process all that my daughter and I had been through. During that therapy it was inevitable to follow my trauma timeline all the way back to my childhood. While thinking and talking about abuse is quite difficult and painful, not being able to recall events is equally if not more frustrating. My inability to remember much of my past leaves huge gaps with unknown possibilities making it nearly impossible to determine how I got to where I did and what to change in some areas going forward. My options are to undergo hypnosis to see if I can recall my past, ask family members to share what they remember, let it go and accept that the unknown is in fact unknown for a reason. I hesitate to ask my family members, at least the ones closest to the situation for a few reasons. The strongest one being that the family way was made quite clear when the worst of the abuse was uncovered. Although a spot light was shining brightly, nearly blinding you if you looked for too long. That light was quickly turned off. Like a plugged ripped out of the wall socket. No sooner had the flood light of truth opened the surrounding eyes when darkness once again covered the evil that had crept in and lurked around hidden corners in what was supposed to be the safety of a child’s home. Just when I thought the truth would be spoken it was quickly swept under the rug and we were told not to speak about what had happened to anyone. Not only did we keep the secrets, our grandparents did, our aunts and uncles (the ones that knew) and the Pastors of our very own church. Are they not the ones that preach, the truth shall set you free? Instead they walked the path of the hidden truth for the safety of my father, my mother, they said for us kids, and for their beloved church.

And so I was taught to hide the truth as the truth was embarrassing and shameful. To this day it seems those closest to the situation would rather hide or forget the bad that happened. And that is why I do not ask. I fear all I would hear is the good that they remember. Maybe hearing the good times would be good for me since I don’t remember them hardly at all. I’m learning that maybe I do not remember them due to the fact that I feel I am the only one holding on to the truth. Like the voice crying out in the wilderness, begging for those closest to the situation to wake up and acknowledge the truth. Accept the truth. Maybe then I would be willing to listen to and accept that there were good times as well mixed in with the abuse. The other reason I hesitate talking to those closest to the situation is that I fear my honesty and determination to hold on to what happened will hurt them, make them angry at me, make them push me away even further. And yet, I remind myself the separation already exists. What closeness we have is superficial at best. Hidden truths have a way of creating a barrier seen or unseen, recognized or not, it is there. And so I write.

Writing is how I best process information. It helps me to see it in the black and white, challenge and change as needed, accept and grieve, and then in hope of healing move forward. I am finding that what works for me is not necessarily accepted by others. I have always known that people learn and thus process differently. Having been a home school mother of one child, as well as the mother of two children one being a girl and the other being a boy, I am accustomed to the fact that what works for one does not necessarily work for the other. The first time I started writing about my abusive past I was completely taken aback when a person in my life told me to stop writing or they would cut me off. I do not exaggerate. This individual had a track record in the past of coming into my life only to exit, usually quietly, with no contact for periods no less than 6 months and at times up to 2 years. Only to come back in with the promise that the desertion would not repeat. And yet it did. Those times the desertion was due to her own life choices. Choices that went against how she had been raised, I believe she felt she had to live out her life in private so as not to feel the guilt we might impose upon her just by knowing. I have come to accept that this is just who she was. Years have passed since she walked out of my life yet again. This time for good. More recently I began writing again. Having gone through two different cancer diagnosis the past year I found myself once again in a space of reflection and processing. With time to sit and be, my desire to write once again grew louder and louder. So loud that I have found it difficult to ignore. And so I began to write. My writing seems to be innocent at first. I take precaution and care in what I put down on the page knowing that others will read, will hear what I have to say. My initial writings are often light hearted even cheerful. I found this time that the past seemed to come forth more quickly and with an unexpected fervor. I thought I would write about my cancer journey and found that my abusive childhood and marriage were what were most prevalent every time I sat with my fingers poised to begin typing words that would appear on the screen in front of me. Still I tried to tip toe around the subjects and kept the writings as light or as basic as possible. Not divulging the truth in full detail, not just yet.

One of my recent writings had a singular sentence that referenced the abuse my father subjected us to. It did not detail exactly what he did. And yet, that one sentence stood out like a throbbing, pulsing sore thumb to one reader. And that reader texted right away. While this reader did not tell me to stop writing per say, basically that was the just of their message. Or at least, it was to say if I continued they would no longer be present in my blog life. Will that extend to real life? Only time will tell. The reader went further and un-friended me on Facebook. Now this is not your average Facebook friend. You know the ones that you see their posts in your feed and often scroll on by. Once in while you stop, re-look at their name and ask yourself, Why are we friends on Facebook? We aren’t ‘friends’ in real life. Meaning we do not get together, hang out, go to lunch, chat on the phone (truthfully speaking I do not chat on the phone with anyone). You make the connection, maybe they were a high school friend or acquaintance, a parent of one of the kids on your child’s sports team, or a fellow parent from the school PTA. You know each other now or in the past. You bump into each other on the rarest of occasion and thus are ‘friends’ on Facebook. They have a window into your world and you into theirs. No, this is not one of those friends. This is a person that has been in your life since the day you were born. This person was there day in and day out through it all. You were once very, very close sharing hopes and dreams real and pretend. But that was a long time ago. You were young, oh so young. At some point you grew up and grew apart but the connection was to remain, it had to. You are blood. And so, in time you reconnected and became friends on Facebook. Where all relationships real or fake at least seem real. And so it is with this friend that decided to unfriend me on Facebook so that they would not have to see my blog posts. It surprised me. Not that they didn’t want to see the posts. That part I was prepared for. It was the drastic measure taken to not see, the truth. I was not hurt that they unfriended me. I just didn’t see how it was necessary. I guess I just would have handled it differently. If I did not want to read what someone posted I would scroll on by. That simple. I just wouldn’t read it. I wouldn’t click on the blog link. Or if they posted incessantly I would block their posts from my feed. No need to fill my feed with crap I don’t want to read. But unfriend them? Naw, I wouldn’t do that unless I truly did not want them in my life at all. Unless I really wanted to say to them, ‘We are not connected anymore. Not in real life and not in the fake life of Facebook.’ Or maybe, I would be saying nothing more than, ‘We weren’t really friends anyway and I don’t care to have this window into your life anymore. Let’s close the curtain, okay?’ But that is me, how I would handle the same situation. And yet, I respect that it was a choice they had to make. Facebook being what it is, an online way to stay connected. To not be connected on Facebook is not to say that someone is not my friend. We just aren’t connected on the internet. Instead we are connected or not in real life. I suppose I could go on and on about Facebook, internet and real life connections. I will save that for another day, or not.

My writing going forward will likely include a thought or two about my past, my childhood, my abusive marriage, my year of cancer, my current life and then thoughts that have nothing to do with all of the above. There will be truth and there will be fiction. I will try to decipher between the two for you so you are not left wondering. Although it could be fun if you were at times left wondering. For you and for me.

Truth. Hidden and uncovered. Read or unread. Still remains the truth.

When I was researching the other day it was sparked by being unfriended by this person due to my writing of the truth. Each time I have started to write about my past whether it be my childhood or my first marriage, inevitably I have come to the inner conversation where I wonder who I will lose in the process. I am not so callous as to be able to disregard or ignore the fact that the truth I will write will hurt some people. Some of which in no way at all deserve to be hurt again. For they too were the victims in these stories. Others were simply by standers, guilty if at all only by association. They played no role in the abuse other than being related to the abuser. It was in thinking of these people that I began a search. It was something along the lines of “If you write the truth do you lose family and friends?” or “abuse victims who tell the truth only to lose family and friends”. I didn’t have a lot of time but what I came across was post after post of individuals sharing briefly how they had been or were being abused by their partner. One article spoke of how abusers were often abused themselves as children. Not an excuse just a link to the underlying causes of abuse. The chain that is often never ending. Sometimes it is a heavier chain than others. Sometimes it wears thin and is nearly broken only to be strengthened by the next generation as a new abuser picks up the traits and begins again the cycle of abuse.

Once in a while, I am not sure of the statistics or if there are any, the cycle is broken and the abuse stops. I can only imagine, I must believe in order for this to happen that the truth would first need to come to light. The flood light would need to be turned on and the guilty would need to be at minimum acknowledged as such. The victim would need to share the pain, the hurt. Or maybe the abuser, the guilty one would be the one to shed light on their actions in order to break the chain that binds them. Once broken the victims could be released as well as the guilty. Both or all would be free to speak the truth as they so choose and find a way to heal from what they had been through. Each in their own way could process through all that had happened and determine how to change, how to heal, how to move forward differently. In a way that would not hurt others. Not repeat the cycle yet again. And in that realm of choices would also be the choice to not speak the truth, to not process the pain, to not heal or change but to ignore, hide or sweep if you will the truth back under the rug. And sit in hope. Hope that by ignoring what happened and instead focusing on the good that was there, the bad would over time dissipate or decompose along with the memories. Fading away to leave only room for the good that had once been. And when sitting in that truth of only good memories one could stand in shock and utter disbelief when someone else years after the fact begins to cry out.

At first the voice is small and quiet growing increasingly louder as time and strength allowed. Not in order to seek justice for the guilty but to seek healing for herself and for others who are too weak for their voice to be heard. For those who have questions but have no words and don’t know who to ask. For those who feel pain from the ones who are to protect them and love them and can’t understand why. For those who have not been told that what is happening is not okay and needs to stop. For those who are afraid to leave. Afraid to look like the one giving up, the one walking away, the one who is guilty rather than being seen as who they are, they are the one who is the victim. For the ones who so badly want to hear that they are not alone. They are not the only one that has been treated this way. It is not them, it is the abuser who is bad. Who need to be told they do not need to be ashamed although their past is riddled with shameful events. Their shame can be healed. Self-respect and self-worth can be restored. They can come to a place where they can forgive those who unjustifiably hurt them in ways unimaginable without giving up the fact that what the abuser did was in fact as wrong as wrong gets. That by forgiving they are not justifying but letting go. Letting go of the pain, shame, hurt, guilt, hate and anger that at times consumes them from the inside out. And by letting go they are not doing the abuser a favor but giving themselves the gift they deserve. The gift that the truth has to offer. The truth shall set you free. That is if you choose to acknowledge it and follow the journey it takes you on in order to get to that place where you are free indeed. Your journey and your place of being free may be similar to mine or it may be very, very different. All however, start in looking at the truth square in the face. As horrible or simple, as painful as that may be. Are you ready to be free? To feel free from the burden that weighs you down? I was. I am. And so, it is with that in mind that I look at the truth square in the face and by doing so I write about it.

 

 

 

 

 

*I am torn. I feel compelled to write the whole truth. And yet, I feel the hesitation of hurting those I loved in the past and those I love to this day, some more now than back then. I am uncertain as to how I will proceed. To write the truth and post it….or write it and wait to decide if I will publish it as a book….or if writing it in and of itself will be enough.