I don’t know how I am.

You ask me how I’m doing today. A couple of days ago a similar question prompted a rare vulnerable response. I couldn’t pretend to be okay. I didn’t want to talk. So I was honest. And I know you care so you’re checking in. I appreciate that, truly. But I don’t know what to tell you.

The question prompts a brief internal scan. Am I okay? What evidence do I have of my state-of-being? Right now, I feel fine. I’ve been busy all day at work. I’ve laughed in all the appropriate places at co-workers jokes. I’m not anxious. So far, body memories haven’t interrupted my sense of well-being. I could easily tell you that I’m doing pretty good.

I could have said the same for the last 3 work days, or really the last few weeks. But then I go home and despair settles like a heavy blanket on my shoulders. I have nothing to distract me. I fight it. I tell myself there’s hope and I know there is. But it doesn’t feel like it. My future feels uncertain. I’ve struggled with painful body memories that leave me feeling bruised. I curl up in my bed and drift in and out of sleep, waking with my heart racing from dreams I can’t even remember. My chores pile up until I can’t take it anymore and I clean in spurts, leaving the largest tasks untouched.

When I stop dozing, I numb myself with Netflix into the wee hours of the morning. I play mind-numbing games on my phone because my hands can’t not be doing something. I often drain my phone battery twice in one day; I have to distract. I can’t let myself think for too long without being overwhelmed. As I write this out I’m only just recognizing the patterns. It’s too easy to numb without realizing I’m doing it.

So when you ask me how I’m doing and you expect an honest answer, I don’t know what to tell you. Most of the time, I think I’m doing pretty good, relatively speaking. But if I tell you that, and leave it at that, it feels dishonest. A lie by omission. There doesn’t seem any point in telling the whole truth. There’s nothing you can do. I don’t want to talk about it. And the thought of lying followed by small-talk drains me completely. I’m being a terrible friend, and all of my reasons are unconscionably selfish.

But I don’t know what to do about it. I’m used to keeping up the facade at work, but it takes too much energy to do that with people who know better. You know better, and I don’t want to lie. So I’m telling you I don’t know how I’m doing. I don’t know exactly what’s wrong, and I don’t know when I’m going to be better. I hate that. I’m ashamed that I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve had to say, “I’m not okay.” I’m ashamed that I can’t give you a prognosis of when this will end. I want this to be over, to wake up and feel the sun right down to my soul. I know I will one day, I wish I knew when.

I feel helpless {even though I know I’m not}. And the last thing I want to do is make you feel that way, too. It seems easier for both of us if I don’t say anything. By withholding the truth, I realize that I’m making the executive decision for both of us in what’s best. And I know I’m not in a frame of mind to rightly judge that.

I don’t know how to close this. I don’t know what else there is to say. I’m not asking you for anything. I don’t want to tell you what to do. I wish there was a road map for us. This is uncharted territory.

Thank you for asking. Thank you for checking in on me and letting me know you care. Thanks for sending me things to make me smile. They do make me smile. And I’m grateful. I know you love me. And I love you, too.

Darkness Does Not Disarm Us

I don’t have nightmares as often as some people do. Maybe once every couple of weeks. It depends, I don’t always remember them. I’ve learned that it helps to write them down almost as soon as I wake up, before I forget them and they become a vague sense or just an emotion. I write about them in the notes of my phone, relying on the blue light to bring me fully awake so that I won’t re-enter the dream when I go back to sleep.

I had a nightmare while I was waking up a couple of mornings ago. Unusually for me I was dreaming in between snoozing my alarm. After each snooze, the dream would pick back up where it left off. It wasn’t a bad dream in the beginning, but it very quickly morphed into something sinister.

—————

I was in an airport about to reunite with a friend I haven’t seen in a long time. But before I got out of the airport I got into a conflict and ended up being sent to a holding place, a dentention center attached to the terminal where I was supposed to spend the day with other airport delinquints who were being punished.

I felt alone and scared. They didn’t just allow the “inmates” to sit idly. We were required to line up and go through a series of stations with humiliating tasks and tests; almost as though we were guinea pigs in an experiment. They had one station that was specifically engineered to humiliate women. I don’t want to talk about the details. Suffice it to say that its function was graphic in nature. It was made very clear that we would not be released until each station had been completed.

I was terrified. And alone. I tried to go through the first few stations, thinking it would be enough, that somehow I would get out of having to do what they were making the other women do. Or maybe I could numb my way through it. But my anxiety only got worse and I asked the facilitator if I could get out of it. He told me it wouldn’t hurt, that I had to do it, and I was next in line. And that’s when I panicked. I found a place to hide, a way to escape, and I called my friend to come find me. It was better to risk being on the run than to endure punishment. I snoozed the alarm for the last time after my friend was driving us away.

—————

The dream stayed with me most of the day. I didn’t write it down right away, I was too busy getting dressed and getting out the door to work. When I finally did open the notes on my phone the details were still vivid. And the feelings associated with it were paraylzing. I had to force myself back to reality just to get it written down. It was disturbing. It made me feel dirty and ashamed, even though I knew it wasn’t real. I didn’t do anything in the dream that warranted that kind of shame. I escaped from a dangerous and unjust situation. But I still felt like I’d come too close to doing something very wrong. And when I tried to rationalize that feeling away, I felt I’d done something to make myself have the dream. Maybe the nightmare was punishment for my sin.

Do you know the kind of shame I’m talking about? It’s heavy. Under its weight I felt my breath expand my lungs until the metallic smell of blood filled my nostrils. It makes your sinus cavity tingle, like after you’ve inhaled water from being under too long. Maybe I’m imagining somehow that those feelings are associated with shame. But they feel tied.

It sounds ridiculous to admit it now, but every time I thought about talking about the nightmare (and I really wanted to), I shut myself up, knowing that whoever I told would somehow see through me. I feared that they would know I’d done something to poison my dreams. They would see the stain of sin and make me take ownership of it. Unconsciously, I boarded the spinning ride of self-blame for most of the day.

Until I finally had enough. Around 10pm I finally talked about it to a friend. Just a few sentences, enough disarm the darkness. It was just a dream. And I was giving it power over me. I was letting shame silence me. But I realized that I didn’t have to give it that power. And the only way to break it was to speak up, to bring the darkness into the light. So I did. And my brain finally stopped spinning.

—————

A couple of weeks ago a friend and I got lost in the woods at dark. We were over a mile deep on unfamiliar trails when we had to turn around and retrace our steps. I prayed and sang my way out of panic and into the presence of Jesus. Still, it got darker, there was no blinding miraculous light. But I knew Jesus was with me. He guided me in the dark and showed me the way out, right through my fear. When we finally did make it out of the woods, I couldn’t help but thank and praise Him.

And you know what I realized? Sometimes we walk through the dark. But we don’t have to do it alone. And we don’t have to be afraid. It won’t last forever. This won’t be forever.

—————

These lyrics from Audrey Assad keep running through my mind. Even the darkness does not disarm us…

Even the winter won’t last forever
We’ll see the morning, we’ll feel the sun
We’ll wake up in April, ready and able
Sowing the seeds in the soil

Even the darkness cannot disarm us
We’ll see the morning, we’ll feel the sun
We’ll break up the earth, ’cause we know
That it’s worth it
Sowing the seeds in the soil
Of our love
Of our love

His Banner Over Us

In the fall of 2013 I spent a night and a day at a private retreat center, designated specifically for people to pray and be alone with the Lord. My visit followed a week of sleepless nights with memories of abuse becoming clearer and clearer. I can’t tell you how many nights I spent sobbing into my pillow, crying out to God to take the memories away from me, to make it all go away. I fought them, hard. I didn’t want to believe any of it. I didn’t want to feel it. I didn’t want it to be real. Denial is a powerful force.

By the time I got to my quiet little cabin in the cypress grove, I didn’t have any fight left in me. My TPM counselor suggested that I let myself remember and feel, so I did. I felt like the Lord was telling me to bring it all into the light, to let it lose its power, like hanging clothes in the sunshine. So I made a banner of what I knew and hung it on the little screened porch. I faced the truth head on.

I left the next day without feeling I’d accomplished much to speak of. There was no epiphany. No great revelation from God. No sense of peace or resolution. But I felt His presence in the sunshine and His love through bouquets of wildflowers I picked and placed in my cabin. That was enough.

A few days later I was showering and pondering over the things I was learning. I hated the thought of childhood sexual abuse to defining the rest of my life in the form of any label. I wanted to heal, to get it over with, to put it all away from me, and shove it back under the rug, but I couldn’t do that any more than I could cut off my right arm. I had to deal with this. My head was spinning with the words “victim” and “survivor”, trying to figure out where they fit into my identity. But those words were soon drowned out by the clear voice of The Father declaring over me, “Child… Beloved… Whole… Belonging… These are the words that identify you. This is the foundation on which you must build. What you remember does not change who you are, who you always have been. Your experiences do not dictate your identity. My banner over you is love. I rejoice over you with singing.” 

The words washed over me and the peace that I’d been longing for flooded every inch of my soul, heart and mind. I knew in that moment that this wound did not have to scar my entire life. There is nothing that is beyond His redemption. And then, He sang over me.

The week before I’d downloaded a free album and put it on my phone to listen to later. I’d played it in the background but hadn’t really listened to the words. That morning, the Lord prompted me to search my music library for the word “beloved,” and this song was the only result.

It’s an anthem, straight from the Father’s heart to His children. It was as if He wrote the song just for me and what I needed in that moment. With Him, there are no accidents. Nothing is chance. He knew what I needed and when I would need it.
“So come and be healed
Be made whole
By this love that I offer
Come, for you are mine
I have called
You my Sons and my Daughters” 
There’s no telling how many days I had the song on repeat.  If I was sick, then it was my medicine; it was the joy that sustained my strength on the journey ahead of me.

Tears fill my eyes as I reflect on so many stories like this from the last year. Every single time I thought that despair would overtake me, He has injected joy into my heart. Sometimes it’s been in Theophostic with words directly from Him, other times it’s through song, or scripture or unexpected encounters with people in my life. He gives me joy, not just happiness. Happiness is fleeting, a laugh lasts for a moment and floats away on the air. When I say that “the joy of the Lord is my strength” it is no cliche’. His joy has sustained me to keep walking through the valley of the shadow of death.

Can I tell you something else? These truths are not just for me. I am not His only child. He calls all of us Beloved. His touch will make each of us whole. His desire is to bring you into a place of belonging, to make you a part of His family.

His banner over us is the wildest of love. 

Will you let Him sing over you, too?

Losing My Purity

I was raised in church, attending good Christian youth groups that were earnest in their teachings about purity. Furthermore, I fully embraced the courtship trend, prompted by I Kissed Dating Goodbye. I struggled to maintain my “emotional purity” as a teenager, determined not to give my heart away if I could help it. So, as the memories of abuse surfaced, I tried to reconcile them with the “purity” I’d worked so hard to maintain. I wrestled with the black and white images of purity culture that left no margins for those who are violated against their will.

And I wrote. So many words went unpublished, but it helped me to get them down. What I’m sharing now came from a rage that made me tremble. This is a snapshot of the effect of purity culture on someone who’s been abused.

———————–

October, 2013

I write this from an empty church parking lot which I’ve pulled into because I am fairly sure I’m a hazard to myself and others on the road. I have yelled blindly into the void until my throat is scratched with the strain. But yelling into the void is not helping. I need a sounding board.
I am uncovering memories of sexual abuse in my childhood. I’ve wondered for many years. There have been things that pointed to it. Doctors who suspected and even accused. Irrational reactions to physical touch I couldn’t explain. Things I did and thought about that no “innocent” child should do or think about.

And yet I’ve grown up believing in my innocence. Yes, believing in it. It was a part of my faith, intricately woven into my identity. My purity has been a badge of honor that I have proudly displayed. I wore a ring with a key etched into it on my left hand for 10 years. If you asked me if I was engaged or married, without shame I told you that the ring was a tangible reminder that God holds the key to my heart until I meet the man I will marry. I guarded my heart fiercely. It wasn’t only about abstinence or “waiting” for me. I was determined not to give my heart – my emotional purity – away to any man but my husband.

I am 24 years old and I have never had a “real” boyfriend.

I have had my hand held by only one man on only a few instances.

I have never been kissed.

Yet I have been violated in a way that robbed me of my innocence while I was unaware.

And I had no recollection of it.

Until now.

And right now I am wrestling with what this means about me. I am wondering how this fits into my identity. How do I reconcile these two seemingly opposite parts of who I am?

I bought out of the courtship myth a long time ago. I’ve heard the stories of control and abuse heaped on my friends during their courtships. I walked with friends through broken relationships and broken engagements. I have seen enough to know that the goal of “emotional purity” was a smoke screen; a way to protect teenagers from natural and normal heartache. I held no illusion that my first boyfriend would be my husband, or that I would only ever kiss one man. But – for whatever reason – romantic relationships with any kind of longevity have eluded me. “My purity” has become something I’ve learned to hide in a culture that expects me to have reached a certain threshold of sexual experiences by my age.

The purity culture I immersed myself in as a teenager is coming back to haunt me, though I’ve rejected it for many years. I know, cognitively, that the uncovering of these truths about my past shouldn’t shake my identity. But it does. And it is. “Ignorance is bliss” is no longer a cliché for me. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wished the memories away, longing to go back to a different reality. But I can’t.

My mind replays all the youth group illustrations of perfect gifts all wrapped up for only one recipient, and dwindling strings of pearls, and glass hearts, and broken, melted candy bars. The desperate plea from the pulpit, “Save yourself. Save yourself! SAVE YOURSELF! …Or else this is what you will become,” echoes in the hollows of my heart.

… I saved myself. For what?

I am constantly unsure whether I should stay silent or tell this story. Each time I imagine hitting publish I am haunted by a host of questions and doubts: If I tell this story, who will want me? My “innocence” is only a facade. What man in his right mind would willingly love a girl with this kind of baggage? Who would dare to fight these demons with me? How can I be ashamed of my purity and wish it was real at the same time?

I’m telling my story now because of those questions, and in spite of my doubts. Those questions were birthed from a Christian culture of purity that is impossible to live up to. I am fighting through the lies about my worth by speaking up. As I rise up, a righteous anger rises with me. For all of the youth group girls who sat beside me silently asking the same questions and having nowhere to turn for answers; this is for you, too. I need to know I am not alone.

The Darkest Days Reveal the Light

When I despair that the healing process will never end or feel that my progress is too slow, I must only think back to the first few weeks of memories surfacing. Those were dark days, indeed. I was facing and fighting things that were long buried in the deep sea of forgetfulness. I would sleep with the light on, wake, and take one deep breath before my heart caught and I remembered. The memories came gradually, some through Theophostic and some through flashbacks and body memories. Reflecting, I am certain it was the mercy of God that I was not flooded with memories. Had I remembered all at once, I’m almost certain it would’ve killed me.

In those first weeks, panic attacks were a daily occurrence, often coming from unknown triggers or with intrusive thoughts. I had nightmares frequently and slept with my light on most nights. Suicidal thoughts came and went, leaving me terrified to be alone but feeling I had no one I could turn to without having to explain more than I was prepared to. I did a lot of Theophostic in those first couple of months. I learned to feel after having spent years numbing my emotions. I asked Jesus a lot of questions.

I struggled to rationalize the blame. Logically, I knew it didn’t make any sense to feel as though the abuse was my fault. It defied all reason. But no amount of mental gymnastics could change the feeling, deep down inside me, that I was to blame for what happened to me. This became apparent in the fact that I started profusely apologizing for the most inane things in my daily life. My co-workers were amused (and mildly annoyed) by my nearly constant utterance of, “I’m sorry.” I couldn’t stop myself; I was seemingly apologetic for my very existence. For months this issue of self-blame came up in almost every TPM session. If there was any comfort to me in that it was knowing I wasn’t the only victim of CSA to struggle with blaming myself.

One of my first big breakthroughs came when I was wrestling in TPM to understand why I wasn’t protected from the abuse. Gently, Jesus showed me that while I wasn’t protected in body, He protected my mind. I didn’t grow up with shadows of memories hanging over me. It was His mercy in designing my brain to suppress the memory of trauma until I was old enough and in a safe place to remember and process. That little girl couldn’t have handled it. At 24 years old, I had all the necessary faculties and resources to cope in a way that isn’t self-destructive. That seemed like a miracle to me. It didn’t resolve all the questions I had, but it made it easier to keep going. In those days any small burden lifted was a tremendous relief.

There has been pain, for sure. But it is not without redemption. The darkness is not as overwhelming now as it was then. I don’t have panic attacks like I used to. If I have nightmares, I write them down and use them in TPM. Remembering is still not easy, but it is definitely better. The dark days have made me infinitely more grateful for The Light.

In the Beginning.

In the summer of 2013 I began doing a form of counseling called Theophostic Prayer Ministry (TPM) with a mentor/friend I had known from a distance for many years. I started this because at the time I was recovering from 10 years spent in a spiritually abusive church. But that’s another story.

I was terrified to start TPM, mostly because it works by recalling memories that hold wounds and lies from our past. It invites Jesus to those places to reveal and replace the lie with His truth. Despite my fear of what might be uncovered, I immediately had incredible results. The healing that was taking place for church and family wounds was remarkable. But still I was in a crisis of faith and identity that made me want to run away from God completely. I tried to run, to push Him away. But I didn’t get very far.

—————

For years I had wondered if there were traumas in my childhood that I didn’t remember. I had very few cognitive memories before age 8, and the memories I did have were mildly disturbing to me. I heard a radio interview once that talked about women who were victims of sexual abuse or assault startling when approached from behind and shrinking from unexpected touch. It made my insides shrivel, because I did that, but I had no memory of abuse. I assumed it must be a fluke.

But there were other things, too. I had a vivid memory of fighting and eventually biting my father when he tried to tickle me at age 5. I’d previously loved to play that game, but he never tried again. I was a daydreamer in elementary school, and the things I dreamed about were “R” rated, though I didn’t realize it. I did things to my dolls that no “normal” little girl should do. I did things to myself that resulted in humiliating doctor visits and whispered inquiries about abuse. But there was no proof.

—————

One night while talking with my TPM counselor, my greatest fear began to surface. All the little puzzle pieces I had synchronized, and I remembered. The memory didn’t come consciously. I didn’t think extra hard about it. I just allowed myself to feel, and the next thing I knew, I was screaming, crying, hysterical. I was a little girl again, in the dark, and crying out for the first time… ever. I had panic attacks in waves that night as the memory became more clear. I didn’t know exactly what happened. I didn’t know with whom. I didn’t know the details. I just knew that it hurt.

And it made so many things make sense.

—————

Of the close friends and family that I have talked to about what happened to me, several have asked, “Why remember now? Isn’t it better to leave the past in the past?” or some variation on that question. There have been times when I have screamed at God those very words, wishing desperately that I could go back to blissful ignorance. But from the first night that the memories started to surface, Jesus made it so clear to me that He is with me. I am remembering so that I might be healed, even in places I wasn’t fully aware I was wounded.

Faithful to His word, healing has been taking place. At times to me it seems painfully slow, but I know that I’ve come a long way from where I began. This journey is not yet over for me. Some days or even weeks are much harder than others. I’ve fought hard for the truths Jesus has given to me. As I write my truths it is my prayer that they shed even just a glimmer of light, hope and peace to you.

I Want to Thrive

What would happen if I started writing in a place that no one else knew about? What would happen if I put down the words that I’m too afraid to write in my journal and too afraid to speak. There are some things that I can’t share with the people that I love because they wouldn’t know how to hold the words. In the process of healing me,I would only hurt them, and it isn’t fair to transfer that pain.

If there is one thing that I have learned in the last year of becoming a survivor of childhood sexual abuse it’s that so many of us want to know we are not alone – desperately. When my first memories started to surface in August of 2013 I became a sponge for information. I spent hours scouring the internet looking for stories like mine, someone out there talking about it; honestly, not just clinically. I wanted to know I wasn’t the only one. With each new step in the journey towards healing I search for others who are in a similar place.

I have never been one of those who takes offense when people say to me, “I understand.” I know that they don’t share my experience, no matter how many parallels our lives hold. Rather, I appreciate the sentiment. They haven’t walked in my shoes but they’re often trying to walk a mile with me and I’m glad for the company. My story is unique, as is yours. We won’t hold all things in common. But it is my hope and prayer that in writing my truths you identify with them even a little bit. That we might raise our hands in solidarity and say, “Me, too.” And that you’ll leave here feeling a little less alone and a little more hopeful.

I want to thrive, not just survive.