reblog time ♥️
I sit on the wooden porch swing, kicking my legs up and down as I swing in the air. The baby monitor is on the patio table. I hear the white noise machine running and I know I will hear her voice soon. She wakes up frequently these days.
I look at at the pond as I’m swinging. It’s April. I hear the bullfrogs. Swinging in the evenings on this screened in porch calms me. I think about how just six months before this, I did not want to buy this porch swing because it was too expensive. My husband had insisted it was a necessary purchase.
“When we have company, people will love sitting in this swing and looking out at the lake,” he said. “We entertain all the time. We need this swing.”
“It’s not a lake. It’s a pond,” I whispered under my breath.
And now, I know this purchase was actually a wise one, but not for company…for me. I don’t analyze why, but simply accept that I have become a person who needs to sit outside and swing every night before I can go to sleep. I look down at my legs as I swing. They are tiny, almost birdlike. I miss my thickness in some odd way because these birdlegs are not truly me. They were borne from the womb of a deep anxiety in which food feels like poison. I swallow even the most delicious food that I once enjoyed, and it feels like I’m ingesting a needle, as it painfully moves down my throat. This is what happens to me when I grieve: I do not want to eat.
I have been sitting here 30 minutes when I hear her cry on the monitor. She is 22 months old, and used to sleep through the night like a champ. Now I cannot remember what that feels like. I am now accustomed to getting up all the time to rub her back or rock her or put her back in her crib or in bed with me to sleep. I make my way upstairs to her room. I pick her up and we rock, rock, rock, and I sing to her. I sing everything from hymns to the Beatles to church camp songs. I do not even like the Beatles and I don’t know who I have become. But this is now me. I am a boring, bird leg girl who sings Beatles songs and spends her nights swinging on the porch.
When she is asleep, I return to the swing. It is now starting to get dark. I do the other thing I do which calms my spirit: I call my Uncle Roy.
My uncle is one of two or three people who knows the truth–who knows that I am now this girl (actually a 32 year old woman) who swings on the porch swing at night and does not know how to sleep or eat. Everyone else I see everyday believes I am calm and maybe even pretty and have this cute baby and friendly husband and that I have my life together. I do not want to be a person who fools others, but I don’ t know how to be me in this world. And so every time someone says anything nice to me, I actually feel worse, because how can any compliment even be true if the person they are complimenting isn’t even me?
And so as I am swinging on the swing, talking to Uncle Roy, I begin to tell him all of this. He listens to my anxious heart. And I begin to ask him crazy questions, because I’m a ball of nerves. I tell him a story of how earlier that evening, I confronted my husband to ask him where he’s been going every night after he eats dinner. I feel like his pattern is changing. I wonder if he is with another woman, but I don’t really want to think about that. I just want him to give me an answer that appeases my spirit and that I can somehow make sense of.
Because none of my life makes sense to me right now. None of it.
My husband proceeded to tell me he is leaving every night to meet with different people because he is “networking.” I ask for more clarification, and he proceeds to tell me that he is a leader in the community, and he must network. I become quiet, as I can tell my questioning is irking him, but he doesn’t stop talking. He tells me that I would never understand what he’s doing because I’m not a leader. In fact, he tells me: you’re a loser.
My husband called me a loser. I am anxious because I have a husband who calls me a loser.
How effed up is my life right now? Like, how do I even tell people who ask me how I’m doing that things are kinda not the best right now because my husband calls me a loser?
And then my uncle makes a joke. He asks me if I made the L sign with my hand and put it up to my forehead since I’m such a big loser to show my husband what a giant loser I am. And I just start to laugh and giggle at this thought. It feels so hilarious to me and I realize that something awful can also be funny at the same time.
I find comfort in this dichotomy. The dichotomy makes sense.
That night, when my daughter wakes up again, I sing to her. This time I sing a song I used to sing at vacation Bible school: “I’ve got the joy, joy, joy, joy, down in my heart! Where? Down in my heart! Where? Down in my heart! I’ve got the peace that passes understanding down in my heart! Where? Down in my heart today.”
She stops crying. I stop rocking. I feel joy. I know it’s joy because it’s laughter and kinda like peace even when everything in life really is kind of jacked up.
I understand that joy is a friend to hope and faith. And it cannot be accessed unless you believe in laughter and tears at the same time. You must believe that something can both be awful and depressing and yet freeing and funny.
Joy is knowing that a dichotomy of hope and pain coexist. And that joy and happiness have nothing to do with each other. Happiness is a moment in time. Joy simply exists WITHIN you.
I do not tell you these things to tell you that you should settle for an awful life. I do not tell you these things because I believe you should accept disrespectful treatment from others.
Instead I tell you these things so that you know that joy is at the foundation of faith. And it is accessible to you even in the darkest of hours. It is not a feeling dependent on other people. It is a KNOWING in your spirit that life is still going. That God is still there. That feelings are temporary.
It is a reminder that tough times will not last, but tough people do. Do not stand still, but be still and know that you will know what to do. But you must first believe in joy.
This photo was taken that summer I couldn’t stop swinging.
What I know to be true: discovering your partner is unfaithful is a painful experience. In addition, living in an abusive relationship can be like hell on earth. I have written on this blog rather openly about discovering my ex-husband’s infidelity, as well as experiencing domestic violence, in posts like The Cave or Weak is the New Strong.
But in the last year, I have mentioned my former marriage more peripherally as opposed to writing about the experience of it. I will explain why in a moment, but first, I want to explain why I wrote about it to begin with.
I started this blog in 2014. Writing about my past experiences I had worked hard to heal from, seemed to help me to find my voice. It also helped me to process the past, look back on what I had learned, and more importantly, to maybe even help someone who was going through difficulties similar to mine.
I feel so thankful, to this day, for the painful experiences that have been a part of my life. Those experiences shaped me into a woman with an empathetic heart, and a spirit that seeks peace. I have a different view of the world, and a deeper understanding of human behavior, due to experiencing darkness. I learned that the pain was only pain–that it wouldn’t kill me, and in fact, pain is just a reminder that we are alive. Pain is our most powerful teacher, if we have the courage to sit with it and let us teach us what we need to know.
As a result of sitting with that pain, one of the universal truths I now know is this: humans are neither completely evil nor completely good. We are complex people with layers to us. We hurt people when we’ve been hurt, unless we dig deeper to understand what’s behind our feelings.
And no one has life figured out. I don’t care if you’re the smartest person in the room–you still don’t. Life has this very interesting way of breaking us in two when we cling to things or people not meant for us. And then we have to learn all this crap, all over again.
And now, here I am, eight years post leaving my marriage, processing these universal truths, and remembering some things I’ve never said before.
Amy Schumer, when speaking publicly about her own experiences in an abusive relationship, said, “You don’t choose to fall in love with someone that hurts you.”
And yet we do. Why do we do that? I don’t know, because each one of us has our own particular true reasons, but what I do know is this: most abusers are not always abusive. Sometimes they are the kindest, most loving people you will ever meet. And yet, the next moment, they are not. And that is sometimes what hooks us–grappling with the confusion of it all.
In 2010, my therapist I saw right after my divorce, invited me to attend a women’s therapy group. We listened to each other talk about experiences from the past. The therapist would look at people’s faces around the room and stop and ask us things like, “Jane, what emotions does this bring up for you when Teresa talks about relapsing on alcohol?” And even though Jane had no experience with alcohol addiction, she could somehow make a connection to her experience because PAIN IS PAIN. All of us had very different stories, but this never seemed to matter, because we could somehow make the most insightful connections by listening to each other.
One day, a woman named Anna (whose name I changed of course) was speaking about her father, who was dying.
She told us all about how confused she was by the fact that her father, who was extremely physically and emotionally abusive to her and her entire family throughout her life, had sort of “mellowed out” once he figured out that his death was eminent. And what was even more confusing to her, was how her heart had softened towards him.
“I guess there were always parts of me that loved him no matter how abusive he was at times,” she said, somewhat perplexed. “How jacked up is that?”
The therapist saw me tearing up.
“Emily… you seem to be having a reaction to that. Is there anything you would like to share?”
I took in a deep breath. I had learned that deep breathing helped to keep my voice from being shaky when I was tearful.
“Yes,” I finally said. “I don’t think it’s jacked up, Anna. Because nobody is entirely good nor entirely evil. We are humans. We are complex.”
It was hard for me to admit this. And yet, I knew it was true. I felt it in the depths of my spirit. Even today, I still feel it when someone who has hurt me deeply does something that is kind, such as genuinely apologizing for past behavior.
Please do not mistake the words I’m writing to be in alignment with the belief that allowing people to abuse you or even keeping people in your life who are abusive is in any way, shape, or form OKAY.
I value my peace, so that I can do important work in this world, which has lead me to have boundaries that may be firmer than most people’s at times. I block people from my life and put up a metaphorical drawbridge when needed to protect my heart, my spirit, and my energy.
But I don’t choose to live in the thought that I am any better than anyone else.
Instead, I choose to live in the thought that each of us is responsible for our own life. And what that means by default is that I am in charge of my peace and joy, and living my best life. What that further means is that I must have boundaries with people who engage in toxic behaviors with me or behaviors that steal my joy.
Humans are complex. And I refuse to engage in the belief that I am a better person or more righteously evolved than another. It is that very belief that fuels indifference to other’s pain. We cannot be indifferent, but what we can and should be is AWARE of how others’ choices affect us, and undoubtedly act on this, to protect our dignity and wholeness.
I love knowing in the depths of my spirit that I can do hard things. I can break in a million pieces, feel deep pain, and still will rise. I believe this for you, too. But the only way to arrive at this is to be aware and act on taking responsibility of this awareness through a combination of honesty and action.
When we feel continually hurt and devastated by the actions of another human, it’s time to put up the drawbridge. Like don’t overthink it–put that drawbridge up! Because it is only then, when we are in our separate castles and at peace, that we can begin to forgive and to start to see, when the time is right, with clarity, that the person who is hurting us, is simply a person–someone who is showing up in their pain and hurt, maybe even doing the best he or she can.
Random photo, circa 2013:
When I got home from vacation a few days ago, I noticed that something was wrong with my car window–the one on the driver’s side.
When I was arriving at the gym, I pushed the switch to roll the window down, and the window started acting cuckoo. It was suddenly off the track and leaning to one side and although I could still move it up and down, it wouldn’t close because it wasn’t lining up correctly on its track.
So naturally, I felt like this was a big deal, you know? I mean, I just returned from Florida, where it was warm, but it’s FREEZING in Indiana, and I thought to myself, “It’s too cold to drive around with a window that won’t close.”
With a feeling of urgency, I started to push the button more and more. “Forget the gym,” I said to myself, “this window must be fixed now.” I pushed the button up and down and began to try and physically pull the window off the track in an effort to slot it back in.
Now here’s the thing: I KNOW NOTHING ABOUT CARS. So I had no business thinking that I knew what I was doing. I just knew I didn’t want to drive the dang car with an open window in 40 degree temps.
Not surprisingly, my efforts were to no avail, and I ended up calling a mechanic. Upon examining the window, the first thing the mechanic told me was that it looked as if the window had simply slid off the track, which would have been an easy fix for him, but in my efforts to fix the window myself, I had actually broken the window regulator part in the process, and that would now have to be replaced.
The part was ordered, and he then put the window back on the track in its rightful position, but left me with a strict directive:
“Do not push the button up and down. The window will stay in its correct place as long as you do not press it.”
“Ok,” I said, somehow knowing this would be hard for me. 🙄 I seem to be someone who is good at doing hard things, but not easy things.
He must have read the stressed look on my face, because he then continued,
“And if you forget and press it, please do not attempt to fix it again. Just let it be until the part comes in.”
“Ok,” I said. 😳
On the drive on the way home, I said to Aliana, “Maybe I should put duct tape over the switch, so I don’t forget to not use it.”
Aliana, who is 10, reassured me that this was not necessary.
“Just remember not to touch it,” she said. I did a little internal psyching myself up. I said outloud, “Don’t roll down the window, Emily. You can remember. Don’t do it!”
I then enjoyed a very luxurious 24 hours of driving around in my warm car. I was determined to not touch the window, as I was thoroughly appreciating the warmth, dryness, and privacy of my vehicle. However, that feeling of gratefulness began to wane, (as gratefulness often does, if we don’t hold it close to our hearts) and was replaced with a sense of complacency within a few hours.
And then, as I was entering a parking facility the next night, I realized I needed to grab a ticket. Without thinking, you guessed it…I rolled down the window.
The window immediately went off the track , of course, and one side of the glass was now poking up in the air.
“Ugh,” I said to myself. I was simultaneously surprised I had forgotten while also fully expecting that this would happen.
I spent the next day driving around with the window open in rain all day. Everywhere I went, I was cold, rainy, and wet. I contemplated getting a towel to dry off the car and cold, wet steering wheel. Somehow, part of my ego argued against it.
“It’s all your fault. You forgot what you were supposed to do, and now you must pay the price,” the voice in my head said.
The next morning my mechanic texted me to tell me there was a delay in the arrival of the part. I was going to face an additional 24 hours driving around in the cold.
I began to once again think about how my annoyance with the window situation was all my fault, and it was happening as a result of two mistakes I made in my thinking: I tried to fix something I knew nothing about by myself, instead of being still and waiting. And then, after knowing I needed to practice a simple, new way of thinking, I had once again slipped back to my old ways of thinking, thereby breaking it again.
I knew that pressing the switch would result in a very unfavorable outcome. And yet, I forgot what I knew and did it anyways.
This got me thinking: how many times do we do this? How many times do we have a new, very important goal at hand, and we get complacent about it and then slip back into old habits and mindsets?
And the equally important flip side of that question is this:
How many times do we spend beating ourselves up for our mistake, instead of having compassion for ourselves and just deciding to do better and move forward?
Did I help myself when I decided I deserved to be cold and wet and rainy the next day? I was essentially deciding that I deserved to be miserable. I could have gotten a towel to dry off and put on some gloves and made myself more comfortable.
But instead, I wanted to grumble and punish myself.
Side note: I think I may be the only weirdo on the face of the earth that contemplates life like this when a window breaks.
But if I am that weirdo, I might as well share these musings.
- When something goes wrong, and we are not sure what to do, many times it’s in our best interest to stop DOING and just get still. In the stillness, we have the ability to think rationally, instead of simply reacting and breaking windows and crap.
- When we are trying to think in a new way–whether it’s embracing a new lifestyle, new way of thinking, or new reality–we should realize that we may have moments where we revert to old patterns of thinking, especially in times of urgency or complacency.
- When we make an error out of complacency or urgency, or addictive patterns, we must acknowledge the error, while having compassion with ourselves, so that we can move forward. Other people may not have compassion for us, which is why it is so important that we give that gift to ourselves.
We are all worthy of compassion and self forgiveness. And we are all worthy of having new opportunities and new results. So as we go about our day, let’s also remember this additional truth:
It is only in our brokenness, that we can actually see more beauty in the world. So maybe broken windows aren’t that bad after all.
If anyone again asks me what it means to forgive someone, I will tell him or her this story.
It started when I was 32, in the summer of 2009. My husband, at the time, was from the Dominican Republic. We decided to make a trip there so his family could meet our daughter right when she was turning one year old.
We arrived in the hot month of June. The Dominican Republic is near the Equator, and from the moment we stepped off the airplane, I could feel the heat of the sun percolating on my pores. I had lost all my baby weight, but now was almost too thin due to not eating. My marriage was falling apart at the seams and I was unraveling too. The only thing holding me together was my focus on my child and her wellbeing.
“I’m so glad you finally lost weight,” my mother-in-law said to me in Spanish, with a widely genuine smile when I greeted her at the airport. While I knew that a person’s weight is not as taboo of a subject in the Dominican Republic as it is in the United States, her words etched a streak on my already decrepit spirit.
My mother-in-law never seemed to like me, but I could not ever seem to deduce why. Sometimes I thought it was due to the fact I was a foreigner. Other times I thought maybe I was unknowingly breaking some cultural rules or wasn’t submissive enough, in her mind, to be a good wife.
But ultimately the reasons behind her perceived dislike for me weren’t really worth spending time analyzing. I just had to deal with it.
During this trip, I tried to keep my daughter on a nap schedule. My mother-in-law told me this was ridiculous and that no child needed such a thing. I didn’t want to argue with her because I felt that would be a sign of disrespect, but I continued to put her down for a nap everyday at the same time, even though she would blast merengue music in objection to my decision.
I loved the Dominican Republic for so many reasons: I adored the welcoming nature of its people, the love I felt from my host family when I studied abroad there, the hospitality of strangers in the community, and the kindness and resilient spirit I witnessed in its people.
But I did not love my mother in law. I could not love my mother in law, no matter how hard I tried.
I looked at her and I saw pain. The pain of being an abused wife. The shame of being left by her husband. The guilt and oppression she suffered from so many losses.
And yet, I couldn’t find it in my heart to accept her in her brokenness.
The entire time we were in her home, I was belittled and criticized for being overly focused on my daughter. I was confused by the criticism that seemed to be contradictory at the time: one moment I was being told my schedule was ridiculous, but the next moment, I was called disorganized for not getting my daughter’s bottle ready quickly enough.
It was gaslighting behavior, except for it was my in-laws doing it, instead of my then husband.
As for my then husband, he remained silent most of the time, choosing not to intervene. When he would intervene, it was to side with his family as they were telling me what I was doing wrong in my mothering.
The last night we were there, I felt relief that we were finally going home. As I was rocking my daughter to sleep that night, my mother in law called for me to come talk to her. When I was done putting her to bed, I went to find my mother-in-law in the kitchen.
“I need to tell you something,” she said to me in Spanish, “something I should have told you before.”
I had a moment where my heart softened. She’s going to apologize, I thought. She feels badly for criticizing me.
But before my heart could soften any further, her words quickly transformed into daggers that were aimed at my heart, my self worth, and my ability to love.
“You are an awful mother and wife,” she said.
I gulped down air, feeling like I needed to run away, but instead froze.
“Do you want to know why?” she asked.
I didn’t answer, standing there without moving. Apparently I was now an ice cube, stuck in my tray, unable to transform back to fluidity.
“You have paid more attention to that child than your own marriage. So if my son cheats on you… if he has other women he wants to sleep with–that’s no one’s fault other than your own,” she said.
“You deserve however he treats you,” she stated, and finally stepped aside so I could walk away if I chose to do so.
I suddenly felt my legs melting. I bowed my head and exited the kitchen. I went upstairs and wanted to cry, but couldn’t. I didn’t have tears. I felt as if whatever bubble of dignity was still present in my spirit had been popped by a sharp needle and had oozed away.
Despite this terrible emptiness, I somehow realized a small push of determination to fight for myself was still present within me. I imagined myself putting on armor, lying down in it to rest, knowing that this was temporary. I just needed to remember that the armor was there to protect me.
The next morning we left the Dominican Republic. One year after that, I left my husband.
And then nine years after that, I walked into my ex-husband’s house to pick up my daughter, and I saw her face. When they told me she would be there, I was scared. Scared I would not know what to say. Scared she would take her anger at me out on my daughter. Scared that she would take me back to that day nine years ago in her kitchen when I last saw her.
But when I saw her face, I instead felt the strangest thing. I felt something weird, as she walked over to me and cupped my face in her hands and side kissed my cheeks, as is the custom in the Dominican Republic.
I felt a tenderness. I felt empathy. I felt respect. I felt seen.
I don’t know how that happened. I have no FREAKING idea. But I know that’s what forgiveness is. It’s a softening. A turning towards. It is not reconciliation. It is simply understanding. It is letting go. It is loving from a distance. It’s gratitude from learning the lessons the pain taught you.
Time creates space. Space creates room to see the truth. I know that without the gift of time and space, it’s hard to learn to recognize the truth. And the truth is that you never need closure for anything. Things fall apart and the only thing you need to remember or try to do is put yourself back together. And once you do that, you may see that in your brokenness, you are strong. In your pain and bitterness, you have lessons. And one of those lessons might be that you may one day, after time and space, find yourself looking back on everything, with a very different softness about you.
And that softness is forgiveness.
The other day I went to my doctor’s office for an appointment and was making small talk with the nurse. I told her about an upcoming solo vacation I was going on for a weekend, and the nurse asked me if I was taking my daughter. I told her no, she was with her dad that weekend.
“Oh,” she said. “So you can like get away and do things by yourself when she’s gone. Man, I wish I were divorced so I could get a break from my kids!”
I thought of a couple sarcastic, semi humorous possible responses in my head, but chose not to verbally respond to her statement, knowing that it was probably more of a commentary of her sentiments about her own marriage and responsibilities, and less of a statement about divorce.
Because no one who has ever been divorced says stuff like that.
And what the nurse didn’t realize is what it’s REALLY like to be a single parent.
Preface: This is my perspective, based on a few different factors pertaining to my individual situation listed below.
- I am divorced and have my daughter alone about 75% of the time.
- For various reasons, I do not co-parent with her father. We have more of a “business relationship.”
- I do not have a partner in my home. It’s just me and my kid.
So in essence, I’m about to give you my take on single parenting from someone who is truly single parenting 75 % of the time to one child.
Single parenting is like living inside a computer that never turns off. There are many different tabs and programs open and only you can close them because you’re the one with the username and password and operating instructions. Oh, and the operating instructions are ones you have developed yourself based on your own experiences as a child except for you have to keep tweaking them as you realize your childhood and even your child is quite different than you. People may try to help you and sometimes you’re like oh my goodness, thank you for your help, YES, because your computer is so warmed up from running all the time, and you have all these different tabs open, like a tab for meals, clothing, homework, cleaning, extra curricular activities, one for trying to figure out tweens or toddlers, and not even mentioning the tabs for your own life.
In contrast, many homes with two involved parents have a computer they share. They exchange operating instructional notes. They both know how the computer works. And they can divide up the endless tabs and responsibilities. And sometimes one of them can say to the other, “I’m losing my patience with this kid we are trying to figure out. I need to walk away from the computer, so can you keep tabs on it while I go to the grocery store and get a mental break?”
But the single parent has to keep all the tabs open even when she or he wants a break. Any breaks taken from the computer are never, ever spontaneous. No one just randomly shows up at her door at the exact moment she needs a break. That doesn’t mean she or he never receives technical support to keep their computer up and running smoothly. But it does mean she is the only one responsible for running that computer. It is she who must make decisions and decide how to fix it most of the time.
It is the times when my child is most emotional that I feel the greatest responsibility of single parenting and running that computer. When she is devastated about a loss, or extremely excited or nervous about an upcoming event, or angry with me because she didn’t get her way, I feel her feelings and I hold space for her and I realize that THIS IS IT. I’m her emotional support and I have to be present. I have to help her process.
It is in those times that I sometimes literally fall to my knees and say, “Lord, lead me, because it’s just me and my heart leading this kid, and I don’t know what in the heck I’m doing. Give me wisdom and strength to bear this great responsibility.”
Here’s the thing, though: I cannot bear witness to the challenges of single parenting without bearing witnesses to the beauty in it.
I am no more proud of anything than I am of the work I do as a single parent. I am not doing it perfectly, but I am doing it. I know that there are times she wishes, as many children of divorced parents do, that her parents were not divorced. What she doesn’t know, and may never know, is that I fought very hard to save my marriage to the point that I had lost myself completely in another person.
However, I found myself as a mother when I had the freedom to be me. I found myself when my daughter was two years old, woke up vomiting in the middle of the night, and cried for me. I found myself when she was three years old and fell running at the pool and got a concussion, and I scooped her up off the ground and rushed her to the doctor. I found myself when I took her to a child psychologist at the age of four because I was so worried I had no idea what I was doing raising this strong willed, vibrant little girl. I found myself when she received straight As all year long and won an award, and I was the sole person there to support her. I found myself when she got in big trouble in first grade for throwing her shoe over the fence during recess and she went the rest of the school day wearing one shoe.
In a million and one ways, I FOUND myself due to parenting my daughter alone.
And while I do not wish the challenges that come with divorce or single parenting on anyone, I am grateful for the million and one ways that the experience of single parenting has forced me to find myself.
With great responsibility, also comes a great reward, if you are simply willing to find yourself in the midst of the hard stuff.
I made this two weeks ago, but couldn’t figure out how to upload it. Yes, I know I have uploaded videos before, but I couldn’t remember how I did it. Sigh. Technology is hard. And one more thing: when I say tests are dumb, what I meant is–STANDARDIZED tests not designed with English Language Learners in mind–are dumb. Just wanted to clarify.
Click below for VLOG number two:
One decade ago, I was lying in a hospital bed in great physical discomfort as I was birthing my daughter.
This day is sacred to me unlike no other. My child’s birth was my rebirth. For this reason, her birthday is even more special to me than my own. She woke me up to the possibility of a new life and a new way of being.
She ignited a fire in my heart that I followed: a fire which burned through
I took the ashes from this fire and buried them. I built walls to prevent me from veering off the path. I knew the new pathway I was creating required a significant commitment to growth, courage, and love–both for myself and for my child. I knew it was going to be hard, but that the reward would be great.
I am not being dramatic when I say Aliana saved my life. That statement is both a beautiful and ugly truth for me. It’s beautiful because it was because of my love for her that I took responsibility for my life. It is ugly because no child should have to enter the world, bearing a burden of such consequence.
The world of domestic violence is a dark one. People who live in it experience warped realities and emotional and physical trauma. There were three things that saved me: my love for my daughter, getting professional help, and about two people who knew my story and never gave up on me. Those two people told me everyday that I was strong and smart and that they believed in my capacity to do hard things. They reminded me of who I was when I forgot.
But if I hadn’t had that trifecta–I may not have left.
I feel that I am one of the lucky ones. Some people live their whole lives in an abusive relationship. Some get out, but they never heal or understand how they got there in the first place. They continue to repeat the patterns or form new addictions.
When you decide to take the pathway to healing, you will discover that it is simultaneously incredible and also brutal. You must be willing to be ripped open and dissected and put back together. Not everyone is willing. But I do believe everyone is able if they allow it to happen.
But they must really allow it to happen. All the beauty and all the terror– to allow it to wash over them, as Rilke says.
Today, people sometimes write to me and ask me for advice about how to help a friend or family member who is experiencing abuse and what I usually tell them is this:
- Affirm their feelings
- Accept their decisions
- Set boundaries when necessary
- Encourage the victim to get professional help
- Acknowledge that leaving is very hard but it is the only way their children will know the love of a parent who has the capacity to love with her whole heart.
I am not a therapist nor do I know if the advice I just gave is the best or not. But I do know that conquering an abusive relationship is similar to conquering an addiction. That’s because all these crazy neural pathways are formed in your brain during trauma bonding. Research it. It’s a real thing. Stockholm Syndrome and stuff.
But if you actually DO it–if one actually leaves the abuse, the amazing thing is how quickly one can heal when you
- Take responsibility for showing up in your life
- Allow justice to be served by setting boundaries like you’ve never known before.
I am so lucky. I am so grateful. I will never ever EVER stop feeling grateful for my trifecta: my daughter, the professional help I received, and my two people who believed in me nearly a decade ago.
But it all started with my daughter. With me looking into her eyes and me saying to her, “I don’t want you to live like this.”
Beauty and truth. It’s what’s being served in our home, one decade later.
I love you, Aliana.
Click on the link while I hyperventilate over here. Going to click publish now and pray for courage because this isn’t good but it was my 241st attempt AND I do believe that sometimes good enough is actually good enough.
I love you.
This is the job of the living–to be willing to bow down before EVERYTHING that is bigger than you. And nearly everything in this world is bigger than you. Let your willingness be the only big thing about you.” -Elizabeth Gilbert
Elizabeth Gilbert just wrote the most brilliant Facebook piece yesterday about the grieving process, acceptance, and allowing yourself to feel the emotions of loss. This piece moved me so much, that it prompted me to think about my own reactions to loss.
When people we love are taken from us, it’s the worst, isn’t it? It’s like we have forgotten that these people we love were never ours to begin with.
No one belongs to us. And yet, when we love someone, we begin to subconsciously feel like God will never allow that person to leave our lives in any capacity. Or we would like to think that if they have to leave, that we would have some say so, or control, over how they leave us.
Sometimes those we love die.
Other times they decide to leave us.
And sometimes they may not physically leave us, but they become so different that we feel as if they have left us, because we can no longer relate to who they are.
When any of the aforementioned happens, my natural (although not productive) reaction is to try to change the situation in my mind, instead of accepting it. However, trying to change the situation only prolongs the process of grieving the loss.
Whereas acceptance, or allowing myself to feel the pain, actually causes me to move through the process.
When I was 16, my Grandma Sommers, who was a big part of my life and helped to raise me, died. She and my grandfather lived in the house behind us. I went to their house and visited them nearly everyday, up until she died.
And then I stopped.
My grandfather asked me to come over to visit as I always had. I mean, he wasn’t asking me to do anything difficult, right? All I had to do was to simply WALK ACROSS MY BACKYARD and open the back door (which he often left open) and to walk in and sit in a rocking chair next to him and listen to him tell stories. But I wouldn’t go. The thought of sitting in grandma’s rocking chair meant that I would crumble and I thought I couldn’t handle that. I didn’t want to sit in her empty chair and feel the loss.
Until one day, I missed my grandpa. And I knew he was lonely. So, I decided to visit.
It was the shortest visit in the history of visits. I maybe was there two minutes, tops. He had the opportunity to tell me about how he learned to heat up a sweet potato from the garden in his microwave, and I hadn’t even sat down, but I LOOKED at her chair, and the tears started to well up, and I told him I needed to go.
Grandpa walked me to the back door, as he always did, because he wanted to watch me walk home to see if I made it safely, without anyone snatching me up or something. He gave me a hug, and said, “We love you,” and then the tears I had been trying to hold in during those two minutes came out in a gasp–just because of his PRONOUN USAGE–instead of saying “I love you,” he said, “We love you,” which reminded me that there was no longer A WE.
Loud crying and gasping started as I ran–not walked–to my home, and closed the door behind me. I ran upstairs to my bedroom, closed the door, lied down on my bed, put my face on my pillow, and CRIED. I was feeling the loss. Finally. I was willing to feel the pain.
Each time I went to visit Grandpa Sommers, my visits lasted a little longer. I had a little more capacity each time, to accept that Grandma was gone. I was learning to tolerate the voice of grief in my head that said, “She’s never coming back. Never.” I listened to the voice. I cried. And I was willing to accept the truth.
The truth is never easy, but the sooner we bow down to it, the sooner we can have a chance to move forward.
There are so many times in my life, where grief pulled the rug out from underneath me, and instead of allowing myself to cry on the floor from the pain of the fall or loss, I jumped up and tried to grab the rug instead. Grabbing the rug leads to thinking that you know better than God. It leads to thinking you can change other people or their situations if you just work harder.
And please don’t think I’m knocking doing the work. There is a time and place for doing the work. But the process of grieving is no more work than showing up. It’s being willing to walk across the backyard and hold your grandfather’s hand for just a moment. It’s being willing to cry in your pillow every night, instead of stuffing and pretending everything is okay. You know what stuffing and pretending is? That’s depression (Liz Gilbert taught me that)– it’s not grief.
I know that grief comes and goes. And that some losses are ones that we can never completely recover from. There are losses that are simply incomprehensible to us. We wonder, “Why was this person taken away from this world?”
And yet, we somehow accept. And cry. And grieve. We do this on our knees, or sometimes alone, and sometimes in the presence of others. Some days truly suck and then you may feel better, and you have another sucky day. But you let yourself feel it all–and know that you are still here. And you are willing to feel it and walk through, to see what’s on the other side.
My grandma Sommers. (Stole this photo from Cindy Huss’ FB page).