I lie here in the semi-darkness; the room is lit with a weird half glow from the gibbous moon somewhere outside. The darkness is translucent and diaphanous about me, tinged with heady blues and soft blacks and the minute, luminous influence of starlight.

I am alive, vibrant, and humming despite my inevitable fatigue. My body yawns and curls in on itself; my spirit swings wildly in the breeze of my thoughts and flutters on the edge of an abyss. It reaches out with impossible hands to gather the moonlight to myself, to pluck the stars from the sky one by one and place them on my tongue to feel them melt into inexplicable froth and disappear.

The ever present question looms large in the darkness of my supposed rest: what is wrong? Another disease stricken off the list, and I suppose I ought to be grateful for each horrible fate that no longer awaits, each drooling and writhing hydra gnashing its teeth I somehow manage to escape. And yet… I find myself disappointed. Each awful reality would make so much sense, it would fit so well, and yet it all remains enigmatic and foggy… a foe that strikes at me from the mist, and I am helpless to identify it, to strike back, or indeed do more than clumsily dodge blows as best I can and try to staunch the bleeding.

It's not lupus. Well what the hell is it?! It's not multiple sclerosis. It's not this. It's not that. Do I just have the worst case of fibromyalgia in the whole freaking world?! Did I just hit the terrible luck jackpot and I have to live this way the rest of my life? Continually worsening… medications ineffective… barely scraping by financially because everything extra goes towards medical bills and the trips it takes to get me to doctors who might actually be able to do something… Maybe I should just do what a good soldier does and fall on my sword. But no… I've contemplated that so much lately, down to the minutae of planning and taking into account all the loose ends to be tied up upon my demise… and the thing that gets me every time is the mental image of C finding my body. I can't bear the look on his face or the tears. I just can't do it. So I curl up into a ball and whimper while the mist swirls and eddies around me, while the unknown, unnamed, faceless enemy (enemies??) stalks and jeers and jabs and demoralizes.

I want to get better. I want to be better so bad it hurts. (Maybe that's my problem. Hah!) I have so much potential… so much locked away inside because I don't have the energy or strength to pull it from myself and lay it out in the sun. I need an assistant, a minion, a crone… Someone to hobble hunchbackedly to and fro at my beck and call. Someone to take over the menial tasks of living so that I can focus all my precious remaining energy on creative, ennobling endeavors.

I sit here bare skinned, swathed only in quilts and blankets, and even in the dark I cannot bear the sight of myself. It is not that my form is displeasing, per se… but it's because I can see what is inside me and it kills me that I can't be everything that I want to be. On the inside, I am wind chimes and church bells and Tibetan prayer bowls and bagpipes and a hand drum. I am brightly colored beads flashing in the sun, multi-hued fish swishing secretly through cool ponds and rivers, and the whisper of leaves as the weather changes. I am the smell of rain on the way, the eye boggling pleasure of a riotous tie dye pattern, the satin caress of age-smoothed wood, and the soul satisfying release of the perfect cup of tea or coffee. I am so many bright, beautiful, eclectic, warm and neutral, shining, earthy, wildfire things inside… and I can't get them out. I can't be who I really am and who I really could and should be because of this poor broken body that I can't help but hate sometimes. Most of the time I regard it with a fond kind of pity as you would with an injured kitten, maybe with a bad leg. Other times, though, the frustration boils up in me like a scalding magma that feels so good to indulge yet at the same time fills me with a deep and ineffable despair and sadness… because I am not sure that this body, this prison, will ever change. Kitten's legs can heal. My beautiful soul-skeleton is closed in by swaths of pale, chubby flesh shot through with purple stretch marks that were never there before. Sometimes they are beautiful tattoos that tell the story of my Amazonian endurance, and other times they are the ragged cracks through which despair and disgust ooze from my very core as lava from the earth's crust.

So I lie here in the half-moonlight, and I wait. I wait for sleep to overcome me, as inevitably it will. I wait for tomorrow to begin. I wait… I just… wait.

C stayed home from work today to keep me from killing myself.

I wish I were making that up.

It was unexpected... When I woke up from my nap, he was still at home. I thought something was wrong, but he just called in and said that he had something to take care of at home. (Hint: It's me.)

I've been getting progressively and increasingly overwhelmed with problems (other people's, mostly) and life (mine) and health (have none)... I had an emotional breakdown about a week ago, but I chalked that up to hormones and was over it. But stuff just keeps happening... seems like friends and family just can't keep their shit together, and their inability to make their lives work is affecting me.

There are a lot of feels and thought processes that go into all this, and a lot of details, and frankly I just don't have the emotional energy for that right now. "Let me explain. No, there is too much. Let me sum up..." (Princess Bride reference, btw.)

-Mom has spiraled down into a severe depression and is totally overwhelmed and basically breaking down.
-My brother is still the freeloading lazypants, from what I understand, and won't pitch in to help take some of the pressure off of mom.
-Youngest sister just freakin' disclosed about being molested, and the people around here that are supposed to be there as a support system are totally falling down on the job.
-E can't seem to go a week without a crisis of some sort.
-I'm still getting sicker and am less able to participate in daily life than I've ever been.
-I got an appt with the new neurologist (yippee!), but the only date available between now and April means that I had to cancel my plans to fly out and see J for Christmas... you know, like we've been planning for months.
-Group last night sucked, it totally wasn't my fault, and E unintentionally put me on blast in front of a crowded room of people. Ugh.

There has been much anger of late. So much anger. Anger at my mom for not holding it together. (You've got people depending on you. You can't just check out like that! I'm sorry. This is what being an adult is about. I know you're damaged, I know you're hurting, and I know what hell depression can be... but if I can suck it up and make life work despite depression and excruciating pain, then you sure as hell better find a way to do it and take care of my siblings, got it? Your decisions brought these people into the world, and your decisions put you in the place where you're at now, so do your job and deal with it.)

Anger at E for making everything so hard and dramatic. For being so scattered, unorganized, and emotional. There's times when it's fine, it doesn't bother me, that's just who she is and it's cool. But when I'm overloaded with my own stuff it becomes unbearably annoying. Anger at her not holding up her end of our discussion and purchasing the supplies for the activity we had planned for group, for completely destroying any group mood by having that potluck and insisting that we have group during it (wtf is that?!), and for not only ruining the activity and having an entire hour of empty space to deal with but then handing it off to me deal with without any heads up.

Anger at missing out on so much because I'm so fucking sick. Anger at having no wiggle room in my pill dosage at all, so if I'm having a day that I'm hurting worse than normal, "Oh well! Sucks for you!". Anger that I hurt so goddamn much that the pain killers don't even really help... even at doses that make physicians and pharmacists raise their eyebrows. Don't you think that if I could get by without them I would? Don't you think that I would choose to function at the optimum level possible?

Anger that things I look forward to in anticipation keep getting wrecked... especially by my being sick, or something to do with it.

Angry... and so very tired. I'm done. Just so done. I don't want to hurt anymore. I don't want to look down the line a few weeks from now and know that every day is going to feel like this, and probably worse. I don't want to have to choose between showering and making myself food as my one activity for the day. (God, I wish I were exaggerating.) I don't want to be bitter when I see people going about their non-painful, energy ridden lives... taking so much for granted.

I came home from my rheum appointment and trying to fill my pain killer prescription today (can't; too early. I wasn't able to beat the system after all.) and I just fell into bed with C. I tried to keep quiet, but even when he's asleep he seems to be able to tell when I'm crying. Finally the words came out.

"I can't do this anymore. I can't. I'm done. I just want out. I want to end it."

He, of course, replied, "No."

The next half hour-ish was basically all that on repeat. Cry, beg him to let me kill myself, cry some more... He just held me. Eventually I fell asleep, and when I woke up it was an hour past the time he usually is at work. I thought I had missed saying goodbye to him until he came into the room when he heard me stirring around. There's no one he could call to come over and keep an eye on me, so he decided to stay home and do it himself. I did promise, before I fell asleep, that I wouldn't kill myself while he was at work... but I guess that he felt my despair was deep enough that it wasn't worth the risk. It may have something to do with my tearful confession that I was afraid that I would actually try it while he was at work.

I'm still not in a good place. If he weren't here... I can't say what would happen. I had planned on calling a suicide hotline or something after he went to work. Maybe one of my peeps, but probably not. I feel like this is too heavy to lay on them.

I can't decide if I'm guilty or grateful that C is home with me. An even mix of both, I guess.

If I don't end up killing myself... I may kill the neighbor's dog. That thing is so fucking annoying. Especially when my nerves are already grated raw from my own internal battles.

SHUT UP YOU LITTLE SHIT OR I WILL TURN YOU INTO TACO MEAT!!!

There. You see? Not in a good place. I think I'm going to go nap now.

In just an hour and a half I begin my first bout of testing for the cause of these twitchies.

I'm a little nervous, I must confess, as C shared with me that the procedure is, well, painful. His mom went through it. How painful it is exactly, he couldn't say, because he's not the one that went through it, and he claims that it's possible that his mom was being a pansy. Problem is... I'm a pansy, too! lol

I figured it might be best not to take pain killers before the test, so that the readings will be accurate, but I was hurting enough that I needed to. The thing with the pain meds is that they don't get rid of the pain, which is highly annoying. They just take it down to (mostly) bearable levels, if I'm lucky. But my stomach hurts a lot with all of this acetaminophen I've been ingesting. I suppose it's a worthwhile tradeoff. Sorta.

Also...

I love the community humor that chronic illness patients have developed. I mean, really... if you can't laugh at this stuff, you'll end up crying about it. And I hate to be droning on about my pain and symptoms all of the time, but... you talk about what's familiar and constant, and this is my life now. C and I were joking about who was going to die first last night. He says that although women generally live longer, with all this stuff wrong with me I've probably lost about 5 years, so that puts us on even footing. He actually thinks he'll come out ahead by a year or two. Could be. I'd rather die first, so I don't have to fight through the grief of losing my mate.

I asked him yesterday about suicide, my suicide. He said that, if I succeeded he'd be very upset, and probably a little angry with me. If I didn't succeed, he'd be very upset and he'd have me committed so that I couldn't hurt myself again. I was feigning offense that he would lock me away and I wouldn't see him anymore, but he assured me that he'd come visit. He also told me that killing myself, or trying, would never ever be doing him a favor. It would never be a good thing for him. I smiled at the assurance that he values my presence in his life, and I assured him that although the thought comes up in moments of desperation, it's never a serious option for me. It's not.

In the depths of my emotional and mental agony and despair, I longed for rest, for a respite from the hurricane of dark forces that ripped through my soul. Now, in the grip of relentless pain, I long for rest and a respite from the endless grinding and battering of burning, choking torment. It's torture, but there is no inquisitioner and no answer that I could give to end the agony.

Despite all that, though... despite the darkness that still rises from time to time to swallow me whole... despite the flames of chronic illness that lap at my naked, defenseless body... there is a solid, shining light that forms a bridge above the darkness, above the flames... and I can crawl to safety. And if I don't have the strength to crawl, at least I can lie on its solid surface and know that the golden pathway remains and will remain. The bridge of light is the meaning and satisfaction that I have found in my life. It is made up of my husband, my work with the Healing Journey, my friends and support system, the simple pleasures of food and tea and good books, the security of my place within my family, and the warm glow of unconditional acceptance from those who have come to love me. It is a bridge that saves me, day after day... a platform to rest upon as I drag myself from the cold burning depths of despair and frustration.

As I contemplate this odd mix of pain and darkness and light and love that is my life, I find myself profoundly grateful and humbled. I have never before in my life had a hope like this to cling to, to save me... and I cherish it. The darkness before was always so chaotic, and I could see no respite but a rock or two to cling to in the midst of the storms. Never before have I had a way out.

I know the pain isn't going anywhere. When I first started getting sick, and for many months afterward, I held on to the hope that this was a passing thing... that it would peak and then recede. I know now, and have accepted, that the pain isn't going anywhere. This is my life now. I fight to diminish it, to overcome it, and to find treatments for what is wrong with me but... this is my future. I don't expect anything else. While that may be considered glum and defeatist by some, I see it as freeing. No longer expending my energy on false hopes, I can focus on walking my shining bridge and beating back the flames that threaten to consume me.

It's an exhausting battle. I won't lie. The darkness still wraps tendrils around me and whispers dark doubts in my mind. But I have something to hang on to now... something that will always pull me back out. And that's why suicide is never really an option.

Time to do some more monitoring...

Monday was... interesting. After church on Sun. night, and the knowledge that it's okay to be where I'm at and I don't have to freak out about fixing myself/being all better right now!, I actually felt almost courageous facing group Monday night. The past month or so, I've been rather habitually dreading group, because I just feel so empty, so weak and broken. It's like, what can I possibly share with these girls? I think just being there is enough, though. Just being there with them... sometimes it's all I can do. Because I've got so much crap of my own swirling around in my head.

So, this past Monday, I felt good about group! Like, yeah, I can do this... I think. Let's do it. And then we ended up sharing our stories, why we were there, and it was really emotional and charged, but really good, you know? Like purging. Like popping a pimple, I guess. (You know those really nasty blackheads where you immediately think, Wow, gross! I'm SO glad I got that out! Like that.)

And then, that night... I had an anxiety attack of sorts. I woke up at 4 a.m. because of stomach and arm pain, and I couldn't fall back asleep. I was jittery, nervous... anxious. Worried. About... something. Something vague and lurking and dangerous. Poor C was sick and getting sicker by the hour, so he was awake, or woke up shortly after I began stirring around.

I began a mantra quietly to myself, trying to self-talk, self-soothe, whatever. Trying to get some sense into my head. "You're okay. You're safe, and you're okay. You are safe here. You're safe. You're okay."
After coming back from the restroom, the bedroom was pitch black to me, and I was again engulfed in a wave of... foreboding. Fear. Nervousness. Something that feels much like the word bile sounds, but I don't know what to call it. I stood frozen beside the closed door, acutely aware of the rustling C made as he shifted around in bed. I'd been standing there for far too long, but I couldn't bring myself to move. The mantra began again, but louder, whispered to myself.

Suddenly, a hand touched my arm- C had somehow slipped up on me- and I lost it. Backing into the corner, my hands flew up in front of me, feebly trying to defend myself from the unknown terror that surely intended my complete obliteration and humiliation. Words slipped gutturally and reflexively from my lips as I sought refuge from the fear.

"Don't touch me!"

A heartbeat later... much too long. I am in danger. I have to get OUT. Now.


Yanking open the door, I scrambled to the equally dark living room, collapsing on the floor in a heap of wrecked perception and mantras, this time mumbling audibly to myself, "You're okay. You're safe, and you're okay. You're okay!!"

Several moments later, C approached me as one might approach a wild animal-- slowly, hands outstretched, moving cautiously, as if any sudden movement might send me scampering further into the darkness and fear. (It would have.)

He held me, smoothed back my hair, and repeated my mantra.

"You're safe here. You're safe. It's okay. You're okay."

As weird as it sounds, the fear, the anxiety, the deep foreboding... it was almost like a high. I didn't completely come down off of it for another twenty minutes or half hour after he groaningly laid his sick self back in bed. I was, eventually, able to sleep again.

I realize now, in the aftermath, that my mind (inner child?) recognizes that I'm in a safe place, and it's allowing me to feel the emotions of the abuse again, and some that I never allowed myself to feel. All those years... just surviving. It didn't matter how I felt, so I tried not to. (A hard thing for me-- anyone who knows me can tell you that I'm quite emotional.)

I've been doing very well with the "don't bite off more than you can chew" plan. Now that I'm simply tackling a few things at a time and not overwhelming myself... I find that I get more done! I'm actually running out of things to do. I do the few things I assign myself, and think, "Hmm... what else can I do now?"

I've felt a little out of sorts since the anxiety attack, but group last night was good. It was enough just to be there.

I've had a strong aversion to spending time with my grandparents, or interacting with them at all the past month or so... that broke a little this morning. Talked with gramma a little, and it was good. I don't know what's causing it, but I've noticed it building and building to the extreme point that I'm not really living there right now... I go back to get stuff I'll need for the next day or two at C's, do some work on the room or whatever, and then disappear as soon as possible. (It could be that I fear how they'll react if they really "see" me, esp. where I'm at spiritually. They're so Adventist, it's hard for me to be around them without feeling... like I've betrayed them?) I don't feel like it's a safe place right now. Gramma is very critical, and that's been wearing on me. But it's a passive-agressive type, most of the time. That's hard. I feel like I never know if she really means it when she says nice things. Plus they kind of bicker, and that's been increasing in frequency and intensity lately.

Today, I read the story of another abuse survivor. I think it was a mistake. Now I feel... I feel like I'm unjustified in having problems, because her story is so horrific. It's like, how can I even have issues when I didn't go through anything near that traumatizing and soul-withering?

Yet, on the other hand, I resonate with her descriptions of DID (Dissociative Identity Disorder). I've always remembered some of the molestation, though I've tried so hard to block it out that I did in portions. (There are times when I know stuff happened, because I can remember right before and right after, but not what happened.) But there's glimmers of stuff from way back, and there's chunks of my life that are just gone... and I don't know if that's normal? I just feel like there's stuff I'm supposed to know that I don't. It's gone. And it bothers me.

So I'm feeling... blech.

Like I should be better, because my life hasn't really been that bad, comparatively.

Like I'm unworthy of love (for some reason).

Like I'm worthless.

Like I'm just hopeless for thinking/feeling those things, because that's all a buch of malarky and I know it intellectually...

(The hard part is when your mind knows better, but it's kind of splintered... so the rational part is saying one thing, but the other parts are insidiously whispering other things.)

...what have I gotten myself into?

I'm not really sure how to handle this. Mom's having repressed memories surfacing now, and talking to her siblings about them... they created a sort of timeline of certain events, which triggered the memories to come forth from their murky grave. And on one hand I'm honored that Mom feels she's able to talk with me about this, but on the other hand, I'm horrified to hear what happened to her as a child. She describes the bruises that were commonplace, all the way from her armpits to her knees, the skin splitting and scabbing because of repeated beatings that layered welts over welts... my uncle being locked in a sewing closet for six weeks because of the errors in his schoolwork. (Come to find out, he's dyslexic. That's why he had such trouble with school. The beatings, the isolation... none of that helped any. Did they think it would?) I thought I went through hell. Yeah, right. My childhood was a walk in the park compared to my mom's.

My mom's dad, who was the main abuser, is dead. My gramma, who was the enabler and sometimes abusive herself (still not sure where she was on the spectrum of things) is still alive and well. When she came down with cancer, she went through chemo, and apparently lost a lot of her memory. Mom says that gramma doesn't remember any of what she was telling me this morning. She's lost it, or repressed it herself. And even Mom says that Gramma is a different person now, not who she used to be.

But that doesn't change the fact that I'm living with... that.

I've never experienced her to be abusive at all. Passive agressive, yeah. But abusive? No way! I mean, just this morning, she told me I was doing "a bang up job around the place" (i.e. keeping the place nice and clean-- we're both neat-nicks).

It's just weird.

But I got to pray with my mom. And I got to empathize with her. I didn't have all these memories crashing in on me at once like she did, and it's no wonder she's having a hard time handling it. I get that. I've been through the darkness that's so thick and deep you think it's going to eat you alive. So I shared some of my experiences with her... but I also shared the hope of God's healing. It's hard now, but it's worth it. She's seeing her counselor on Monday.

And THAT in and of itself is a miracle of God's timing. They didn't even have a counselor until last week, and that started because I had been doing counseling myself, and was able to share with R how inexpensive our insurance made it, which he didn't know.

So after I prayed with Mom, I went for a walk. I have a lot of feelings swirling inside me right now, too. Anger. Disgust. Sadness. Grief. Righteous rage. (Can I call it that? It's WAY more than indignation!) Uncertainty.

This should never, EVER happen to a child!! Dear God, why is my family so sick? Why this generational sweep of pain and hurt and dysfunction? What does this mean for me? Is there some sort of inherent flaw in our genetic code? I tell you this much-- it stops here. No child will ever, ever experience those things from me. No child, and no person. It stops here.

Sweet Jesus, please come soon. We're falling apart...

How is it possible to feel two such antithetical feelings at the same time? On the one hand, I do feel loved, because they care enough to help me see the truth, and in a loving, positive way. On the other hand, I feel like the elephant in the room-- the elephant that is infested with rabies, lice, and possibly even fleas.

How can I still be, after all these years... a home wrecker? Dammit. I long for peace, yet I reap tension, bitterness, and strife.

Is there nowhere I can truly belong? The cry of my heart is, Love me! Accept me! Be okay with who I am!
And yet... others are threatened by my existence. I never wanted to take your place. I just wanted to create a place for myself to be.

They say that in every joke is a grain of truth. This thought winds its way to the forefront of my mind when I hear (joking) comments like: "I can't wait for you to leave." "No wonder I'm glad you're leaving!" Uh-huh. Now it all makes sense.

Who do you think I am? What kind of person do you take me for? I am not a thief, some slick seductress who works her way into lives to take them over. Do you think I am a parasite, a tick?

I tried my best. But time has shown that I will never truly be one of the family. I am the ignominious adopted daughter. The red-headed stepchild, if you will.

The curse of dysfunction follows me wherever I go. I cannot escape it. I feel like the specter of Death-- what I touch, whom I love, the very air I breathe... all becomes tainted, polluted, and decay sets in.

Am I doomed to an isolated existence? I thought I had found the antidote to that... but instead, I found that it was a mirage. A placebo. You thought you could belong. Sorry. You're still ****ed up. What you touch turns to ashes. If only you believed in incarnation-- you could try again in your next life.


I told C that I was contemplating moving to Yuma until I start school. She said don't. LOL. I was going to be packed and ready by the time they got home from the hospital, but the fatal flaw to my plan is that I'm broke. Bah, humbug.

My flight instinct kicks in again, strong. I'm ready to go to school in Colorado, just because I don't know anyone there. No chance of my taking over anyone's family or relationship or whatever. No chance of my hurting anyone. Just me and the snow and my cat. And the new age philosophies I'd have to endure.

And another part of me says, "Screw you! It's my life! I'll do what I want!" And that's exactly why I don't fit into a family. Dammit again.

All the ugliness I've been trying to repress lately, it's surfacing, threatening to spew all over anyone who so much as jostles me. Bad words, hostile looks, seething impatience, frustration, and anger... Guess I'm not so converted, after all.

If I were to die tonight... I'd be glad for the rest... but nervous about what would happen when the nap was over.

I'm not fit to be in heaven.

I'm not fit to be in K, ID.

Get me outta here.

January can't come too soon.

(Fun fact: My name, C, has two meanings-- one means "helper of mankind". The other means "prophetess of doom". I generally see myself as the first, yet the second proves to be the reality of my life. Go figure.)

It's like all those things that I didn't want to believe about myself are being proved true. Yes, I am. Yes, I am. Yes, I am. You can't fight it, you can't run from it. You are a problem. You cause problems. No matter where you go, you will not find rest or peace, because your very presence prohibits it.

Is this hell?

...the very day after you talk about having peace and finding strength and carrying on despite hardships... you totally eat it and have a lame-o day?

Today was... funky. K had a blow-up this morning, we all had to leave super-early, and I was trying to make breakfast, pick berries, take a shower and get dressed, clean up, pack myself a lunch, pack my car, and package up the berries by weight... all in the span of 2 hours. Lord, have mercy!

My first session with my new counselor did not go as hoped. I learned some good, new tools, but I can't figure out my emotions. Halfway through, I was occasionally fighting back tears and wishing she'd stop talking so I could leave. Not that she's mean, or condemnatory or any such thing. I just... didn't want to be there anymore. I was desperately wishing for J. She's the first to cry aloud that she's not trained, but she's the best counselor I've ever had... maybe it's 'cause she's also a good friend? I don't know. She just has that spirit that brings life to my spirit, even through the rough times. I don't know what I was expecting with this new counselor, but I came away disappointed. I'm going to give it a few more tries, though. Maybe it was just an off day.

Anyway, I drove down the street to the Goodwill parking lot and cried for a while, but then I found a pair of jeans at the thrift store for a dollar! My jeans from this summer don't fit anymore-- I had lost a lot of weight due to stress, but I gained it all back on that road trip. (Well, they fit, but they're scandalously tight, especially for the reputation I have to uphold in these parts.)

Today was another one of those "firsts" in the grieving process over D. Market was moved across the street, because the park is being occupied for a local festival, and... when we were moved across the street for this festival last year, that's the very first time D saw me, when he came to pick up nectarines. So I was already down because of the counselor thing, and my soul is bone-tired, and now this... I'm weary. I'm very weary.

When we got home, I still had to prepare more food for this trip we're taking tomorrow. I don't even really want to go. It's just a lot of hassle and more stress, and I don't even really know where I fit in with the family going, because K is going to be spending all her time with her bf, C and D are going to be doing their thing, and then we have the other family that we're carpooling and sharing a room with, and I don't know if I'm supposed to hang out with them the whole time or what? Plus I have NO idea what to expect, except that it's conservative, and I'm supposed to wear a skirt the whole time 'cause it's that kind of thing, and I haven't had the best experiences with large groups of very conservative Christians amassed in one locale... I'm nervous that it's going to lead to a total plunge into darkness for me.

And yet... I dare not share any of these fears or frustrations with C and D, because they've already got so much on their plates. I want to be strong for them, but I'm really sorta falling apart right now. I think that I'm repeating the patterns I learned as a kid- be strong for the parents. Step in and take over, and you'll be able to save the day... not.

Oh, I don't know what to do. I really just want someone to snuggle with me. Isn't that silly? But I just want somewhere to feel warm and safe, even if my life is still driving me into the ground... just a reprieve. Life is so full of pointy corners and sharp edges, but all I want is a world of smooth, round contours, at least right now.

I've decided that I'm going to go to school for massage therapy next year, after the growing season's over. It bothers me, not having a marketable skill. I've even thought of some really cool ministry ideas with it.

What if I went to school in Alaska? I could do that... what an adventure that would be! Alaska's, like, the last frontier of America. I could move to another state, true, but it's far less impressive. :)

My friend S has invited me (with enthusiasm) to come up to Alaska and visit her. I'd LOVE to.

We'll see. I'm probably just in escape mode.

Whatevs.

I think I may have just forgiven my abuser(s).

"May have? Shouldn't you know if you've forgiven someone?"

Yeah, but, you see... I'm not sure how forgiveness actually works in a scenario like mine... I don't know what it looks like, exactly. But I think it just happened.

I had a rough night last night. For some reason unbeknownst to me, I had bad dreams last night about being abused/molested. It was awful and humiliating, and the worst part about my dreams is that they are so vivid, I feel like it's actually happening. So that's how I spent my night, or at least part of it.

I woke up out of that dream to go to work this morning, and I was fighting flashbacks. Memories were resurfacing, and I was thinking, Not here! Not now!!

I had managed to forget. Sure, it happened. Of course it did. But I had pushed it to the far reaches of my mind where I didn't have to recall it anymore, where I didn't have to feel anything about it... I could discuss the fact that I was molested, but it was an apathetic discourse. Numb. No feeling.

Today, the memories resurfaced (at least, some of them), and now they were accompanied by the feelings of fear, helplessness, and humiliation fresh from my my awful dream.

Finally, work was over, and I went home and just sobbed before God.


I don't even know how to begin processing this!! I feel so humiliated, so worthless and filthy and used... Like, this is all I'm good for- to be humiliated so someone else can get their kicks.


Somehow, God spoke to my heart as I was sobbing... he showed me the Cross.

"You're not worthless. See what value I have placed upon you? What happened to you is not an indicator of your worth and value, it's an indicator of the depravity of the other person. That's what happens to hearts when they are turned away from Me. You have value, my child, and worth. You are loved."

And when I realized that G and C's hearts were turned away from God... I realized that I could forgive them. What they did was wrong. They humiliated me, they hurt me, and it was wrong. But it's not my place to hold it against them anymore. Yes, it was wrong, but now they are accountable to God, not to me.

I even said it out loud. (Well, kinda whispered, but whatever. It was audible.)

"I forgive you, G."

I put him in prison. I still think it was the right thing to do. Even if I forgive him, he still needs to be accountable for the wrong, illegal things that he did. He needs to experience the consequences of his actions.

"I forgive you, C."

The humiliation and shame I experienced at his hands was a direct result of the warpage I received at the hands of G. If I were healthy, I would not have stood for those things.

His heart, too, is turned away from God... and I see what an ugly bent the soul takes when you walk that path. He's accountable to God now. I don't hold it against him.

Is this forgiveness? Whatever it is... I feel like it's a step forward.

Dear God,

I was raped in my dreams last night. It was awful.

I think it started with my visit to the chiropractor's. His secretary was gone visiting grand-kids, so it was only him in the office. I immediately had misgivings about being alone with a guy (not even this guy in particular, but ANY guy-- even working for B has been somewhat of a mental challenge at times), but I put them aside. Don't be stupid, nothing's gonna happen... what, you think you're that irresistible? He even asked, "Do you want to reschedule? I don't want you to be uncomfortable." I airily replied, "No, it's fine." (I immediately began mentally kicking myself, because I knew that if anything did happen, it would now be my fault.)

Well, it was fine, in the way of nothing happening. He's an upstanding guy. But he did a new stretch, which was to have me cross my arms, and then he leaned over and sort of did this twist/pull thing on my arms to pop my thoracic back. It wasn't anything, but I guess it must have been triggering in some way, because I left ASAP, and in a funk. And then... the dreams...

In my dream, I was playing guitar in some sort of vacation home, and the windows were open. It was a beautiful day, and I was enjoying myself. Then two guys walked up to the open window and started chatting with me. I tried to ignore them, because they had that "vibe", and they went away... but then one of them came back and attacked me. I put up a whale of a struggle- I even tried to hit him with my guitar! It didn't work, though. Fortunately, my mind fast-forwarded through the act itself, to the end, where he made some crude, derogatory remark and left. After that, it seemed that every creep in a five mile radius knew that I was defiled, and I had to deal with at least one other attack. I managed to fend that guy off, though, and run away and hide. When I came back out of hiding, I was accused of leading him on by a friend of mine, which really hurt.

All in all, my dreams sucked. I wish I could control my dreams like some people I know.

At least it was nobody I knew.

I'll see you later, God.
I'm glad I can tell you this stuff.

I just discovered that I have trichotillomania. No, it's not a contagious disease, it's, essentially, a compulsive urge to pull out my hair. I've been doing it for years and tried to stop, albeit unsuccessfully. It's good to know that some others out there share this weirdness. I do notice that it increases with stress or depression, and it's ritualistic in a way- I only pull out certain types of hair. Two schools of thought on this one: 1. an impulse-control disorder, or 2. a bad habit. If I choose #1, does that make me less of a loser?

Dear God,

I thought about driving off a cliff on the way home today. At first, I thought I might just go into the river-- it looked so... pure. It rushed and surged past, glinting and ice-cold. I thought that maybe it would cleanse me, purge me. But then I remembered... I don't like the cold. It might be neat to watch the bubbles rise and the current spin past me from behind glass... to just wait until the darkness claims me... but I don't like the cold. So then I thought that a cliff might do well. I can just imagine soaring through the air in one last graceful arc... the freedom might overwhelm me.

But then, I thought, You know... that would be an easy way for my adversary to get rid of me. No way! I'm not going down that easy! I'm sticking around, if only because I hate you! I WILL fight, because you can't take me down. I won't let you.

Why do I hate myself? It seems that, no matter the scenario, I cannot escape the snide, condemnatory voice in my head. I tell myself, No, it's not true! You're being lied to! It doesn't seem to make a difference.

God, am I doing this all wrong? Am I failing? Am I not doing this, or something, anything, right?

I'm doing the best I can. I think I'd rather have it this way than trying to work through the checklist each day.

Why do these thoughts of killing myself come? And why, even though I dismiss them, do they linger in the back of my head? Why am I depressed? Why do I get these funks? Am I blaming too much on my past? Is there just something fundamentally flawed within me? Do I have a mental illness? Do I have a disorder? Is there a reason I experience these things, or am I just not doing it right?

God, I don't want to be this way. I don't! If I could wake up tomorrow and be different, I would. No, I would NOT choose this pain. So why did you? Who are you, anyway? What kind of a god voluntarily puts himself at the mercy of the demons that torment me? In my darker moments, I might just tell you that you shouldn't have done it. Obviously, it hasn't fixed me. Go on... save yourself. Noble, right?

I wondered tonight, on the drive home... I think I care entirely too much about "the church" and what they think of me. I'm just afraid of being attacked... rejected... of more stones added to the weight that already crushes the breath from my lungs. But, really... who cares what they think? They're not the ones that let me into heaven. Besides, if they kick me out, I know a few sunday churches that would be happy to have me, warts and all. Sad, isn't it? "The Church of Destiny" strikes fear into my heart. Also, the fact that if I walked away I would be considered "fallen", possibly even damned, really irks me. (Being irked...that's so not Christ-like. *sigh*)

I'm sorry for my confusion. I'm sorry for my rebellion, for my pain, for my darkness, and for my instability.

I'm scared. Backpedaling in my mind. I don't like him, I don't. If I don't like him, nothing will ever happen (because he might be "too old" for me anyway), and if nothing ever happens, then he will never have to deal with my pain, my issues, and he will never see my darkness, and I will never be rejected, and...

I just want to be loved so desperately... I'm afraid that I'll jump at the very first chance. Any chance. Just love me. Don't leave me. Don't hurt me. Above all, don't condemn me.

I cry entirely too much for my own good these days.

Goodnight, God.
I'll see you tomorrow.

G showed up in my dream last night. Not G1 (my first abuser ever. Thanks alot.), but G2, the one I put in prison. He came to my house. And people were telling me that I just needed to get over it and hang out with him again.

Never.

Ever.

I will hate him until I die.

I hate him for what he did to me. Who the hell does he think he is?! Did I ever ASK to be molested? For years, I thought that it was what I deserved, that it was "payment" for any form of kindness he showed me. What person in their right mind thinks, "Hmm. She's young. Too young, in fact, to bear children. Perfect." And your pitiful excuses betray your withered brain. "Your mom and I were going through a rough time..." Bullshit. If you were here, in front of me now, I would punch you in the face. I would rake my fingernails across your disgusting, roving eyes. I would punish you, make you pay for everything you did to me, to my family, to my mother...

But you don't even care. You don't care that you RUINED MY LIFE! You're such a jerk! I HATE YOU! If I never see you again, it will be too soon. And stay out of my dreams, jerkface. I have enough troubles without you coming around to haunt me.

hatred |ˈhātrid|nounintense dislike or ill will ORIGIN Middle English : from hate + -red (from Old English rǣden[condition] ).

Thud. (fist hitting wall)

I HATE YOUUU!


THUD. (miscellaneous object hurled to the floor)

Stop being so WEAK!!(!)


Cue hysterical sobbing, punctuated by loud wails and pounding of walls/floors/own body.

It sounds so... silly... now that I am hours removed from the situation. But in the moment, hatred surged through my veins like heated adrenaline.


It's moments like that... they scare me. I could actually really do myself harm when I'm in that frame of mind. These self-destructive urges... they sweep over me, and it's all I can do to listen to the voice of reason.

Today, I've been toying with the possibility of going ana. My rational mind screams at me, "What are you, crazy?! You're trying to get HEALTHY, not develop a new sickness! You've done the research-- you know that it is NOT the solution to your problems. And besides, what about your plans for the future? It would screw up your whole life. How can you expect to help other people if you indulge this side of yourself?"


And that's the thing... I do, I do, I do want to help other people. I mean, that's the dream, right? So how can I jeopardize that, just so I can feel in control?

But the other half of me says, "Go on, do it. I bet you can't. I bet you'll cave. I bet you'll fail. I bet you don't have the guts. It's what you get, anyway. You think you hurt now? I can show you real pain. What you've got now is all in your head. I can make it real."

And isn't that I want, after all? Something tangible to fight against? Maybe some way of making myself pay for... for... whatever my sin of the moment is. Some sort of masochistic penance.

And then there's this whole thing with Mom... she is so sick. It's really weighing heavily on me. It's not just the fact that she's sick.. it's that she sent me care packages. Finally! The thing I've been yearning for for years! But it's bittersweet... tainted with guilt... stained by my deep sense of unworthiness. Like, she could have spent that money on a thousand different things, better things... but she spent it on me. What a waste. But she did it because she loves me, and it makes her so happy! So I ham it up, and churn out more enthusiasm than I'm feeling, because I want her to be happy, and I am happy to get these things, but not as happy as I sound, necessarily, because she really could have spent her money on something better but I'm not about to tell her that and burst her bubble... and part of me longs, yearns, craves that love she's showing me. It's like rain in a dry desert.

Ah! She loves me! How wonderful. 

I don't know how to explain it. I guess I just really want to be free to enjoy these gifts, but I can't. I'm not. I don't know.

The other big thing is my schedule.
Monday: work for B.
Tuesday: therapy day.
Wednesday: work for B, record, session w/Julene
Thursday: racquetball
Friday: clean house, clean church, group (possibly Bible study w/Johnson kids)
Sabbath: church
Sunday: sometimes something, sometimes nothing

Maybe it just feels like BW all over again, but I'm getting claustrophobic. The walls of my life are starting to close in on me, and I'm freaking out. Seriously freaking out. Like, I'm tired of "doing".  I don't want to "do" anything anymore. This being scheduled for something every day is...well, freaking me out.

I'm just itching to run... No, actually, not necessarily run, but to dump everything and hermit myself away. But the GUILT that comes attached with such an idea is so tremendous that it outweighs all else. I can't quit anything! They need me! I'm committed. To back out would be high treason to them and to God. Because, I mean, look at me... I'm already selfish enough. To just quit everything but the bare basics and hide away is selfish, right? Well, I don't know. That's why I'm asking.

I just can't make sense of my life anymore. It's all unraveling, from the inside out... and what exactly am I supposed to do right now? What does trusting God look like at this point? Just sitting tight and chilling? Quitting? (Because that was the answer at one point before...) Certainly not developing an eating disorder.

But how, pray tell, do I deal with the rage that wells and pools within me? How do I stop hating myself? And how do I get to the point where I no longer want to destroy myself?

Mom has been in and out of the emergency room all weekend. All she knows is that she can't keep food down, and it causes her excruciating pain to eat, and she's dizzy and nauseous. The ultrasound showed nothing. The endoscopy showed nothing. Tomorrow, she's got a CAT scan.

Call me crazy, but I am so afraid that she's going to die. I mean, the very thought of it is sending me into full-blown panic mode on the other side of this screen.

God, no, NO! You can't do this to us! We're just learning how to trust you! We're actually talking about it and sharing about you and the Bible and spiritual things, and connecting on levels we never have before... our relationship is just getting to the good part. You can't do this to me! Don't take her, please!

When it rains, it pours. Larry died. Now there's this whole turmoil thing happening at church involving some of my best friends being attacked... now Mom is sick...

God, you have to help me figure out how to handle all this stuff. I feel claustrophobic... the walls of my life are closing in on me, and I don't know what to do. I just... can't deal with this right now. I need to sleep. I may or may not actually sleep.

I have no words to describe the panicky grief that washes over me at intervals.

Is there nothing safe, nothing sacred? Is all of life this dance of welcoming happiness in, and then having it ripped from your sagging arms?

Is there anything, anything at all, that I can trust down to the core? Is there any place where I will not have the fear of loss hovering over my heart?

What can I trust? It seems like everything is being torn from me. 

How much pain can the human heart endure before it simply stops beating?

This world suddenly seems to be a dark, dark place.

Larry is dead.

As abruptly as the sentence above, he just... died. One of his friends found him Thursday night. No wonder he wasn't in group on Friday, or church on Sabbath.

It's so strange... I can still see him, in my mind... I can hear his voice, telling about his week, about how happy he is to know God, about his progress in quitting smoking... He looked so good. Hair cut, ironed shirt, beaming smile... he was the best I'd ever seen him.

How can he just be... gone? My mind refuses to wrap itself around that fact that I will not see Larry this Friday night. I will not buy chicken from him, and I will never help him learn how to read. I think the worst part is that I don't even have a picture of him.

I can do nothing but silently scream my agony into the black abyss that yawns before me. He was my friend. I loved him. He had plans, dreams, hopes, ambitions... gone. All gone.

In the end, is that all it comes to? One by one, the lights of our lives go out, leaving thin smoke trails of memory in the minds of others... until they, too, are no more.

Oh, Larry.

Why?

At least I know that you loved God. I am absolutely sure I'll see you again.

Okay, so not literally, but my insides feel very closely reminiscent of my poor sprained foot... Sometimes it hurts, and sometimes it doesn't, but there's always a low, nagging reminder that something's wrong... so I limp around, trying to be careful not to hurt myself again. You can't limp forever. Nor can you immobilize the offending member forever, or you'll atrophy. So what do I do? The three ingredients of healing: time, grace, and truth... which one am I lacking?

This emptiness that resounds within me, it echoes into my belly. I have no appetite in the morning, but as the day progresses, I get hollower and hollower... hungry at times, but never satisfied. Then? Then I overeat, but it still doesn't dampen the craving for more that curls coldly beneath my ribs. If I were at SOULS, they'd tell me to drink more water. So I will.

Was I happy before? I have been asking myself this question lately. I know that, once I found Jesus, I'm supposed to confess that my life before was all misery and emptiness and how unhappy I was, and now I'm so happy and fulfilled and overflowing that it's just the best thing ever and I don't know what I'd do if I hadn't met Jesus, except to crawl around on my belly being an unhappy heathen. Well, quite frankly... I can't say that. I want to cry when I think about this, but I don't think that I'm any happier now than I was before becoming a Christian. Why cry? I'm so disappointed! I mean, Jesus is supposed to make a difference, for crying out loud! So maybe I'm nicer. Maybe I eat healthier and drink more water. Maybe I know how to upsale now. But why am I still so lonely and unhappy?

Sure, there are bursts of happiness-- like fireworks in a dark sky. They are spectacular, but they don't last long. I'm looking for a bonfire, and all I can find is sparklers. Oooooh! Ahhhhh! And it's gone. I am plunged into darkness again. It never really left... But now I don't have to fake it as much.

As much. Is life about looking okay on the outside while you secretly struggle? Is that what Christianity is about?

Why am I even thinking about trying to help other people? If I have no hope to offer, then... what use can I be? I had hope, a week or two ago. I'm trying to remember what it was all about. Oh, right. I remember believing that God can change me, transform me, lift me up from the miry clay, so to speak. But it's SO SLOOOOOOOW! Great, so I don't manipulate people anymore. I'm still hurting!! I'm still empty inside! I'm still aching for something to fill this dark, roiling void within me!

And there is a voice whispering in my ear that says, "If you pray better, this will go away. If you read the Bible more consistently, this won't happen. You're hurting because you're not connected to God right. So do something. Fix it. 'Cause this is your fault."

And then my brain responds, "**** it. I don't care. If this is all I can expect, then Christianity can shove it."

And then my heart walks up and says, "(sniffle) It's okay, brain. This isn't all there is. Don't you remember how happy we were two weeks ago? I'm sure it will come again. It has to."

To which my brain responds, "Well, do we really have to endure such intense darkness in between happiness? This is exactly how it's been for the last 22 years! I was expecting something different, here."

My heart opens its mouth to respond, but then something unseen and mysterious leaps out of the darkness and runs my heart through with a sword, then dashes away unseen. My brain is left in shock to sort out this mess on its own... and becomes so overwhelmed that it shuts down and refuses to speak to me anymore.

I guess I'm just tired of hurting for no apparent reason. My life is still so unmanageable. My home, once my nourishment, has become my greatest stressor. The relational enjoyment I found so soothing now drains life from my bones. Is it me? Is it them? Is it a combination? What do I do? I'm so lonely, but my instinct is to withdraw, withdraw, withdraw. Preserve whatever strength you have left. Curl into the fetal position and weather the storm. Wait for the sun to come out. What do I do? I can't run away again. I won't leave.

God, I need you so desperately right now. I'm caught in a whirlpool that drags me down, down to the murky depths of I-know-not-what, I only know that the prospect fills me with terror. I don't want to let the darkness overcome me, yet I can't find my way to the light. I wander helplessly in a thin grey fog that obscures all traces of friendliness and warmth. God, where am I? Where are you? Don't let the adversary claim me as his. If I'm doing something wrong, then show me! But I don't know what to do, and I'm so very lonely. I can't see where to put my feet, and my hands are slipping. I'm hanging on to my life with just my fingertips, and I'm losing strength fast. Where do I turn? What do I do? What can stop this numbing pain from seeping into my very bones? I am so heavy, God. I am sinking. Lift me up, carry me away. I can't take this much longer. I don't want this to be my life. It's been too long, God, too long! 

I am living life over again, it seems. The same emotions, the same scenarios as my teen years... they come back to haunt me, almost. And yes, I recognize this sinking... I've gone through it a million times before. You think, by now, I'd know what to do.

I want a cigarette, but I know I don't really. I just want an anaesthetic for the pain... I want what used to come with it. Mom. Long talks. Friends. Laughter. C. All the things I used to run to that took the edge off... my drugs. My music. And now? Now I still have the same broken heart, but I have nothing to take away the pain. Must I undergo surgery awake?

No. Remember. Remember. Remember. God has not ordained this season of healing for your destruction. He's doing it to help you, not to torture you. Right.

God... help me. I could write it in my own blood on the wall. Help me. Please.

Save me from myself.

I don't know what to do.

"Are you even there??? I need you! God, can you hear me?!"

Bitter tears washed down my cheeks in great swaths, much the way a flash flood races across the dry desert floor. I stared through my window at the stars, trying to see past them to where God was, heaving sobs racking my body. I gasped for breath and curled into a tight ball. It was no use. I couldn't see past the stars. I couldn't hear God's voice at all, and thick darkness choked me as I groped for any shred of comfort. Then, I remembered--my treasure chest, containing the "feast" I had set aside for just a time such as this. Stumbling across the room, I retrieved a lone cd from the bottom of the chest and slipped it into the cd player. The cd only had one song on it, so I pressed the "repeat" button and listen to the melody rise and fall, over and over and over again. Gradually, as I listened, my tense muscles relaxed, and I drifted off into sleep, remembering that God had given me this "hug" many moons before, for just a night as this. God heard me. I could sleep again.

Why this gross darkness? C's mom came to visit. She is a sweet woman, from all appearances, but the family, who knows her better than I, assured me that it was a facade, a pretense. She lives in a fantasy world of denial, and selfishly manipulates others to maintain her own happiness. (They didn't say this in those exact words, of course... but they told me stories.) And it's not just that, it's that she refuses to acknowledge it, to own her part in the dysfunction of her family. Rather, she casts the blame on others, seeking to free herself from responsibility. 

She was sweet to me, but as I watched and listened, I saw some signs of what the family talked about. And, as they described her manipulative ways with sorrow and displeasure, I realized... that's me. I do the exact same things. I am manipulative. There. I said it. And here the family is expressing their dislike of these characteristics, not realizing that they have a serpent in their midst. Just, just, just before this (as in a day or two), I realized that I manipulate guys to make myself feel better, to have some sort of power, as an ego prop of sorts. This hit me hard, because I've operated this way my whole life. I can remember thinking this way before I even hit double digits. If I could just make a guy look my way, then I had succeeded. If I got a wolf whistle, why, even better. The goal was to see how attractive I could be, how many looks, stares, and approaches I could get. Fortunately, I also possess(ed) a natural sense of modesty, otherwise I could have turned into quite the hoochie-mama. And now, in my adult years... I like(d) to have guys like me. And, subtly but surely, I would do certain things, act certain ways, say certain things to push and pull them in just the right way so that they would "fall for my charms" while allowing me to play the part of the innocent bystander. "Oh, I can't believe so-and-so likes me. How terrible! How in the world can I thwart this?" (In my mind: "Good. I'm glad. How can I keep him like this?) Something about knowing that I could "have" that guy gave me the power...

So now, I am learning how to relate to guys from the ground up. "This is my brother in Christ. How can I honor him and his future wife? (Who is not me!!)" (And I got a chance to practice this that very weekend! How fortuitous ^_^)

Today, J and I talked about a great deal. I realized some things...

• I'm a recovering addict, but it's not substances I abused.
• I'm a manipulator, not just in romantic relationships, but in all relationships. Canvassing did not help.

So, unbelievably... C was my drug. He was the "next thing" that I could always escape to. When we moved in together, suddenly my escape was my reality. How do you escape from your escape? Simple--go visit the family you escaped from! And then, I escaped to SOULS... which I escaped from by going back to C whenever possible. What kind of craziness is this?! Talk about being out of control. 

God, grant me the serenity to... live one day at a time, enjoy one moment at a time, taking, as Jesus did, this sinful world as it is, not as I would have it, trusting that you will make all things right if I surrender to your will...

And I have made the conscious decision not to be a manipulator anymore. I want to be straight-up and forthright in my relationships. I want to honor God with all aspects of my life.

A beautiful and amazing realization came to me, which is that my life changed this week. I will never be the same again. Talk about mileposts, this is a big one!

In addition, I saw 2 things today, one of which I haven't seen for a long time, and the other I can't really recall seeing before.

1.) Progress. Praise be. Seeing God at work is incredible. It is this that leads to...

2.) Hope. I see it, and it's beautiful. God did not ordain this period of "chrysalis" for my destruction, to strike me down. No! He meant it for my good, to build me up, to strengthen and nourish me! I do feel like a gemstone in the rough, except that now, I see one shining facet--healthy relationships. (Actually, I'm beginning to tear up. Healthy relationships is something I've wanted for a very, very, very long time, and to be able to hold this hope to my heart and feel it's warmth, well... it's almost overwhelming. To love and be loved in a wholesome fashion is a coveted experience, and I am one step closer.)

Oh, so much, so much. All I can say is, "Praise God. I am so very tired now." Hah. Emotions will do that to you.

Coming soon to a person near you: Searching and Fearless  Moral Inventory. *gulp*

Although I'm glad to have an excuse to spend a day out on the Selway, I am leery of further revelations of my "sterling character". Heh.

My bread is finally done. Time for sleep. Glory glory hallelujah!

Clink, clink. Squeak. Slam. Whatever sound an engine turning over makes. Ca-chunk.

My keys clink against the side of my purse as I make my way to the garage, intent on one thing only-- I must not be late. The door squeaks slightly as it opens, and slams satisfyingly shut, assuring me that it will not open in mid-drive (an small, albeit unreasonable fear of mine). The key turns smoothly and Shenandoah wakes from her idle sleep. Ca-chunk. The transmission falls into gear, and together we roll backward, out of the mellow warmth of the dim garage, into the bright light of the afternoon.

The rutted gravel driveway jerks and shakes me, but I am not deterred by such a small inconvenience, and it soon gives way to a smooth carpet of asphalt. I must not be late. Even the rich tapestry of blossoming fall colors cannot entice me to stop and marvel at the soft yellow that gently dusts the foliage about me. The wind sighs and hisses through my partially open windows, tousling my curls and muting the music that I near-obsessively surround myself with. Reaching for the volume, I sing along without thinking, falling into harmonies long since learned, my mind in another place and time.

I drift back to the past, to childhood memories, and I try to recreate my life as it was. Why are there so many holes in my memory? I can't say. I also cannot say whether things were as happy as I perceived them to be. The full man hates the thought of food, but to a starving person, every bitter thing is sweet.

My mind wanders forward, to the near future, and my mind begins to methodically and compulsively sort the coming week. That provides little challenge, for I have traveled this mental road a thousand times, and I know the waymarks well. My thoughts turn to finances, and I again sort and plot, until I realized I have stopped singing.

Click. Buzz. A new cd. Maybe that will help me focus on the task at hand--the road beneath my humming tires. After all, I must not be late, and if I do not pay attention, I may hit a deer, another driver, a skunk... the possibilities are endless.

Late? Late for what? Any number of things. And, usually, I make it by the skin of my teeth...or maybe not. But it is when I drive that I really have time to think. The only problem is, my thoughts are so jumbled and circular, it really goes better when I have someone to talk to. I come to so many realizations when I am talking to someone, rather than just thinking it out on my own. Or, say, when I have a blog to type away on. If only I could regurgitate my thoughts out onto a page of paper, then sort of stir them around until they make sense... a surgery of sorts.

Why, why, WHY do I continually feel as though life is too much for me to handle? No matter what insignificant fragment I whittle my life down to, I can hardly bear it. Is it me? Or am I really doing "too much"? Am I depressed? Quite possibly. What do I have to be depressed about? Nothing. Yet I know that these thoughts and feelings and this tiredness and overwhelmedness have a root somewhere. I am not a mental hypochondriac, but I know that every symptom has a root, even if it's not what we might expect.

Can I just quit my life for a week or so? Just bow out of every commitment I've made and learn to simply exist? Maybe I could go camping for a week. That would be amazing. You know, I just might do that. I mean, why not? There are lots of places around here that are ripe for the (temporary) settling. It doesn't even have to be in the remote wilderness. Just a campground somewhere will do. Probably car camping. I'm still a novice when it comes to backpacking. Also, since I'd be by myself, I ought to be somewhere near people, in case anything goes wrong.

BAM! There goes my imaginary fist into a fictitious wall. I feel like I'm out of control. I also find this situation slightly amusing, since one of the ways to "control" my life is to schedule it into oblivion, and when I accomplish that schedule, I am a good person. I have achieved. I have not failed. I am worth... something. And yet, the more I schedule, the more I fall apart. A suspension bridge of glass am I. The tension holds me up, yet at any moment threatens to shatter me and send the pieces hurtling into the chasm below. The chasm where Failure lives, with his roommate Resentment, along with their freeloading cousins Pain, Humiliation, Insecurity, and Isolation. Also, I have reason to believe that G lived there at one point in time. It might just be his vacation home. Or his birthplace. I'm not sure which.

And don't you think, hypothetical person who is in reality not hypothetical at all but who I choose not to name for the sake of the greater good, that I would enjoy this good thing that you are well-meaningly pressuring me into? Yes, it is good! Yes, I see this! Yes, I want to support you! But I can't. Or won't. I'm not sure about that one, either. But all I know is that, if I don't take some steps to guard what little emotional sanity I have left, I may not be around for much longer to take part in said good activity anyway. My body may be here, but my mind and my heart will be lying in a sepulcher of my own craftsmanship.

Blub, glub, splutter... the sound my mind makes as it is drowning in my personal sea of apathy. And yet, it is not entirely apathy, because I do care, and I want to care, and I want to just... be better. Be whole. Be a better person that people can rely on, who doesn't dread the commitments she so enthusiastically espouses. Bah. I am a brussel sprout. Stinky. Aphid infested. Immobile. But, when cooked the right way, maybe I, too, can be delicious and nutritious.

I don't know how to say all that I want to say. I desire a cleansing of the heart, a purging of the mind. I thought that blogging would help, and it has... some. Infinitesimally. Well, slightly more than that. Not as much as I had hoped. In the past, I would have gone and done something... gone with C to a movie, or to a friend's house, or... something, anything to gloss over this infernal restlessness. But now? Now, I have nothing. My coping mechanisms have been stripped away, and I find myself yearning for I-know-not-what, and I have no idea how to achieve that blessed peace that has so long eluded me.

Maybe another cup of tea? I doubt it.

Oh Jesus, help me now. This is one of those times, and I don't know what to do. Give me peace, Lord, give me peace.

I am baking bread and thinking.


Truth is what sets us free. It defines our reality. It is our OS. What truth we know governs our actions and guides our lives, our morals, and our principles. 


Truth seeker. That sounds so good. And truth IS good, so good. And yet.. when it hurts... it's so tempting to walk away from it. But denial is what's gotten me in the mess I'm in. There is no healing in denial. There can be no growth in willful ignorance. If I ever want to help people in the future, I have to face the reality of who I am, like it or not.


Who I am now. God is intent on healing the broken parts, and strengthening the whole parts. This newly discovered weakness is not for all time, and I must remember that.


I had thought that, in seeking to discover who I really am, that I would find relief and release, freedom from expectations and baggage. It certainly does not FEEL as though this is taking place!


But I guess this is another part of the transformation. The caterpillar dissolves before it ever turns into a butterfly. I am dissolving... yet, below it all, beats a little heart, still protected.

"A caterpillar spends most of its life crawling on -- and devouring -- its food source. But when it's time to become an adult, most caterpillars start to wander away from what they've been eating. They find a sheltered, safe spot in which to pupate, or transform into an adult. In all caterpillars, this happens inside a protective shell known as a chrysalis, but the specifics differ from species to species.


It's easy to think of a chrysalis as something a caterpillar makes, like a cocoon, but this isn't really true. The body that the caterpillar reveals when it sheds its skin for the last time is the chrysalis. Along with the ability to occasionally twitch in response to threats, this shell is what protects the caterpillar while it transforms.

The transformation itself is amazing. Think of it as recycling -- if you drop a plastic bottle off in the recycling bin, it can be melted down into an entirely different shape. This is what happens inside the chrysalis. Much of the body breaks itself down into imaginal cells, which are undifferentiated -- likestem cells, they can become any type of cell. The imaginal cells put themselves back together into a new shape. A few parts of the body, such as the legs, are more or less unchanged during this process.

This process of complete transformation is known as holometabolism. The amount of time required to transform completely varies from one species to another, but in general it takes about two weeks. For species that survive the winter by staying in the chrysalis, it can take months.

According to research at Georgetown University, the caterpillars and butterflies that emerge from the chrysalises may remember some of their lives as caterpillars [source: Blackiston]. When caterpillars in the study were conditioned to avoid specific smells, they remembered to keep away from those scents as adults -- but only if the conditioning happened in the last instars of the caterpillars' lives. If you want to learn more what happens once the chrysalis opens, read How Butterflies Work."

(http://animals.howstuffworks.com/insects/caterpillar3.htm)

Gaaah! I don't like who I thought I wasn't! But it IS me! I can see it clearly. And the best/worst part is, it's not because anyone told me so, it's because I'm seeking truuuuuuuuuth.

 I will not walk away from this. I will own it, acknowledge it, and God, you're going to have to help me walk through this. I'm through running away from life.