Survivors Journey Part 7 – Swimming in a sea of self-destruction

Listen up ladies! When you don’t receive the essential, emotional securities you need as a child (especially from your father,) odds are astoundingly high that you will enter into unhealthy relationships in a subconscious attempt to satisfy your psyche deficiencies. Your boundaries are skewed as the innate desire to acquire a sense of self-worth overrides your intellectual and/or moral compass. These relationships or encounters may satisfy an immediate need; however you will undoubtedly find yourself worse off in their aftermath as you resume your life as an emotional leech. Read that again – multiple times if you need to, until the truth penetrates your core. It’s important and warrants self-reflection no matter how much it hurts.

If you have been following my journey, you may recall that I did not reap a sense of self-worth or importance from my father. I never felt delighted in, nor was I made to feel like “Daddy’s Little Girl.” Given these facts, it is easy to understand why I was so fiercely swept up into the fairy-tale romance with my first husband, Mark. He romanced me. He delighted in me. He made me feel important. He painted the picture of a fairy-tale life together, and then he destroyed me with his verbal assaults and emotional abuse. Following my escape, I could not have been further down the “you suck” pole then I was, and I unknowingly set out on a life path to thwart the ever-present evil that lurked. You see, I had to combat that emotional beast, and I did so in ways that would merely leave me ravenous for more.

My 20’s were riddled reckless abandonment, and with them carried loneliness like nothing I ever knew. While my professional life soared, my emotional health continued to spiral out of control. If and when I did meet a sincere guy, I was certain to sabotage that relationship. After all, I wasn’t worthy, right? How could I ever enter into an authentic relationship with anyone when I had no authentic relationship with myself? The answer is you can’t. It is impossible. You cannot give of your true self to anyone unless you first identify who that person is.

Coors Light, social drug use, and honky-tonks became my best friend. Engulfed in an intoxicated state of alcohol or cocaine, I found the courage to make myself available to men. It was there I temporarily nourished the emotional leech by voluntarily subjecting myself to one night stands and/or unhealthy, short-term relationships. These relationships never originated with any level of authenticity, so the “fix” was ultimately provisional. When any amount of discontent entered into a romance, I was quick to take flight and resume my relentless pursuit to identify a sense of self-worth. It was a vicious and self-destructive cycle. All it took was a great fitting pair of starched Wrangler jeans, a button-down, long sleeve, tailored shirt, a pair of dusty cowboy boots, and a Stetson hat for me to identify my next target. Being from Texas, the picken’s were anything but slim as the Lone Star State is undoubtedly a “Cowboy Buffet.”

I developed control issues and took great pride in an “I don’t NEED you, I WANT you” mentality. I was quick to let others know they would not control me. I deprived myself of food for days on end to ensure my new-found figure would be maintained. I was brash, arrogant, overindulgent, and challenged any level of authority that came my way. I made sure the wrapper looked like that of a woman who was successful. I drove a Cadillac, flaunted wads of borrowed money, lived in an upscale section of town, and made sure my physical appearance was never less than perfect. I resisted developing relationships with other woman as they may see right through me and possibly challenge my behavior or look down on me. What relationships I did have (outside of intimacy) were with my professional subordinates as they cowered to my authoritative position. I was viewed by others as secure, confident, and really having it together. Since my life was based on lies and deception, I viewed myself as a chameleon and could easily adapt to any social environment – an actress of sorts. My time was primarily spent feverishly pursuing my career or feeding the leech. Yes, I was in control, or so it seemed. I was a lost soul who desperately wanted to be loved. Tell me I’m good enough. Tell me I’m worthy. Delight in me. Please, won’t you just love me? The problem was I didn’t love myself.

Who was I? At the core of my being, what made me tick? What were my motives for doing what I did? Was my life based on “intentionality,” or could it be that I was seemingly unfulfilled and continually “in search of?” These were questions I was not able to answer but more importantly did not want to ask. Understand there is great danger in asking those questions of yourself as you may find an inordinate amount of despair when the truth of who you are is revealed. If you’re honest with yourself and discover you are living a life that is repetitively “in search of,” I would caution you to put the brakes on and take a look within. Chances are you’ll find there is crucial work that needs to be done. I did. That’s why I’m here, and if you’ve been faithfully following my journey that may be why you’re here too. The good news is we are in it together. You are not alone.

So who am I? At the core of my being, what makes me tick? What are my motives for doing what I do? Is my life based on “intentionality” or “in search of?” First and foremost I am a child of God who recognizes He has a purpose for my life; a purpose which I am willing to step outside of my comfort zone in order for Him to work in and through me. I am a fearless warrior in pursuit of transformation so I can be used in the manner in which He intends me to be. I walk in faith knowing that I have been called to share my life experiences with the hope of reaching out to others who are in need of hearing the message. I am a woman who no longer seeks external validation through self-destructive behaviors. I am a loving wife, mother and daughter who is blessed beyond measure to be cherished as I am. I can be over analytical at times, but that comes from being married to an engineer! I am a perfectionist when it comes to certain aspects of my life, yet not others. I am riddled with displaced fear and insecurity but take great pride in the strides I am making to overcome these lies. I am worthy. I am important. I am beautiful. I am opening myself up to vulnerability so that I can not only receive true love but also give it. I am in search of intentionality; in that I find inner peace. While it is true that I fell victim to  a life of self-destructive behaviors in the aftermath of an abusive marriage and absentee father, I am intentionally choosing to step away from the lies that were told and to finally deposit the truth. I am a survivor, and I am on a journey toward recovery.

I’m glad you’re here with me. I know I’m not alone.

Survivors Journey Part 5 – Subconscious Messages

I adore my father. Most girls do. The problem for me is I never felt he adored or delighted in me. I mean truly, effortlessly, or soulfully delighted in me. All I ever wanted was to be “daddy’s little girl,” but that would never be my reality. I’m not saying he didn’t love me, but I never truly felt it. To this day, I mourn for little Michelle. All I ever wanted was to experience my father’s love, to know I was a priority in his life, to feel like I mattered, or to be invested in. No matter how hard I tried to garner my father’s affection or approval, I seemed to be met with indifference or left feeling that I was not good enough.

For as long as I can remember, my father was emotionally disconnected. His primary goal in life was to become a successful  entrepreneur, an accomplishment he seemingly exceeded in obtaining. My father is the most driven man I know, but while his financial success is undeniable, the price paid for him to achieve it was not. That price was my brother and I and the paternal relationship we unsuccessfully received.

I was 11 years old when my parents divorced. What a tender and vulnerable age to go through such a traumatic experience. Not that any age is “good” to experience divorce, but pubescent years are so critical in defining one’s stability. I never saw or heard my parents argue…ever, so my father’s departure truly blindsided me and left me deeply confused. The events that follow are based on my recollection, my reality…my heartbreak. Though there are four individual realities as to what really took place during this period of time, I can only share mine. After all, this is my road to recovery, and mine alone.

As my brother and I got older, we began a tradition of opening our Christmas gifts on Christmas Eve following dinner. Truth be told, Mom and Dad probably preferred this to that of the 6:00 am Christmas morning! When you think of Christmas Eve, you probably envision yourself surrounded by family and friends; however, we never resided near any of our extended family so most of our holidays were just the four of us. I don’t know where my father was on December 24, 1977, but I don’t recall his presence during the daytime hours. Following dinner, I could feel a thickness in the air, an unsettling emotion that weighted down what should be a fun, family event. When you’re supposed to “feel” a certain way but the immediate circumstances prevent you from doing so, yet you don’t know why. Something just felt “off.” Mom was always so joyful this time of year, yet her brow was imbedded with lines and her tightly pursed lips displayed a noticeable, downward turn. I didn’t know how to act, nor was I oblivious to the fact that this was not a joyful day.

Within a few minutes, my father slowly entered through the front door. His posture was slumped, shoulders rolled forward, as his eyes stayed focused on the path before him. Where had he been all day? I found myself in an extreme state of emotional discomfort and anxiously anticipated the evening’s conclusion. Dad immediately parked his intoxicated stature in a metal folding chair, rested his elbows on his knees, and covered his face with his hands. I had never seen my father like this before, under the influence or otherwise. It wasn’t long before he stood up and proceeded down the hall toward their bedroom leaving us dumbfounded in his emotional wake.

I don’t recall opening gifts that year. I assume we did, but the emotional trauma overshadows my ability to recall events other than what I’ve shared, including anything that occurred in the coming days. That is, until the cold, winter evening of January 2, 1978.

My brother and I were crouched down in a makeshift, backyard fort we had recently consructed. As the cool air continued to sink into the quiet night, we began to hear my mother’s screams coming from inside the house. I remember feeling confused and fearful as thoughts raced through my mind wondering what was happening. I had never heard this level of escalation in my mother’s voice before. She was yelling at my father. What had he done? Why was she yelling? In a state of shock, we cemented our feet into the leaf-covered floor and perked our intimidated ears in an attempt to overhear what was going on. Though we were unable to decipher what was being said, we could hear Mom’s voice continuing to intensify. Within an instant, a loud crashing sound rang through the night air, and we knew something was really wrong. The only words I ever understood that night were the ones that followed the sound of shattering glass, “Get out! Just get out! Get out of here, now!” I have never heard such pain, anger, and brokenness in a woman’s voice, not even my own.

Eventually, my brother and I quietly made our way into the house when we felt the conflict had ceased. There, on the living room floor, lay the evidence of crashing sound we heard in the form of a broken lamp. It seemed so surreal, so out of place. I immediately knew to proceed with caution.

The following day, my father briefly returned just long enough to gather some of his personal belongings. Immediately before he departed, he sat next to me on the side of my bed and said, “I’m sorry Shelly. I’ve got to go. I’ve just got to go.” It was the first time I ever witnessed tears streaming down my father’s face. Not abundant ones, but tears nonetheless. With that, he tossed the hanging bag of clothes over his right shoulder, and I watched him shuffle down the long hall toward the front door. Click was the only sound I heard, and he was gone.

You’re not worthy enough for me to stay.

You’re not worthy enough for me to fight for.

You’re not wanted.

You’re not important.

You’re not enough.

Those were the subconscious messages I received from him. This man that I adored was gone, and in his wake was a path of emotional destruction that continued to escalate in the months to come.

I witnessed my mother fall apart emotionally and physically to the point of contemplating suicide, a fact she shared with me many, many years later. If not for my brother and I, she may have flirted with the notion for more than one long and lonely night. Amid her brokenness and my witness of such depletion, I now recognize the effect this had on me.

“As God as my witness, I will never love anyone as much as she loved him. I will never love anyone to the point that they can break me as my father seemingly destroyed my mother. Never.”

From that day forward, I began to stuff my emotions. Fear and insecurity would not rule me, or at least I would not allow anyone to perceive they ruled me. My emotions were like a light switch. I could turn them off or on depending on circumstance. You see, I am not worthy; therefore, I must not feel. I must stay in control of myself at all times. Mom loved Dad with all her heart and was thrashed by succumbing to vulnerability; therefore I must not be vulnerable. I must not love.

I was headed for a life of mere survival, self-protection, doubt, insecurity, and severely lacking in self-worth. That’s not living; rather, it’s merely going through the motions. The only thing more tragic than living this kind of life would be to continue to do so when you intellectually recognize you are and do nothing to overcome it.

I ask you this: What emotionally toxic baggage are you knowingly not addressing? What counterproductive, subconscious messages have you received in your past that continue to plague your forward motion?

As an adult woman, I have to wonder what was so broken in my father’s heart leading up to that Christmas Eve in 1977 that prevented him from facing the night head-on. What was it that tormented him so much that he had to seek courage and comfort from a bottle? I am thankful beyond words that in recent years I have received the “I delight in you” validation from him that I so longed for. It was a HUGE “ah-ha” moment for me that initiated the path which allowed he and I to get to that point in our relationship. It is a part of my journey that will surely be shared when the time is right.

Survivors Journey Part 4 – Enema Anyone?

Enema. Even the word makes your cringe, doesn’t it? Regardless of knowing the positive outcome, no one in their right mind holds a bottle of enema solution and says, “Yeah! I get to do an enema! Won’t this be fun?” Not likely. If you’ve ever had the privilege to experience such a delightful event, you no doubt know the level of discomfort that goes along with the process.

You start out in a state of misery because you’re full of crap. After all, that is the purpose of performing such a task, to rid yourself of all your crap, right? So you insert the comfort tip and proceed to gently squeeeeeze nearly two quarts of the mild solution into your intestinal tract. Soon, you’re met with the delightful feelings of severe bloating and cramping, wondering if you’ll be able to successfully clamp your butt cheeks together for the suggested 10 – 15 minutes as the solution takes effect.

As you lay on your left side, relaxing in bed, cheerful thoughts dance in your head with great anticipation for the ejection process to commence. That’s when the real fun begins, right? Uh, no. At some point you find yourself shuffling toward the toilet just in time for the initial “mega-blast” followed by several short, yet decisive “mini-blasts.” Just when you think the process is complete and you’ve taken the necessary steps to cleanse your ignited backside, your body says, “Ooops! Not so fast Cowboy!” So you sit back down and wait for the swan song to conclude. At this point your legs are beginning to go to sleep from being in the seated position for too long as you enjoy the delightful sounds of your intestinal orchestra gurgling with such voracity. Wishing you had remembered to bring along your iPhone as a distraction, you begin to wonder if it will ever end. The good news is, yes! …but there’s no turning back. Once you squeeze that bottle, you’re committed. If you want to rid yourself of all your crap, you have to see it through, even if it takes more than one application.

By now, you’re probably wondering what on Earth an enema has to do with the Survivors Journey, right? The way I look at it, true life transformation is like having a giant enema or several of them if necessary. The process itself is anything but comfortable, but when it’s complete, the emotional freedom will be like nothing experienced before. Am I willing to commit to the process knowing there is no turning back? Yes.

This afternoon I am diving into my emotionally flawed origin, the time in my life when the safety net was ripped out from under me and everything began to fall apart. I was 11 years old when my father left. I’m 44 now. I have 33 years of crap that has been backing up in my emotional memory bank. Hurt, confusion, pain, rejection, insecurity, isolation, just to name a few. I have been stuffing these emotions for so long that they are now manifesting themselves in a physical form. On October 4, 2010 I began experiencing motor seizures in which the entire left side of my body, face, and neck became violently distorted and in a locked position. Unable to control these episodes has landed me in the emergency room via ambulance on five occasions. During my fourth trip to the hospital in March 2011, extensive testing determined that the seizures are not originating from my brain; rather, they are an involuntary, physical manifestation of an internal trauma, aka Psychogenic Non-Epileptic Seizures (PNES). I’ve tried to hide, mask, and/or deny my emotions for so long that my body is literally rejecting that notion. I realize that if I don’t commit to the enema process, I will forever be imprisoned by 33 years of emotional constipation.

Ready. Set. Squeeze. Let the enema begin…

Survivors Journey Part 3 – Proceed with Caution

Yesterday, I decided to spend a couple hours doing some yard work in our north Texas, suburbia home. Second to writing, gardening is extremely therapeutic for me. It was a beautiful, overcast morning with a just enough breeze to tickle my senses and keep my brow from abundantly sweating. I love those kinds of days. After completing the mowing, edging, and blowing, I took a few minutes to water the rose bushes and tomato plants nestled against the back porch as a sense of accomplishment, and order swept over me. With hose in hand, I looked down at my grass covered shoes, took two steps into the yard to rinse them off before calling it done, when out from behind a landscape stone near the recently watered rose bush, I spotted the head of a large snake. I stopped dead in my tracks, frozen in fear, and waited as the five foot reptile slithered three feet away from me. Once out of striking distance, I took three giant leaps backward and began screaming for my husband. I never knew I had the capability to produce such a loud shrill. Unbeknownst to him of my situation, my cries for help went unanswered as he was on a conference call in his office.

When the snake reached a safe distance on the opposite end of the porch, I leaped over the rose bush, cracked open the back door as to not let Dutch, our chocolate lab, outside and made my cries for help undeniably evident. “Claaaayton! CLAYTON! There’s a five foot snake on out here!” He rose to his feet and quickly proceeded to the back porch. Not wanting to take my eyes off the snake for fear of his escape, Clayton (with his blue-tooth headset in place and conference call still going in his left ear) retrieved a long handled, flat head shovel and began his plight to save his damsel in distress. He shifted a rock to block the snake’s escape and began jabbing, as the snake’s head peeked out the other end. With five or six forceful thrusts amid the hissing snake in self-defense, Clayton was finally able to sever the head, and the battle was won. My HERO! Even though the war was over and the snake was dead, it took me over an hour to stop trembling with fear from what had just taken place.

While all this may give many of you the “heebie jeebies,” what I find interesting was realizing that for the remainder of the day, I was peering with a sense of great hesitation every time I went outside. Even though the danger had passed, fear, trepidation, and the message,“proceed with caution”, was the common thread racing through my head. I knew I had to take time to dive in and see what it was all about, as it was no longer about the snake. No, this was much deeper in its root than that of a slain reptile.

I just realized, and when I say “just” I mean just now, that I am living my life with the mindset of proceed with caution. I hate that about myself. When I was in my 20’s, I jumped into life with no regard to possible consequence or outcome. Some might call that free-spirited; some might refer to it as irresponsible. Truth be told, it was probably a little bit of both. So what happened? Where did that sense of reckless abandonment go? Even this morning as I sit here on the back porch tapping away at my laptop keys, my feet are perched atop a short stool and my eyes occasionally glance toward the landscape stones as if he’s going to rise from the dead and continue his reign of terror. The danger has passed Michelle, let’s move on.

I don’t want to live a life based on fear of what happened in the past. To that, I also don’t want to relive the twenty-something life of reckless abandonment. No, I want to live a life of intentional abandonment, or as some may call it,  faith. But what is it that prevents me from doing so? Why am I holding on to the past as if it were still a present day danger? Why do I allow those in my now to pay the price for those of my yesteryear? Why wasn’t it enough to witness the death of the snake and see its lifeless body to relinquish the fear that the danger has truly passed? Literally and metaphorically speaking, why do I still fear the snake?

My “snake” is pain. I fear pain. Not physical pain, but emotional pain. I fear being hurt. Not just a little, but a lot. I fear it to the point that it prevents me from living a life of intentional abandonment and faith. I am living my today based on events of my yesterday. That’s not living – that’s reliving.

What’s your “snake?”

Survivors Journey Part 2 – Creating Diversions in Fear of Fear

My heart has been heavy since my last post in which I committed to opening up and dissecting my life for any and all to see. There were a few (well, more than a few) moments when I thought to myself, “Are you nuts?” It’s possible and completely subjective. Honestly, I’m scared. Being vulnerable is, by far, not one of my strengths. There are some incredibly painful experiences in my past which I’m not too eager to revisit, but I’m committed to the road for which I’m being lead, and this is part of the journey.

When I initially sat down at the computer this morning, I began with the title, “Freeze, Flight, or Fight.” As soon as those words hit the screen, I felt an overwhelming sense of fear take hold. Immediately, I removed myself from the situation. I went inside and began preparing the spaghetti sauce for tonight’s lasagna, checked to see if I had any “Words with Friends” to play on my iPhone, texted a few folks, checked the laundry in the dryer that’s been sitting there for two days (as if another two or three hours is going to matter), and then I headed toward the back porch and began stocking the recently purchased Diet Pepsi’s into the outdoor mini-fridge. About half way through the Pepsi pile, I realized what I was doing. I had taken flight. I didn’t want to dive into today’s thoughts; so instead, I opted to create a diversion…admittedly, several of them.

I immediately stopped what I was doing, went into my husband’s home office and proceeded to get down on my knees in front of him and ask for a big honey hug. You might be asking yourself, “On your knees?” Well, I’ve learned in the past year that when I physically get down on my knees assuming a position of vulnerability and submission and allow him to wrap his arms around me, I succumb to a sense of overwhelming peace. I am allowing him to comfort and reassure me. I’m not talking about submission in the sense of superiority; rather I am reaching out to the Earthly man who loves me more than anyone and allowing him to exercise his role as protector, provider, comforter, and encourager. Not only does it feed me, it nourishes him by allowing him to serve in a manner for which he was designed to by God.

I was now ready to face me.

Based on what I know today, I exhibit two major behavioral flaws; fear of vulnerability and stuffing and/or masking my emotions. Trust me when I say there are many more flaws than that, but we have to start somewhere.

I have always viewed vulnerability as a weakness and weakness resulted in being a victim; therefore, I must not allow vulnerability in my life. Am I hitting a nerve yet? Maybe so, but what I have come to understand is by being vulnerable you not only open yourself up to hurt, you also open yourself up to love. Somewhat of an oxymoron if you ask me. But in order to heal, you must allow yourself to feel – that’s where stuffing my emotions comes into play. I cannot heal from the wounds of my life unless I am willing to feel the pain resulting from those injuries. It’s a vicious cycle.

I just caught myself checking “Words with Friends” again. “Don’t run, Michelle. Stay in the moment!”

April 2011, I began working with a phenomenal therapist named Diane. There’s been more “ah-ha” moments in the past several weeks than I can begin to explain. In one of our sessions, Diane asked me to recall my first memory when I experienced fear and vulnerability. I had to think about it for a moment…

“I must have been around four, maybe five years old. My parents had taken my brother and me to some friends of theirs’ home in the Indiana farmlands and left us in the care of an older child while the adults went out for dinner. This was not uncommon practice in the late 60’s. I don’t recall who these people were, but it was not an uncomfortable environment as there were other kids there to play with. As the sun set and the dark of night fell upon the house, a very loud knock coming from the front door rattled the small house. I could hear a man yelling on the other side of the door at us to let him in. I now recognize that he was intoxicated, but up to that point in my life, I had never witnessed anyone in a drunken state. My parents were never much to partake in alcoholic beverages, even to this day, so intoxication was not a state of being I was familiar with. We gathered together and crouched down behind a large chair as to not be seen through the window. I can remember shaking with fear just wishing he would stop. As his patience grew thinner, the banging grew fiercer, and the yelling escalated. It seemed to go on forever. In my little girl voice I can remember thinking, “Daddy where are you? Please come back. I’m scared. Daddy? Oh, please Daddy…I need you.” My thoughts went unanswered and  little Michelle remained frozen in fear.

Eventually, the man exhausted all of his attempts at entry and decidedly left. While the incident may have been over, the fear remained at the forefront of my mind. To this day, I can still feel the fear of that fateful night. Who was he and what did he want? That remains unknown. But what I do know is that my first memory of fear and vulnerability was met with having to self-protect, self-comfort, and swallow the fearful tears that so desperately wanted to flow. Inside was a little girl who wanted to scream, “Go away and leave us alone!” but the undeniable terror that he could possibly unearth our miniscule hiding place was more than enough power to shatter the innate desire to fight. Instead, I internalized my fear and remained frozen.

It was at that moment the critical, fear of vulnerability, behavioral flaw set itself in stone and continues to plague me to this day.

As Diane and I processed through this event, it became clear to me how a single moment in one’s life can set in motion an emotional and physical response to life’s tragic events, no matter their significance. I challenge readers who are struggling with the fear of vulnerability or stuffing emotions to examine their first memory of such experience. You may be surprised at what you find.

As for today, it has taken me four hours, two loads of laundry, five stirrings of the spaghetti sauce pot, four glances at my iPhone, three trips to the bathroom to address the over consumption of Diet Pepsi, and eight cigarettes to get through this first look back…but I did it. And for that, I am proud.

The journey continues…and I am not alone.