new growth

It’s been a long, hard winter in many ways.  I was glad to see sunshine this morning and feel the warmth on my skin after a tearful and triggering evening.  Yet I was sluggish and replayed past pain like mournful movies in my head.  It was tempting to slide back under the covers and hide from the trauma.

But my faithful companion, my Charlie, sensed my distress and sat with me, eagerly watching my face for signs of panic or dissociation.  “He works so hard for me…he ought to have a bit of fun,” I thought.

Charlie immediately sensed something was up, nearly skipping after me in delight as I threw my hair into a ponytail and grabbed my hiking shoes.  The adventure was on!

As we entered the state park a short drive from home, Charlie rolled his window down (a trick he’s been quite pleased to discover) and leaned out as far as his tether allowed, sniffing the air.  I took a few deep breaths myself and noticed the warm, earthy smells--inadvertently using grounding techniques only recently internalized.

Unencumbered by his service vest, Charlie knew this was a play outing, and I lengthened his leash, allowing him to bound ahead to snuffle through the underbrush and nibble grass.  His obvious delight at every little thing made me laugh out loud; how he jumped over fallen logs instead of walking around them, chased grasshoppers, smelled the flowers only to sneeze over the excess pollen.

I began to look at the woods around me from a dog’s eye view.  What does it look like if I’m only a foot from the dirt and I’m looking around?  Not looking down at the ground, but starting my view from down there, looking around and up.  It’s very much the perspective of a toddler; the eyes of innocence.  I sat down with Charlie and pondered the new growth around me from his level.  White and purple flowers, the colors of spring—not the flowers we import to this area, but the colors that choose to be here—hardiness and fragility held in tension, colors symbolic of purity and royalty.  So very appropriate to usher in rebirth and new life.

Yet not all new growth was colorful and lovely at first glance.  Fungus was also reappearing along tree trunks and dead wood.  Spores which had lain dormant throughout the winter took pleasure in the wet warm days and blew into crevices to renew their masterful purpose in the forest.  Certainly, it lacks the obvious glamour of the flowers, but in both form and function it is a marvelous living thing.

Not to be waylaid for long, Charlie pressed our journey to the edge of the water, peering over a slight drop.  As a dog quite fond of swimming, I was momentarily concerned he would jump right into the algae-coated water, but he was content to watch a few bugs skitter along the surface before meandering along the path again.

Passing others along the way, Charlie greeted each hiker with gleeful wags and was rewarded with smiles.  I love the way he seems to brighten the faces of those he encounters, and I hope to grow more like that.  There seems to be a belief in him that every interaction is an opportunity for connection and mutual pleasure.  That every moment, every person has a unique quality to give and receive joy.  I think I tend to fear moments and people, to believe people have negative intentions towards me because of past trauma and people who have harmed me.  Trust is difficult, and anticipating joy seems foreign.

But what if that is what I aim for?  It isn’t winter anymore.  I walk in spring.  The flowers blossom, and the fungus eats away the dead wood to create fertile soil for something new.

I wonder what that newness might be.

οὐσία in action

2016 has been one of the most painful years of my life; a continuation of dealing with trials from the past few years combined with a concerted effort to heal from abuse both recent and long past.  It's not been a very fun year, and I'm fairly glad to see it go.

Yet, one of the blessings of pain is that, shepherded properly, it can be the catalyst for immense growth and wisdom.  This year has also created a shift in my outlook as to my life purpose and a greater clarity about how to manage daily living.  I've learned more than I wanted to.

I've learned that life will always have a degree of emptiness without deep and intimate friendships.  We were created with a need for community and relationships.  Even a healthy husband/wife relationship cannot fulfill every role in a person's life.

Jesus modeled life in community when he lived on the Earth...a trio of intimate friends, nine more close friends, and a limited number of other family friends.  He spent a great deal of time in the living rooms and dining rooms of friends, chatting and eating.  And he was never seen as lazy, or a time-waster, for doing these things.  Our society tends to believe that people who devote time to friendships are not working hard enough.  They should be working more, volunteering more, doing more.  We have forgotten the value of being.

Spending time in the presence of another; taking it upon yourself to learn that person, for the purpose of understanding them better and loving them better...that is true intimacy.  And it takes effort.  Looking at their life through their eyes; imagining how their past affects their view of their present.  Understanding, or trying to understand, the why behind their choices.

And as you learn the intricacies of your friends, they mirror you.  They call out the truths they see in you.  It can be horrifyingly vulnerable.  They see the good, the bad, and the ugly.  And they name it.
They name the beautiful in me which I can't see for myself.  They hold up that mirror and they refuse to put it down until I see the gorgeousness too.  They name the fear and as I agree with them, together we disarm evil by bringing the darkness into the light.  They name my shame and, even though I keep putting that cloak back on, they keep ripping it off.  They refuse to let me see myself as anything other than the Truth that is Michelle.

But one person can't do all that.  I, for one, need a full cadre of strong and amazing people to pull this off.  This year has armed me well.  I've never had as many people supporting me and truly knowing  me as I do at this moment.

So, thank you, my dear friends.  You have blessed me in so many ways.  We have laughed together, cried together, eaten together, spent the night in the ER together, walked in the rain together, texted a ridiculous amount together (my fault, I know), driven to counseling appointments together, cussed out most of humanity together, gone to concerts together, crocheted together, drank endless cups of coffee together, run off to the far corners of the earth (not together) yet still managed to chat about shoes and rainforests and Donald Trump and all manner of things.

I love you all.  I love learning who you are, your οὐσία--your essence.

Here's to a New Year, to more adventures, to spending time blessing each other in the joys and the sorrows and all the mundane bits in between.

COUNTDOWN TO PENTECOST

Six years.

Six years, on this very day, I reached out to someone I thought was a God-send and I delved into the heartbreaking journey of therapy with a corrupt, narcissistic counselor.

Four and a half years.

The amount of time I spent, thinking I was working towards healing while I was instead feeding the ego of a sick man; becoming his puppet.  Listening to his advice, allowing him to isolate me from my friends and family, to imperiously pick and choose the people I spent time with and the career path I would follow.

Eighteen months.

The number of days since I walked out of his office in tears, wielding massive amounts of power yet feeling as weak and lowly as a slug.  The amount of time I've spent deprogramming from his brainwashing.  Eighteen months of hearing his voice in my head, telling me that nobody has to know; that he’ll keep my secret for me.  What a gentleman.

I’ve spent eighteen months in a therapist-induced trauma which I can’t undo with the therapeutic techniques taught to me by that same person.  And I’m done.  I can’t spend my days and nights in utter exhaustion, in memories and nightmares.  I can’t rehash every single event, attempting to figure out how I could have escaped any earlier, when I know how mentally ill I was—and still am.

So I’ve decided to delve into therapy again.  Because I know that therapy itself is good, even if my experience thus far has been distinctly traumatic.  I know that as I help others, I can’t legitimately encourage them to face their fears and see a counselor if I haven’t done it myself.

Except…

I’ve been rejected for ongoing counseling by every viable office I've contacted within an hour’s drive of my home…because they don’t feel capable to handle my level of trauma.  How ironic that my incompetent counselor was skilled enough to damage me psychologically beyond the bounds of ordinary care.   I’ve been schlepped from one office to another, each one expressing their ineptness; yet referring me on…until I have nearly collapsed in despair.

Fifty Days.

The time allotted until I fly into the unknown, carrying faith and hope on my shirttails like feathers on a wing.

Because I stumbled upon a place; a week-long intensive recovery group led by a man whose views about childhood sexual abuse have been mind-blowing to me.  Whose books have allowed me to begin healing. And I never imagined that I would be allowed to go there and be in this group.  My abusive counselor had consistently told me that I would not be healthy for groups; that I would traumatize others around me.  But here I am; accepted.  I am going to learn real and healthy ways to improve.  I am going to belong.  I will transform.

I count the days.  50.  My personal Pentecost.

The Trauma of Reporting a Sex Crime

*newsflash*
 this is the traditional mugshot
 for upperclass white males.

This past week, Brock Turner was sentenced to a ridiculously short sentence (six months) after being found guilty of three felony sexual assault charges.  See here for details.  His victim delivered a moving speech, which can be read in its entirety here.  It's well worth the read, even though it's triggering.  She details the trauma of her abuse, along with the often overlooked trauma of reporting, the resultant trauma of dealing with the police and the legal system, the additional trauma of little to no repercussions for abusers, and the added trauma of a lack of acceptance of responsibility from the predator.

When I read her speech, I realized trauma truly only begins with sexual assault or abuse.  And I felt a sisterhood with her, because even though I've been open about my history of abuse, I've been silent about the trauma of reporting and its aftermath.

As I've been open about my history, I have been amazed by the massive numbers of people who have come forward, telling me that yes—they were abused too.  Literally hundreds of women (and men!) have shared an appreciation with me about my openness, telling me it allowed them to feel less alone, less afraid, less damaged.

But I have never, NOT ONCE heard of anyone who reported their crime.  And I have been wondering this week…why?  Am I the only one, out of all the people I know? They say only one in three sexual abuse incidents are reported.  I find it entirely possible that even less are reported.  But even those who do…why aren’t we talking about it?  

Maybe nobody is talking about it because, like me, reporting was deeply traumatic.

 This "system of justice" is broken.  It breaks us down, while telling us it's fighting for us.  It presses us into the box of "victim", telling us we need to sit complacently by while they do the fighting for us...but the fighting is ineffective flailing in the dark.  It is fighting for table scraps while the predators have steak.  We know ahead of time that the laws are against us; that if the predator had stolen our car or our life savings, he will more likely be prosecuted, convicted, and jailed.  That if we were in a court case, our sexual history and mental health status wouldn't even be an issue.  Yet, when someone steals a part of our innermost being, we aren't protected, and we are allowed to be skewered in court.  This system makes sure we remember good and well that we ARE the victim.  

 I want you to know, if you experienced the trauma of reporting; You are not alone.  

So I break my silence.  I have reported twice; two separate abusers, at two separate times of my life.  The first time I reported, I went through an entire interview, sitting in a stark interrogation room, detailing the abuses I had experienced and where they happened, in minutae.

This is almost exactly what the room looked like.  Really comforting.

Within an hour after my interrogation (umm, "interview"), I received a call from the detective that there was nothing which could be done against the predator, due to the statute of limitations.  It just happened too long ago.  If only I had reported earlier…

If only my abuser hadn’t traumatized me into submission, denial, and a dissociative disorder…perhaps I would have. 

The second time I reported, it was kind of accidental…a product of my abuser’s actions more so than mine.  Ironically, my abuser took that choice away from me, as he took many choices away from me.  He chose to be public to certain people about what he did, but refused to accept responsibility.  Thankfully, honorable people didn't take kindly to his "confession-sans-culpability".  I was swept up in the resultant mess.

 I spent a year, dealing with the police and the prosecution as they investigated my abuser...then the prosecution decided not to press charges after all that time.  I have lived through the interviews, the anguish, the delay of healing (the delay of living) while waiting for the "justice system" to do their work. I do believe the people within the system are kind, are dedicated towards making victims feel safe, and do their best; unfortunately, they were responsible for accidents and delays which should not have occurred. I believe that I received the utmost of care our department had availabe, and I was still unwittingly victimized by the people who ought to have protected me.  This is wrong. 

Unfortunately, only one person from within the justice system showed any remorse for the way I was treated, and I do have hopes that my experiences will spur her to press for changes.  I feel too worn out to do any advocating at the moment.

Additionally, the legal system is convoluted and messy, and—strangely—tied to location.  The particular abuse against me is a crime (even a felony!) in 28 states, but isn’t even illegal in Ohio.  They tried to find a way to prosecute him, but without a "pattern of behavior", (i.e. more victims), they couldn't.  How strange to hope for more victims.  I couldn't do it.  I wouldn't wish that on anyone.

The process of reporting  made me feel like a criminal.  After walking down sterile hallways, passing grim police officers, I was placed in a cold, colorless room with a thick, heavy door which made a loud “click” every time someone entered or left.  I wondered if I was being locked in and observed.  I never checked the door, but I did later find out that I had been videotaped.  Perhaps I had been told at the time—I don’t recall—my anxiety levels at the time muddled with my ability to fully digest everything told to me.  The authoritarian behavior of the people around me compounded that anxiety and added to it a feeling of impotence and victimhood.  The presence of handcuffs and guns, coupled with the atmosphere of the room, triggered memories within me reminiscent of abuse I have endured where shame and guilt was a strong motivator for compliance and silence. 

Over the course of the investigation, I was repeatedly told to allow the department to “handle” the case.  To try to put it out of my mind.  That when any new development occurred, I would be “the first to know”.  But during that year, there was minimal contact between me and the police department.  I would get panicky every 2-4 weeks, and call for an update.  Invariably, I would be given the same mantra…”We’re still working on it, there’s just so much info to go through, but when something’s decided…you’ll be the first to know.  Trust me.”

I never even had a conversation with the prosecutor.

  

 I’m sure the officers believe they are being reassuring and helpful when they tell victims that the police department will take care of everything, but it is most decidedly not helpful.  The last thing a victim needs is to have what little control she has achieved once again removed from her.  We want to feel powerful, and reporting without follow-up, without being involved in the process, turns us into victims of the police department.  We have simply switched authority figures in our co-dependency.

And I wasn’t the first to know.

Instead, after a year of ups and downs, I found out from a third party, IN A COFFEE SHOP, that the office had decided not to press charges.  An accidental slip of information in the prosecutor’s office, and additional trauma was laid on me.  I made an utter fool of myself in public, unable to hold back the tears and tremors.  I thought I had prepared myself for that day.  I knew the laws, and the unliklihood of conviction.  Yet the shock caught me.  PTSD will do that to you.  I was unprepared, in a public place, and betrayed—once again—by those who had reassured me repeatedly that they were trustworthy. To add insult to injury, the police lost some of my personal property, submitted as evidence, irretrievable property.

One of my concerns is that if I, an above middle-class white woman, can experience victimization at the hands of the people who are attempting to stop abuse...what's happening to the marginalized women in Springfield?   I wonder about the drug addicts, the prostitiutes, the homeless...I doubt they receive the care I did.  Something needs to change.  

Interestingly, I have discovered that I now have some power. Now that there is no investigation, I could name this man, and say everything he did, and provide evidence of the abuse.  I could splatter the internet with his crime.  And to be completely honest, I enjoy the feeling of power that gives me over him.  That's probably one reason why I don't do it.  But mostly I don't name him because my victimization is a personal thing, and those who are active in my recovery know what happened, and who did it, and they are watching out for me.

Even though there was no prosecution, my abuser has experienced some repercussions.  I don’t feel like they are adequate to what he did.  I don’t feel like people are safe from his abusive nature.  But I also know that many influential people are aware of his crimes, which gives me solace.

We are, in many ways, shattered by our experiences.

Some women have continued past this point.  They have fought for legislation—that’s how 28 states have the correct laws in place.  Part of me feels like I ought to do that.  Fight for the greater good.  Because that's where the change needs to take place.  This is a severe problem, with issues stemming from far up the legal system and beyond into the way our society views women and sexual abuse victims.

But I’m exhausted from the process.  Reporting isn’t easy, psychologically.  Police are ill-equipped to deal with traumatized individuals.  And even though I have an excellent support system knowledgeable about trauma-informed care, they are at times dumbfounded as to how to support me.  I boldly say that things need to change, yet I am overwhelmed with my own healing.  It is humbling to say that someone stronger than I must carry that banner. 

The “system” failed me.  But I haven’t failed.  If my abuser hurts someone else, I’m on record.  There will be a “pattern of behavior” established.  Knowing that he is not repentant for his crimes, it’s important to me that I’m on record.  I did my best to stop him from within the system, but if he abuses again, I will be the pattern. It’s sad that it has to be that way.  That us victims practically have to show up on the witness stand in the process of being abused for it to be prosecutable.  That victims are the ones put on trial.  Our histories, our mental health, our stability; that’s what is on trial.  I was told that I would be crushed by the prosecution, if I was put on the stand.  That they didn't think I could handle it.  I'm not emotionally stable enough.  But I will be.

And it's because of the abuse we suffered, that we cannot be stable or healthy enough to face our abusers.

 Our abusers make us incompetent witnesses.  Isn’t that ironic?

Maybe some day things will change.  Maybe it will be us, the abused; the reporters and the ones who knew reporting was worthless--banded together through our tears and outrage--who find the strength in unity to do what we cannot accomplish alone.  We can be champions and heroes for each other and for change.

Because, Beloved sister or brother, you are not alone.

My Dirty Little Secret

Have you ever noticed that your dirty little secrets, more often than not, are comprised of sins committed by others and not you?  That the things which shame you the most are the things you, just perhaps, should be proud of?  Things you did to survive when you didn’t know any better, or ways your body coped when all seemed lost.  Evil was perpetrated against you, and the evil was compounded when there was no protection for you, so you created your own protection—usually subconsciously.

And then society tells you that your protective measures are shameful.

I’m sick of the burden.  I’m tired of the exhaustive pain of wondering what type of situation might happen to “expose” me.  I’ve spent nearly a year after it was found that my therapist had been leaking private information about clients, wondering who knows what about me. 

I’ve been in fear of evil people doing evil things for far too long.  So I have chosen the day and the time to tell the secret which has been weighing on me and not allowing me to move forward.

My “inner circle” has long known this secret, and has accepted me and loved me for who I am.  Sometimes it has taken a few conversations for them to understand me, but their love for me and their desire to walk with me in my pain has always been their main concern.

But I had been told to keep this aspect of myself secret.  My therapist told me that people would misunderstand; I would be considered a freak or unstable.  Nobody would accept me as a viable employee or volunteer.  He told me to hide this information from potential employers.

I can’t do that.  I am not going to live in the shadows.  I want to live an open life; I want my experiences to be an invitation to others that pain can be overcome and healing is within reach.

So…without further ado…

Along with the host of other mental illnesses which I have discussed in previous posts, I also have been blessed with Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID)—otherwise known as Multiple Personality Disorder.

The diagnosis really was not much of a shock.  I have always been excellent at dissociating—that tendency to disconnect from reality, such as drifting off during a boring lecture—and particularly dissociating during stressful times.  My former college roommates certainly thought I was rude because I became perfectly stone-still, as if I was intentionally ignoring them during difficult conversations.  In truth, I wasn’t even there. 

So sometimes, I was just…gone.

But other times, when I left, someone else took the helm.  These people were specific adaptations of certain aspects of myself, designed to deal with issues which I couldn’t handle on my own and still function on a daily basis.  They are the reason I never recalled being abused as a child, because “I” never had to deal with it; someone else handled it, then she retreated so I could get up, go to school, and do my math and social studies unencumbered by PTSD.

It’s actually an amazing coping mechanism, which allowed me to have a relatively normal childhood, and I’m thankful for it.  But once the danger was gone, the “talent” became a liability instead of an asset.  My “alters” languished and ran amok.

I don’t even remember huge blocks of my college years, and it’s not because I was drunk—I went to a “dry” college, and my friends and I weren’t exactly the wild and crazy types.  But it just wasn’t “me” who went to college.  And that’s kind of sad.

I don’t recall certain things about my childhood, either, because it was a shared experience.  I can look at pictures and see the little girl who looks like me, but her expression is NOT me.

Chris survived on very little sleep for years,
while nurturing the child in me.

My husband has become adept at reading my face.  Slight alterations in expressions evince the presence of differing aspects of my personality.  It has been a difficult and confusing whirlwind for him; certainly nothing he signed up for when he married me.  Of course, I never signed up for it either.  But he could have walked away and I wouldn’t have blamed him.  Instead, he dug in his heels and he learned to love every single little bit of me. 

I think public perception of Dissociative Identity Disorder was severely damaged by the book and subsequent movie, Sybil, which—by the way—has now been discredited as highly sensationalized by the woman’s therapist, and much of the “story” has been proved to be untrue.  The real-life “Sybil”, Shirley Mason, eventually admitted that her therapist had emotionally manipulated her into a partnership from which she could not extricate herself.  Recent media hasn’t done much to help either, with shows like The United States of Tara and movies like Fight Club and Me, Myself, and Irene creating a comedic and altogether false perception of what DID looks like on a daily basis.

Multiples aren’t “crazy”.  And our “alters” don’t usually want to expose us.  They don’t run around doing abnormal things, because that’s not their job.  You may very well know someone with DID, and you may have even met one or more of their alters, but you might not have noticed because they don’t seem that different. Remember, the purpose of an alter is to “step in” for you when you are overwhelmed.  The last thing an alter wants to do is to create MORE problems…they are there to SOLVE problems.

So when an alter lets you know that they exist, they are being exceedingly vulnerable.  It’s a terribly frightening thing to show your innermost parts to someone. And an alter is an innermost part; full of pain and suffering, shame, remorse, guilt, confusion, and a deep desire for acceptance.

I am exceedingly grateful to those who have given unconditional love to all the parts of me.  My children, especially my daughter, who mothered the child within me.  My cousins, who spent many wee hours chatting online with the child they knew decades ago.  My friends, who have brushed off caustic and abrasive comments, followed quickly by childlike confusion.  But mostly my husband who spent countless midnight hours reading books, singing songs, and looking at snowflakes to assuage the fears of a child scared of the dark.  Who was willing to crawl into the darkness with me.  And with whom I can now enjoy the light.

I enjoy what I consider a more “integrated” self nowadays.  I’m not sure if I will ever be completely unified.  There are too many theories on the subject; and what matters is my own daily life anyway, not some esoteric philosophy.  What I know about myself, is that at times I still need a little dissociation to make it through the day.  But I need it less and less, so that’s progress.  I am grateful for the gift DID has given to me, to allow me to function and thrive as I have.

And I no longer want to feel ashamed of it.  This is me.  I am One, and I am Four.  And if God can be One and Three and proud of it, then there is no reason for me to hide behind some curtain of shame because someone I used to trust told me to keep things a secret.

And if whoever inside of me would please tell me where she put our car keys, that’d be fantastic.

When Your Abuser Blames You

It may have been an attack by a stranger, or a planned “seduction”, but the words and actions he used, either overtly or covertly, blamed you for what he did.  He made you responsible for his desires, then he excused his disgusting behavior by accusing you.

“The way you were walking—you tease!  You wanted it.”

“I couldn’t resist you.  You kept licking your lips.”

“You always smell so good.  It’s like a garden I want to bury myself into.”

“I needed love and affection.”

“My wife is distant.”

“You belong to me.”

“I can’t help myself around you.”

“You seduced me with your constant come-ons.”

And we believe those words.

We believe them because it’s easier to blame ourselves than to accept how incredibly victimized we were.  It’s easier to shame ourselves and maintain the deception of control than to place the blame and shame where it belongs, and admit how totally helpless we were.

We believe the lies because they were told to us during an extremely traumatic event, when our brains were more susceptible to suggestion.

We believe them because some people around us reinforce those beliefs, in a multitude of ways.  If your attacker is known in the community, comments such as, “But he’s such a nice guy…” insinuate that there MUST HAVE been something you did to bring out such deviant behavior.  People question your recollection of events, because you seem confused at times…*NEWSFLASH* that’s a sign of trauma.  The family members of the attacker may encourage you or others to “stay quiet” so his life won’t be disrupted.  Your abuse is minimized, your part in the abuse is maximized, and your abuser angrily maligns your character.

 

We believe those hateful words because, in some cases, we had a relationship with our abuser.  And one day, a person who seemed kind and caring turned into a monster.  Or they slid into monster-hood.  Or they showed the monster who had been lurking underneath all along.  Either way, you have both pleasant and traumatic memories.  The reconciliation of those two aspects of one person is emotionally devastating.  What is truth?  Who is trustworthy?  Was this a “good” person who just snapped, or was this a “bad” person who manipulated you to achieve their own selfish desires?  How far back does the evil go?  And as more time passes, instead of answers, questions multiply.

But let’s talk about your abuser.  Most likely, if you are like the majority of survivors, your abuser hasn’t come crawling to you on bended knee, sobbing out his remorse.  And he probably won’t.  Ever.  He may receive some type of legal justice or social ostracism, but even then he will likely protest his innocence in some form for the rest of his life.  He will claim victimhood in one way or another.  He may admit to what he did, but he will blame you or his parents or someone who abused him or something.  He will be sorry—sorry he got caught.

I’ve realized two things about abusers which give me a slight amount of comfort.  A few truths that allow me to believe in the lies he told just a tiny bit less.

First, if an abuser were to actually admit that he was completely responsible for his actions, he would have to acknowledge what a despicable and depraved act he actually committed.  That’s not an easy task, and is nigh on impossible for someone with a fragile ego who equates what you do with who you are. 

Let’s consider this for a moment; what’s the M.O. of an abuser?  He is someone who has such little belief in himself, who thinks he MUST command OVER someone else, that he is willing to use physical, mental, spiritual, psychological force over someone vulnerable to achieve a feeling of superiority.  He has not achieved actual success or superiority so he must contrive it for himself.  This type of person is not only a coward, but his whole sense of self rests on his actions instead of his state of being.  He cannot say, “I did something evil, but I am not evil.  I can admit what I did wrong, repent, accept the consequences, and still be—deep within myself—a person of value.”

What a sad way of thinking and living.

One of the men who abused me once asked me, “Have you ever seen a man so insecure?” 

The answer is no.  I haven’t.

I pity him.

I also would like to give my husband an hour alone in a room with him, with immunity for anything that might happen.  My husband’s a rock star.

Anyway, I believe this is why an abuser doesn’t admit to his crimes.  But why does he have to blame his victim?  That’s the second thing I’ve realized.

If the abuser cannot accept his culpability, then his brain must manufacture reasons for his behavior.  And our misogynistic society makes it easy to blame the woman.  Abusers don’t often say they were mentally ill—once again, their egos can’t handle the idea that there is something wrong with them.  Instead they blame the woman for some imagined seduction.  They contrive scenarios which sound ridiculous to everyone else but themselves.

And then you—the survivor—hear them.  All you want is admission of guilt.  You want people to say, “What happened to you, and what you felt…that was—and IS—real.”  But the only other witness to your pain twists and subverts it into something sick.

Eventually, people will wonder when you will return to your “old self”.  They don’t understand that he killed her.

She was crucified for his ego.  And she is gone.  This shattered wreck is what is left, and broken messes can’t put themselves back together.  Broken messes are either swept up and thrown in the garbage, or they are collected, piece by piece, and they are carefully fused together until the original shape has been reformed.  Sometimes broken messes fall apart again; the binding agent used previously having been found to be inferior.  Sometimes tiny pieces get lost.  But those who see the beauty in the brokenness continue their efforts.

Tell.  It's still worth it.

That’s what this fragile clay jar wants to say to you, the survivor.  YOU ARE NOT WHAT YOU’VE DONE, AND YOU ARE MOST DEFINITELY NOT WHAT HAS BEEN DONE TO YOU.  You are a precious jewel.  Your pain, your tears, your inner tears which you fear to cry…they are beyond value.  You are loved.  I don’t know you and I don’t know your story, but I know your pain.  You can fight the sadness and the suffering, because you are of infinite worth.  And how do I know that?  Because you are a First Edition.  There has never been, and will never be, another you.  You hold a piece of the universe—a piece of eternity—which no one else holds.

The world needs your uniqueness.

Namaste.

#merrychristmasstarbucks

Dear Offended Christians,

Please boycott Starbucks this holiday season.  Don't continue to support Starbucks by buying their drinks and giving them the fake name of "Merry Christmas" because their holiday cups don't show enough "Christmas" spirit.  Just go get your coffee elsewhere.

BEHOLD! The ombre red cup of Satan himself,
here to ruin your Christmas spirit!

If you don’t know what I’m talking about, here’s what the world thinks about us Christians right now:  http://www.salon.com/2015/11/07/merrychristmasstarbucks_watch_the_absurd_war_on_christmas_call_to_arms_over_red_coffee_cups/

So…why am I asking you to refrain from your peppermint mochas?

Because the over-worked baristas don’t need your “Merry Christmas” crap.  Those people who SERVE you the drink you ordered—they didn’t choose the cups, and they can’t change a thing.  They can’t complain to the management about customers harassing them.  They NEED their jobs, especially around the holidays, so they have to put up with your self-entitled hooey because your cup isn’t as pretty as you think it should be.

designs from the past four years

Because here’s the truth:  Starbucks cups NEVER SAID “MERRY CHRISTMAS” before!  If you think Starbucks is making their cups less “Christian” by removing the ornaments, snowflakes, polar bears, trees, and other “holiday” related items, then perhaps you need a refresher course on the true meaning of Christmas.

***Reminder:  Christmas is a holiday where we celebrate the birth of Jesus.  This event took place in a warm, desert environment where snowmen, reindeer, and polar bears don't exactly thrive. Might I suggest this inspirational video, The True Meaning of Christmas, from one of my all-time favorite philosophers?

So, how is toting around a red cup bearing the image of a reindeer supporting the “Christianized” version of the holidays?  Aren’t we actually supporting some version of a Nordic Christmas?  I mean, what percentage of Christians actually get snow for Christmas?  Or have money for ornaments and trees?  Or have reindeer prancing in their yards?  Seriously, WHAT DO THESE THINGS HAVE TO DO WITH JESUS? 

Do you think this cup
offends people in the tropics?
Maybe they need their year
 for a cup design.

But our "red cup" behavior would be like Paul going into a secular shop, and instead of saying, “Hey, let’s eat the bacon!"(which is what he did, by the way); he says, “These pigs offend me.  This store should not sell pigs.  I’m a card-carrying, sword-toting Roman citizen, and I know my rights!”

So let’s be rational about this.  You either accept the business practices of these secular businesses, and you enter into their domain with the intent of being light in darkness.  Or, just stay away.  Christianity doesn’t need you to make our job any harder than it already is.  We don’t need angry attitudes; turning hard-working individuals sour against our God. 

If you want your cup to say “Merry Christmas”, write it yourself.  If you can afford a Toffee Sprinkle Soy Mocha Skinny Caramel Latte or whatever it is you are buying, then you can afford to buy yourself a freaking Sharpie and decorate your own cup.  Hey, it may even be therapeutic.  Coloring for adults is all the rage right now.  You may even start a trend.  Leave Sharpies at your local Starbucks with a note inviting others to decorate their own cups any way they please.  They might just draw a palm tree on a beach, which may not be “Christmas” appropriate for you, but I assure you that a large portion of the world will find it looks just like THEIR Christmas.

Please, let’s spend this season showing people WHY we celebrate Christmas.  Why don’t we remember, when we order our Gingerbread Latte, that Jesus DIED FOR the person whipping our milk to the proper temperature?  That Jesus would want us to treat that HUMAN with compassion?  

Seriously, it's NEVER a good idea to mess with people
who are serving you things you plan to ingest.

During a busy holiday season, when everyone is cranky and the lines are long, HOW YOU TREAT YOUR BARISTA SAYS A LOT ABOUT YOUR FAITH WALK.  In God’s eyes, we are all just as special, just as loved, and just as important.  Look in their eyes.  Smile.  Say “Please” and “Thank You”.  Tell them you appreciate their work.  Say “Merry Christmas” if you want to, but if they are Jewish or Atheist or something else, still wish them a pleasant time with family and friends.  I mean, shouldn’t we STILL WANT THAT for them? Let's not shove our words into their faces without being willing to walk in relationship with them.  Let's not try to hurt or anger or trick people whose lives are closed books to us, who may be having a very rough day and just need a touch of kindness.

Let’s make this season a “Be Nice to your Barista” Christmas and find amazing ways to bless those who serve us with a smile every day. Let's remember that the people behind the counter are the ones God calls us to love and they are NOT the ones He calls us to demean, degrade, or dismiss.  They are His children, and if they don't know Him, He wants us to show them what He's really like.  So, would God or Jesus walk into a Starbucks and demand the barista write "Merry Christmas" on his cup?  I know what my God would do.

And to my favorite baristas...thank you for your smiles, your willingness to make my favorite specialty drink which takes extra time (even though YOU got me hooked on it in the first place!), for always making me feel welcome.  YOU BRIGHTEN MY DAY.