Abuse Recovery – Space & Purpose

It Was Good

September 3, 2019 174 Comments

and you’re not crazy.

I think that sums up my most recent thoughts in the recovery process, but I went a tad further and wrote things out on the flight to Nashville last weekend since I’m trying to get better at sharing my process and the annual renewal fee for this website just hit my bank account.

The Something Was Wrong podcast meetup/live recording last week and although we had no idea what to expect, it was incredible. During the second half, I had the opportunity to sit in the audience and feel their engagement. I kept asking myself, “how did we get here?”

Conversations I’ve had both online and IRL with women who’ve had similar experiences with narcissistic or sociopathic individuals continue to cement a very simple truth in my mind:

There WERE good times with that person that were probably really, really damn good.

Internet armchair experts can put their thumbs to work all day long declaring the red flags I should have seen right away. Thank goodness, because without their constructive input, I never would have taken a good hard look at things and asked myself what I could have done differently! I enjoyed my life and MYSELF when this tall man dressed in a red suit holding a pitchfork showed up at my door and asked if I wanted to lose it and see myself as worthless. I said when can we start?!

Until you’ve been gaslit, it’s extremely hard to understand. I can see why people write the whole thing off, especially after hearing about how I “allowed” my dog to be treated.

Back to the main point…

Quite a few people I’ve spoken to say that they feel stuck for the sake of their children, or because the signs of abuse aren’t publicly visible. “Outwardly he’s a good person,” I’ve heard or read multiple times.

A quick overview of my good times:

He had an uncanny ability to read my thoughts and discern my feelings. This wasn’t a surface-level connection. I have a decent poker face (my coworkers can attest), and he called me out to an eerie degree. Being read like that is hard to ignore or resist.
He gained access by discovering what mattered to me, big and little things, and making them matter to him. He’d research and educate himself on whatever it was so he could talk about it with me. Would blow up my phone about them. (I know now that he had zero interest or care for many of them, and spoke against them later. This is something people like this do when wooing someone to control them rather than simply know them; because they lack empathy and therefore an identity of their own, they create one based off who they think that person wants them to be. In extreme cases, I’ve read stories of sociopaths learning how to portray appropriate emotions based on depictions they see in movies and on TV. This lines up disturbingly well with situations I noticed, though I’m obviously not qualified to diagnose him.)
There were certain daily routines he started from the beginning that he never wavered on, even near the end. (It made staying grounded while disentangling and walking away extremely confusing and difficult.) He started the mornings with prayer, even if it meant sending me a message on Voxer from work in the Bay Area while I listened on my commute in Sacramento. He also never failed to open all doors for me, including his car, and always cooked me breakfast when we were together. He knew my love language was “acts of service.” (Later on, when things were worsening and I was a basket case, his acts of service were making my emotions extremely difficult to sort out. On the outside, he was a saint to me. I loved him and he OBVIOUSLY loved me – he showed it much more consistently than I “showed” it to him with grand gestures. I began thinking our misunderstandings must be rooted in a weakness or fault of mine somehow since he continued to give and give.)

It’s not like I expect someone to cater to my every need and want, so I was resistant to the doting… but you friggin’ bet the attention to detail was charming! Even when it got irritating, it was still disarming. (Only later on did I start to feel weird and sense hidden guilt trips for things I’d never asked of him to begin with.)

He was extremely generous with his resources and compliments. To this day when I do my makeup certain ways, I’ll have flashbacks to times he noticed those changes and complimented me on them. Hair, outfits, everything- he never missed a beat and I could actually ask his opinion on something knowing he’d be honest while still making me feel beautiful.
The night we dropped the L bomb and said we loved each other, we didn’t technically say it. We’d spent the night in an Irish pub in Seattle, sipping Jameson and talking about family, telling childhood stories. We talked about places we wanted to see, and why, and we laughed so much. Later, when the thought crossed my mind, I went quiet for a moment.

He looked at me for a moment, then a soft expression came over his face as he said, “Me too.”

During this season, chemicals are bonding me to him and altering my brain, making it increasingly difficult to see clearly no matter how intelligent or discerning I might be. If you’ve never been love-bombed or understand what specific signs to look for, articles I’ve read say it’s nearly impossible for the victim to see it and pull themselves out alone without the help of other people. This is why isolation vs. community involvement is a big factor here.

That was a very basic version of why I kept going and didn’t run for the hills when little things shifted. I believed that charming, selfless man would come back… he was just under some stress today.

Or tired.

His toxic work environment was taking a toll. He just needed to get out.

His family was placing big burdens on him.

He was stressed again…

Maybe because of me.

I added much to his life. Weddings ARE expensive, after all.

I might be crying and feeling like dead-weight a lot lately but he’s MOVING for me, and juggling everything ELSE he does! (Including but doubtfully limited to: texting me as 2 friends (a married couple with kids) that he’d completely fabricated since week 2, and seeing other women at the same time via different dating apps than he’d said he’d been on when we met. I was just over here trying to plan a wedding in 3 months determined to do it with a fraction of a normal budget.)

I didn’t realize I was subconsciously waiting for things to get back to normal after the wedding. For the good times to come back.

(There were too many blinders on at that point to recognize that life will ALWAYS throw curveballs testing the patience of myself and the person I’m with. Stress is never an excuse for insults and back-handed compliments- those should be followed with a genuine apology. Otherwise it just reveals a lack of character.)

The more conversations I’m having with people in similar situations, the more amazed I am by their resiliency and strength. Holding on to hope, whether for their spouse or for the sake of their kids, many stay. They use the good to outweigh the bad, especially if there are no outward signs. No bruises to show for their huge act of leaving and tearing their family apart. Nothing to make an escape outwardly justifiable to the public.

… or to justify a divorce to their church.

(I don’t know if I’m ready to post my thoughts on church leadership that encourages anyone to remain in an abusive marriage. Calling them accomplices in the oppression of a victim and pointing out that they’re devaluing the victim’s life in favor of the abuser’s might get me some backlash and I’m just not ready or qualified to enter that ring.)

Physical abuse is evil, but emotional abuse is insidious as it hides, especially with gaslighting involved. A gaslighting victim is fed just enough truth to make them more accepting of a lie, like hiding a dog’s medication in a treat.

So.

Your confusion and brain fog could very well be the result of cognitive dissonance caused by your brain attempting to sort out two opposing realities. It wreaks havoc on your mind, emotions and even your physical body. It can start to manifest as headaches, aches and pains, fatigue, a lowered immune system, etc. Your body is exhausting itself, constantly on edge/in fight-or-flight, trying to figure out your footing and what is up vs. down.

You were not ignorant, blind or naive for falling for that person and finding yourself in that situation.

That’s all, folks! Happy Tuesday from Tennessee!

Abuse Recovery, Uncategorized

Answers = Healing

March 21, 2019 685 Comments

Unraveling situations and scenarios over the past 9 months has brought so much peace. Rather than beating a dead horse, taking time to figure things out has helped solidify the ground beneath my feet.

At this point, I’m ready to use my writing to shed light, validate, and set free. If you need any of these things, buckle up and get comfy cause I’m setting aside this post for some very personal comparisons to research I’ve been doing.

I was told this past week that when we’re wearing rose-colored glasses, red flags just look like flags. Yikes.

Sociopathic and Psychopathic tendencies start with Antisocial Personality Disorder. Sociopathy tends to be characterized by a lack of conscience and ability to form many true emotional bonds, but psychopathy means zero conscience or personal bonds. I am not licensed to diagnose, but trusty ol’ Google checklists for APD and Sociopathy fit my experiences nearly 100%. So, that felt oddly relieving.

According to the DSM-5, traits of APD include:

Violation of physical or emotional rights of others
Lack of stability in job or home life
Irritability and aggressiveness
Lack of remorse
Consistent irresponsibility
Recklessness, impulsivity
Deceitfulness
Coinciding symptoms from childhood (before age 15)

I was flippantly told multiple stories from his childhood about rebellion, lying, and getting in trouble with authority. His driving was aggressive, earning him multiple tickets. It scared me numerous times. I’ll never forget a time in San Francisco when he purposefully drove his truck out of the way through a flooded corner, sending a massive wall of water straight up into the air that came crashing down on a crowd of people waiting to cross the street. Time slowed down as I heard yelling and watched what felt like a movie scene. I was in shock for several blocks while he bounced up and down in the driver’s seat like a big kid in a puddle. It was reckless, cruel, and showed a total disregard for decency. He didn’t just splash those people; he completely drenched them and had to have ruined their days. I felt sick to my stomach and wish I’d reacted differently now, but at that point my discernment had faded and I deferred to him.

I was watching Richard Grannon’s youtube video on Covert Narcissists and found it to be one of the most well-rounded explanations I’ve seen. The more examples he gave, the more memories came back. Here are some notes I took and their associated memories:

This is all a spectrum of a disorder. Some might be a complex mix of both sides depending on the day and their mood or emotional state.

Unlike an overt (or extroverted) narcissist, the covert seems to be more self-doubting or can be depressed or low-energy. Doesn’t handle stress well. Has tendencies toward depression.

In public, he was extremely high-energy and intense. In private, (more as time went on), there was a heaviness or something often weighing him down that I felt the need to support. Stress, family drama, work, something was always burdening him. Eventually, I became one of those things weighing him down and needed to be more aware of it (according to his friend Kimmy Jane Powers). Time together was marked by trying to keep things “positive” and “having some damn fun for once.”

They tend to project their own insecurities or defects on to you.

One day, I would hear a speech on budget and how “we’re broke” because I’m so expensive or spend so much. Hours later when I’d suggest we cook at home to save money, he would insist we eat dinner at the most expensive sushi restaurant in Sacramento. I was constantly confused by inconsistency.

Many times I’d come home to $300+ of Whole Foods groceries in the fridge. Not just basics, but specialty items he “wanted to try.” I still remember the shrug of his shoulders when I peered around the freezer door and asked him about the organic vodka (does organic even matter at that point? Genuinely curious), especially in light of his critical comments on alcohol. He said once or twice that he wanted our house to be “an alcohol free home.” He would set new rules, but change them when he pleased, often joking about my “wine problem.”

Ostentatiously vulnerable. Extreme sob stories, sympathy-garnering. Theatrical displays of emotion.

A classic N doesn’t want sympathy because they view themselves as above it. But a covert does want you to feel sympathy. He would shed actual tears when we would sit together watching movies or just cuddling on the couch, and I would think “geez how damaged are you that this moment means this much?” Something in my gut turned. (I’m obviously an empathetic person, but even I secretly rolled my eyes in those moments!) My mom still references the night she and my dad told us they were giving us money for the wedding. My ex’s crocodile tears and contorted face felt disproportionate to the moment and the amount they were giving. I definitely was emotional and thankful, but they still talk about the grand scale of his reaction and how uncomfortable it made everyone.

Classic & covert N’s have grandiose fantasies but the covert has more awareness of what demonstrating those fantasies could mean. “If I tell everyone I want to take over the world, they’ll judge me.” A covert can’t handle criticism.

One moment, someone he knew was a genius. The next, they were idiots. He is extremely active on social media, especially Twitter, and he would fly into picking fights and arguments that he would gleefully show me, especially around Christian topics. I’d feel uncomfortable with the insults he’d quickly throw at people crossing him, and embarrassed at the lack of Christlike character it showed. In fact, many times he had opportunities to share grace and love with those who had differing beliefs, and instead he cornered and shamed them, calling them out. He would flip things quickly on anyone who dared question him.

They’re extremely self-entitled. They believe they have rights to more than the average person because they’re special. Actually arrogant. A classic N will never apologize, but a covert might eventually apologize… if it serves their purpose in that moment, which is self-preservation.

See Episode 8 of the “Something Was Wrong” Podcast: “There is Much to Confess.”

Strong desire to be a rescuer and “good as gold,” morally superior person. Will tend toward publically charitable acts, often a pillar in their church or community.

My ex could quote Scripture backward and forward, hold theological discussions with church leadership, and was quick to deconstruct the flaws in any given church’s infrastructure. He very frequently mentioned his brother’s position of church eldership. I remember early on in our relationship, he handed $20 to a homeless person we walked by and later told me he kept 20 dollar bills in his pocket at all times for those exact opportunities. Later on behind closed doors (especially sitting in the car while waiting for people to cross the street), and eventually in public places like coffee shops and grocery stores, he would refer to people as fat, ugly, or worthless. Sayings like “move along grandma… you’ll be dead soon anyway” were common. One moment his extended family was super close in a way I “could never understand.” In the next, it wasn’t worth visiting them because they were going to kick the bucket soon. We were at Blue Bottle in Oakland when he called someone fat out loud well within earshot of that person, and I began scanning the doors for my exit strategy. He claimed he could say things like that because he used to be fat too.

Extremely self-centered.

You don’t say! There was a particularly dramatic night where he was driving up for the weekend, and my roommate and I were in my car on our way back home to meet him with movie night snacks. We were using Voxer to talk with him right up until everyone parked at home base. I was so excited for an entire weekend with a couple of my favorite people! I grabbed the bags from the car, crossed the parking lot to greet him while my roommate continued on into the house, and when I saw his posture I paused. Something felt different. Studying him and being sensitive, I set the grocery bags on the ground to hug him and was met with stony silence. My countenance fell and everything shifted. Analyzing every response, I got very quiet and in my head. What was wrong, and how could I fix it?

Once we were alone in my room I asked what was going on. He said, “to be honest I’m strongly considering heading back home.” (It had taken him 3 hours in traffic to get to my house.) I was stunned. “I don’t feel wanted here. When we were Voxing in the car and you were with your roommate, I could hear the happiness in your voice. You didn’t show nearly the same excitement once you saw me. It’s fine, I’ll just spend the weekend at home. I have plenty of work I can get done.” I was devastated and scrambling to recover whatever I’d done wrong. The idea of him turning right back around seemed ludicrous. I had no frame of reference for what he meant because I was ecstatic to see him. It was just a misunderstanding! When I tried to explain that I tempered my excitement after noticing he seemed down and I didn’t want to be insensitive, he shook his head like I was being silly and trying to cover something he could see right through. “It’s ok, you don’t need to make excuses. You’re easier to read than you think. It’s very simple: you’re more excited to be with your roommate and that’s fine. I don’t want to get in the way of anything.” I begged him to stay. Pleaded for him to give it some time. The weirdness would wear off and we’d have a blast. He agreed to wait it out a little bit but things were precarious. It completely deflated our evening and had me walking on eggshells all night. We never watched a movie with my roommate because that time was spent talking in my room.

Lying

Need I share more lies, though? I’m sorry, podcast listeners:

It was in that same Blue Bottle on a Thursday afternoon that I saw one of the letters Bryan and Kimmy sent me on his laptop screen. I froze and watched as he swiftly closed it with a few keystrokes, his face expressionless. We went about our work date, my heart racing and mind running wild. Surely if he’d written those letters he wouldn’t be sloppy enough to leave it open on a laptop he’d be letting me use…? It wasn’t until hours later, at dinner (I still remember the really cool Asian restaurant we discovered in Oakland), that he tilted his head like a parent would toward a child and said, “When are you going to talk to me about what you saw earlier today?” The weirdest conversation proceeded. He had an explanation as to why “Bryan” had sent him an electronic copy for safe-keeping in case the hard copies got lost in the mail, but his point was my failure in how I handled the situation. Rather than bottle everything up and “ruin our lovely afternoon together,” I should’ve communicated better in order for him to simply explain so we could move on. I was in tears over how poorly I’d handled my distrust.

Now I have on record that as he calmly gazed into my eyes and held my hand across the candlelit table, resolving to love me well while navigating these learning opportunities for me, my churning stomach and racing heart were right. He was lying.

Minimizing your emotions and feelings in favor of theirs.

If I was upset, he’d wind up saying, “maybe I did ___ to you [yet to be proven], but YOU did ____, ____, and ____ to ME!”

This scenario doubles as an example of gaslighting:

He was folding clothes by my bed one evening and said, “Well I’d never share a secret with you.” I paused what I was doing and looked up, surprised, wondering where he was going with this. For some reason, he threw on a fake New Jersey accent and waved his hand flippantly as he said, “Yeah! You’re loose-lipped!” as if it was obvious and went about his business.

For some reason this – of all things – pierced my heart. Emotions came but I shoved them down and started thinking through examples he might be referring to. One of the things I value most is treasuring the personal information of my friends. If they trust me with something, I hold it close. I want my friends to feel safe. Somehow he’d known this comment would get under my skin. Later while I was getting ready for bed in the bathroom, the tears started coming and I couldn’t stop them. I closed the door and sat down, turning the fan and faucet on so he wouldn’t hear me crying and praying. If I was a gossip, help me see and change it. Well, apparently he could hear me (oops) and he asked who I was talking to in the bathroom. When I regained control and came out, he looked at me like I was crazy. I was straightforward and told him exactly what I wrote at the beginning of this paragraph so that he could understand why his words hurt me so badly. “So to hear those words from my fiance, the person whose opinion I hold in the highest regard, cut really deep. I asked myself, what must I be doing wrong if my own fiance doesn’t trust me with his secrets?” I was mortified over the tears that forced their way down my face all over again, and now the shame and embarrassment made me feel like a little kid.

He actually laughed, shaking his head! “Aww honey, you just… that’s not what I said!” Ohhhh me. Taking things personally yet again.

I had the wherewithal at that moment to hold my ground. Clarity kept me focused and I knew what he’d said. Suddenly his explanation changed from claiming he hadn’t said it, to having said it but I’d completely misread the whole thing. What then proceeded from his mouth is apparently something called Word Salad. A cornered narcissist will spin you up in so many words that you’ll forget the origin of the conversation, forget your own point, and somehow end up at fault for something you still don’t understand. All I remember is apologizing just to end the mess, him chuckling at my overreacting while continuing to fold clothes, and our night moving on. Me a little smaller than before.

Withholding affection / Giving the silent treatment

A month or so before the wedding, he started this game around withholding affection. He’d give me a hug or kiss, then playfully push me away like he was “discarding” me and look back like he expected me to come back for more. Although I sort of saw the humor in it (because I was open & trusted where I stood with him), looking back, it made me feel hurt, insecure and confused around how to play along. When I’d do it back to him (to subconsciously see how he liked it), he’d pout and give me the silent treatment for a while.

It felt unfair.

It’s taken me nearly a year to break apart and analyze every mystery, every gut-punch, every moment of confusion. Just recently I remembered his family asking me about my medical career while having dinner in Colorado. I cleared up their confusion while distinctly noticing awkward tension and his lack of comment. He’d lied to his family about my job, inflating my position and giving me a title I’ve never had.

The more I piece together, the more freedom and healing comes. It has nothing to do with exposing him as a person, but everything to do with re-constructing my own sense of reality, up from down, right from wrong. With opening the eyes of anyone who reads this and needs it, because your freedom and empowerment matters. YOU matter. Your preferences, feelings, quirks, looks, secrets, weaknesses, strengths… they all matter.

Abuse Recovery, christianity, Dating

Why I’m Not Silent

January 27, 2019 924 Comments

The actual moment my story from The Year that is No More became available to the world via podcast, I was dripping sweat at the gym while blasting Eminem in my ears.

Just before that, though, I had been on my piano playing a Chopin Etude I’d been assigned my very first year in college, as a wide-eyed homeschooler walking into classrooms for the first time since elementary school. (Opus. 10 no. 3 for any nerds curious.) It was a scary piece for me. Despite being encouraged in music my entire life and told I was a natural, I believed internal lies that said I was “faking it.” I had zero idea how I’d measure up in any way to the groups of strangers my age who didn’t talk like they spent summers reading books or watching black and white movies. (My piano teacher would laugh at that now because of a comment I made about it while facing each other from across two grand pianos.)

After the gym, I went to bed with the Etude on repeat.

When I play it, I can’t help but get lost in the stark contrasts of who I was during those hundreds of hours spent learning and refining it, and who I am now… Mentally wandering through big, landmark memories of discovery, adventure, victories, and fears.

I remember being thoroughly convinced of my incapability, frustrated to the point of tears when my music teachers wouldn’t believe my arguments. What an injustice. I remember my piano instructor taking me so far beyond what I thought a piece could possibly require from a pianist’s hands and brain. Just when I thought I’d pulled everything I could from a single passage, she’d tell me I was cutting a note short and to let it breathe. Not on the next repeat, though. Only when that phrase appears on page 3.

You have all these moving parts – literally every digit is moving – but don’t ever allow fingers 2 and 5 to physically lift from the keys while playing because those notes are “tied.” (You will get caught.) Simply switch between keys without allowing air to pass through their surface and your fingertips. It’s easy! Air is huge. It’ll never fit.

Both hands have independent melodies that you must differentiate between, so listeners can hear each one “sing.” (I remember that word so well.) “Make it sing!” Carry that note with finger 2, not 3! Tap it differently and it will sound better. (Sounded exactly the same, but I will remember to flail differently right here if it pleases you.)

Please God, if you have any mercy don’t let her catch the pianissimo she overlooked.

I remember finally mastering it. My brain hurt and I wondered if I’d found its capacity when I was informed that it was now time to change the physical look of my hands while they were doing the impossible. They looked too… “harsh.” I would also have to memorize the entire piece well enough to not freeze and draw a blank in front of crowds. Enough to “let go and be free. Enjoy it.”

Certainly. Already banking on it.

It wasn’t until my vocal instructor countered my argument of the day with a phrase that rang in my ears for years to follow: “You need to get over yourself.”

In addition to believing lies about myself, I believe my fear of failure was rooted in pride. I was told once by someone who was praying for me that she saw me living behind a fence. It was very beautiful, covered in blossoming vines and beautiful flowers, but it was a wall.

Pride is a false protector. It’s insidious and the cost is incredibly high. I’ve seen it reap destruction and keep people captive from chasing their potential. It costs relationships. It says, “You’re safe here. Nothing will hurt you. They won’t see the truth of who you really are or aren’t.” I’ve gone through seasons of counseling twice now. The first round back in 2015 started with breaking down my fences, telling myself the truth, and exploring what’s on the other side.

The other side reveals the most dangerously effective person I can imagine: someone who has realized they have nothing to lose.

Jesus said that whoever loses their life for His sake will find it. He also called people out and shocked a culture by giving women a voice. I gave up rights to my “story” when I gave it to Him. (I realize not everyone reading this shares my beliefs. However, this is my playground and I’m honored to have your eyes as guests for a few moments.) I believe the story from The Year that is No More is not my own. Why? I know all too well that I couldn’t have rescued myself. I know where my heart was. Eight days out, I was ready to move forward at full speed, thinking a wedding was the answer to serious problems. When my community (called a “bubble” by someone) felt something was wrong and told me to be praying with them, I didn’t know what else to do but get on my knees alone that Friday night and read the Names of God out loud. It was the most confusing night of my life, but I felt a strange peace and clearly heard in my heart “Sunday will be pivotal.” I was so emotionally invested in moving forward that I assumed that meant everyone would understand and all would be well. We would have this wedding. I went about my bachelorette party the next day ready to have fun, with no idea that Sunday held the exposure of massive lies. (Many of which I’m still figuring out a year later.) It was a miraculous instance of God opening the eyes of one of His own who’d been deceived into choosing a dangerous situation.

So when people tell me I am brave to share my story, I’m realizing I don’t feel “brave” at all because it doesn’t feel like “mine.” It’s His story of jealousy, of the lengths He’ll go to leave the 99 for one. It happens to have twists that make for great listening, which only gets it to more ears that might need to hear it. (I thank God for my li’l bubble community all the time, by the way.)

I have nothing to lose by sharing His story but maybe some pride, which I have to kill. Nothing to fear, because fear can’t coexist with perfect Love. Love is what rescued me. What would life look like if we didn’t think so highly of ourselves that the possibility of failure (more like a guarantee at some point) wasn’t so unthinkable? What if exposure isn’t such a bad thing?

Not just for us, but for those that hear our testimonies, I think it looks like freedom.

Abuse Recovery, christianity, Dating

The Anger Phase

November 13, 2018 704 Comments

This will be a messy one.

Our minds are incredible in their design when it comes to trauma. Mine was all mental, so I minimized it because outwardly it didn’t appear as dramatic as others’ stories. What I didn’t know was even with everything I was feeling, I was still a little numb, and safely so. Since I was still healing and my sense of self-worth was mid-restoration, I couldn’t feel a proper anger over what someone had done or tried to do to me. I still believed some literal lies told that needed time to unravel to see everything clearly, even after finding out they were lies. Amazing how long it took for the truth to sink in!

I walk a line with choosing to blog about my real-time process, teetering toward avoidance when that process hits a bump in the road called full clarity and the resulting fury.

Anyone who knows me well knows that I play devil’s advocate for just about anyone. To a fault, I will assume someone meant the best but simply made a mistake. As the numbness wears off and I’m pulling old files to compile my story, I read texts with clear eyes. All excuses, brain-washing, and influences melted away. Hatred is a powerful word I refuse to carry with me, but last Saturday morning as I was taking screenshots for my story, new disgust churned in my stomach. Hot, fresh fury colored my entire day in a way I couldn’t shake as easily before. The vileness of words spoken in the final couple of months, contrasted with the soft, loving words that originally sucked me in made me nauseated.

It was healing, though, to go back to the beginning and understand how I could have fallen for such an insidious trap. Terrifying, simultaneously, to see how this strategy operates and deceives intelligent and discerning people. Especially women. It preys on their loves, their treasured secrets, by celebrating them. It seeks out keys to their carefully guarded hearts, then handles them with great care until they’re granted full access. Then it uses those keys to wreak havoc where trust was carefully built.

I was telling friends I call my “special ops” that I was amazed by how different our first conversations were. He used no harsh language whatsoever. No backhanded comments or sarcasm. He was so soft. Responded as if I could do no wrong because he was in awe of everything. I could fart and he’d call it blessed.

For those who are unfamiliar with psychopaths and narcissists, this is one way they succeed while minimizing damage visible to the public eye. They move on to their next conquest, leaving behind a shell of a person who thinks their lack of direction is their own fault. For those who are in recovery and by some chance are reading this, gosh I hope this stream of raw consciousness helps in some way.

While I see major positioning and personal growth happening, and how God rescued me from an incredibly dangerous situation, I’ve felt forced to wait, having “lost” a life I loved through no fault of my own. A dog I adored (he physically abused and terrorized her), a home I admired daily, roommates who made life a blast and a neighborhood I would sit and breathe deep in. Often times, this season of transition and healing can feel like punishment for doing the right thing. Add a hefty sprinkle of guilt for feeling that way, since I’m fully aware of my safety and blessings in the moment, and you have the tension of right now. It’s a new effort to come to the Lord and let Him be something new to me: the place I bring my injustices and frustration. To let Him tell me it’s ok to feel anger, and, surprise: learn about His anger on my behalf. Psalm 37 has been brought to my attention more than once… it’s not a gentle read.

“Is it time yet? What about now?” I mentally ask as I sift through rental listings, schlepping myself to and from unit viewings and even applying for what I thought was my dream spot. Everything looked guaranteed until they went a different direction. “But I thought… this was it…” I think, and try to control my reaction and feel guilty for expressing my disappointment to the Lord. I know His timing is perfect but I feel irritated. He pulled me out of the trap to begin with; He will restore everything. There are days I’m content in that, and days I just want it to look different and throw a grownup fit.

Looking around, I’m surrounded by incredible people to champion and go to war for me. They’re doing the heavy lifting when it comes to compiling my story for the public, not just for its sheer shock-factor, but because I’m far from the only victim of psychopathic abuse. My experience just has a little… Dateline flair.

For those wondering and asking, I truly am doing well! I stand by what I said about not changing a thing. Just forcing myself to share the good, bad and ugly because it does coexist, but all bad, ugly things make God’s goodness shine brighter in contrast. When my story is released to the public, in all it’s true-crimey-ness, I’m thrilled to know that it will ultimately point to the miracle He did in rescuing me. It’s the only explanation, and the overarching joy in my freedom is a testimony to what He wants for all of us in a world full of stories like mine.

Coming to a podcast near you that will knock your winter socks off.

Abuse Recovery, christianity, Uncategorized

Take Me Back

October 11, 2018 652 Comments

The other day, a line from one of Steffany Gretzinger’s songs was floating around in my head all day. (Anyone else get phrases or words rather than songs stuck in their heads?) It was “take me back to the beginning.” I wasn’t sure why. It’s a beautiful song, but it isn’t on my short list of repeated favorites.

Forward to that night lying in bed: I was contemplating the existence of mankind (I know; I’m not kidding) and I straight up wondered, “Why?” Was there truly nothing but you, God, and you decided all of THIS was a good idea? In your creativity, couldn’t you have put together anything else rather than humans who would constantly fail you and be unable to manage anything well on their own? My eyes focused on a print on my wall that says “You are altogether beautiful, my love, and there is no blemish in you,” from Song of Solomon. At that moment this thought/impression entered my mind: “If you could see as I do. You [everyone] in the beginning.”

I was struck by the simplicity of that simple thought and how profoundly it changed my perspective. God didn’t design humans, then sit back and say “We done good” because before Him stood a gaggle of filthy wretches. (Genesis 1:31, paraphrased.) We were something to behold.

I’ve wondered if it’s an affront to His design when Christians continually refer to themselves and the church as “wretched” or even “sinners saved by grace.” (Here we go! Dipping my toes in some frigid waters!) Scripture says we were crucified with Christ and are new creations. The “old man” is dead. Yes, we’re imperfect and still sinning because we live in a conflicted world, but we are no longer slaves to it. “And having been set free from sin, and having become slaves of God…” -Rom 6:22. We don’t belong to sin or the world. We belong to Him. When it was clear we were spiraling out of control, in His consistency God abided by His own rules and sent someone without sin to shed blood for us, so we wouldn’t have to keep sacrificing flawless animals the Old Testament way to approach Him. (Imagine that going down in 2018. What a messy time to be alive.)

The blood Jesus shed covers our sin and He no longer sees it. Jesus said to approach Him as children do. In a healthy relationship, how does a typical child run to their dad? With a list of reasons why he shouldn’t pick them up, or boldly jumping into his arms with excitement?

I have a point to make with my past that I will shamelessly vent here now: perhaps we shouldn’t devalue the gravity of the Cross by continuing to wallow and call ourselves sinners, though I’m no seminary student. It reminds me an awful lot of rubbing a dog’s nose in his own urine when he goes in the house. Anyone who has tried it knows it teaches him to cower and hide the next time he messes up and this defined my idea of how God saw me for far too long. I’ve seen friends I grew up with walk away from church and I firmly believe this had a lot to do with it. Their pain is still painted in subtle strokes across their social media posts. It breaks my heart.

Seeing the abuse I endured last year so clearly now stirs a passion in me to stop it from happening to others. My “sin” was very subtly (but constantly) pointed out as time went on… not to “keep me at the feet of Jesus,” but to keep me confused and feeling small compared to the kind person “calling it out.” (What would I have ever done without their helpful insight into my weaknesses?) Narcissism 101, my friends. If for some reason you always walk away from time with someone feeling like you have a lot of self-work to do instead of feeling bolstered and encouraged, take heed… and maybe put your running shoes on.

Whew. Deep breaths.

When I saw that print in the store, someone with me tried to shoot it down the second I reached out to touch and look at it. They pointed out how it was technically inaccurate because it was taken out of context. For the first time, I ignored this person and put it in the cart without even knowing why, because I never buy prints. I was simply drawn to it. Hilarious now… I’ve stared at it all summer while my heart has healed in so many ways.

Jesus did all this so we could be restored to our Father. So He can enjoy us again as shimmering reflections of Him as we were in the beginning: beautiful and unashamed. It is that simple.

There is no physical standard for beauty outlined by God. Our spirits are what reflect Him. Our creative and faceted personalities. Our hearts.

When we receive the gift of what Jesus did for us, He isn’t looking at our shortcomings, so why should we? How will we live? What will we attempt when we no longer see our lack, but His potential? If we see what He does: Him in us?

“If you could see what I see. You in the beginning.”

Let me recklessly forget about my weakness as my awareness of Your strength grows. Take me back to the beginning every single day.

Abuse Recovery, Dating, Uncategorized

Lights Will Guide You Home

September 25, 2018 786 Comments

Fall has always been a favorite. The excitement quickly faded when unexpected flashbacks accompanied the unboxing of last winter’s clothes, and with each cooler day, I started digging my heels into the ground to slow down the deja vus invading at random times. Every breezy, golden memory now had the word “FRAUD” painted in red.

Truth broke walls I couldn’t scale and I will never turn away from it nor forget its power to rescue.

Hope: the day light broke through the trees and warmth poured in.

Without something to work toward, we wither. On a small scale, I’ll do a mental scan of my upcoming week. If it’s a hectic one or has something I’m not looking forward to, I’ll reach further and look for a break in the clouds to set my sights on, and let that ray of light keep me focused. (Sometimes a ray of light just looks like a good lunch.)

We need people and things that are rays of hope in our lives. Humans are hardwired to need a vision, a hope of something more, something bigger than ourselves to invest in and be part of. Without it, as Scripture says, we die out. During my commute I’ve been blasting the song “Heroes” by Amanda Cook from her album “The Voyage,” and every time she sings “you taught my feet to dance upon disappointment,” I burst with more emotions than what should probably be considered safe for driving.

For there is hope for a tree, when it is cut down, that it will sprout again, and its shoots will not fail. Though its roots grow old in the ground and its stump dies in the dry soil, at the scent of water it will flourish and put forth sprigs like a plant. -Job 14:7-9

One thing at the forefront of my thoughts right now is the fear I know a lot of women around me are facing, and the choices they are making in the midst of it. Choosing peace that blatantly opposes the storm around them. It makes no sense to outside observers; it can even appear counterintuitive to fight fear with stillness. As believers, we have the power of Christ within us and when we are rooted, standing firm in our identity, it is a force that can withstand anything.

Even fears of those tightly-held dreams of having a family or significant other not happening or being shelved. Or experiencing fulfillment. Seeing our potential and discovering what we’re truly capable of. The pain of wondering and uncertainty is real and often buried deep. Women are excellent at busying themselves going about duties and often sacrificing those little girl dreams in the process.

A woman was praying for me shortly after I called off my wedding and she kept repeating, “Hope is NOT deferred.”

Never. In fact, hope was restored because confirmation poured in that I was not crazy! (I remember a breakup years ago where I showed up to his house ready to set us both free, and when he immediately called it, I threw him off by breathing a huge sigh of relief and saying “oh thank God” through happy tears. I must have looked nuts, laughing and assuring him I’d never been better while he tilted his head and looked at me, asking if I was ok. I laughed and cried all the way home, using the experience to learn how to trust my gut and we both moved on to live our best lives.)

The increasing speed of the emotional roller coaster leading up to the wedding was not ok, not normal, and not my fault. I had been duped and there is something better.

It’s times like these that I remind myself it’s impossible to miss my own boat.

A good Father does not take away to leave a permanent void. He sees farther than we do. He is light in the darkness. When that light feels like a pinpoint, we have to lean in closer and He is faithful to meet us there. Some of my darkest days have been marked by a unique sense of His presence I don’t feel other times. It is out of those days that our roots are deepened in their search for water. Our convictions are woven tighter and our testimonies grow more powerful.

As my faithful poet Chris Martin says, “Lights will guide you home.”

Abuse Recovery, Dating, Uncategorized

Livin’ the Dream

September 13, 2018 734 Comments

You know how you can buy a car you never knew existed, and suddenly you notice them everywhere? That’s how I’ve felt about writing again. I love scenes in movies that enter the main character’s point of view and suddenly that church choir is looking directly at them, pigeoned there in the pews, belting “WRITE THE THIIIIIIINGS!!” instead of Oh Happy Day or something.

In my case, since I’m obviously the main character here, I’m in the checkout line at the grocery store and the cashier definitely says, “Nice day to start a blog!”

Me: “Sorry, what?”

Cashier: “I said nice day for a jog! Sun’s finally out, am I right?”

Me: “Oh! Totally. Beautiful day. It’s fine! Everything is fine.”

Narrator: Everything was not fine.

(I watched Jane the Virgin obsessively for multiple reasons, a big one being her developing her identity as a fiction writer.)

The people we surround ourselves with are who we will reflect, so hopefully we’re all chasing something that freaks us out on some level. It doesn’t have to impress anyone else…which I wrestle with. I have a hard time separating my ideas of others’ dreams for me vs. my dreams for myself. I could dissect it, but for now, at least I’ve discerned it. Here’s the biggest revelation of many this summer: I am deserving of my dreams, and on top of that, God’s for me are bigger. First, however, I had to allow Him to pick up the pieces of a shattered sense of self, and reconstruct my concept of what I have to contribute to the world around me. It started with the role I play in His heart.

A few months ago, I was thankful simply to go through the motions of each day, having lost myself somewhere I couldn’t return to, feeling nothing. I could hold conversations, but knew something was broken and my mind was doing its survival thing by blocking out and shelving trauma. I had been slowly and systematically brainwashed over several months to question my reality and believe I was a piece of work, so there was a lot of repair that needed to happen.

As all of this was hot and fresh, my godmother sat me down and formally requested that I read a book called Captivating by John & Staci Eldredge. I’d seen the cover many times, writing it off as a fluffy Christian “Girls are Ladies in Waiting” lecture. (I’M SORRY JOHN & STACI… I blatantly judged your book by its cover.)

Through that book, God mended me in ways I never expected and might previously have resisted had I not been desperate for something to tell me who I really was and why all of me was important. It made me realize my identity as a woman needed restoration, not “correction” or “managing.” John and Staci talked about the world-changing power of feminine beauty, and how it reflects the heart of God in a way masculine strength simply cannot. Women were not created to be “helpmeets,” as many in the homeschool community taught us to look so forward to being. (If girls were single, they were “waiting.” I was preparing to become the helpmeet my dream guy was looking for, instead of calling it “living my dang life.”)

There used to be a grating feeling in my gut that I was destined to attend women’s luncheons and exchange flower pots until a young single pastor arrived and gave me my purpose. (I’m generalizing. Not everyone fit this mold, but highschool me received it this way.) It still irritates me.

Regardless of sexual orientation or life goals, I think women want to know if they are needed and desired while simply being. We find our own ways to ask, “Am I enough?”

If we didn’t hear that message at crucial times from a parent or similar figure, we’ll seek it elsewhere. In careers, romantic relationships, etc, we might settle for something a step above or similar to what we knew before, because at least it’s not as bad. Or we tell ourselves it’s the best we’ll get. Or we feel we need someone.

For various reasons, we often try to convince ourselves that we deserve less than our dreams. It seems easier in the moment, but at what hidden costs?

On my off days, when I’m not focused on how God sees me, I feel pretty basic and unoriginal. “One of many” is a phrase that loves to sneak its way in if I don’t fight it. It’s easier to choose the less flashy accessories, the more practical car, the simpler outfit because I can hide from scrutiny. Better to go unnoticed than not measure up. (God forbid should observers figure out I have no idea what the hell I’m doing.)

Am I brave enough to chase what I want, or scarier yet, let go of something less?

The answer is absolutely yes. Bravery doesn’t require the absence of fear. Bravery is a choice of action regardless of fear being present. (I made brave choices while crying in the corner of a kitchen floor; it didn’t paint a sexy portrait of bravery.) We are all capable of being obedient, and in my case that’s all God has been asking of me. If we don’t feel capable, there is Grace and we can ask for help! I may not be all things, but I can be obedient and He is faithful. My current state of wholeness and freedom is a testimony to that. I’m thankful for this past year, because my God is quickly turning a dark time completely around into something beautiful. Quite honestly, knowing the waves of clarity waiting on the other side, I would walk through that valley again.