christianity

To the Quiet Ones

July 21, 2020 968 Comments

Last night my mind was jam-packed with the horrific events I can’t stop reading about. More and more, constant intake.

I know God literally commands us to be at peace and find joy even in terrible events; I just couldn’t help but feel like joy would be a dismissal of the travesties, the economic and political devastation, worldwide deception, division and all-out spiritual war happening.

(Do you feel the spiritual side of it? Have you asked yourself why something just feels… inexplicably wrong, confusing, and overwhelming? That the ground beneath our feet doesn’t feel the same and we’re somehow powerless against it? Welcome to a spiritual war. It’s very real.)

I opened my Bible and was just kinda flitting through Isaiah with these “but where is the joy, God?” thoughts, and my eyeballs landed on Isaiah 55:12.

“For you shall go out in joy, and be led forth in peace;

the mountains and the hills before you shall break forth into singing,

and all the trees of the field shall clap their hands.

Instead of the thorn shall come up the cypress;

instead of the brier shall come up the myrtle;

and it shall make a name for the Lord, an everlasting sign that shall not be cut off.”

Christian friends, we’re not being spoon-fed anymore. That’s what’s happening. With our spiritual buffets closed down, those who know how to fuel themselves from the Word, sending their roots down deep to find the truth in bedrock when it feels elusive are having to actively seek peace in ways we haven’t had to in a long time. Those that lacked depth or true relationship with God are lost and floundering.

If I got distracted and checked out from making a daily connection with Him, I always knew I had Sunday to reset and re-center myself. So… how quickly did I choose other things once church was canceled? Pretty dang quickly. The loosey-goosey-ness has been… humbling and revealing. Not a fan.

When I’m desperate for something, I remember Him and draw close. He always meets me. Soon after I get that thing, I go on my merry way and get busy. The busyness is all valid things like 3 jobs, a consistent fitness routine, family relationships, etc… but before I know it, 3 weeks have gone by and the person that blessed me with these jobs and incredible community (literally everything I was just asking Him for) hasn’t heard from me… and that’s all He wants. Me.

Not my service or even faithfulness with what He gave me before He has my attention first.

This is often why I believe He allows hardship- not that He is the direct cause of bad or difficult times, but His nearness is undeniably different when we’re in pain and we need Him. Or when we’re fired up and desperate for something, and come running to Him full of big emotions. He responds. He finally has our full attention.

He doesn’t want a casual connection- He wants our fire, our very worst AND best.

I don’t believe things have gotten the worst they will get… because I don’t think the church is quite desperate enough. Yet.

We’ve been stretched thin, poked, prodded, pushed, provoked… but not brought to our knees as a whole. It’s close. It’s still happening. More and more of us are waking up at our own pace, shaking off the “it’ll go back to normal soon” complacency that gives us permission to coast through times of unrest and “wait it out.”

For years, my MO has been to sit back and wait before acting. I usually tap my fingers nervously, hoping I don’t have to get loud for the truth that’s screaming in my head to be heard or to make myself seen in order for what I know is the right thing to get done.

We are not going back to “normal” or anything comfortably livable this time around unless we do the things we were put here to do. (Do you kinda feel that? It’s not gonna just go away.)

What do I mean? With things being different, this means the stage is being set for those who have felt displaced, in waiting or unseen, perhaps with a story or passion but no clear platform for it.

We have felt like square pegs in round holes because the fit didn’t exist until now. I encourage you to find even the smallest, most immediate platform you have to tell your story and use your voice. Now is not the time to wait for one to reveal itself- you probably know exactly what it is, and that “surely not that” thought probably suffocating you right now as you read this is the one you need to act on right now.

I have these conversations with my close friends all the TIME about what God is showing us, and what we feel He’s doing… but I don’t vocalize it on a more public platform because I have a diverse friend group and never want to alienate those who think and feel differently than I do. I realize that’s not fair to them- it shows a lack of respect for their ability to make room for me in their lives and it’s not fair to anyone who needs the encouragement.

The verses right before the ones I shared:

v.10: For as the rain and the snow come down from Heaven and do not return there but water the earth, making it bring forth and sprout, giving seed to the sower and bread to the eater, so shall my word be that goes out from my mouth;

It shall not return to me empty, but it shall accomplish that which I purpose,

and shall succeed in the thing for which I sent it.”

I can’t continue to sacrifice words I’ve been given at the risk of having them misunderstood. If it’s His word, He will back it and ensure it doesn’t return empty.

Same to you, other quiet ones. Neither can you.

Abuse Recovery, christianity, Dating

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, 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.