How can you atone for an incorrect existence?

I spent most of my life believing that something had gone horribly wrong, and as a result I was born.

No one said otherwise.

The effort to atone for my incorrect existence quickly became the only way I felt any relief from the pressure of it.

The first time it happened, it was instinctual like I just knew it was the solution. As the torment rose in my chest, I held the key with my right hand. There it was. Metal pressed against the twelve-year-old-softness of my left arm. I pushed and pulled as the tiny slivers of clear skin rolled away. Pushed and pulled until the skin turned from white to pink. Pushed and pulled until I saw red.

And the storm calmed.

Warm relief like I’d never experienced washed over me.

And that was that.

Soon, I was sneaking into the garage for razor blades and stashing scissors in shoe boxes.

I was much more comfortable with a secret I could control than one I couldn’t. I knew where the razors were. I had a whole system in place- once edged in red, they go in stack number two. Reuse was reserved for a deeper anguish.

Much less controllable was my existence.

But, I could create tangible wounds out of the invisible ones. Then, I could bandage them. Look at them when I needed to know I existed. When I needed to know how bad I was. But, how I’d made up for it.

Most of the time I began in fury, with thoughts and feelings bigger than my body could hold. Too much had happened, with nothing to show on the outside.

 Grown-man hands on ten year old skin. Eleven year old skin. Twelve…

Abandonment and threats.

Names and laughter.

Alcohol, closed doors and dark rooms.

Finally, red. Relief, from all these things.

This is the part I have decided is too much for you to know, church. The part I’m not sure you’ll still accept me after hearing. Although it seems you might be the one who ought to understand more than anyone.

Last I heard, Jesus’ death was a pretty bloody ordeal.

Last I heard, the most important part of your story is flesh- ripped and torn.

The final act, the part we all close our eyes and lower our heads for is Jesus’ side being pierced.

Each time I hear the sermon detailing Christ’s death, I wonder. As the pastor stretches his arms open and speaks slowly and quietly about that last part, Jesus’ pierced side, I wonder if he’d be this comfortable with my flesh-tearing story. I always know he won’t be, but I wonder anyway.

It takes a special woman to be married to a cop. As though that is the solution; Just be special. Each time I stretched my fingers out, desperate for some new answer, I found myself face-to-face with this special woman I had to become if my husband is accepted to the Police Academy.

The only thing I know about being the wife of a cop is a broken jaw, hanging by skin, begging for reattachment. The only thing I know about what special means is wearing long sleeves and extra make up to drown out the green, purple and blue residue of a mistake made.

Special means secrets, looking the other way, confinement, pain medication, lies, horse whips and clumps of hair on the carpet.

Special means sucking your own vomit back down your throat, behind a smile, with a gun in your back.

I reached and reached for something else. There was nothing.

So I demanded. I demanded that life remain just as it was. That God and everyone else leave me just as I was.

Then I warned. Against what might happen if this specialness were forced upon me.

Finally, I begged. I begged, on my hands and knees-through furious tears- not to be asked to become a woman that special.

There was only silence.
And what I knew of being a cop’s wife.

Terror lingered in that silence. It was the background noise to my every moment.

Brushing teeth. Finding keys. Sitting through a red light. Answering emails. Making dinner. The normal things were falling silent to the terrified static of the new life I anticipated, blaring in my ears. Then, just as I was sure my heart would explode to bloody bits, I lost all feeling.

Numbness greeted me with open arms. Each finger retracted in acceptance, or maybe grief. I was done reaching.

One numb-week later, on the Interstate I felt as though I were standing on the edge of a great canyon rather than behind the wheel of my car, behind a school bus. Can I give this to you? I asked in a moment of clarity. I think I may have said it out loud.

You are taking for granted that you are already so different than the rest of the world. You may not see it, but you are. This is okay. Release it to me.

I sat. Wondering if I really wanted to do that.

RELEASE. IT. TO. ME.

And as I turned from one highway to another, I did.

I may soon be a cop’s wife. Those are words I never-ever-in-a-bajillion years thought I’d write. That special woman? Yeah, I don’t know about her. I’ve let her go too. I can’t be her. She’s the danger of a single story.

The thing is, it takes a special man to be married to the wife of a cop. And that’s why God gave me the one He did.

Am I still afraid? As hell.

But, it’s a little more like the kind of scared you are standing on a bridge with a bungee chord strapped to your back and little less like the kind of scared you are when someone holds your head under water.

Gentle /’jentl/:

1a: belonging to a family of high social station (Look. Some things just are the way they are. I ain’t no Kardashian)

b archaic: Chivalrous (Be courteous to women. Ugh. All of them?)

c: honorable, distinguished; specifically: of or relating to a gentleman (pretty sure this excludes bashing all the ladies in the Bachelor mansion on facebook every Monday night.)

d: Kind, Amiable- used especially in address as a complimentary epithet (Do everything kindly. Everything?)

e: suited to a person of high social station (I did some digging and found this dates back to people’s wealth coming from property and not having to work. Just sayin’)

2a: Tractable, Docile (Even crocodiles are tractable occasionally. You know, when they’re wrestled to the ground.)

b:free from harshness, sternness or violence (Don’t be a bitch. Got it.)

3  : Soft, Delicate (Choosing words other than ‘bitch’ probably falls into the category. Right along with easing up on the sarcasm and keeping my legs and pits shaved for the man)

4  : Moderate (So perhaps I don’t need the entire gallon of ice cream while I watch an entire season of Walking Dead while returning no phone calls or doing exactly no writing. I said, perhaps.)

Well now. I’ll be the first to admit I wasn’t quite sure what I was getting myself into with this word….

I have a confession; I really didn’t know him that well and because of the weight he carries in my heart, I’m embarrassed. I wonder what might have been different had he lived beyond my twelfth birthday. Maybe he would have grown uncomfortable at my awkward climb towards womanhood and been just another distant man in my life. Or maybe, he would have taught me how to build a car and use a saw.

It’s these things, the things I imagine he would have done for my heart, that leave it aching. And the missing is often followed closely by shame; He belonged to the others more than he belonged to me. Acutely aware of my illegitimacy, his affection was generous. And that made me important enough. For what, I don’t know? But for something, I was sure.

So today, I really really miss him being alive on this earth.

Here’s the deal. I make resolutions constantly; I’m quite hard on myself actually. Starting off this new year making yet another behavior-focused resolution like any other day just didn’t seem appropriate. Not for what’s happened these last few months, or what I’m anticipating may lie ahead.

So this year, I’m attempting to participate in OneWord365. After tossing a few words around for a couple of weeks, one made the most sense and it was confirmed via text message from a friend as I made my decision:

“I think gentle. I think this is the year you defeat the lie that you must always FIGHT for yourself, that no one else will care for you well. This is the year you learn the strength you have when you lay it down and trust…” Yikes. That sounds kinda scary.

And so. Gentle is my word this year.

My hope is that by 2014, I will find the strength it requires to be more gentle with myself and others. With my expectations, words, opinions and parenting. My son is already revealing areas of gentleness in me I didn’t even know were there. I’m going to let him continue to do that. Someday when he’s a grown man, I’ll thank him for that.

What does the word gentle stir in you?

For a long time.

It’s gone almost nowhere in two years. When Jeff challenged us to create something ugly and share it with someone, my palms heated and I put my face in my hands.

I had the ugly part; bits and pieces of unorganized heart-clutter. But, who? Who am I really going to let read this. Of course, the only person I’d let lay eyes on it is Elora.

You know what she didn’t say? She didn’t say “yeah, trash it.”

She didn’t say “Uhhh. Huh?”

She said to keep writing. Keep moving- don’t abandon this. In fact, she saw it in a much bigger picture than I ever did.

“For some reason I can’t shake the feeling that this is supposed to be part of your book…”

And while I’d be far to embarrassed to introduce this piece of writing in that light, it’s where my heart was. She saw it and I didn’t have to tell her. This is why I can’t be afraid of the ugly. Why I have to get over perfect. Why I have to forget presentation. I never want to miss out on this kind of encouragement ever again.

If you have something written that is still in the ugly phase, I’d love to read it.

Do you really think that’s an original thought?

Ah! This sounds like everyone else.

You’re not smart enough to write about this. Leave it to someone who is.

And this has been a major factor in my writer’s blocked life the last few years. I really really hate the idea of someone knowing I’ve copied someone else (or them) and the line between inspiration and copy-cat is a thin one. I know I do this more than I realize and it’s probable that it’s entirely impossible not to.

We are arrogant to think that we have a totally original mind. We are carried on the backs of all the writers who came before us. We live in the present with all the history, ideas and soda pop of this time. It all gets wrapped up in our writing. – Natalie Goldberg

I’ve actually felt guilty for quite some time because of a poem I wrote about twelve or thirteen years ago. I read Jewel’s A Night Without Armor and was inspired by much of her poetry. One poem in particular, titled P.S. really threw sparks- and I went chasing them. I wrote my own:

P.S.

I don’t love you anymore.

And, you left your jacket at my house.

That’s it. That’s what I’ve felt guilty about for over a decade. And now it’s out there. Now you know what a horrible artist I am (there’s a little self-deprecating sarcasm for your funny-bone this morning).

I’m not sure I’m comfortable with “stealing” but “inspired” I can get with. Am I fooling myself? Maybe.

Cheers to Day 6.

I’ve been prepared for this my whole life.

Set apart from the beginning; un-picked.

Heels dug-in

Never understood; kept in the dark

Scribble-scribble, all-the-while (it felt) for no reason, no reason at all

But oh.

Wipe the dust of turmoil from my shoulder

Knit the useless desires

and begin.

I know {and I get to talk about this} because I am one of those people.

I truly did not fully understand this about myself until almost two years ago when I experienced the loss of a close mentor-ish relationship followed by an adoption conference where we began learning about attachment. After that conference, I knew I needed to go back to counseling for a while to talk through some things I didn’t quite understand.

Why am I finding it impossible to connect with others?

Why do I want to run and hide when someone looks me in the eye?

Why am I taking such poor care of myself when I have the knowledge to do otherwise?

Why am I finding a million faults in others before I see anything good?

(Why did I hyperventilate at an adoption conference?)

Why did all of this become so apparent, such a problem and so consuming all of a sudden?

I had an intense fear of mothering and yet I had such a deep desire to mother that I could point to the exact place in my heart where it resided. I rejected the vulnerability required for closness and yet experienced anguish over the clear lack of relationship in my life. I mean, really, dubya-tee-eff was my problem?

Then, it became clear. At almost thirty years old- I had major attachment problems.

The loss of my mentor was an attachment-trauma the size of Alaska because through our relationship, previous attachment injuries were healing. My fear and perceived inability to be loved by another had been debunked and so I began dipping my toes in the water…

I started consciously seeking closeness with others,

fighting the discomfort of looking people in the eye,

responding when my body said it was hungry or needed rest,

And accepting the risks of for-real-knowing someone to gain the benefits.

And it was all because she found a way to communicate my lovability. In her presence, I started embracing the invitation to be comfortable {and easily comforted}. So when the relationship ended abruptly in confusion, square-one greeted me warmly. The worst fears of my heart had been confirmed and I was able to easily repair the crumbled brick and mortar between myself and the world in no time. After all, I had built it with my bare hands.

My close relationships were caught in the crossfire and are only now beginning their restoration.

I’m also working on seeking closeness with others, looking people in the eye, fulfilling my basic needs and accepting the risks that come with fully knowing others. You know, basic stuff that most of you already know.

Can I just go ahead and say this is a frustrating process? That sometimes I want to give-up and live in a cave alone (with my husband’s cave nearby, of course). That sometimes, the faith it’s requiring to allow myself to be known, loved and cared for- is more than I am willing to give.

That some days, I’d rather miss out on intimacy entirely, than risk experiencing the ripping-away all over again.

Thank God for people full of grace and truth, who stay on their side of brick and mortar, occasionally sending a paper airplane gliding over.

I am confident that I will mother well. I am confident that I’ll acquire depth in my relationships. I don’t feel very connected. But, I still believe that writing is a major character in this story and that the reservation I made with myself to write and heal was a prophetic one. And that’s why I’ve accepted today’s challenge from Jeff:

So start writing. Not just what’s comfortable, but what you were meant to write.

Not only am I committing to take the initiative to write {even when it’s uncomfortable and words won’t come}. But, I’m also taking the initiative to heal and welcome the closeness of others by putting these words where you can read them. Paper airplanes welcome.

So, I actually disagree with this writers Jedi Mind Trick thing. I’m not interested in tricking myself into becoming who I am. In fact, I’m not entirely sure that makes a lot of sense (for me). I’m interested in seeing the truth about myself. Nothing new feels comfortable at first and I think it’s fine to keep putting one foot in front of the other {in faith} even if you aren’t comfortable yet. And yes, I’m sure many great writers believe in themselves. But every great writer had a long long time when they didn’t- and it’s okay.

Do I believe (for real, for real) that I am a writer? Well, yeah. I guess I just struggle more with the logistics of it all. I work two jobs, we’re adopting a baby and at the end of the day- I am a writer inside the life and body of someone who isn’t. So, I’ve got to change the life of that non-writer. She needs to take better care of herself, surround herself in more beauty (and less gray cubicle) and have longer conversations with those she loves. And then, she needs margin and discipline.

So, I suppose the non-writer needs to take the writer more seriously (or move out).

What do you think it means to believe in yourself? How much should you focus on believing in yourself?