Shattered Glass Life After Abuse

Horror of Child Abuse

2022-12-09T16:51:00.003-08:00

No one ever will know the horror of my childhood. No one could possibly understand. Unless you lived it, you haven't got a clue. No matter how much you try to relate you can't. So stop trying and pretending you do.

Respect people for what they have experienced and endured. Be grateful that you never did or will.

Love those who have been hurt deeply. They did nothing to you. Stop being cruel, and expecting more than they can give. These are shattered glass lives and you can not conceive what an abused person has been through.

You are sorry. They are sorry too. We are all sorry, even the asshole for a --for a second-- may pretend.

But no one can begin to know the agony of a soul destroyed by utter evil and wicked twisted torment.

Just love, this person. Love them and respect them for what they have been through.

A broken soul has moments of healing but never truly becomes whole until the person passes on to eternity. And that is rest, joy, and "it-is-done" finality.

Gain From Loss

2017-11-12T12:55:00.000-08:00

A short poem reflecting on how we must lose something often if we want to gain. If we hold onto everything, we can grasp what is newly being placed into our hands or lives.

Step by step, door by door,
creak by creak, hear the floor.

Window pain, Stops the beak
Lying still, Not a peep.

Pull my leg, Spoke a Word
Raised my hair and felt, not heard.

Make the sign, Of the cross
Bless my soul, Gain from loss.

I must die, To receive,
No more blind, You believe.

How Are You?

2017-09-04T13:24:00.003-07:00

How are you, dear
People ask.
They only see a
Cold clay mask.

Staring, peering,
At the face.
Dredging opens
A hiding place.

Scooping, dragging
The riverbed.
Repeating theme is
Always read.

Degree and value
Mental states.
Eyes are windows
that negate.

Linking be verbs
Stay the same.
She prefers her
Maiden name.

Doubting, query
Certainty.
Fine-grained earth layers
Reality.

Research answers
Is the quest.
Will she ever
Pass the test?

He Heard Me - Suicide Poem

2017-06-28T10:37:00.000-07:00

Am I in a dream?
It was so easy.
I spoke, in final hope,
Marveled, he heard me.

What do you need?
Suicide keeps coming.
It wants me to go.
It lurks at my soul.

Tears pour continually,
The faucet has a stream,
The pressure's released,
I get a reprieve.

I cry for help.
I cry for hope.
Will this ever stop?
Please help me cope.

(photo credit: III by th0rvaldsen on deviantArt)

Depression Kills

2017-05-27T12:59:00.002-07:00

"Committed Suicide"
Is how the death’s explained.
Does suicide kill?
Or should another be named?

Where does it start?
When death is what you see.
Who is to be blamed?
Who hung the crooked frame?

Suicide results
But not the real cause.
Depression murders more
Yet, no one knows her lore.

It was this, it was that.
He did, she did, they said.
Where is the family?
An unseen mystery.

Looking for help,
They lived invisible.
There, but a shadow,
An empty French chateau.

Intoxicating drink,
The thought of being free,
Perverted justice,
Innocence takes the fall.

See her perishing,
Remember her no more.
Advancing in the ranks
She never voiced complaints.

Depression hides in smiles
Worn upon the face
Medicine for the soul
Too thin, it left no trace.

Depression kills.
A sickness of the soul
Continually, breaking down,
A castle with no sound.

The afflictions build
The wounds scarless to view
Distinctly took residence.
Yet, selfishness makes sense.

How cruel they speak of one,
Who died in agony,
Suffers understand,
Unworthy, to lend a hand.

Death--not self inflicted,
The murdered one, in shame,
Family and friends cower,
The victim is to blame.

Stop this madness, please.
Identify the crime.
Open your speechless mouth.
For those appointed to die.

Their estate is barren.
No fruit upon the vine.
No one pleads their case.
Clueless to the signs.

(photo credits: soisson pernant chateau walkway by magma storm66 on deviant art, urbex verdure by ashleygino on deviant art)

Keep Thinking of Suicide

2017-05-26T23:42:00.002-07:00

It has been about a year since I have posted. (Whoa, no, I checked. It has been two years.) My parents died -- the only ones I ever had: one allowed me to be horribly abused, and the other inflicted the torture. Then, a year after their death, I have been working full-time (amazingly) and have not had time to write. I am currently, finally, unemployed and doing a lot of reflecting. My work contract ended. I was very glad -- both that I was able to fulfill it and that it was over.

I am mentally to the point that I can function in the world--society--and hold down a job. I suppose this is a good thing--though, I push myself to do it. I have considered that it might be an alter--a compartmental part of myself--that can function highly that has emerged.

I say this because when I had a week off of work I rested. Then, when I had to return to work I began to freak out, becoming very suicidal in thought. I so badly did not want to return. However, I literally forced myself to do it. Somehow, I pushed inside and found a part of me that was able to get myself out of bed, dressed, and to my job.

It was only recently on my last few days that one of my co-workers told me that months earlier she thought I was upset with her because I no longer said, “Good Morning.” I confessed that I was struggling to return to work, and in an unfortunate vulnerable moment told her I was struggling with suicide because I so badly did not want to come back. I don’t think she ever thought of me the same. She was looking forward to the day I left.

One day at lunch I overheard her in conversation say proudly that no one in her family was mentally ill. She was not like “those" people.

And there on a vulnerable day, just two or three days before my contract was over, I exposed my frailty -- I was. I came from a long line of the mentally ill.

Now again reflecting, I was only hoping by God’s grace to save my own children from this curse, the abusing cycle. They suffer from depression and other bodily auto-immune frailties but do not have the horrendous abusive background that I broke away from. I did not raise them perfectly. I hurt them some as they witnessed my own horrible struggle to recover and fight to survive. This has scarred them but not devastated their soul, or their capacity to be whole.

Now--as I see how life turned out-- I believe it would have been better if I had never married or had children.

I was so full of promise. I was so determined I would do better, that life would be so different away from the abuse. I had no way to know it at 19. I didn’t understand the depth of damage 18 years of continuous abuse would have on my mental stability or my capacity to function as a parent.

I had no way to foretell that my marriage would not be a joyful companionship, a soulmate. (Is that even reality? At 50+, I confess I still do not know.) I have been married 32 years, almost 33. My husband is a kind, yet stubborn man. He has never inflicted physical or verbal harm on me. He does not drink, or do drugs. Sports and music are his vices. He crushes me though, and does not seem to be connected enough to know or care. He does not want to get that deeply involved in me. He loves me in his own way, his own level, but we are not soulmates as I had hoped to have been. He does not possess the capacity to desire this level of knowing another. He does not want to adventure into that depth or journey.

Thankfully, I know God. He connects to me in the deepest places of my soul as no human ever has, and as it seems, I am at least halfway through life, God is the only one who will know me or ever care to know me in this way.

I must die to this desire to know a human in this way. It will not be part of my life here on earth. There comes a time that as we age we must adjust and realize that some of the things we hoped for will never be.

Still, I confess, I had one or two souls in life that were much older than me that I did connect with in my soul when I was in my teens. Both had love interests in one another and I think they were tripping on drugs but somehow when our eyes met I could read their minds and they read mine -- or so I thought. As our eyes locked I thought they knew my soul and I knew theirs, not in a sexual way but in a soulish one, to me a much higher plane. The older one I have no clue what happened to him, the one maybe 10 years younger but still quite older than me ended up marrying a girl who was three years older than I that attended my high school. We have been in touch once or twice but it has never been the same. Like so much in life, we were simply biding time and ended up being passing ships.

At this point, I find myself dying, and maybe this is why I ponder why I am alive.

Why am I alive?

When we are young we think it is for love, and possibly, the hope of raising a loving family. For me, coming from a hideously abusive one, I KNEW I would do so much better. Yet, after this has happened in real life, when this is complete--as I am in the stage of my children moving on and not really being connected to me--I am not needed by them. I am alone. Alone in the sense of not being close or wanted, discarded. But that would mean I was one held and I am not sure I ever was. I was a necessity to their survival because they were young and dependent, not a mother adored, a mother loved.

I so desperately wanted my children to have a bond with me, a special loving closeness.

A bond that I never came close to with my parents because of the torturous abuse.

And yet, while I did my very best, I served them and raised them and tried to provide as much time as I was able to show them love and to be with them.... they never were close to me.

They never celebrated my birthday or Mother’s day, and unless prompted by obligation, they never will. (I confess I do blame my husband for not aiding them in their youngest years in knowing how special it was to honor me. It was frequently just another day. I was ignored and they were too young to know any better.) Yet, now, even as they know better, they don’t make much of an effort, if any at all.

Functioning in the Workplace

And my husband now wants me to work. He hopes I will for the next fifteen years. He counts on the money, though we have enough to retire. He has dreams of writing music when he retires and his studio wants to drive his push for me to be employed. He wants me to work until 67 and then retire. It is not what I want to do, but he does not consult me. He has his plans for me.

Am I a human? Do I have a say? Am I alive? (A little voice in me cries, “Help me.” But who will answer my cry?)

I can’t sort it all out. Is this all too much or am I too confused? Does it make sense why I want out of it all? Why do I see no reason to have hope to go on? Why death is so appealing to life on Earth? How many times have I pleaded with God that I am ready? Why does he take the person who wants to live and leave the one who wants to die? If so many people need to die this day, I am volunteering for him. “Here I am, God, take me.” Yet, I still breathe, and the soul so loved and needed and wanted by their family is taken to eternity. Why does life work this way?

I break down and cry. Real tears water up in my eyes and my forehead tightens in pain. My eyes drift to the right and I happen to see my Bible open. I peer onto the page. Proverbs is what I was last reading. “Give strong drink to him who is perishing, and wine to those who are bitter of heart. Let him drink and forget his poverty, and remember his misery no more.” (Proverbs 31: 6-7). Even God, in his mercy, knows the pain of living and of human suffering.

I know I need help but I don’t want to spend $100 for counseling. Should I let my counselor know or should I ever care? Will anyone read this? Will anyone care?

(photo credit: Mirror by Tyutya on Deviant Art, materials 16 by Tyutya, when the sun goes down 584 by Tyutya)

Do you know why people wish they were dead? Understanding Suicidal Thinking

2015-06-05T06:00:00.000-07:00

Intro: I write this from the mind-frame of someone who has suicidal thoughts. I do not have them today, but I write this to be informative and give insight so that if you have someone in your life you might be able to understand how they think or even if you yourself have suicidal thoughts you might be able to identify with some of them and know you are not alone.

+++++++++++++++++++++++

Have you ever wished you were dead? I have. Some times these thoughts are far away and rarely cross my mind, but other times they cling by closely, hanging around like a sticky spider web that just won't shake off, junking up my thinking.

Photo Credit: Katey Smothers

Most of the time what proceeds suicidal feelings are thoughts and occurrences that make you think that your life is little, your impact is little, that people do not move forward or upward by your existence but that you are a weight, a load, or a liability to the people you consider in your inner circle.

When you see no purpose for your life, when people don't talk to you or enjoy you, when you don't make or keep real friendships, and/or when you believe almost everyone in the world would just go on living if you did not, it is easy to start feeling like you and everyone else would be better off if you were no longer living.

Most people who wish they were dead, already feel dead. They go through the motions of life as though they were characters of mindless "walking dead" bodies feeding off of those who live. And these thoughts and feelings can be passing or simply come upon you like a fog that will not clear.

When a person thinks they are not noticed, asked, invited, included, thought of, recommended, chosen or wanted by others, it is easy to feel dead, because you already feel basically invisible.

Negative Attention

And if people prone to suicidal thoughts are noticed it is frequently not in a good way. It is because they are seen as aggravating, a nuisance, an embarrassment or oddball (to say the least). They know if they disappeared for weeks on end, no one would barely miss them. People on purpose do not make a point to include them in anything important, meaningful or necessary.

Do you know what rejection feels like? Do you know what it is like to be outgoing, energetic, talkative and to be avoided, shunned and not responded to. At least when someone is important, they get a rejection letter. Imagine what it feels like to be told over and over you will be contacted and you never receive that call. I have stopped counting the number of times that has happen to me.

Frankly, my life does not cross many others in a way that I am uniquely connected. Of course, I have many casual encounters, but they end in don't call me, I will call you. And if you do call or get in touch, likely you will never hear back.

Am I repeating myself? Of course, because this kind of life is a broken record; it is a continual pattern; it has been lived over and over for the past fifty years.

No One Knew, How Could They Know

And when I do the evil thing of daring to speak up and openly say what I am thinking; I am wrong and hurting people. I apologize and promise to be better, to act the more proper role, to be a better person. Because no one wants to know when you feel like this.... but they all love to say when a person is gone, "if I only knew," "oh, how selfish," "why didn't she/he tell anyone," "I didn't have a clue," or "how could he/she think that way?"

They beat themselves up. Agonize over what they might have done differently. But the truth of the matter is no one would have done anything differently because they DID NOT. That is the truth; that is what is so freaking upsetting about when someone you know is having suicidal thoughts. You really don't want to know; You don't need that kind of problem; You don't want to deal with such negativity; You don't want your life interrupted or bothered. It is really not your problem; it is his or hers.

Yes, a person with suicidal thoughts needs help. They need someone to listen who will help them get out of the negative downward spiral of thought.

What If You Believe In God?

And for someone who does not believe in God, life = continuing on and death = ending it all. But for the one who believes, life = continuing on and death = a brand new perfected life. So it is even harder for someone who believes in eternal life to cling on to earthly life and the misery that is so often associated with living as a human in the flesh. It is only knowing Biblical truth that keeps a believer in God from NOT killing themselves, but so many “believers” are never taught the BIBLE.

I am not going to kill myself; I am not strong enough to do that, and more importantly my faith in God is stronger than me.

I am not going to kill myself; I am not strong enough to do that, and more importantly my faith in God is stronger than my own will in me.

I know I must renew my mind and stop thinking negatively. Reading the Bible or Books with a lot of Bible included are very helpful for renewing your mind. In doing this I renew my thoughts to think as God thinks. God made me and He alone gets to pick how and when I will die. The choice is not mine if I am surrendered to HIS will.

I must be willing to serve, I must focus on Jesus and let HIM rise to top in my priorities. Pleasing Him must be everything to me.

John the Baptist says in John 3:30:

"He must increase, but I must decrease.

Can I become nothing to the world for Him? Am I willing to be unseen for His sake, so that He may be seen? Can I find fulfillment in this kind of living?

Jesus in the garden weeping blood before being sentenced to death and going to the cross says this to God, in Luke 22:42:

"Father, if You are willing, remove this cup from Me; yet not My will, but Yours be done."

Can I endure earthly suffering for the sake of Jesus? He did for me. If He is really everything I need and if I have Him, why do I ever see myself as lacking or needing more? If He has chosen me, isn't that everything, essentially the only thing that is important? This are huge questions to not be taken lightly or flippantly. Of course, the churchy answer is YES, yes. But what are the real answers; the answer God already knows because He knows my spirit and soul.

HOWEVER, if a person does not know God, can't you see how he/she might not have the ability to renew his or her mind? They don't know how to begin; what to think; how to stop the destroying thoughts. And these thoughts come from the Destroyer, the enemy of our soul, the enemy of God. Satan wants to kill, steal and destroy people and all that is good. He wants to rid the world of anything that has to do with Jesus and the Bible. Ever wonder why school curriculum is godless?

But I do know God and His Word, and I am still growing and learning. Therefore, it no wonder when I sing praises to God, I am so exuberant. God saved me from physical death before it was my time and spiritual death. I know every breath I take is because of Him, so every minute I live is for Him. My life has been bought, purchased, redeemed. I am not my own. I am a living walking testimony that God is real and this faith is not blind faith but faith that comes by life and death experience. I live today, because He LIVES!

Just like this blown glass, we are each uniquely beautiful to God!

Is God my crutch? No, He is my reality check. He gives my life balance and gets my mind back into healthy thinking.

If you need help or no someone who needs help reach out. There are so many places and people that really want to help even though it seems like they don’t. Let someone know you are seriously struggling. And if that person does not help speak up again, and again. Cry out to God. HE will HEAR you, but you MUST listen to Him and obey. He wants to set you free from suicidal thoughts. He wants you to know the truth -- that you are precious to HIM! That He loves you and accepts you as you are today.

Romans 5:8 But God demonstrates His own love toward us, in that while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.

Rude, Raw, Received - We Have a Personal Lord and Have Walked Our Own Path

2015-05-31T06:00:00.000-07:00

Someone who loves me spoke words to me that hurt. She seemed rude. Her words felt like a slight, but the person said she meant it from a positive place through their experience and journey.

We are chiseled in life etch by etch until will shine with light

For her words matched her walk and experience and seemed a universal truth. But when one is a daughter of the King she must know first that God alone is the voice that must be obeyed and honored. Advice that seems good for all may not be in proper timing for each. I know that I myself make this error many times, more times than I will probably ever know. With God we have our own personal path, when surrendered we are letting him complete us in His own timing. It is easy to judge from the outward appearance but God sees the inward and deals on levels that are unseen usually to the observer.

Comments made cut to the core,
Often hit truth and carve us raw,
Exposing what we know-- but are not
Ready to receive, the timings wrong.

Words perceived as rude,
Are they spoken in love,
When a person does not know,
The experience of another.

Still we must learn to love
Just receive from her heart
Does that means-- it's good for us?
No hurt, no pain or meanness.

We must each be sensitive
To God, speaking in the Spirit
And with His filter and timing,
Not Him - We must live surrendered.

Each to HIS Lordship
In our own life and path.
In grace, reduce words spoken
In His sieve, receiving His Words.

Alone. Knowing His voice
Is really what matters,
His opinion and whisper
Spoken to our soul - perfection.

He alone knows us, our path
Our heart, Our need, Our focus,
He is Lord, personally
And timing is everything.

The healing of the inner soul,
May manifest and be necessary
Before the Physical and some may
View, even Judge, but not know.

Because He alone knows everything.
So rest little Child of God, Listen
To His Words, His direction, His Love
For we all, serve an audience of ONE.

Stab, Pierce, Bleed, Heal - Words that Hurt

2015-05-20T22:50:00.002-07:00

Words can stab

Words can pierce

Make us bleed

Not ready to receive

Not spoken by the King

Out of timing-- they seem mean.

photo credit: written in blood by star95 deviantart

Drip, drip, stab--pierce--bleed

Therefore, when words hurt,

We must forgive the one

Who has spoken and

Filter as received, covered

In grace by His blood.

Drip, drip, stab--pierce--bleed

Well-meaners, do-gooders,

Advice, without knowing

That embraced acceptance

Is always needed first.

Love proceeds instruction.

Drip, drip, stab--pierce--bleed
Too soon, unready to receive.
Dig deep to forgive,

Photo Credit: Elyra Coacalia Deviantart

Cover in grace,
Filter in love,
Please the King,
An audience of One,
Surrender alone to His lead.
He will never cause you to bleed,
But lead you to heal - In His timing.

Drip, drip, stab--pierce--bleed
You didn't know my need.
You didn't live
Through my life.
Oblivious -
Out of sight--
Two paths converge on one--
Intersect -yet left undone--
Moving different directions--
Not following the same King.

Drip, drip, stab--pierce--bleed
Where does pain lead?
She did not mean,
Yet, she did.
So easily
Misunderstood.
Forgiveness, washed away.
Bathed--healed by His blood,
Filled up, overflowing Love.
Cheek turning, who will slap next?

Don't Judge Me - You Do Not Know Me

2015-05-12T16:07:00.000-07:00

Stop
Don't Judge Me,
You only see,
Partially.

photo credit - zeldabeast "innocence" DeviantArt

Love
God's eye view,
He sees as few,
Completely.

Know
I am seen,
Naked and clean,
Graciously.

Love
I must do
Return to you
Willingly.

Hard
Surrender
Forgive, filter
Lovingly.

Grow
All is used
In grace, transfused.
Healthily.

Give
Offering You
A living sacrifice
To my King.

I Am Coming Unglued - Survivor of Childhood Abuse and Trauma

2015-05-04T21:40:00.002-07:00

I was experiencing a trauma trigger. Writing this poem centered me and calmed down my emotions. It is odd but it is what flowed. I do not apologize or analyze because it is real. Poetry coming from trauma is healing; don't look to critically; simple gaze upon like you would abstract art hanging upon a wall.

_______________________________________________________

I sense I am coming unglued.

Drip, drip, snip, snip

Like a rag doll, stitches removed,

Pecked away by a raven or crow.

It's okay it doesn't know.

Carelessly, unaware,

It's a bird: it does not care.

Hear the water hit the pan,

Irritating is the sound,

Slowly dripping to the ground.

Tin, tapping, repeat, repeat.

A dripping faucet, I have a leak.

Sadness seeps out of my core.

Superglue-- it holds no more.

Glasses broken, my dress is tore.

How many times did she survive the war?

Battles her both day and night?

Still she hangs on in the fight.

Warrior, so others claim.

Don't get close or you'll get burned.

Hot explosion, she does not warn.

She does not know; she's just forlorn.

Is she me and Am I her?

Maiden fair or ugly bear?

No one listens; cannot hear.

She speaks a language that's not clear.

Only hurting others know

And they can't help, on the same show.

See the spectacle she makes of her life.

Quietly, walking by, out of sight.

Glare through windows, do not stare.

Might interrupt that you care.

Yes, she's crazy, God, she knows.

Still she's someone that God grows.

What's His reason, each breath He gives,

Doesn't He know it helps her live?

Mercy, mercy, I give up.

Suffering has filled my cup.

Sip it if you want to try.

Don't pretend, and live a lie.

Target practice starts at ten.

She's the target, watch her spin.

We'll have fun, it's just for sport.

Life is simple, without a heart.

Watch her bleed, tears in her eye

Better yet, let's hear her cry.

Too late, sorry, it's not enough.

We are late for other stuff.

I Just Want to Die

2015-04-12T13:37:00.002-07:00

This is a very raw article. My transparency makes some people very nervous, but I have learned that knowing I am accepted by God is all that matters. I am not looking to be accepted by mankind or any particular individual. I am an unique person created in the image of God, just like you and every other human. What makes me a little different is that I was raised in a horrific childhood home and in order to recover I learned to face the good, the bad and the ugly in me to press into the pain and discover the beauty. I am not happy everyday, but I do try to be real. I wrote this one day when I was struggling:

____________________

Photo Credit: Katey Smothers

I just want to die.

So many times I have felt this way. Everyone else and certainly myself would be better off if I had never lived and if I no longer existed today. Still I wonder "What does it matter if I live or not?"

Right now I feel: I am useless. I will never to able to do anything productive. No one will ever want to pay me anything that I am worth to do something professionally. I am left to volunteering my time, my life, and to what cause?

I want to live my life for a worthy cause, to serve God, to be obedient to him.

Do you see the twisted conflict I live with?

A very long time ago, maybe thirty years ago, I wanted to be a mother more than anything else. I wanted to love on little children and to help them to grow up and enjoy life and to learn and to become who God created them to be. BUT I am not successful as a mother. My children really don't like me. They barely can stand to spend time with me. At least this is the way I feel a lot of times. It is not their fault. I know I am different, eccentric, and that I can be very unfiltered. I embarrass people and many don't like to be around me. Most young people don't want to stand out. I make them uneasy. I am so unpredictable.

Why should my own children be any different? Most people are uncomfortable with me.

I used to think it was because I was messed up from being raised in a damn abusive home but you know that excuse gets old, especially after you have finished ten years of therapy over 3 years ago and you are on mental medication. You should be a better person by now. You should be functional, not a charity case--having people do things with you only because they have to or because they feel sorry for you.

No wonder I want to die.

I have for 20 years, basically ever since I had children; I have wanted to be left alone, to live isolated by myself, not having to interact with anyone. I figured, if I can't function and people don't want to spend time with me why do I have to go through the charades as if people do? Why can't I simply be real and live in some little 800 square foot building on the edge of a piece of property by myself? I can listen to the birds, watch the weather change, read books, write and create art if or when I want to do it.

I would never have to interact with another soul and never be concerned if I was wanted, needed or cared about. I could be content being myself without hurting anyone, including being hurt myself. So you see, although I say I don't care what people say or think, deep inside parts of me do. I feel rejection; I am human.

So my soul cries out, "Just let me be."

Just leave me alone. Let's stop playing games and pretending we have relationships when we don't.

This is what always gets me. People think that when people wish or want to die that they are SELFISH. Am I selfish? The truth of the matter is people say that because really they feel guilty. The truth is they didn't really care about the person to begin with or they were in the "relationship" for their own damn selfish reasons wanting to speak or get something from the person on their own terms--being when they wanted to, but also wanting the person to disappear into the walls or stay out of their way when they wanted to do their own thing or when they didn't want to interact. Who is the selfish one? Probably both. EVERYONE.

________________

The rambling stops here. Next week I will release a part two on the same topic. I finished what I had to say that day.

I am A Failure

2015-03-29T15:56:00.001-07:00

I don't succeed in the long-haul at anything. I am a continual failure. Can you relate?

Looking In I can see how Broken I am

Oh, don't we all love the sayings about how nice it is to fail because that is the only way you will ever succeed; Or it is ok to fail as long as you fail forward; Or it doesn't matter how many times you fail as long as you keep trying to succeed?

Well, can it not also be true that some people do not EVER succeed? So those cute little sayings about you might as well try because if you never fail you will never have a chance to succeed, can really get old. Especially when you have not had much success in life. Do you ever feel that way?

So what have I done:

I graduated high school, but amazingly so did everyone in my high school class. It was just what you did; you finished; you graduated.

I went to college to be a psychologist. I was going to go to school for 8 years. But, ended up getting married after 3. So, I then went to school to be a practical nurse to have some kind of employable skill when I was young and married. Before I got hired as a nurse, I oddly was hired by a bank as a teller. I quit it after about a month because I felt like an automated teller machine.

Then, I got hired as a secretary. They wanted me to learn shorthand. I went to night school and studied it but could barely do it. My normal penmanship was so bad. How could I shorthand? So I pretended to do shorthand and then type up letters from what I could remember.

I then got a job as a secretary typing from a legal pad. I was a horrible proofreader. My boss always found mistakes and I didn't know anything about the topics he was writing about so I didn't know if I got a word right or not.

My husband finally graduated from college....

So I went to college to be a teacher. I figured could do that while my future children went to school. I loved school. I graduated with honors, certified pre-k through 8th grade. I guess that was the very first thing I ever did successful in my entire life, but little good came from it. I was hired in a big city and put in some of the most difficult inner city schools. I taught half a year in a first grade class and winged it. Then the next year I set up my own classroom for Kindergarten. By November, I was sitting in my classroom crying because I could not handle disciplining the students, especially coming from my abusive childhood background. I LOVED to teach but didn't have time to do that because the students were so undisciplined. And I didn't know how to control them. So I failed. No one helped me, not the other teachers, the principal or anyone in administration. I couldn't cut it so I quit in tears. Why did no one encourage me or offer to help?

When I left teaching, I was pregnant with my first child, and then we decided to homeschool. I was a disaster of a mother. I was no good at living in a fixer-up home with a new fussy baby. I had no one to help me--no family, no friends. I pleaded with those I knew to help me and they told me something like Eve was a mother alone and had to rely on God for her wisdom. I was a failure. Having children gave me continual trauma triggers from my horrific child abuse past, but no one would help me. No one would listen to me when I asked for help. I asked many people but they avoided me like the plague. Did I scare them? Was I a freak to them?

I wanted to be one of those picture book moms that celebrated the holidays, had cute birthday parties, enjoyed their children and loved spending time with them. I imagined a love-fest being a mom with my precious little ones, but it never was like that. It was a constant struggle, crying, fits, whining, arguing, complaining, etc. Nothing I ever did was liked or wanted or successful. And sadly, I could easily crack. I would get upset, cry, and be frustrated with myself. Sometimes, I would get very angry.

Homeschooling was not any better. I longed to teach, but my children didn't want to be taught by me. Still 20 years later and the last child to finish high school doesn't want to be taught by me. I was a homeschool mother failure. I hated public schools and didn't want to put my children in and have them tormented but we could not afford private schools and by that point I was not mentally or emotionally stable enough to work, even part-time. The trauma triggers were too frequent and I was not stable. Again, no one would help me. Not my in-laws, not my church, not my extended family that had lots of money. Nope! I was left to fail alone.

Eventually, I got therapy, after being suicidal 15 years ago. I got on medication and endured difficult brain trauma therapy and I pushed myself because I wanted to be the best person I could be. I wanted this life of failure to end. I wanted to be able to make friends and keep them. I wanted to be a good mother and friend.

Three years ago I completed over ten long years of weekly therapy. And though I am QUITE thankful that I did this, my life has not changed all that much.

I am now older and not as able to work as I was 15 years ago. My body aches after a long day of teaching and the students in the classrooms can be so unruly. Yes, I still LOVE to teach but cannot find a good place for me to do it. I am so frustrated with myself and my life.

I know I have helped a person here or there. I know I have brightened various people's day by a kind word or gesture, but over all I still feel like a failure. I have milk-toast relationships with my children. And only one relationship that I would call "a dear friend" because we talk more than once a week and really know what is happening in each other's life. Also, I love my husband, but know I fall so short of being who he wants me to be. I am a horrible homemaker, even though I want to be better. I am a mess, a junk collector, too distracted to get the house organized or clean. I make dinner maybe once or twice a week. I will never live up to what he wants, I will always fall short. I am a failure at "family".

I can write, but no one reads it, or so few; what is even it worth? What value does my stupid blogs of my raw honest words have? The world would still turn and the sun would rise and set without them. No one is waiting, longing for the next post. If everyone of my words stopped tomorrow, no one would notice or care.

By what measure, by what standard, what is success or failure? By any, I am a failure. I fall short. I always will. And that is the truth. Like it or not.

-------------------------------------------------

Of course, I know in my head and even sometimes in my heart, I believe Jesus is the measure and the standard, therefore, I will always fall short. I know that Jesus gives me grace, provides the distance from my failure to what He wants to me be. Still, this knowledge of truth just doesn't always --practically--seems to work out in real life. I still find myself in slumps.

I wonder:

Do others struggle? Do people who lead and seem together, crumble, like I do?

I don't know.
______________________

Before I sent this to be published I read back over it, fixing errors of grammar and editing for content. I don't know the purpose it serves to publish it; I just know that I am compelled to be real, transparent, just so maybe someone else in the world that runs across this post will know that they are not alone; so that they will know other people struggle, have doubts, get down on themselves, and somehow don't stop, but continue on. Not because anything life-changing has happened, but simply because they are still alive and as God says, "His mercies are new every morning."

I guess it is a good thing that even though I am a failure; God is not. I guess that is the whole sum of life for me.

What is it for you?

Dissociative Identity Disorder - Wires On A Bomb

2015-02-19T16:58:00.001-08:00

This is an inside look at someone who is going through a dissociative state. The thoughts are scattered and you will see various internal conversations. I wrote this many years ago and found it today on my computer. Today, I am no longer dissociative but I am amazed at what I wrote. I titled it Wires On a Bomb so I will leave it that way. #mental illness #dissociative #did

Here it is:

so much wiring within

It is unstable - I know.

Jittery, moving about ever so slight but it does not need much to explode.

Can I figure out which wires to remove before its too late? Do I dare to try? No matter what I do--except to enter a catatonic freeze--will increase the possibility, the odds of its blast.

So what does one do? Twisted, fragile, so not wanting to be at this moment, this point in time, this crisis ---again, again and again.

Seconds feel like hours, and hours prolong like days...especially if you pause, to pray or gain some kind of controllable ease.

I speak, and what comes out is sweet and kind---the way I like to be. Interact, exchange, and the responses I receive don't resonate like love, interest or concern. I feel like a blemish that needs to be removed.

Odd, cold, weird. Out of place.

I hug, to touch another human with the gift of love.... to connect, to be re-assured "it's going to be OK." I should have remained alone in my darkened room, gone back to sleep. Went to the comfort of the co-operative computer screen---at least there, I find beauty to absorb and be absorbed, an exchange. It does not answer back with the rub of coarse sandpaper.

Who in their right mind would sandpaper the wiring on a bomb about to explode? Foolish... but how could they know or see---they don't feel what I do. They can't see within me as I move in normalizing words, like "Can you unload the dishwasher?"

I reach in to get a glass. I think milk would be nice.

"You forgot to use the lemon crystals..." "Yep" "Remember next time. I can tell by the look of the glass..."

"Did you go see tigi today?"

"Why do we have to call him tigi?"

That's it - the wires moved... "I can't take it any more!" I walk quickly down the hallway to my room... full swing of emotion washes over. It is best to remove myself to keep the damage low.

The wire pulled with that one question... a flash of emotion sparked, not a complete blow, but enough to make me mad, and uncomfortable.

reflection: why question the name 'tigi'? is it because I thought of it? you don't like me or anything to do with me? I know. you want to live in the world you create. you don't want to be disturbed. you don't want me to be part of your world or at least the smallest bit as possible.

madness: why are you so insensitive? how hard is it to respond? a simply answer to a question - yes or no? or in any pleasant way? why question me? you only questioned a name---a name given to a stray cat? why does that irk me so? is it because in the morning when I wanted to relate, you shut me out? you ignored my presence? I even helped you and you pretended i wasn't even there. For hours, you lived in your room, and i in another. you didn't even notice when i left. no communication. no contact. no love. Am i hurt?

rejection: Did you set into motion the spinning top of rejection? Is this what has been twirling within all day? What made me feel unease? What makes me want to walk lightly? What made me tired, and in need of sleep?

Can anyone understand the amount of work, the constant level of monitoring? It must be exhausting. The amount of brain capacity it must take to live in so many levels, to move in and out, to think one is safe. And with fear and trepidation I should go, but I do not. I venture out as if I am unlike any other, putting my best foot forward--the nice dress, the brushed hair, the fresh face, the caring heart, the casual talk---the thought that just maybe I could be---I could exist like every other soul.

He doesn't even know how he has hurt me? I only remain in silence... if I speak I may hurt him, cause another pain. So I am mum.

It is hard to watch yourself from the inside out. To see the underside of a electrical panel, the circuits. Who lost the schematics -- the manual of the design? Doesn't God know how to rewire? How to follow the instruction manual since He is the Designer?

Maybe its too complicated for humans with such a little mind to comprehend. We would with certainty clip the wrong wire. Might make it worse. And He doesn't want to manifest uninsulated through a human being. It is through another that is His way to touch a life. His mere all-powerful presence may blow us to the smithereens if He was to step completely into our time and space. It would be too much to behold...blinding...scorching...all-consuming. He has His ways in which He must move for cautious reasons beyond our comprehension.

Just a dust... a particle...would be enough... I do believe. I believe in God. (Do you? - don't know why I feels so compelled to ask that- forgive me if it seems odd or out of place... it pressed upon me to be typed, so I did--try to understand.)

I don't like this. The way I feel. I separate myself and lock the door.

I Chose To Feel Terrible

2015-02-09T06:29:00.002-08:00

It is not always be choice, but sometimes it is. It is our choice whether we turn inward to pity and suffering or whether we open our soul to receive help. I did not ever ask for help.

I feel terrible because I gave in to moping around all day and not eating things that would make me feel good.

We have responsibility. Everyone can have a bad day. Hormones and chemicals that swirl around our bodies can get the best of any of us. I never used to give in to the pains of my cycle until I had a daughter that we pampered during her cycle. Yes, the pain is real and you do feel out of sorts, but what you make of the day is your responsibility.

I am no spring chick. I turned 52 this week, but yesterday I gave into the cramps and hormonal pains of my monthly cycle. I never used to do this. I would push through. And it is okay to have a down day, but it is not okay to indulge in eating crummy and lying around like a mound of unshaped clay.

A dear older friend of mine said it is okay to have a pity party -- give yourself 10-15 minutes -- and then get on with life. I gave myself 10-15 hours.

I don't feel better for it.

I still don't feel my best but I am not going to mope about. I will take it slow and do my best to not self-indulge in self-pity.

There are times in life when PTSD, depression, panic and other mental conditions flood our bodies and take over. In these times we are not choosing to be one way or another. But, in the long run, we still have a choice and responsibility. If you suffer, get help. Healing is a real outcome if you put in the hard work of therapy with an excellent, well-trained therapist.

Yesterday, for me was not a day like that.

And today I choose to eat what is good for my body and to be more disciplined about my activities.

Protect Me

2014-08-09T22:55:00.005-07:00

Handle it,
I ask.
But you find an excuse,
You don't foresee the abuse.

So I went,
You stayed.
Words spoken under breath,
Drew me into another death.

What I spoke,
I regret.
My response frustrated.
Left painly irritated.

Protect me,
I asked.
But you left me to walk
Into the trap of my talk.

Hope turned to Loss - Poem

2014-08-09T22:39:00.002-07:00

Window opened.
It flew in.
Pretended pretty,
Helped to win.

Less than one week,
Turns to frost.
Burnt and hurting
Aches the loss
.

I Feel The Tears

2014-07-10T09:14:00.001-07:00

I feel the tears upon my face, I know what I am feeling is real, in reality.
The tears--they comfort me--I am human, I cry.
Jesus came to earth as a man; He was human; He cried.

Tears Rolling on one's face
(tears are falling by sternenkindi on DeviantART)

At times when I feel like the world is closing in, like I am not connecting or misconnecting with everyone, especially those dearest to me, little things like tears helps me to know that I am alive.

When I see one reality and the world seems to see another; when I feel one reality and others feel another, I began to think maybe something is wrong with me.

Why do I sense, feel and see what others do not? Why I am sensitive?

So I ask to pray, offer to pray, want to pray with others, but I am told to pray alone. My prayers are not wanted. This hurts. I feel unloved, unwanted, rejected, misunderstood. It is like handing someone a gift and having it shoved back.

I love prayers and being prayed for by others. I consider it a spiritual gift to have someone love you enough to pray for you, but I am told others see it as being spoken to and told things that one would not say unless they pray.

This is foreign to me. Prayer comes from the Holy Spirit. I speak as the Spirit speaks. Oh, for shame to all of the false, pretending christians-in name-only who pray their own thoughts and wishes and thus have given people a fake view of prayer.

My head pounds in pain. I have been getting many headaches lately. My body is not working as it should. It is as if parts of my body are cut off and not functioning. So I stop to pray against the enemy, any spiritual attachments that have thought they could oppress me.

While praying, I see in the past few weeks, in looking back to where I have literally been, that there is a demonic darkness, a deep spiritual sickness, a mighty stronghold that I have walked among. Breaking away from it was not only physical but spiritual -- it took much strength.

And oddly in reflecting about it, in many ways while in it and even after, I am seen as the one to be shunned, the one to be rejected, the interfering one, the one to blame.

Oh, how darkness and people longing to enter the desires of lust and their own wishes (not God's), reject the protector and the messenger.

Enormous negative energy has been directed my way and I feel it in my bones. I pray and thank God that as I type these words it is lifting. The awareness is making it lighten. It is breaking, cracking, crumbling, falling as sheets of sleet piling on the ground. It was a cold place, frozen in time. Newness of life was not embraced. Joyfulness was not common or desired. There in that place, people live and die, expiring in their sameness. No growth, no life, no joy, no praising a living God. No wonder I felt so out of sorts and still do.

Tears do not come often. Though we need them. I realize that a person can be too exhausted to cry. Maybe that is why when the tears first started to fall today I felt alive. Their gentle warmth rolling down my face felt like a watering to my soul.

I felt the tears and cherished them. And than I listened to my soul.

Purpose Unseen is Known

2014-05-26T13:47:00.000-07:00

Icy surface fractured,

Cracked fissures, broken,
Again,

In many places.

Many things shape us - broken ice woman by killersmemo DeviantART

Fragile, cold, and hard,
Flat edges, touched--
Seeps
The one healing bleeds.

Softened sometimes,
Within, burning heat,
Deep
And Pressured without.

Hear the same tune,
Cycles the jukebox,
Spins
Playing the encore.

The ice pick hits,
Grates and shaves-- chips,
Flakes,
Chisel shapes the form.

Purpose unseen is known,
By One Mind Above,
Works
Together For Good.

She skates across,
A well-worn surface,
Gone
To make her own mark.

Fragile, Yet Strong - Two Faces of a Child Abuse Survivor

2014-02-19T09:46:00.002-08:00

Fragile, Yet Strong.

Or should it be, Strong, yet Fragile.

Both apply to days, moments and seasons of my life.

Surviving child abuse made me incredibly strong. I can survive almost anything. Pain is endured. Insurmountable odds are diminished, giving me a perpetual "I can do" attitude.

I am able to bear up others, can handle crisis, can support teams, can dig in and do the hard, heavy, dirty work. I need little to sustain me. I know how to survive with minimal assistance.

Independence, resilience, long-suffering.

And still,

Surviving child abuse has made me incredibly fragile. Unknown insignificant little things can pierce to my core and shatter me. I am left defenseless, exposed, incompetent.

I am able to relate to hurting people, understand without words completely spoken. I feel and know and reason in randomness. I come along side, pray, and encourage because I have been broken.

Delicate, sensitive, unpredictable.

Two sides of the same coin - two faces of a child abuse survivor.

No answers, solutions, conclusions.
No complete healing, though every day I move forward toward being a little better, toward wholeness.

Reverberating Recoil - Trauma Triggers of Adult Survivor of Child Abuse Poem

2014-02-11T08:58:00.001-08:00

Reverberating Recoil

Contemplative by Rainripple on deviantART

Pacing rattles my nerves.
Steps upon the floor--
Back and forth,
Up and down.
Heavily...
In my soul,
I sense a
Reverberating pound.

Unnerving me,
I shake within.
Unseen, unknown to those around.

I do not want to control,
Forcing others to compensate,
To quietly tiptoe,
Afraid to make a sound.

Yet, within the string tightens.
Each step plucks a shrilling chord.
Inward, I recoil.

Oh, how trauma preconditions me.
The tremors cannot be ignored.
Tense, I clench my jaw,
Hoping, waiting, breath.
Once again I endure.

He walked out and shut the door.

Finally, I release.
I sense relief.
Anxious - no more.

Solitary Confinement Poem

2014-01-22T04:46:00.002-08:00

photo by eigrieves on DeviantART

Ghastly company-- I am to me

Solitary soul of gloom

Beating pulse flows through my veins.

Alone, yet, with the red blood moon.

Sensations approaching the cell door,

Creeping, silently upon the floor,

Dread and terror race to my brain,

Man-made walls make me insane.

Oh, forgive my wretched past,

Hope to drink from Grace’s glass,

Grinding metal grates the cage,

I can’t escape my judgment's page.

Read the Word He gave to me,

It's the only way for me to see,

Passed these wall that capture me,

To the horizon of tomorrows' seas.

Sexuality In Marriage After Abuse

2014-01-04T05:09:00.000-08:00

It is true. Anyone who has been abused will struggle deeply with their sexuality. Often they will be hyper-sexual until the appropriate time of the sanctity of marriage... and then they will freeze. It is not like a person can turn on or off a switch to sexuality any differently than they can stop depression or anxiety. Sex after abuse take work in learning to trust and also to enjoy touch again.

by Lala-lizzy at Deviantart

It's time again,
The deep allure,
Of wanting more.

So I pretend,
That I am dead,
In my love's bed.

The creeping nudge
To like a tree
Give more of me.

Yet, in my head,
And numb body,
I fight to be.

The sweet response
To his caress -
I now undress.

His tender touch
And luscious kiss
Melts my resist.

To know my love,
And to be known
Is two alone - as one.

Child-rearing Without Instinct (by survivor of child abuse)

2014-01-04T04:51:00.001-08:00

by red85 at deviantart

A worker with an empty chest.
A cook without a cup or spoons.
I labored to produce my best
Without the simplest of tools.

No wool to spin the wheel to yarn.
No song to soothe and heal.
I did all I knew to raise them up
And let the Potter spin His wheel.

Abstract Art - Vandalism

2013-12-26T18:27:00.004-08:00

Cubist collage attacked,
Expectation failed,
Sum of destruction seems
Real world looks un-nailed.

By Mushroombrain on deviantART

Not going far enough,
Broke the fruit dish,
Cannot glue together --You
Missed what Cezanne wished.

Assault the painting within,
Abandon the medium.
Ready-made objects
Don't equate the sum.

Independent artist
Show provocative ways,
Blurring boundaries in
Degradation displays.

Set the stage for deskilled,
Experimental progeny.
Vandalize a painting -- Is
What some want to see.

Paint splattered and poured
On trash encrusted surface.
Ghostly traces in gilded frames
Brings tyranny of purchase.

Artist choose what art is.
Can destruction be vandalism?
Pathological passion - It
Depends on your prism.