nothing similar
13 years ago
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Praying for my enemies
I've been praying daily for my enemies for two weeks now and I've got to tell you, I have no idea if it's helping my enemies at all but I know for sure that it's changing me.
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Lonely
Today is the fifth anniversary of my son's birthday. Love, love, love the kid. The day sucked. Found myself sobbing into my English muffins this morning. Felt so alone. So alone. No one shares or understands my suffering. I wish my suffering was interesting. I wish I felt solidarity with others in my pain. But no.
Lonely and scorned. That's how I feel today.
Lonely and scorned. That's how I feel today.
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Closing doors
Megan says the other day that's she's realizing that ruling options out, closing doors of opportunity, and letting go of what doesn't suit is important for freeing up energy for a few things. My analogy is that if you don't prune grape vines, all you get is leaves and no juicy bits. Therefore, failing and letting go become important stops on the path to self-understanding and happiness not pointless scenic routes. And if she deadbolts a door for now and later wants it open, she can unlock it. She starts talking about crossing things off her mental list and seeing what's left.
Gotta tell you, I'm intrigued. Been on my mind and in my conversations. Looking forward to hearing more.
Gotta tell you, I'm intrigued. Been on my mind and in my conversations. Looking forward to hearing more.
Laps
In Impervious, I committed to walk laps around my high school track for kind Tara and for myself.
Today was that day. I drove out and found that since I went a year and a half ago, they've redone the whole track area which is now fenced and locked.
So, I ad libbed. I decided to walk around the whole campus one way for me and the opposite way for Tara. It's a big campus and the two laps took me an hour.
I got it. I finally got it. I was able to see what a small sliver of time, three years, my time here was even though it feels eternal. I was able to own my stuff- my anxiety, my rigidity, my judgmentalism, my unhappiness, my lack of self-knowledge. I was able to say fairly that there was nothing any of them could have done about the sexual abuse of my childhood. My inability to bond, well, that was me, too. I was able to see that mess as sad and not need to be angry or defensive anymore. I'm not there anymore. I'm 40 and happy.
Sure, the injustice and cruelty was still unjust and cruel. As I accepted my own fault, I was able to see their fault with more clarity and with much less energy.
It's a Sunday afternoon and what struck me were the cars. Lots and lots of people here. A basketball game in play. Parents preparing scenery for the 40th+ holiday show in a row. Families walking in together. Teens volunteering to earn honor society awards. Teachers coordinating. The heart of the community, obviously.
As a parent, this really struck me. Here are all these good people investing in raising their young people to work hard, play fairly, contribute to their community, and belong. People with nothing in common but kids they love finding a way to come together to draw and sing and play, all on a Sunday afternoon. Wow.
And this is what they tried their very best to give to me when I was one of their kids.
I did learn a lot. Bjork, Siebold, Swisher- these teachers changed my life. Marching band- I loved smashing those cymbals.
Many parts of it weren't a good fit for me and wouldn't be a good fit for me as a parent or a teacher now. But their heart to invest in their kids, yeah, I can admire that.
I had felt for years that I had let them down, like they had all these high hopes for me which I had failed to live up to. I was the whiz kid, Dr Amy, the valedictorian, and what had I amounted to? Today, on the return lap, I was able to say that I was proud that I had created a life of happiness and enjoy teaching my two wonderful children. Suffering and happiness and homeschooling weren't even on my radar screen when I was 18. I've become someone I never expected and I'm really happy and proud about it.
It is finished and I'm free.
Today was that day. I drove out and found that since I went a year and a half ago, they've redone the whole track area which is now fenced and locked.
So, I ad libbed. I decided to walk around the whole campus one way for me and the opposite way for Tara. It's a big campus and the two laps took me an hour.
I got it. I finally got it. I was able to see what a small sliver of time, three years, my time here was even though it feels eternal. I was able to own my stuff- my anxiety, my rigidity, my judgmentalism, my unhappiness, my lack of self-knowledge. I was able to say fairly that there was nothing any of them could have done about the sexual abuse of my childhood. My inability to bond, well, that was me, too. I was able to see that mess as sad and not need to be angry or defensive anymore. I'm not there anymore. I'm 40 and happy.
Sure, the injustice and cruelty was still unjust and cruel. As I accepted my own fault, I was able to see their fault with more clarity and with much less energy.
It's a Sunday afternoon and what struck me were the cars. Lots and lots of people here. A basketball game in play. Parents preparing scenery for the 40th+ holiday show in a row. Families walking in together. Teens volunteering to earn honor society awards. Teachers coordinating. The heart of the community, obviously.
As a parent, this really struck me. Here are all these good people investing in raising their young people to work hard, play fairly, contribute to their community, and belong. People with nothing in common but kids they love finding a way to come together to draw and sing and play, all on a Sunday afternoon. Wow.
And this is what they tried their very best to give to me when I was one of their kids.
I did learn a lot. Bjork, Siebold, Swisher- these teachers changed my life. Marching band- I loved smashing those cymbals.
Many parts of it weren't a good fit for me and wouldn't be a good fit for me as a parent or a teacher now. But their heart to invest in their kids, yeah, I can admire that.
I had felt for years that I had let them down, like they had all these high hopes for me which I had failed to live up to. I was the whiz kid, Dr Amy, the valedictorian, and what had I amounted to? Today, on the return lap, I was able to say that I was proud that I had created a life of happiness and enjoy teaching my two wonderful children. Suffering and happiness and homeschooling weren't even on my radar screen when I was 18. I've become someone I never expected and I'm really happy and proud about it.
It is finished and I'm free.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Impervious, Part 2
Lying in bed this morning long before dawn, reflecting on what to write about my piece of art "It was all in my head but it's not anymore" I was struck by the power of my reaction. I decided it was time for a second installment of Impervious.
I'm going to thoroughly rant so be forewarned. I'm going to do an old testament "Job lays out his complaints" thing here for a while.
I've been in pain for as long as I can remember.
In my 20's after graduating from college, my birthday tradition became doctor visits. I remember when I first saw the pattern after I had spent several birthdays in a row in various offices- urgent care, gynecologist, internal medicine- and I remember thinking something down the lines of, "Next year in Jerusalem," hoping for redemption.
My symptoms were many and varied and mostly subjective- head aches, itching, nausea, back pain, abdominal pain, aching feet, runny nose, sinus pain, menstrual pain, bladder infections, tingling pain radiating down my arms, extreme weight losses and gains, mood swings, panic, and anxiety. No broken bone to x-ray or bloody gash to stitch, they had to take my word for it, on faith.
I remember a nurse practitioner to whom I'd just explained the horrible menstrual pains and mood swings I'd experienced since starting The Pill. I'd changed types several times over repeated visits to no avail. As we wrapped up, she absent-mindedly offered me yet another prescription saying, "We could get rid of that facial hair with birth control pills." I declined. "Oh, yeah, that's right. You don't respond well." I left feeling flawed and so strange, so off the charts, that I couldn't be remembered even when I was standing right there. Uncomprehendable. Forgotten. And miffed.
I experienced persistent pubic area itching and the doctor who examined me couldn't find anything so he prescribed a steroid. I went to the pharmacy to fill it and unsolicited, the pharmacist said, "You do know that steroids are hormones and can thin the skin with prolonged use. They simply mask the itching." I walked away without filling my prescription, thankful and angry. Thankful that I'd avoided more hormones. Angry that he would offer me such consequences as a solution for a problem he couldn't even find!
The internal medicine guy, I only remember going because it was all so inexplicable and my father-in-law, an orthopedic surgeon, thought that internal medicine guys were good at puzzling out odd cases. Lots of tests which all came back indicating that I was in great health. Nothing wrong with me. Gotta say that living in pain while being told there is nothing wrong is totally crazy-making.
I went to the podiatrist because my feet ached so badly. He removed my large callouses. This had no impact on the pain and re-grew quickly. I'd wager that the invasive wart above that regrown callous was introduced into my compromised skin following that procedure. But at least he was polite and as helpful as he could be.
I went to allergists, a really out-there group for the mid-90's. They told me that I was reacting to wheat, dairy, beef, artificial colors, preservatives, molds, yeasts, and some pollens and should follow a Candida diet avoiding sugars. I find myself wanting to be charitable. "At least they took me seriously and found something and had a way for me to respond. Doctor didn't want to talk more than 2 minutes but at least he had a book for sale in the bookstore. Turned my life upside down, sure. The diet helped but never eliminated my pain. And I lost weight so fast that I gave myself gall stones. But hey, at least they tried."
The medical people couldn't find anything. I self-medicated. I took Advil and aspirin every day, working up to 10+ each/day. I was doubled-over, grasping my searing guts when I decided to try a different path. I decided that maybe the pain was trying to communicate with me so I'd listen. I gave up all aspirin and Advil for over a decade and began chiropractic.
As part of my early chiropractic experience, I did a functional thyroid test for body temp and pulse rate. When my pulse and temp were low, I was considered to have a low functioning thyroid. Not enough outside of the normal range to register on a blood test but functionally not high enough for my particular body. When I next filled out insurance paperwork, I reported honestly and in good faith that I had thyroid problems. They denied me coverage. Next place accepted me but at more than double the rates. Took me more than ten years to get that off my record. I was furious! They couldn't find it, much less diagnose or actually treat it, but they have the gall, the unmitigated gall, to penalize me for it! @#$^*%@! Now I only report to traditional medical people what other traditional medical people find and not all the alternative stuff I know. My good faith was betrayed.
Let's talk for a moment about being fat. Being fat seems to void the warranty as far as medical people are concerned. Every problem, every pain that a fat person has must be because they are fat and the solution to being fat is simple- lose weight. If the fat person doesn't lose weight, well, then, there's absolutely no reason to look any farther and nothing anyone else can do. Unexplained foot pain- fat. Menstrual problems- fat. Immune problems- fat. Back pain- fat. Oh, and my favorite- morbidly obese which was my actual diagnosis on the form so I could get a visit to a nutritionist covered by insurance. To get the help I asked for, I had to accept their label of 'deathly fat.'
Lots of labels when I asked for help- fibromyalgia, chronic pain, chronic fatigue syndrome, pre-menstrual syndrome, chemically sensitive, morbidly obese- and not one of them kind or even helpful. I can't remember a medical person in my 20's or 30's ever complementing my body. I go in desperate, in mysterious constant pain, and I don't get one kind word much less a helpful one. No kindness. No help.
Then there was the neurologist. This was the coup de grace. My arms were tingling with this electric, nerve pain. I really, really didn't want to go to one more medical person. Really. Had avoided them for years by this point. But my wise friend Sheila said, "There are some things too precious to risk." So I went. I described my mother's narrowed vertebrae, my sister's scoliosis, and both of their extra ribs in their necks along with my symptoms and concerns about my own nerve-neck-arm pain. I did all the evaluation tasks and went for an MRI. The MRI made me feel panicky and it wasn't the closed space. Something's not right about aligning all the water molecules in one's body in the same direction. Unnatural. And I'm guessing, not nearly as benign a process as they'd like me to believe. Yeah, I do hear my strident tone there. Yeah, I'm a little paranoid. What medical people assure me will "do no harm" and "have no side-effects" doesn't correspond at all to my own experience. I've lost faith.
But this wasn't the worst of it. I asked for a copy of my chart, all the neurologist's notes, to take back to my chiropractor. I read it. He was scathing. In clinical terms, he shredded my credibility. Hypochondriac, hysterical, and psychosomatic. Assuming my mother's and sister's condition's to be my own. Perfectly fine. No neurological problems he could see although given that I moved despite being given instructions to hold still during the MRI, he couldn't say definitively. 'Paranoid, uncooperative bitch' would be my paraphrase.
My head is tingling and my blood's up as I write this. Lot of energy behind this stuff. Lots of momentum. I went vulnerable, trusting to their kind help and found none. But even more so because I wondered, too, whether I was crazy. Losing touch with reality. Paranoid. Psychosomatic. Hysterical. A hypochondriac. Yeah, I wondered if all the pain was in my imagination. I knew my body was totally screwed up, flawed beyond repair. Nobody else's body seemed to respond this oddly. All the experts said all the tests were normal. Couldn't find anything. Nothing wrong. Must be imagining it. Must be my fault.
I quit job after job, sick. No one else was getting sick in those buildings. Just me. I freaked out in the hospital when both my children were born. Heck, I was panicking in the doctor's office for prenatal exams. They were going to hurt my baby doing something which 'has no side effects.' How can you trust people who routinely perform tests which kill a small percentage of their patients? Everyone gushed about how great this ob-gyn was. I was a wreck. I dreaded every visit. What kind of a freak was I?
No kindness. No help.
Angry, bitter, silent, absent. Scared, embarrassed, hurt. Humiliated, inexplicable. Impervious.
What galled me was that I needed them anyway. After 38 hours of labor, I needed their help to birth Anjali and two hours of reconstructive surgery afterwards. I needed help birthing Mark, too, and with his horrible case of eczema. They absolutely freaked me out and I needed their help anyway, tainted and limited as it was.
Gramma Kathy was a Sunday School teacher in the nursery at our old church. She is a nurse practitioner, women's specialist. I liked her and decided to go for an appointment since I was hoping to have another child and would need to deal with someone. I had purposed going in that we would talk only- no procedures. She briskly carried on her normal routine and before I could gather my wits, I was frozen and having a pelvic exam, pap smear, the whole nine. Left feeling violated and frightened. She called with the results- I had HPV, a venereal disease which could cause cancer. The test for it has only been available since 2003 so when I had gone in before, no one was even looking for it. Long process later, the good news is that as of spring 2011, I tested normal- no more pre-cancerous cells. And as long as I take my natural antiviral capsule every night, I'm symptom-free- no more itching, discharge, menstrual pain, or any other sign of infection. I hung my letter reporting normal results up for months like a blue ribbon, I'm so proud.
There was something wrong and my body wouldn't relent but kept telling me so despite all the experts to the contrary. I dogged it and dogged it and now I feel good. I'm really proud of myself.
Which brings us to the teeth saga. I promise not to rehash the entire thing. I've blogged about it extensively from October 2010-April 2011. Here's what I want to say- I knew something was wrong and the experts kept assuring me there wasn't.
I repeatedly had dreams about my molars falling out. Very disturbing. Different molars. Chunks falling out. Pieces missing. Emergency dentists' visits. Very unnerving. So I mentioned it to my dentist who poo-poos me, assuring me in an exasperated tone, "Your teeth aren't going to fall out."
I went in in 2008 with an infection up there and the dentist's assistant x-rayed it and told me they couldn't see anything on the x-ray. It was fine. Maybe TMJ so I got fitted for an appliance to keep my teeth from grinding. Paid hughly for it, wore it once, hated it, and returned it, getting half my money back. Which incidentally means that I was still out hundreds for a wrong guess. Ginger worked on the sore spot and it went away.
Until fall 2010 when the infection came back with a vengeance. Went in. Nothing on x-rays. But then the assistant saw the huge swollen bump on the side of my jaw. "Oh, that is an infection!" Antibiotics were ordered and taken. Several rounds. More than I had taken in the previous decade combined. No joy. Tooth 14 is re-root canalled for more pain and more money. Fifth root found which had been sitting infected for 11+ years since this dentist's office had done it the first time. Root canal doesn't solve it so then for more pain and more money, it's pulled out. Two months later after more pain and more money, Tooth 15 is pulled. More antibiotics, pain, and money with no diagnosis in sight and I go to the oral surgeon. Who, you guessed it, finds nothing on the even fancier x-rays, prescribes more antibiotics for more money, and assures me it's all going to be ok. Yeah, right. I have no confidence but I need their help anyway. More pain leads to a CT scan.
If my life had a sound track, this is where the score would signal a profoundly unexpected happening.
There, in black and white, was the huge cyst. The mother load. The breeding ground. So big and obvious, I could see it myself before the doctor got to the room. Holy smokes! It was the Metrodome expanding up into my sinus like a balloon over the hole where my teeth had been. Yuck! And no wonder I had headaches and sinus problems and chronic infections and felt like my throat was constricting with that bastion of nastiness pouring pus down my throat, inches away from my eyes and brain. Yikes.
When the oral surgeon went through the tooth hole and cut the cyst out, he said that he could see straight through from my mouth into my sinus because the mucus membrane had a large hole in it. I'm supposing that this might have played a role in my allergies and post-nasal drip since all the contaminants which are normally filtered out by the mucus membranes would have been passing straight into my body. I'm pretty confident in my hypothesis since I haven't had post-nasal drip or significant seasonal allergies since the surgery. Yep. Seriously. And I'd wager that this also explains the panic and pain I felt when flying since under changing pressure the pus sack would have expanded and contracted erratically. Oh, and did I mention that I don't snore anymore either?
Even before they removed it, I knew I was going to commemorate this find. We actually discovered a cause. I was not crazy. My teeth did "fall" out. There was a huge problem. And my body was so clever and persistent it kept trying to get through to my consciousness even when all the experts and x-rays said otherwise. I let them poo-poo me, I let myself be "assured" against my better judgment, and I seriously doubted myself. But I didn't give up on myself and in the end I had the photo to prove to myself that I wasn't crazy. "Nee-ner, nee-ner, nee-ner," I want to say to all those who dismissed and disdained. "I do so have a real illness."
It was all in my head but it's not anymore. The delicious irony of them being right but oh, so wrong all at once tickles my funny bone.
Now, please don't think I'm not grateful for all the help. I am deeply grateful. Had I been born in another time and place, I would have died from this. The fact I didn't is a miracle. Women in many countries today would never get well. I am grateful and I have given all the money which came back after insurance paid to Medical Teams International for their work with women's dental clinics in honor of those standing ready to do me good.
Also, please don't think that I'm angry because the doctors and dentists and surgeons didn't know how to help. I hope I'm adult enough, with enough awareness of my own limitations, not to hold their lack of knowledge against them. How could I reasonably expect a doctor to diagnosis a disease that hasn't been discovered yet? From what I hear from my dentist, who's been in practice for 30 years, this is a once-in-a-career kind of thing. Oral surgeon said it was beyond his scope of practice, too. My situation was an odd one. One off. One in a million.
What I do hold against them is their disdain, their arrogance, and their complete disregard for the consequences I suffered while they treated me for things they couldn't find. Steroids with side effects which would only mask the symptoms of a problem which they couldn't identify. Birth control pills they recommended after I recited my previous issues. The mocking cruelty in my chart from the person I appealed to for help. Dismissing my pain because they couldn't find the source. Rolling their eyes. Assuring me everything was fine when I said it wasn't. Telling me I couldn't feel the stitches because there was no way the epidural had worn off and then acting shocked when I moved myself onto the gurney because it had. Not believing me when I explained my idiosyncratic response to pain medication.
They assaulted my dignity and my sanity. They did harm and withheld kindness and for that I do hold them accountable.
I will never have the confidence in medical people that I used to. And I will always be surprised by their kindness.
Dr. Z never gave up on me through the whole tooth mess. He redid my pain medication every 10 minutes, every time I said it hurt. He gave me enough Novocaine it should have numbed my whole head. He took extra time for no extra pay to cut my tooth into pieces so it would pull out easier because I dreaded the creaking and groaning of having it pulled out whole. He hugged me and observed I'd had a bad night. He listened to my fears about losing part of my body and talked me through it. He coached me on how to say, "No latex today, please" instead of my longer, more grating attempts. He called me at home on his day off to check in with me. And Karen, his after hours person, well, she was fabulous, returning my calls, dogging paperwork, and never groaning when I'd call again. Full points for kindness here.
And Dr. Jenny's office was a miracle of kindness. Sue, the receptionist, was an absolute gem. Jane, the CT tech, a doll. I told Dr. Jenny and Nurse Jenny about the abuse in my past and the smothering and how things could get touchy. They were leaning over my face, inches away. They paused. Compassion filled their eyes. I saw it. Then we took a deep breath and continued. The scrub nurses were so gentle when I freaked out at the anesthesia. I warned them I might freak and I did. Very embarrassing. I told them that I wouldn't be there if I didn't trust them but my body remembered the abuse and unconsciousness. But this one nurse crooned endearments to me, calling me Sweetie and Dear until I lost consciousness. It really wasn't as bad as I thought it might be coming out. No bodily fluids running down my face, nothing like that. Months later when I called saying I had pain and post-nasal drip, they didn't make me jump through a million hoops. They believed me about my body. They sent the CT scan order to insurance and told me to go ASAP. Turned out I had a cold and no cyst. Their kindness has changed me.
******
Well, I've been sitting with this for 48 hours. I stalled out after the paragraph above and have been waiting to see how it's going to conclude. I haven't gotten to that satisfying, ah-hah place yet.
I've started two different paragraphs to no avail. I'll wait some more. It'll come.
*******
Another day has passed and I've got it. Today during church, we prayed the Lord's Prayer and that part about being forgiven as we forgive really hit me. If I want to be free, I've got to release others. Then, as the pastor was talking about prayer and Biblical standards, the phrase, "Pray for your enemies" hit me. That's it.
I'm going to pray for my enemies- in this case, the unkind, unhelpful medical people- every day from now until Christmas.
I am going to release them so I can be free.
I'm going to thoroughly rant so be forewarned. I'm going to do an old testament "Job lays out his complaints" thing here for a while.
I've been in pain for as long as I can remember.
In my 20's after graduating from college, my birthday tradition became doctor visits. I remember when I first saw the pattern after I had spent several birthdays in a row in various offices- urgent care, gynecologist, internal medicine- and I remember thinking something down the lines of, "Next year in Jerusalem," hoping for redemption.
My symptoms were many and varied and mostly subjective- head aches, itching, nausea, back pain, abdominal pain, aching feet, runny nose, sinus pain, menstrual pain, bladder infections, tingling pain radiating down my arms, extreme weight losses and gains, mood swings, panic, and anxiety. No broken bone to x-ray or bloody gash to stitch, they had to take my word for it, on faith.
I remember a nurse practitioner to whom I'd just explained the horrible menstrual pains and mood swings I'd experienced since starting The Pill. I'd changed types several times over repeated visits to no avail. As we wrapped up, she absent-mindedly offered me yet another prescription saying, "We could get rid of that facial hair with birth control pills." I declined. "Oh, yeah, that's right. You don't respond well." I left feeling flawed and so strange, so off the charts, that I couldn't be remembered even when I was standing right there. Uncomprehendable. Forgotten. And miffed.
I experienced persistent pubic area itching and the doctor who examined me couldn't find anything so he prescribed a steroid. I went to the pharmacy to fill it and unsolicited, the pharmacist said, "You do know that steroids are hormones and can thin the skin with prolonged use. They simply mask the itching." I walked away without filling my prescription, thankful and angry. Thankful that I'd avoided more hormones. Angry that he would offer me such consequences as a solution for a problem he couldn't even find!
The internal medicine guy, I only remember going because it was all so inexplicable and my father-in-law, an orthopedic surgeon, thought that internal medicine guys were good at puzzling out odd cases. Lots of tests which all came back indicating that I was in great health. Nothing wrong with me. Gotta say that living in pain while being told there is nothing wrong is totally crazy-making.
I went to the podiatrist because my feet ached so badly. He removed my large callouses. This had no impact on the pain and re-grew quickly. I'd wager that the invasive wart above that regrown callous was introduced into my compromised skin following that procedure. But at least he was polite and as helpful as he could be.
I went to allergists, a really out-there group for the mid-90's. They told me that I was reacting to wheat, dairy, beef, artificial colors, preservatives, molds, yeasts, and some pollens and should follow a Candida diet avoiding sugars. I find myself wanting to be charitable. "At least they took me seriously and found something and had a way for me to respond. Doctor didn't want to talk more than 2 minutes but at least he had a book for sale in the bookstore. Turned my life upside down, sure. The diet helped but never eliminated my pain. And I lost weight so fast that I gave myself gall stones. But hey, at least they tried."
The medical people couldn't find anything. I self-medicated. I took Advil and aspirin every day, working up to 10+ each/day. I was doubled-over, grasping my searing guts when I decided to try a different path. I decided that maybe the pain was trying to communicate with me so I'd listen. I gave up all aspirin and Advil for over a decade and began chiropractic.
As part of my early chiropractic experience, I did a functional thyroid test for body temp and pulse rate. When my pulse and temp were low, I was considered to have a low functioning thyroid. Not enough outside of the normal range to register on a blood test but functionally not high enough for my particular body. When I next filled out insurance paperwork, I reported honestly and in good faith that I had thyroid problems. They denied me coverage. Next place accepted me but at more than double the rates. Took me more than ten years to get that off my record. I was furious! They couldn't find it, much less diagnose or actually treat it, but they have the gall, the unmitigated gall, to penalize me for it! @#$^*%@! Now I only report to traditional medical people what other traditional medical people find and not all the alternative stuff I know. My good faith was betrayed.
Let's talk for a moment about being fat. Being fat seems to void the warranty as far as medical people are concerned. Every problem, every pain that a fat person has must be because they are fat and the solution to being fat is simple- lose weight. If the fat person doesn't lose weight, well, then, there's absolutely no reason to look any farther and nothing anyone else can do. Unexplained foot pain- fat. Menstrual problems- fat. Immune problems- fat. Back pain- fat. Oh, and my favorite- morbidly obese which was my actual diagnosis on the form so I could get a visit to a nutritionist covered by insurance. To get the help I asked for, I had to accept their label of 'deathly fat.'
Lots of labels when I asked for help- fibromyalgia, chronic pain, chronic fatigue syndrome, pre-menstrual syndrome, chemically sensitive, morbidly obese- and not one of them kind or even helpful. I can't remember a medical person in my 20's or 30's ever complementing my body. I go in desperate, in mysterious constant pain, and I don't get one kind word much less a helpful one. No kindness. No help.
Then there was the neurologist. This was the coup de grace. My arms were tingling with this electric, nerve pain. I really, really didn't want to go to one more medical person. Really. Had avoided them for years by this point. But my wise friend Sheila said, "There are some things too precious to risk." So I went. I described my mother's narrowed vertebrae, my sister's scoliosis, and both of their extra ribs in their necks along with my symptoms and concerns about my own nerve-neck-arm pain. I did all the evaluation tasks and went for an MRI. The MRI made me feel panicky and it wasn't the closed space. Something's not right about aligning all the water molecules in one's body in the same direction. Unnatural. And I'm guessing, not nearly as benign a process as they'd like me to believe. Yeah, I do hear my strident tone there. Yeah, I'm a little paranoid. What medical people assure me will "do no harm" and "have no side-effects" doesn't correspond at all to my own experience. I've lost faith.
But this wasn't the worst of it. I asked for a copy of my chart, all the neurologist's notes, to take back to my chiropractor. I read it. He was scathing. In clinical terms, he shredded my credibility. Hypochondriac, hysterical, and psychosomatic. Assuming my mother's and sister's condition's to be my own. Perfectly fine. No neurological problems he could see although given that I moved despite being given instructions to hold still during the MRI, he couldn't say definitively. 'Paranoid, uncooperative bitch' would be my paraphrase.
My head is tingling and my blood's up as I write this. Lot of energy behind this stuff. Lots of momentum. I went vulnerable, trusting to their kind help and found none. But even more so because I wondered, too, whether I was crazy. Losing touch with reality. Paranoid. Psychosomatic. Hysterical. A hypochondriac. Yeah, I wondered if all the pain was in my imagination. I knew my body was totally screwed up, flawed beyond repair. Nobody else's body seemed to respond this oddly. All the experts said all the tests were normal. Couldn't find anything. Nothing wrong. Must be imagining it. Must be my fault.
I quit job after job, sick. No one else was getting sick in those buildings. Just me. I freaked out in the hospital when both my children were born. Heck, I was panicking in the doctor's office for prenatal exams. They were going to hurt my baby doing something which 'has no side effects.' How can you trust people who routinely perform tests which kill a small percentage of their patients? Everyone gushed about how great this ob-gyn was. I was a wreck. I dreaded every visit. What kind of a freak was I?
No kindness. No help.
Angry, bitter, silent, absent. Scared, embarrassed, hurt. Humiliated, inexplicable. Impervious.
What galled me was that I needed them anyway. After 38 hours of labor, I needed their help to birth Anjali and two hours of reconstructive surgery afterwards. I needed help birthing Mark, too, and with his horrible case of eczema. They absolutely freaked me out and I needed their help anyway, tainted and limited as it was.
Gramma Kathy was a Sunday School teacher in the nursery at our old church. She is a nurse practitioner, women's specialist. I liked her and decided to go for an appointment since I was hoping to have another child and would need to deal with someone. I had purposed going in that we would talk only- no procedures. She briskly carried on her normal routine and before I could gather my wits, I was frozen and having a pelvic exam, pap smear, the whole nine. Left feeling violated and frightened. She called with the results- I had HPV, a venereal disease which could cause cancer. The test for it has only been available since 2003 so when I had gone in before, no one was even looking for it. Long process later, the good news is that as of spring 2011, I tested normal- no more pre-cancerous cells. And as long as I take my natural antiviral capsule every night, I'm symptom-free- no more itching, discharge, menstrual pain, or any other sign of infection. I hung my letter reporting normal results up for months like a blue ribbon, I'm so proud.
There was something wrong and my body wouldn't relent but kept telling me so despite all the experts to the contrary. I dogged it and dogged it and now I feel good. I'm really proud of myself.
Which brings us to the teeth saga. I promise not to rehash the entire thing. I've blogged about it extensively from October 2010-April 2011. Here's what I want to say- I knew something was wrong and the experts kept assuring me there wasn't.
I repeatedly had dreams about my molars falling out. Very disturbing. Different molars. Chunks falling out. Pieces missing. Emergency dentists' visits. Very unnerving. So I mentioned it to my dentist who poo-poos me, assuring me in an exasperated tone, "Your teeth aren't going to fall out."
I went in in 2008 with an infection up there and the dentist's assistant x-rayed it and told me they couldn't see anything on the x-ray. It was fine. Maybe TMJ so I got fitted for an appliance to keep my teeth from grinding. Paid hughly for it, wore it once, hated it, and returned it, getting half my money back. Which incidentally means that I was still out hundreds for a wrong guess. Ginger worked on the sore spot and it went away.
Until fall 2010 when the infection came back with a vengeance. Went in. Nothing on x-rays. But then the assistant saw the huge swollen bump on the side of my jaw. "Oh, that is an infection!" Antibiotics were ordered and taken. Several rounds. More than I had taken in the previous decade combined. No joy. Tooth 14 is re-root canalled for more pain and more money. Fifth root found which had been sitting infected for 11+ years since this dentist's office had done it the first time. Root canal doesn't solve it so then for more pain and more money, it's pulled out. Two months later after more pain and more money, Tooth 15 is pulled. More antibiotics, pain, and money with no diagnosis in sight and I go to the oral surgeon. Who, you guessed it, finds nothing on the even fancier x-rays, prescribes more antibiotics for more money, and assures me it's all going to be ok. Yeah, right. I have no confidence but I need their help anyway. More pain leads to a CT scan.
If my life had a sound track, this is where the score would signal a profoundly unexpected happening.
There, in black and white, was the huge cyst. The mother load. The breeding ground. So big and obvious, I could see it myself before the doctor got to the room. Holy smokes! It was the Metrodome expanding up into my sinus like a balloon over the hole where my teeth had been. Yuck! And no wonder I had headaches and sinus problems and chronic infections and felt like my throat was constricting with that bastion of nastiness pouring pus down my throat, inches away from my eyes and brain. Yikes.
When the oral surgeon went through the tooth hole and cut the cyst out, he said that he could see straight through from my mouth into my sinus because the mucus membrane had a large hole in it. I'm supposing that this might have played a role in my allergies and post-nasal drip since all the contaminants which are normally filtered out by the mucus membranes would have been passing straight into my body. I'm pretty confident in my hypothesis since I haven't had post-nasal drip or significant seasonal allergies since the surgery. Yep. Seriously. And I'd wager that this also explains the panic and pain I felt when flying since under changing pressure the pus sack would have expanded and contracted erratically. Oh, and did I mention that I don't snore anymore either?
Even before they removed it, I knew I was going to commemorate this find. We actually discovered a cause. I was not crazy. My teeth did "fall" out. There was a huge problem. And my body was so clever and persistent it kept trying to get through to my consciousness even when all the experts and x-rays said otherwise. I let them poo-poo me, I let myself be "assured" against my better judgment, and I seriously doubted myself. But I didn't give up on myself and in the end I had the photo to prove to myself that I wasn't crazy. "Nee-ner, nee-ner, nee-ner," I want to say to all those who dismissed and disdained. "I do so have a real illness."
It was all in my head but it's not anymore. The delicious irony of them being right but oh, so wrong all at once tickles my funny bone.
Now, please don't think I'm not grateful for all the help. I am deeply grateful. Had I been born in another time and place, I would have died from this. The fact I didn't is a miracle. Women in many countries today would never get well. I am grateful and I have given all the money which came back after insurance paid to Medical Teams International for their work with women's dental clinics in honor of those standing ready to do me good.
Also, please don't think that I'm angry because the doctors and dentists and surgeons didn't know how to help. I hope I'm adult enough, with enough awareness of my own limitations, not to hold their lack of knowledge against them. How could I reasonably expect a doctor to diagnosis a disease that hasn't been discovered yet? From what I hear from my dentist, who's been in practice for 30 years, this is a once-in-a-career kind of thing. Oral surgeon said it was beyond his scope of practice, too. My situation was an odd one. One off. One in a million.
What I do hold against them is their disdain, their arrogance, and their complete disregard for the consequences I suffered while they treated me for things they couldn't find. Steroids with side effects which would only mask the symptoms of a problem which they couldn't identify. Birth control pills they recommended after I recited my previous issues. The mocking cruelty in my chart from the person I appealed to for help. Dismissing my pain because they couldn't find the source. Rolling their eyes. Assuring me everything was fine when I said it wasn't. Telling me I couldn't feel the stitches because there was no way the epidural had worn off and then acting shocked when I moved myself onto the gurney because it had. Not believing me when I explained my idiosyncratic response to pain medication.
They assaulted my dignity and my sanity. They did harm and withheld kindness and for that I do hold them accountable.
I will never have the confidence in medical people that I used to. And I will always be surprised by their kindness.
Dr. Z never gave up on me through the whole tooth mess. He redid my pain medication every 10 minutes, every time I said it hurt. He gave me enough Novocaine it should have numbed my whole head. He took extra time for no extra pay to cut my tooth into pieces so it would pull out easier because I dreaded the creaking and groaning of having it pulled out whole. He hugged me and observed I'd had a bad night. He listened to my fears about losing part of my body and talked me through it. He coached me on how to say, "No latex today, please" instead of my longer, more grating attempts. He called me at home on his day off to check in with me. And Karen, his after hours person, well, she was fabulous, returning my calls, dogging paperwork, and never groaning when I'd call again. Full points for kindness here.
And Dr. Jenny's office was a miracle of kindness. Sue, the receptionist, was an absolute gem. Jane, the CT tech, a doll. I told Dr. Jenny and Nurse Jenny about the abuse in my past and the smothering and how things could get touchy. They were leaning over my face, inches away. They paused. Compassion filled their eyes. I saw it. Then we took a deep breath and continued. The scrub nurses were so gentle when I freaked out at the anesthesia. I warned them I might freak and I did. Very embarrassing. I told them that I wouldn't be there if I didn't trust them but my body remembered the abuse and unconsciousness. But this one nurse crooned endearments to me, calling me Sweetie and Dear until I lost consciousness. It really wasn't as bad as I thought it might be coming out. No bodily fluids running down my face, nothing like that. Months later when I called saying I had pain and post-nasal drip, they didn't make me jump through a million hoops. They believed me about my body. They sent the CT scan order to insurance and told me to go ASAP. Turned out I had a cold and no cyst. Their kindness has changed me.
******
Well, I've been sitting with this for 48 hours. I stalled out after the paragraph above and have been waiting to see how it's going to conclude. I haven't gotten to that satisfying, ah-hah place yet.
I've started two different paragraphs to no avail. I'll wait some more. It'll come.
*******
Another day has passed and I've got it. Today during church, we prayed the Lord's Prayer and that part about being forgiven as we forgive really hit me. If I want to be free, I've got to release others. Then, as the pastor was talking about prayer and Biblical standards, the phrase, "Pray for your enemies" hit me. That's it.
I'm going to pray for my enemies- in this case, the unkind, unhelpful medical people- every day from now until Christmas.
I am going to release them so I can be free.
Saturday, November 5, 2011
My first yoga class
After a year ad a half of practicing and preparing, yesterday I joined a beginning level yoga class. I am pleased and proud and stiff.
I bought and ate a piece of cake to celebrate.
I bought and ate a piece of cake to celebrate.
Friday, November 4, 2011
Vampires, faith, and a better master
Ok, I'm about to make an embarrassing confession.
I have been watching Angel.
Yeah, that Angel. The brooding-vampire-with-a-soul-and-a-black-leather-coat, "We-help-the-hopeless," Buffy the Vampire Slayer spin-off Angel.
Yep. Like I said, embarrassing.
There were the predictable fight scenes and beautiful damsels in distress and all that but what grabbed me was when they started to talk. In the first episode, the main character is challenged not just to do penance to atone for his crimes but to care for people, not just to save lives but to save souls. He opens a conversation with a stranger he's assigned to help by asking, "Are you happy?"
Holy smokes! An altogether fresh conversation about forgiveness and atonement, hope, love, and happiness. I couldn't look away for all of Seasons 1 and 2.
Angel has faith. He believes in The Powers That Be. He believes in soul and God and Hell (several Hells actually). He believes in right and wrong. He believes some beings are pure evil and deserve death. He believes in forgiveness and believes, too, that he is unforgivable. He believes he must atone for the crimes of his past. He believes that if he ever has sex and experiences a moment of pure happiness, he will lose his soul and conscience and will revert to evil. He hopes against all vampire history that The Powers That Be will make him human again someday when his work atoning as a champion is completed. He longs for love, a family, and a place of his own in the world but knows it can never be and so he expends the juice of his life helping people who can have the joys he cannot. When he's not helping the hopeless, he sits in the dark, brooding, self-sacrificial, profoundly envious and grieved.
In a scene in season 2, episode 5, Dear Boy, his old sadistic lover says, "See. No matter how good a boy you are, God doesn't want you. But I still do."
"Wait," I wanted to gasp, "that's not true. God wants everyone." As I said it, I could feel how deeply her statement and his silent concession had struck my own heart. I went to bed with a heavy heart, wanting to believe that God loves me, but protesting too much not to notice my discomfort.
Here's another embarrassing confession.
I believe a lot more like the vampire than I'd like to admit.
Here's what I wrote in my journal in September 2004, addressed to God.
I'm so afraid I'm going to blow it. I'm afraid that if I don't try to make it happen that (it) won't go. That You won't bless me. That I'll be left stranded alone without enough resources, powerless.
Yep, that about sums up.
I'm terrified that You'll torture me. That like Tantalus, what I desire will be held just beyond my grasp. Forever.
I'm afraid that you'll get me excited, that I'll have a vision, that I'll be pumped and that You'll hold it close enough and just far enough away to try for. But not reach.
I don't really believe that You're going to fulfill my heart's desires.
I'm afraid to try but I'm more afraid that if I don't keep reaching for it, that the one split second in all of eternity it is within my grasp, I'll miss my chance.
It's not like I can say, 'Oh, it doesn't matter. I'll just get another passionate gift. I'll just go for another heaven, another twin, another childhood, another God.
This is it. If it isn't Your presence, if it isn't You, then it isn't.
And I'm terrified that You won't let me in and I can't make You.
Instead of feeling like You've practically dragged me to Your party and seated me at the head table, I feel like I'm standing with my nose pressed against the window hoping to...to what? Sneak in? Stand in line to get tickets before they sell out? Wait on pins and needles for my name to be drawn in the lottery? Be attractive enough to catch Your eye and get picked?
Ooo, ooo, Mister God, sir, pick me, pick me!
Then, here's February 2008.
If I just keep the words coming
more books
more videos
more classes....
If I just keep the words coming
I can live in my head
ride the wave of words
Then
Then I won't have to listen to the screams
and I won't have to feel the remorse and anger and revulsion
What kind of people could do that-
Sacrifice with own willingly?
Why would God ever entrust a child to me?
There's a taint in the blood
I'm contaminated
And I'm afraid I'm contagious
I feel sick in my guts
I feel like throwing up
Nobody wants to hear
that my people and
not too long ago
sacrificed babies for personal gain....
I will never be able
to lead
or touch spiritual power
Without lust in my womb
blood in my mouth
and someone else's suffering in my ears
We are child killers
sex-mongers
deal-makers
and willing cause of suffering to others
And God,
what precisely
are You going
to do about
that
How can I ever be
a true healer-
ever
after what the
gifted healers in my
line did when they
took their glory as
a weapon and became
predators....
God
If You don't have
a balm to heal
the sin-sick soul
then no one has
I would repent
renounce
and make reparations
but there is no way
to give back life
to the dead
or virginity to the raped
or wholeness to the tortured
There is no way for me
to do that
Come, God, and pick up
our self-made
catastrophe
Party's over
God'll pick up
I can't stop the past
I can't bring back the dead
I can't even remorse or
revulse this into goodness ....
Which brings us to last summer. I went for EMDR to help me digest my terror and discovered through the process how tainted I felt, like a bowl of hearty, nourishing soup with a spoonful of arsenic mixed in. I said so to the counselor, a lovely lady who assured me as so many other counselors and wise women before had assured me, that it wasn't my fault. I was a child. I was powerless. This wickedness was not mine to carry. And yet, I bear the consequences and the people were my people and the wrongs are our wrongs. Their encouragement never satisfied so I decided to try something different.
I was inspired my something my massage lady, Tara, does with joints that are tight. She gently rotates a joint, a finger for example, clockwise and counterclockwise, observing which direction moves more easily and which direction has more limited motion. Then, she pushes into the joint slightly and rotates the finger in the easier direction, farther and farther as it relaxes. After the easy direction, she releases and then begins again in the opposite, more limited, direction. This to me is totally counter-intuitive. I would assume that one would start with the sticky direction, but no. One listens to the body, goes the direction it wants to go first, and then asks it to flex the other way.
So, I decided that instead of walking away from the responsibility like my grampa had, I would turn around and walk into it. As the weight of evil settled upon me, I realized that I had always believed in my guts that I was tainted, broken beyond repair, beyond redemption, not worth coming back for. Other people would be happy. Others would be saved. Others would be chosen. But not me.
I served a cruel master, always demanding more. Maybe if I was cleverer or sweeter or stronger- maybe then I wouldn't have been raped and tortured. Maybe if I tried harder or longer or more creatively- maybe then I could feel safe. Maybe if I gave my life making other people happy then they would make me happy. Maybe if...
But like the vampire, no matter how good a girl I was, my god didn't want me.
"Atonement's a bitch," Angel says. I'd tried atoning for decades and the bell of evil was still ringing in my life. I was perhaps serving a good master instead of an evil one, but goodness without kindness is still cruel.
Now, I've heard all about God and forgiveness and atonement all my life but it wasn't until I walked into the weight of wickedness and finally saw my own soul crushed under decades of striving to right painful, life-crushing wrongs that my soul perked up and said, "Atonement- ah, yes."
And there was God's crazy offer on the table- God's death for my freedom. The ridiculousness of this struck me. Part of me wanted to keep trying, but all my other parts stared it down, insisting four decades is enough. Stupid deal- everything for nothing. And yet, it stands. I can't negotiate; I did accept to the best of my ability.
Watching Angel not accept atonement, not receive forgiveness, continue to champion because his god doesn't want him- I think this has driven the cure more deeply into my soul. This could be me. I could go back to the master who inflicts pain and calls it love. I really could. I could pour the juice of my life into other people's happiness and never cultivate my own for fear of losing the truth of evil. I really could. I could keep hoping that if I suffer enough everything wrong will be righted. Yep, I could.
But I'm not going to.
I've decided that in my experience, the belief that pleasure and happiness lead to evil is exactly opposite of reality. The only way to happiness is if my atonement is done, if evil is vanquished, if someone bigger is righting all wrongs. It's time to serve a master of kindness. I'm choosing happiness. I'm saying yes to God's offer of atonement. I'm accepting forgiveness. I'm cultivating pleasures. I know exactly where the other path goes and I'm getting off that bus. By the start of Season 3, his atoning began to feel sad and unnecessary. I stopped watching.
Which leads me to where I am now currently stuck and it's a doozy.
As a survivor of child sacrifice by rape and torture, how can I accept that God's Son died atoning for me?
As a Christian, not to mention a desperate woman who's spent four decades crushed under the consequences of wickedness, how can I not accept?
If my bleeding just made more suffering, how does Jesus' bleeding make life?
I totally don't get this and I've told God so. The whole "Jesus dying for my sins" thing is not working for me. Crux of Christianity, so to speak, and I find myself shaking my head.
I'm ok with this because I'm ok with us- me and God. I'll go so far as to say that I think God's ok with us. I'm finally asking the right person the real question and in the fullness of time it will be made clear to me. Or not. And whether or not I get the concept, I'm determined to follow a new master of pleasure and forgiveness and freedom and life and happiness.
When I lose focus, I can go back to Angel Season 2 and watch what happens when atonement never ends, pleasure doesn't matter, and pain becomes master.
If anybody wants to watch it with me or wants to chat about it, let me know. I could use the company.
I have been watching Angel.
Yeah, that Angel. The brooding-vampire-with-a-soul-and-a-black-leather-coat, "We-help-the-hopeless," Buffy the Vampire Slayer spin-off Angel.
Yep. Like I said, embarrassing.
There were the predictable fight scenes and beautiful damsels in distress and all that but what grabbed me was when they started to talk. In the first episode, the main character is challenged not just to do penance to atone for his crimes but to care for people, not just to save lives but to save souls. He opens a conversation with a stranger he's assigned to help by asking, "Are you happy?"
Holy smokes! An altogether fresh conversation about forgiveness and atonement, hope, love, and happiness. I couldn't look away for all of Seasons 1 and 2.
Angel has faith. He believes in The Powers That Be. He believes in soul and God and Hell (several Hells actually). He believes in right and wrong. He believes some beings are pure evil and deserve death. He believes in forgiveness and believes, too, that he is unforgivable. He believes he must atone for the crimes of his past. He believes that if he ever has sex and experiences a moment of pure happiness, he will lose his soul and conscience and will revert to evil. He hopes against all vampire history that The Powers That Be will make him human again someday when his work atoning as a champion is completed. He longs for love, a family, and a place of his own in the world but knows it can never be and so he expends the juice of his life helping people who can have the joys he cannot. When he's not helping the hopeless, he sits in the dark, brooding, self-sacrificial, profoundly envious and grieved.
In a scene in season 2, episode 5, Dear Boy, his old sadistic lover says, "See. No matter how good a boy you are, God doesn't want you. But I still do."
"Wait," I wanted to gasp, "that's not true. God wants everyone." As I said it, I could feel how deeply her statement and his silent concession had struck my own heart. I went to bed with a heavy heart, wanting to believe that God loves me, but protesting too much not to notice my discomfort.
Here's another embarrassing confession.
I believe a lot more like the vampire than I'd like to admit.
Here's what I wrote in my journal in September 2004, addressed to God.
I'm so afraid I'm going to blow it. I'm afraid that if I don't try to make it happen that (it) won't go. That You won't bless me. That I'll be left stranded alone without enough resources, powerless.
Yep, that about sums up.
I'm terrified that You'll torture me. That like Tantalus, what I desire will be held just beyond my grasp. Forever.
I'm afraid that you'll get me excited, that I'll have a vision, that I'll be pumped and that You'll hold it close enough and just far enough away to try for. But not reach.
I don't really believe that You're going to fulfill my heart's desires.
I'm afraid to try but I'm more afraid that if I don't keep reaching for it, that the one split second in all of eternity it is within my grasp, I'll miss my chance.
It's not like I can say, 'Oh, it doesn't matter. I'll just get another passionate gift. I'll just go for another heaven, another twin, another childhood, another God.
This is it. If it isn't Your presence, if it isn't You, then it isn't.
And I'm terrified that You won't let me in and I can't make You.
Instead of feeling like You've practically dragged me to Your party and seated me at the head table, I feel like I'm standing with my nose pressed against the window hoping to...to what? Sneak in? Stand in line to get tickets before they sell out? Wait on pins and needles for my name to be drawn in the lottery? Be attractive enough to catch Your eye and get picked?
Ooo, ooo, Mister God, sir, pick me, pick me!
Then, here's February 2008.
If I just keep the words coming
more books
more videos
more classes....
If I just keep the words coming
I can live in my head
ride the wave of words
Then
Then I won't have to listen to the screams
and I won't have to feel the remorse and anger and revulsion
What kind of people could do that-
Sacrifice with own willingly?
Why would God ever entrust a child to me?
There's a taint in the blood
I'm contaminated
And I'm afraid I'm contagious
I feel sick in my guts
I feel like throwing up
Nobody wants to hear
that my people and
not too long ago
sacrificed babies for personal gain....
I will never be able
to lead
or touch spiritual power
Without lust in my womb
blood in my mouth
and someone else's suffering in my ears
We are child killers
sex-mongers
deal-makers
and willing cause of suffering to others
And God,
what precisely
are You going
to do about
that
How can I ever be
a true healer-
ever
after what the
gifted healers in my
line did when they
took their glory as
a weapon and became
predators....
God
If You don't have
a balm to heal
the sin-sick soul
then no one has
I would repent
renounce
and make reparations
but there is no way
to give back life
to the dead
or virginity to the raped
or wholeness to the tortured
There is no way for me
to do that
Come, God, and pick up
our self-made
catastrophe
Party's over
God'll pick up
I can't stop the past
I can't bring back the dead
I can't even remorse or
revulse this into goodness ....
Which brings us to last summer. I went for EMDR to help me digest my terror and discovered through the process how tainted I felt, like a bowl of hearty, nourishing soup with a spoonful of arsenic mixed in. I said so to the counselor, a lovely lady who assured me as so many other counselors and wise women before had assured me, that it wasn't my fault. I was a child. I was powerless. This wickedness was not mine to carry. And yet, I bear the consequences and the people were my people and the wrongs are our wrongs. Their encouragement never satisfied so I decided to try something different.
I was inspired my something my massage lady, Tara, does with joints that are tight. She gently rotates a joint, a finger for example, clockwise and counterclockwise, observing which direction moves more easily and which direction has more limited motion. Then, she pushes into the joint slightly and rotates the finger in the easier direction, farther and farther as it relaxes. After the easy direction, she releases and then begins again in the opposite, more limited, direction. This to me is totally counter-intuitive. I would assume that one would start with the sticky direction, but no. One listens to the body, goes the direction it wants to go first, and then asks it to flex the other way.
So, I decided that instead of walking away from the responsibility like my grampa had, I would turn around and walk into it. As the weight of evil settled upon me, I realized that I had always believed in my guts that I was tainted, broken beyond repair, beyond redemption, not worth coming back for. Other people would be happy. Others would be saved. Others would be chosen. But not me.
I served a cruel master, always demanding more. Maybe if I was cleverer or sweeter or stronger- maybe then I wouldn't have been raped and tortured. Maybe if I tried harder or longer or more creatively- maybe then I could feel safe. Maybe if I gave my life making other people happy then they would make me happy. Maybe if...
But like the vampire, no matter how good a girl I was, my god didn't want me.
"Atonement's a bitch," Angel says. I'd tried atoning for decades and the bell of evil was still ringing in my life. I was perhaps serving a good master instead of an evil one, but goodness without kindness is still cruel.
Now, I've heard all about God and forgiveness and atonement all my life but it wasn't until I walked into the weight of wickedness and finally saw my own soul crushed under decades of striving to right painful, life-crushing wrongs that my soul perked up and said, "Atonement- ah, yes."
And there was God's crazy offer on the table- God's death for my freedom. The ridiculousness of this struck me. Part of me wanted to keep trying, but all my other parts stared it down, insisting four decades is enough. Stupid deal- everything for nothing. And yet, it stands. I can't negotiate; I did accept to the best of my ability.
Watching Angel not accept atonement, not receive forgiveness, continue to champion because his god doesn't want him- I think this has driven the cure more deeply into my soul. This could be me. I could go back to the master who inflicts pain and calls it love. I really could. I could pour the juice of my life into other people's happiness and never cultivate my own for fear of losing the truth of evil. I really could. I could keep hoping that if I suffer enough everything wrong will be righted. Yep, I could.
But I'm not going to.
I've decided that in my experience, the belief that pleasure and happiness lead to evil is exactly opposite of reality. The only way to happiness is if my atonement is done, if evil is vanquished, if someone bigger is righting all wrongs. It's time to serve a master of kindness. I'm choosing happiness. I'm saying yes to God's offer of atonement. I'm accepting forgiveness. I'm cultivating pleasures. I know exactly where the other path goes and I'm getting off that bus. By the start of Season 3, his atoning began to feel sad and unnecessary. I stopped watching.
Which leads me to where I am now currently stuck and it's a doozy.
As a survivor of child sacrifice by rape and torture, how can I accept that God's Son died atoning for me?
As a Christian, not to mention a desperate woman who's spent four decades crushed under the consequences of wickedness, how can I not accept?
If my bleeding just made more suffering, how does Jesus' bleeding make life?
I totally don't get this and I've told God so. The whole "Jesus dying for my sins" thing is not working for me. Crux of Christianity, so to speak, and I find myself shaking my head.
I'm ok with this because I'm ok with us- me and God. I'll go so far as to say that I think God's ok with us. I'm finally asking the right person the real question and in the fullness of time it will be made clear to me. Or not. And whether or not I get the concept, I'm determined to follow a new master of pleasure and forgiveness and freedom and life and happiness.
When I lose focus, I can go back to Angel Season 2 and watch what happens when atonement never ends, pleasure doesn't matter, and pain becomes master.
If anybody wants to watch it with me or wants to chat about it, let me know. I could use the company.
Thursday, November 3, 2011
My new favorite quote
From Hairspray
"Brace yourselves for a whole lot of ugly coming from a never-ending parade of stupid."
"Brace yourselves for a whole lot of ugly coming from a never-ending parade of stupid."
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