Being vulnerable was always scary for me, because I feared rejection more than anything. I concluded at a young age that if I revealed that I was afraid, angry, disappointed, sad, or confused, that I was a burden and being selfish for attention. It didn’t make me feel good when I heard stories about how my infant and toddler self had cried all the time, was clingy to my mom and my babysitter, and hated getting my hair brushed. Instead, I learned to get attention for being responsible, quiet, a hard worker, and easy. The way I internalized it was that I was such a burden on my mom and dad that their lives would have been better if I hadn’t been born at all.
As I got started in school at the age of five, I was growing into my individual identity, which was being a responsible big sister to my two younger siblings, “so grown up” for my age, never a “bother,” and very smart. I determined that parts of my identity simply didn’t deserve any of my attention or need to be nurtured because they caused my parents hardship, so I stuffed them deep down inside. Did I have an opinion? Yes, but I wasn’t going to be selfish and say what it was. Was I scared of storms and being alone in the dark? Absolutely, but I had to pretend I was brave for my brother and sister. Did I feel ashamed and afraid when my parents fought? Of course, but I simply learned to make excuses for them and not ask my friends to come over, especially when my dad was home. Did I crave more hugs and back rubs? For sure, but I didn’t want to “hog” my mom’s attention from my siblings, and she was often tired, so I tucked myself in and hugged a stuffed animal more often than not.
I just wanted to be a carefree girl who loved to sing at the top of my lungs, dance, and play outside. I could let that part of me out sometimes, but only when others weren’t around, because I thought that I shouldn’t prefer to be loud and happy all the time when others seemed so serious.
Did I feel safe at home? No. Could I tell anyone that? Absolutely not, because it would be quite an inconvenience if someone got in trouble. I was afraid of what would happen if I told others the truth about what went on behind closed doors. I say this now as an adult, because these questions and answers were true for me through the thirty years I was married to a narcissist.
The truth is, I didn’t even realize that the person I let others see for my whole life up until last year wasn’t truly authentic. Was I honest with others about anything other than what I kept secret to protect my (ex)husband? Always… I felt awful the few times I told a lie. Was I honest with myself about who I was and what I felt deep down? Ummm…. no.
I was broken, but I didn’t really know that. As a little girl, I had done what all children in homes impacted by addictions and generational curses do, and I had learned how to adapt my behavior to survive. I had become a chameleon that tried to become invisible and non-offensive when faced with toxic relationships and verbal attacks, and there were major disconnects in my spirit because I thought that I was the reason that I was getting called names and being yelled at. If I could make people happy and keep the peace, then life was easier for me and everyone else. There was no point in telling anyone anything other than I was doing “fine,” and that I really wasn’t doing well at all.
I wanted to disappear, and yet I smiled and was kind to others that maybe had it worse than me.
I didn’t realize that by believing I was responsible for everyone else’s feelings around me while hiding my own, I was burying the emotional wounds that would never heal if I didn’t release them. I had never learned that in order to heal my emotional wounds, I would have to process my traumas, express my hurt, cry out my frustrations, feel the pain in my heart all over again, and let out my intense anger that had piled up from stuffing my emotions and refusing to forgive people because they didn’t take accountability for how they had hurt me.
No one is more broken than me, because not only had I covered up the truth about what was going on in my childhood home, I jumped into bed with someone who was equally broken. He and I were just teenagers with raging hormones and an excitement to become our own people away from the issues that each of our parents had. His parents had different expectations and communication problems than mine did, but it caused him to repress who he truly was all the same, but that’s his story that he still needs to heal from, not mine.
As I write this, I didn’t expect this part of my story to hit me so hard. I have healed from so much over the last year, and I’ve cried more tears than I ever thought possible, but the pain still sits so close to the surface sometimes. My childhood was only part of it, because layers and layers of codependency to try to manipulate, change, and ultimately hide from everyone my teenage crush’s deep emotional issues that ultimately destroyed our marriage continued for 32 years. At almost 50 years old, my eyes are welling with tears as I sit in my reality, because as far as I have come, I am still struggling to forgive myself.
It’s easy to beat myself up. Who stays in an abusive marriage for 30 years?! I am such a slow learner. Why did I walk down the aisle when I knew that everything about it felt completely wrong and it made me want to die even on that day which was supposed to be my happiest day? Why did I think that if only I was good enough, quiet enough, and perfect enough, that he would change and treat me like I the princess that I dreamed I could be if only there was a prince who loved me for me?
I am now divorced and two of my adult children aren’t even acknowledging that I am still alive. “Maybe they wish that I wasn’t still alive?”, the voices poke. There have been times throughout my life that suicide seemed like my best option for everyone, and with the wreckage of my life that is scattered around me, it seems impossible that I feel a steadfast hope welling up within me. Stronger than any despair that I have ever felt is an all-consuming peace and unconditional love from my Heavenly Father. It started as a spark when I was very young, and sometimes I have allowed my Abba, El Elyon, God the Father to access my spirit deep within, and he gracefully and mercifully has fanned the flames each and every time I have asked.
Even though I still struggle with forgiveness more often than I like, I now realize that there is no limit to the number of times we can forgive someone, including ourselves. And because forgiveness is for our own healing rather than as a benefit to the one who wronged us, we heal best if we let forgiveness flow through our bodies continually like prayer and love.
Then Peter came to Jesus and asked, “Lord, how many times shall I forgive my brother or sister who sins against me? Up to seven times?” Jesus answered, “I tell you, not seven times, but seventy-seven times.” Matthew 18:21-22
I have had to dig deep within me to relearn all that I thought I knew about receiving love, loving others, forgiveness, healing, trauma recovery, grace, unity, faith, Christians that live by the title only, others who haven’t yet experienced Holy Spirit, living in God’s purpose, and being on fire for Jesus. And for the first time in my life, I feel comfortable being ME! Authenticity and peace come hand in hand when there is no disconnect with who God made us to be on the inside and who we present ourselves to others.
