A LOVE SO DEEP

     Of all the times to believe Jesus, this night was the night. It was time to put the pain to rest and begin the process of healing. My two precious little girls were put safely to bed upstairs in our base housing mansion (that’s how it felt. It was 2,400 square feet of emptiness shared between myself and my two girls – both under age 3). I was preparing myself for a night of pain and torture. By that, I mean, I was preparing to cheat on my husband who was deployed. Did I want to? No. Not even a little bit. So why was I preparing to do this awful thing? I needed to punish myself for not saving her. Sex with anyone other than Anthony was a punishment. It was disgusting, it hurt, and it made me feel terrible and used. It was, in my mind, the perfect punishment for the sin I committed. When I told on my stepdad for abusing me, I didn’t mention that he’d also abused my severely handicapped sister who couldn’t speak up for herself. I honestly, at that time, did not remember it. The memories would float back to the surface years later and I would need to atone for my sin. Many times.

    On the radio played a Christian song, followed by a call from a Preacher of some sort for the listeners to stop in their paths right that very moment and listen to God’s message. I don’t remember the entirety of the message, but I do remember this part – “You are about to go back down a dark path that you were never meant to walk. God is calling you out of this darkness and into the Light. Will you listen to Him? Stop punishing yourself and come into the Light.” That night would be the very last time I punished myself. I cried out internally to God the entire night – “save me! This hurts! Heal me, Lord!” repeatedly, I cried out. If God couldn’t or wouldn’t save me, I was going to have to kill myself. This had to end. I could not endure the punishment any longer, but I had no idea how to crawl out of the pain. This was so much bigger than me.

    The following Sunday at church, the elders and their wives continued to glare at me and give me nasty looks. I was sure they knew what I was up to, but I wasn’t sure how they knew. They hated me from the moment I walked into the church months earlier. Only the Pastor seemed to have any sort of tolerance for me. He was so kind. I wished everyone else was like him. I numbly sat through the service, looking forward to the evening time when I would spend it with other military families, worshipping in a quiet home church that Military Ministry started up years ago. My girls would watch Veggie Tales with other kids in another room, and I could freely explore the complexities of the Christian faith as it pertained to Military families. Truth be told, I remember almost nothing of those evening talks except the feeling of relief when they were over. I abhorred military life, and I merely went through the motions, pretending to be a good wife because I so desperately wanted to be. I thought I could “fake it until I make it.” God had other plans.

    I confessed everything to a Deacon’s wife with whom I had formed a friendship. She advised me to confess to the church leadership. I did. They compassionately offered to help pay for Christian counseling with a counselor nearby who was known to keep an open Bible and utilize prayer as a means of furthering the healing process. It was the absolute most heartbreaking time of my adult life to rehash old memories in explicit detail. I would become triggered and tailspin for days – sometimes weeks. I could barely function as an adult. Getting out of bed was almost impossible, but I did manage to do it. I was barely a mother to my daughters. My heart breaks for them, for all that they needed, but I was unable to provide. My marriage was on the rocks, as it should have been. Yet…God was working in me. It's easier to see it now, 12 years later.

    The church leaders eventually overthrew the Pastor, the church imploded, my family recovered and we left the church. I continued healing. Now, I was waking up at 5 am to spend time in my Bible, reading the psalms, praying for an hour every morning, and digging deeper into the Gospels. I prayed Proverbs 31 every day as well, begging God to make me into one of those women. Everything I had went into my faith life. If God couldn’t or wouldn’t save me – no one could. It was Him or nothing. He did come through. He did save me. He did save my marriage. He did restore my relationships with people close to me. He did protect my daughters. He did save us all. I wouldn’t take no for an answer. I couldn’t. Too much was at stake.

    Seeking God took every ounce of my energy, and I had a lot of help along the way. The Pastor of that church continued to encourage me, as did the deacon’s wife and the deacon himself. I had a neighbor who also prayed with me every day on our shared stoop. I still had Military Ministry and most of all, I still had Anthony. Only by the Grace of God did I still have him. The Bible became my very best friend, and I carried it with me everywhere. Any time I felt a twinge of anxiety, I buried myself in the Word of God until I felt confident that I could fend off the demons circling me. I was Mary Magdalene. I was Gomer, the wife of Hosea. I had to have Jesus in my life every moment or I felt I would die by returning to the horrible sins. Let me be very clear here. I did not do this alone and I did not accomplish any of this in my power. I invited the Deacon’s wife and my neighbor to keep me accountable. They agreed and I handed over a sheet of paper with absolutely every password to every account I owned. Email, Facebook, chat groups, grocery stores, magazine subscriptions…everything. There wasn’t a part of my life that I allowed remaining in the dark. I lived as openly and transparently as possible because I knew that if I allowed even a trace of darkness to encroach upon my space again, I would fall back into old patterns. This meant I threw out everything that encouraged me to sin – books, magazines, CDs, movies, pictures, letters – even my cell phone. I changed my number, changed my email address, got a new Facebook profile, and left my old self to die alone while embracing the new, changed, saved me. To this day, I still must be vigilant to not even look down those same dark pathways I used to walk. How do I do this? Focus on the Light.

    With that, he turned to the woman and said to Simon: “Do you see this woman? I entered your house; you gave me no water for my feet. But this woman wet my feet with her tears and wiped them off with her hair. You gave me no kiss, but this woman, from the hour that I came in, did not stop tenderly kissing my feet.  You did not pour oil on my head, but this woman poured perfumed oil on my feet. Because of this, I tell you, her sins, many though they are, are forgiven, because she loved much. But the one who is forgiven little loves little.”   Then he said to her: “Your sins are forgiven.” Those reclining at the table with him started to say among themselves: “Who is this man who even forgives sins?”  But he said to the woman: “Your faith has saved you; go in peace.” – Luke 7:44-50

    Jesus saw me the entire time. He knew me before He knit me together in my mother’s womb (Jeremiah 1:5), as I was born, as I was being abused, as I was stumbling through the difficulties of puberty, as I met and married my husband, as He planned my family and then knit my children together in my womb, as I walked into the church that would turn my life upside down…as I sought Him with every fiber of my being and as I sit now, reflecting on all of it. He sees me tomorrow and all the days of my future. Do you want to know what the most amazing part of all that is to me is? He knew what every moment of my life would look like and He still created me. He still, 2000 years before I was born, knew me intimately and chose to die upon that cross at Calvary. When he breathed His last earthly breath, He did it for you, too. He already knew everything about you intimately as well. Isn’t that amazing? Sit with that a moment. Let it penetrate every part of your being and then pray about it.

 

God, You are always good. You are the very definition of good. You see us at our worst. You love us through all the days of our lives, never leaving us, never forsaking us. Everything that happens in our lives, You find a way to use it for our good and not to harm us. Dear God, I come before you today with a humble heart and surrender my life to you. I believe in your gift of salvation and eternal life because of the sacrifice of Jesus Christ. God, today I repent and turn from my old way of life. Today I ask for new life through Jesus Christ and the power of the Holy Spirit. Thank you, God, for forgiving me and making my life brand new. In Jesus' name, Amen.

 When you have some free time later, check out this awesome movie I think you'll like. It's based on the story of Gomer and Hosea and how God used what Gomer intended for bad to do immense good in not only their lives but the lives of an entire nation. Check out Amazing Love The Story of Hosea.

Amazing Love The Story of Hosea

Stay tuned for another episode. I aim to crank out the blog posts three times a week on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. See you next time! And remember, if you or a loved one is in danger, get help right away, and don't stop talking until someone acts on what you're saying.

 

National Domestic Abuse Hotline: 800-799-7233 Hours: 24/7. Languages: English, Spanish, and 200+ through interpretation service. SMS: Text START to 88788

 

National Sexual Assault Hotline: 1-800-656-4673 Hours: Available 24 hours. https://www.rainn.org/

In Christ alone our hope is found

 

Run, don't walk for help! You're worth it.

 

 

 

 

 

WALKING THE HALLWAY AGAIN

    Releasing myself from any guilt surrounding the sexual abuse that I endured as a child was not easy. Abusers are so good at turning things around and making the entire situation seem like your fault. I’ll bet you’re nodding your head in agreement, aren’t you? Can you pinpoint the moment when you first realized that what was happening wasn’t right? I can. I was about three years old and I was running down the hall to get cleaned up after an abuse session. My stepdad was standing in the hall, waiting for me, leather belt in hand. He looked larger than normal and very sinister. In my young mind, I knew I was in trouble for something. He was going to beat me with that belt. But why? Hadn’t I done everything he’d asked me to? No, no I hadn’t.

            The night prior, at dinner, I had announced that “daddy showed me his penis and made me touch it today!” I announced it in the same way a preschool student would talk about making a finger painting in class earlier that day. It was a major event in my young life, and I was merely sharing the news with my family at the dinner table. My Mom made a funny sound, stepdad’s face turned white and then the denial began. “No, I didn’t. She walked in on me using the restroom and I told her to get out. It wasn’t appropriate,” he lied. My mother, placated, continued to serve the dinner to us all. Strange looks passed between them during dinner until finally, my mom seemed to relax and realize he was right. I was just a curious little kid who opened the door at the wrong time. Except he was the liar, and I was the truth-teller. This same scenario would play out many, many times in many locations over the years until I finally realized that sometimes Mommies just don’t care, and the bad guy will always win.

            Back to the hallway scene. He snarled at me, like a rabid dog, ready to attack. “If you ever tell your mother what we did today, I will beat you with this belt, you little sh*t. Do you understand me? She will never love you again. She barely loves you now.” My lower lip puckered, tears burned my eyes and my cheeks turned bright red. “Yes, daddy. I understand.” 

This is a secret I must keep. You are scary and you hurt me. Why did you enjoy it so much when I didn’t? I hate you. I will learn to hate you more until one day I just stop caring whether you live or die, and I find immense inner peace in telling people you’re already dead.

            Is it hard to recall those hallway moments when he threatened to beat me? Yes and no. There were so many of them that they come easily to my mind as if reciting the alphabet. It is hard to look back at that time in my life, as a mother who now has four precious children, and understand how anyone can be so cruel to such a young, vulnerable child. What kind of demons must have taken over his existence for him to do something so horrific? When I lose my cool and yell at my kids, I have a hard time reconciling that with myself. I must go immediately to God in prayer and beg Him for forgiveness and the skills I need to rectify the situation so that I can be the mother my kids need me to be. Did stepdad ever regret his decision to abuse me? I have a hard time believing he ever felt an ounce of remorse as it was happening for nearly ten years. Remember, he is still – as of three months ago- a narcissistic, emotionally abusive alcoholic. His brain does not distinguish between young children and adults. He speaks to all ages the same way – as beneath him.

            What no one told me truthfully is that my mother was incapable of loving anyone because she didn’t even respect herself. The memories surrounding the hallway moments have helped to shape me as a mother. When I recall the intense fear I felt then, I remind myself in the here and now to be gentle and patient with my kids when they make a mistake. Their brains are still developing, and they need time, guidance, and training to name and accept their emotions. They need help navigating the world and understanding why rules are put into place. They need compassion. I need to remain a safe place for them. “My kids are safe in this place.” “I am a safe person for them.” “God is with us all.” “Today is….” I have to take it one day at a time and accept that there are days when I will fail. I'm human. Back to God, I go...

I can do all things through Christ who gives me strength. Philippians 4:13

L-R from top to bottom: Grandma Verla, Mom, Stepdad,
Me (age 2), my sister Melissa (age 8)

 

Stay tuned for another episode. I aim to crank out the blog posts three times a week on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. See you next time! And remember, if you or a loved one is in danger, get help right away, and don't stop talking until someone acts on what you're saying.

National Domestic Abuse Hotline: 800-799-7233 Hours: 24/7. Languages: English, Spanish, and 200+ through interpretation service. SMS: Text START to 88788

National Sexual Assault Hotline: 1-800-656-4673 Hours: Available 24 hours. https://www.rainn.org/

In Christ alone our hope is found

Run, don't walk for help! You're worth it.

 

 

 

           

           

NO SENSE IN FLASHBACKS

     Flashbacks are a terrible, horrible thing. They can come on at any time, disrupting whatever I had been doing prior. There is often no warning as to when they will come on, no way to fully disengage from them and it can be very difficult to recover from them. The worst ones for me are the ones that engage more than two senses. Sometimes I can see and hear the event as it unfolded while smelling the sweaty, earthy smell of his (stepdad’s) skin on mine. Sometimes I even physically feel his hands on me, which is just the worst.

When I was newly married, sex was incredibly difficult. There were times when I mistook my husband for my abuser because I was triggered simply by the act of having sex. My heart breaks for the pain and agony my husband went through during that time in our marriage. What finally helped was to psych myself up for sex before the act, reminding myself that I am safe, he is a safe person and then I would recite the date and time repeatedly. Usually, that worked. Sometimes, I went into what I refer to as a “time warp” and I would not be able to tell the difference between little girl Amanda and adult Mandy. In those moments, I would panic and physically shove my husband off me and curl into the fetal position. There was no difference in those moments for me (internally) between abuse and consent. I’d been triggered by something, and I couldn’t separate the past from the present.

Flashbacks are the stuff of nightmares. They can occur anytime I feel triggered by something, and often, I don’t recognize that I’ve been triggered until the flashback occurs. I have four kids. Give me a break here. I can’t always be fully cognizant of every sight, sound, or smell in my general region – especially when in a crowd and my first thought is “where are my kids?” Flashbacks can last from a few seconds to a couple of minutes. Sometimes I will let others know I’ve just had a flashback, but most of the time, I just keep it to myself and immediately pray about the situation. I know that God is always with me, and He will give me the peace and comfort that I need to continue with my day. When I need to, I will also let my husband know that I am having a hard time and I need him to make a few more decisions on his own that day, so I can rest easy in our partnership. Marriage is truly a three-corded rope, for which I am eternally grateful. There are times when my husband needs to lean on me as well, and I know that it is never in my power that I can be his helpmeet, nor is it in his power that he is the provider and leader of the household.  I truly married a good one.

Some folks have recommended marijuana to me to help with the flashbacks. I considered it for a while, then did my research, including talking to my doctors about it. For me, it’s just not a good option and I have no plans to ever try it, including edibles. I know that marijuana has become a popular coping mechanism, and I want to give my stance very carefully on it. It’s just not a good idea without a doctor’s approval. Alcohol is another vice that I don’t advocate for, except in moderation. Some studies have shown that certain red wines can improve heart health, calm uterine contractions, and ease stress. In moderation. By moderation, I do mean less than a drink a week. This is my opinion, and you’ll need to speak with your doctor to develop your wellness plan. I included this information because I want to express the importance of making informed decisions regarding mental health care. I know that in a moment of panic, it can be easy to reach for whatever makes you feel better in the moment, but will that help you in the long run? Will it change your life for the better? I prefer the long-term solution of a slow burn, snail’s pace way of making lifestyle changes that will stick.

There is something to the act of reciting the date and time when you are under a lot of stress. It’s a way of grounding yourself, reminding yourself that you’re in the here and now, not back in the past where the trauma occurred. I also find it helpful to recite my home address, kids’ names, and a few positive affirmations such as “I am safe in this place” and “I am with a safe person, named (insert name here.” These are the coping mechanisms that work time after time and are easier for me to remember in a pinch. A therapist once told me that our brains do not recognize a negative word within a positive statement when we are under duress. For example, if I were to say, “I’m not in danger.” My brain would omit the “not” and just hear “I am in danger.” I have adapted my inner dialogue to reflect this information and now focus on the simple term “I am safe in this place.” It’s worked for me for over a decade. Determine what words of affirmation you need to hear when you feel unsafe, and then practice positively saying them. Teach them to your safe people, too.

I want to take just a moment to address those who are reading this blog to better understand flashbacks, either because you’re in ministry or you have a loved one suffering from them. While each of us who endured trauma tends to handle flashbacks differently, there is one universal phrase that will always be helpful when interacting with someone who is triggered. It is “I believe you. Your story is important. I am here for you. “And then follow through with that. Check-in on that person throughout the week and the following weeks. Don’t take their first answer to your question of “Are you okay?” at face value. Until we, who have endured trauma have learned and settled into the knowledge that you are a safe person, we will lie to you. Repeatedly. It has nothing to do with you, and everything to do with our trauma training. You see, trauma trains us to never trust anyone, to rely upon ourselves for everything, and to look at everyone else as suspicious from now on. The very best thing you can do for someone you truly want to help is to be patient and consistent while maintaining your own safe boundaries. (Those in ministry or seeking to help someone with trauma should look into emotional pain transference. Here is a good reference to get you started: https://www.denverpainandperformance.com/transference-and-blame/ )

Me and Melissa, September 11,2001 just minutes after the planes
hit the twin towers. I didn't want this day to only be remembered
for tragedy, so we snapped this pic. She died 17 months later of 
natural causes, in her sleep. She was my best friend.

Stay tuned for another episode. I aim to crank out the blog posts three times a week on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. See you next time! And remember, if you or a loved one is in danger, get help right away, and don't stop talking until someone acts on what you're saying.

National Domestic Abuse Hotline: 800-799-7233 Hours: 24/7. Languages: English, Spanish, and 200+ through interpretation service. SMS: Text START to 88788

National Sexual Assault Hotline: 1-800-656-4673 Hours: Available 24 hours. https://www.rainn.org/

In Christ alone our hope is found 

Run, don't walk for help! You're worth it.

 

 

 

 

BODY TRIGGERS

     I was standing in the middle of the department store, holding on to too many items when the urge to pee hit. The store was packed with shoppers and my mom was nowhere to be found. I hadn’t grabbed a cart and I suddenly wasn’t sure where anyone I knew was. The more I walked around looking for a familiar face, the more panicked I became. I felt claustrophobic. My heart started beating faster, I couldn’t breathe properly, and I began to hyperventilate. No one around me noticed anything was wrong and I felt alone, abandoned, and terrified. My mind began playing tricks on me and suddenly I was mentally transported back to my parent’s living room, seven years earlier, sitting on my stepdad’s lap being sexually assaulted while watching Mickey on Ice on the television. I collapsed to the ground and peed my pants in the local Fred Meyer store. Everything I’d been holding in my hands fell to the ground, scattering around me. Suddenly, I was alone. At least on that aisle. Only the security cameras caught that incident. I picked myself up, made sure the pee didn’t show (thank you ugly skorts of the 90s!), and kept walking around the store until I found my mom. I lied and said yes when she asked if I was okay. What else was I supposed to say? I couldn’t explain what just happened, especially not in public.

Fear of using the bathroom in public still plagues me. Until I had kids, I couldn’t use the bathroom in my own home for the longest time without intense fear. When I was very young, I would make the family dog go into the bathroom with me to guard me. Sometimes I would open the drawers in the bathroom to block the door from being opened because I was so afraid that my stepdad would come in and assault me while my pants were down. This is not an irrational fear, as he used to come in and watch my siblings and me take a bath all the time. He would always make inappropriate comments and stare at us for way too long. On those nights, I knew I would need to bury myself deep under the covers in bed or he would be making a visit to my room, too.

Hiding my body at all times became a chore for me, but it was also a necessity. If he didn’t see me naked, he wouldn’t think about me naked, right? And then, I’d be safe. This thought process consumed me, even into my adult years. I wore the baggiest clothes I could, dressed as masculine as I could, and tried to avoid even appearing attractive in his eyes. I was like a mouse, trying to navigate the farmhouse without the farmer noticing, but it was unavoidable that he would notice me. And the abuse continued.

The flashbacks continue to this day, though they are not as frequent. Someone asked me once what my triggers are. I started naming them and couldn’t stop. There are many. My brain rewired itself during the many years of trauma. That’s what happens when adults abuse kids from infancy to puberty. I am not “normal”, and I never will be. I’ve been through over 20 years of therapy, and I still find myself needing reminders to “just breathe” through a random panic attack.

My last trigger was needing to use the restroom while waiting for my son’s school bus which was over 20 minutes late in picking him up for school. I had multiple flashbacks to the times when my mom would forget about me somewhere and I would be forlornly waiting for her to pick me up. I had another flashback to that incident in the local Fred Meyer. And another, where I was about seven years old, getting ready for school and my stepdad grabbed my breasts in the hallway while no one was looking. It all came to mind so fast and there was nothing I could do about it except just work through it. To the outside world, I was upset about the bussing system. Internally, I couldn’t figure out the decade, the current location, or whether I was safe. My mind was a tornado of thoughts – the greatest of those was “make sure my son is safe.” But I didn’t know how to do that. I wasn’t in control of the bus. Fortunately, my husband was able to step in and make sure he got to school safely. Then, he sat with me and calmed me down. That wasn’t the first time, and it surely won’t be the last. My husband is a saint. I have no idea how he puts up with me.

Control is a very big issue for me, seeing as how I had so little of it growing up. There was never a safe place for me, except for Sunday mornings when my grandma would take me to church. That was always my favorite place to be. Jesus is there and all the people are nice. When you’re a cute little kid, they’re even nicer and more accommodating. They hold the heavy hymnals for you, smile at you when you finally become brave enough to sing, and look out for you to make sure that no one messes with you while you figure out the faith stuff. I will always be grateful to the handful of men and women who kept me safe and protected every Sunday morning during my formative years. They were the ones who truly loved me and gave me a safe place to be. Plus, it was never scary to use the bathroom at church. The bathroom door had a lock, was single use and I could use it alone for as long as I needed to. There was no rushing, no fear. Until the church was over and it was time to go home again.

View from the choir loft. My first church.

Stay tuned for another episode. I aim to crank out the blog posts three times a week on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. See you next time! And remember, if you or a loved one is in danger, get help right away, and don't stop talking until someone acts on what you're saying.

National Domestic Abuse Hotline: 800-799-7233 Hours: 24/7. Languages: English, Spanish, and 200+ through interpretation service. SMS: Text START to 88788

National Sexual Assault Hotline: 1-800-656-4673 Hours: Available 24 hours. https://www.rainn.org/

In Christ alone our hope is found 

Run, don't walk for help! You're worth it.

 

I HATE VICTORIA'S SECRET

    Ever since I can remember, I have been obsessed with the beauty of underwear and swimsuit models. How do they get such a flat tummy? Why are their boobs contained to just the front of their bodies, and not the sides, too? Why don’t their thighs rub together? Why wasn’t my butt ever as cute and pert as theirs? Granted, I was about five years old when I first remember thinking that, but that thought has always dominated my brain space. Why can’t I look like the models in the magazines? And if I did, would I be as happy as they are? The thought of obtaining that same body type both delighted and terrified me. After all, those bodies are what men want to touch, right? Those are the women who have sex for fun because they want to. Not because someone else told them at seven years old that they had to. Right?

                I learned early on from listening to my male cousins, my stepdad, and his drunken friends that “fat chicks” were not what men wanted to touch. Did that mean that if I got really fat, men would stop touching me without my consent? I’ve spent over 30 years testing that theory, and I can tell you honestly that it doesn’t work that way. Some men are just absolute pigs and they will touch anything that breathes, whether he/she/they can give consent or not. I sure wish I had learned this lesson sooner. Being fat is physically and mentally painful.

                Throughout my school years, I was teased mercilessly for my weight. When I went home, I was abused simply because I was there. I escaped a lot into fantasy worlds – namely Hollywood drama. Who was dating who? Which popstar was at the top of the charts this week? Who had the biggest house, fastest car, and deepest secrets? I ate it up almost as fast as the rag mags hit the newsstands. MTV was my best friend, and don’t even get me started on the amazing teenage rom-coms that the 90s had to offer us. I was convinced that if Lance Bass wouldn’t marry me, Freddie Prinze Jr surely would. After all, he killed it as Zack Siler in She’s All That.

                So many of my peers were also insecure about their weight, height, and looks. I see it now, as I look back over many interactions in the hallway, classrooms, and the girls’ locker room. I wasn’t the only girl who changed for Phys Ed in the bathroom stall. I wasn’t the only girl convinced that the newest shade of blue eye shadow and a sparkly scrunchy would solve all my problems and get “that guy” to notice me in between classes. We were all in an awkward stage of uncertainty. Some of us had deeper traumas behind it all, and some of us were merely coming into our own at the absolute strangest point in our lives. Puberty.

                Magazines geared towards the female gender have always had a way of making us feel more insecure about ourselves three pages in. Right there, past the table of contents is always this gorgeous-looking woman with zero flaws (because photoshop exists) and she has the biggest, loveliest, most uninhibited smile on her face. This woman has it made. At least, that’s what we’re meant to believe. If we buy whatever product she is representing, we too will have it made. As we peruse the magazine, we read about women and girls who have found the secret to remaining beautiful and confident all day long. Usually, it involves an expensive brand of mascara, a colorful brand of shoes, or a Wonderbra that perks up our tits enough to grab and hold the attention of the opposite sex. There it is again. Sexualizing our bodies to garner attention. It starts so early, doesn’t it? I was twelve years old when my Mom brought me my first issue of Seventeen magazine. She said that she hoped it would help me to figure some things out. Yep, it sure did. I spent the next twenty-seven years chasing unobtainable beauty standards and beating myself up whenever it didn’t work out for me.

                Sex is not the end-all-be-all I thought it would be. Sure, it is wonderful. With my husband. It’s traumatizing when I’m under the tender age of ten and being told to just be quiet because it will all be over soon. No amount of makeup will ever make a man love me more – or less. No amount of fat will ever protect me from sexual predators. No magazine geared towards women ever features even one woman who has her life all together all the time. That kind of woman doesn’t exist.

We are all human, we all have our flaws, and we’re all balancing life as it comes at us each day. Some days, we look like we have it all together, and we may even fool ourselves into thinking we do. But then…a bad day happens and we feel down on ourselves. We feel like failures. That couldn’t be further from the truth! We are amazing simply because we are. Those who seek to hurt us in any way do so because they are hurting inside and aren’t strong enough to ask for help. They’re the weak ones. They’re the problem. Maybe we should start putting them in charge of paying for our therapy as we work through all our issues and come to terms with the fact that we are amazing just as we are and no one has the right to touch us or hurt us. EVER.

A portion of my poetry from June 2005.
Read it as many times as you need to
until it sinks in. YOU ARE LOVED!

Stay tuned for another episode. I aim to crank out the blog posts three times a week on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. See you next time! And remember, if you or a loved one is in danger, get help right away, and don't stop talking until someone acts on what you're saying.

National Domestic Abuse Hotline: 800-799-7233 Hours: 24/7. Languages: English, Spanish, and 200+ through interpretation service. SMS: Text START to 88788

National Sexual Assault Hotline: 1-800-656-4673 Hours: Available 24 hours. https://www.rainn.org/

In Christ alone our hope is found 

Run, don't walk for help! You're worth it.