Tears of a Clown

Last night's closing thoughts were on the apparent suicide of actor and comedian Robin Williams.  A favorite radio program awakened me with the same topic.  I am saddened by the loss, but I am more saddened by the treatment of the loss.

I expected the world to turn this human being into a mere abstraction--a plastic character on the screen who is simply no more.  However, I didn't expect the Christian community to do the same.  OK, deep down I expected it, but it was still stinky when it happened.  This man stepped into eternity  24 hours ago, and people who've never met Mr. Williams all of a sudden know everything about him, his situation, his spiritual condition, his everything.  My friend, Alexis, summed it up this way on her Facebook page:

Everyone keeps talking about the characters that Robin Williams played and how sad they are that we will never see his talent again in a new way. This is all well and good because he did influence and bring joy to so many people in this way, so please don't think that I am saying it is wrong to mourn the loss of a talent. But please remember that it is not a character who has passed away - it is a man who was struggling. Today I am not mourning the Genie or Mrs. Doubtfire or Professor Keating. Today I am mourning a human being who could not find a way to escape the pain he was feeling in this life. We will miss you, Mr. Williams, not just because you made us laugh but because your life was precious and had purpose and changed the world.

Unfortunately, some cannot separate the celebrity from the human, many more cannot differentiate between the celebrity and the human.  For example when Pastor Rick Warren's son Matthew committed suicide, the world's outcry was the need to stop stereotyping mental illness; the church's outcry was, "He was a Christian, he had no reason to commit suicide."  Now that Mr. Williams is gone, the world's outcry was the need to stop stereotyping mental illness; the church's outcry was "He was a rich celebrity, so he couldn't have been a Christian.  He had every reason to commit suicide."

We who claim the name of Christ can't seem to acknowledge that there is depression and/or mental illness in our ranks.  When it is present, the person's spirituality, faith, and even his salvation itself is called into question.  The "leper" in question is lumped together with "those" people--those with defects that need to be hidden from view because they make the church look bad.

In the early days of my walk with Christ, the thing to do was to hide anyone who was sick, disabled, or physically infirmed in any way and call their faith into question.  Now, we readily accept physical sickness to the point we roll over and accept it without putting up a fight.  Back then, we didn't even acknowledge there was such a thing as mental illness or depression; it was always a demon that simply needed to be cast out.  Nothing has changed much.

Am I saying that there isn't a spiritual component to depression?  Not at all.  If there weren't, the Psalmist never would have written "Why art thou cast down, O my soul? and why art thou disquieted in me? hope thou in God: for I shall yet praise him for the help of his countenance." (Psalm 42:5 KJV)  What I am saying is that just as we used modern medicine as an aid to physical healing, why is using the same thing to aid in mental healing so taboo? 

It gets worse.  This is where I have to dive into my own stuff.  I'm not speaking something I haven't experienced.

If you know me personally or you've read my blog for any stretch of time, you know that I have bouts with depression.  What I haven't spoken of much is that this is not a recent development.  I've dealt with depression for years.  It started as just a seasonal thing I dealt with in wintertime, but it quickly escalated into long bouts of absolute despair to the point of physical malaise.  For years I had been counseled by my mentor (who is a Christ follower) to get medical help.  For years I refused.  Why?  Because the church advised against it.  Their reasoning was a) my faith just wasn't up to par and I needed to read the Bible and pray more (don't we all), b) would a real Christian allow the devil to attack them like this? c) I was being selfish and had myself on my mind too much was the reason I was depressed (at the time that gem was said I was working a job that was killing me and I was teetering on the edge of bankruptcy, but yeah, I was just selfish; that had to be it)  d) there are people with worse problems than you. (yeah...and?)  e) antidepressants have side affects that are worse than the meds themselves (I found out from my doctor that not all of them do).  I finally had one too many rounds of weeks in bed and suicidal thoughts to fiddle fart around with people who were more worried about image than people getting well.  I have tread my own path to healing without leaving my walk with Jesus out.  In fact, it starts there.  Like T.D. Jakes said, "Whatever ain't healed yet gots to get fixed."  I'm not completely well yet, but I can bounce back much quicker, and I have a network of friends and mentors who neither minimize my pain nor let me wallow in it.

So what does this have to do with Robin Williams?  What if in his quest to get help, he was told, "Well Robin, you have everything.  What have you got to be depressed about?"  Most of the news outlets I read from have analyzed his plight in just that degrading fashion.  What if he kept being the squeaky wheel that got no grease?  What if his humor was a covering for the real pain he felt, but his close circle of friends glossed over it to keep the good times rolling?  What if he was simply given crappy advice that kept him ill?  Of course, I don't know these things for certain, and I'm not going to act like I do.  However, for someone who has her phasers set to "snarky" most of the time, I know what the struggle of the sad clown feels like.

It's not simply Robin Williams I mourn, it is all who battle depression I mourn for.

Guilty of Poverty

From memes that compare Food Stamp recipients to dumb dependent animals to hateful comments overheard at church suppers, rails against the less fortunate permeate the atmosphere.  I try not to respond to such venom, but I've been pimp slapped by one too many of them.  Although I cannot share every detail for fear of repercussions, I will attempt to succinctly tell my story.

I grew up with two very hard working parents.  They were not nameless, faceless lazy moochers, but two human beings with a tremendous work ethic that didn't garner them much money.  They raised their first 7 children in a 4-room shack (not 4 bedroom--4 room) with no indoor plumbing, no air conditioning, and heating only with the aid of a wood burning stove. 

By the time I slithered into the world, Dad was no longer able to work, Mom could only make so much as a housekeeper, and they were stuck with me;  a defective child who needed lots of medical help and at the time, had no future prospects of being able to bring any money or skills to the table to help.  So, they applied for Medicaid and Social Security Disability benefits, and when I was six years old, they moved me and two of my older siblings  into government housing. 

For those of you who believe in abortion, yeah, I know it should have been me.

Not only did my family have deal with my myriad of eye exams, surgeries, glasses, and apparatus, but various colds, flu, rashes, sores, bronchitis, knee injuries, back injuries, injuries from falling down, injuries from being beaten up, a scoliosis scare, and it was eventually discovered that I had contracted and was a carrier of tuberculosis.  With every need for medical attention came my parents having to spend more time, more money, and more dignity in having to ask for help.  My mom said she and dad took to heavy drink to cope.  I take full responsibility for the shame they felt.  Don't blame them; blame me.  I finally caught on that I needed to stop telling my parents when I was sick or hurt.  I still don't. 

Fast forward to adulthood.  I'm on my own, I've finished college, I'm still on disability, I've moved into my own government-issue apartment, and I head out to find a job. Three years later, I get a minimum wage job that lasts all of four months (got laid off), but I keep pressing on.  Over the years  I worked several long term jobs.  None of them paid well (or were in my field of study), but it was enough good steady work to get off of disability and government medical insurance.  Through a miracle of God, I just got out of government housing.  I've only got one bit of assistance to get off now.

I told y'all this much hoping to gain some understanding and to stop this ridiculous class bashing.  I definitely don't bash the rich; one, because they are the one's who buy things and hire (I've never gotten a job from someone who was broke), and two, because I want to be one of those rich people one day:  I want to own my own house, pick the car I want, buy new clothes and shoes instead of relying on people's cast offs to have anything.  Those are things most take for granted.  That is richness to me.

Yes, I know that poverty is a curse, and accepting help from the government enhances that curse and increases their power over my life.  Blame me for my parents' choice.  Fault me for my own.

Truth be told, the government makes it very hard for those of us who work hard trying to get off assistance.  They punish us for working and rewards others for laziness.   Government BS is why my attempts to sell my crafts failed the first time.  When I complained, their answer was that I needed to just go to "fill-in-the-blank" agency and try to "get a check."  No, don't work, don't use your skills and education to better yourself.  Sit in your substandard housing, do nothing and be nothing.  That's messed up!

I've tried to tell people that every poor person is not a lazy moocher, and that everyone is one financial disaster, one health crisis, one family emergency away from being in the same boat, but they don't believe it could ever happen to them.  I hope it doesn't.  I hope they don't have to endure well off people telling them that wanting better for themselves is materialism, yet at the same time complaining about the church wasting money on the poor. I hope they never have to endure the embarrassment of using a Food Stamp card.  I hope they never have to try to hide their financial status from their church family.  I hope they never get so low they have to pray for socks and underwear.  I hope they never have to; it sucks!

Please stop.  I'm begging you.  Please.

My Recovery Story: An Audio Blog

Tonight, I shared my story with the Jacksonville, Alabama Celebrate Recovery.  I would like to share with you: 

https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/u/29899706/CR%20Testimony%202014.mp3

It may take a few minutes to load, so please be patient.  I hope it blesses you. 

Love,

Auntie

Blog Challenge Day 20: Backpedalling

Blog challenge is from Can I Get Another Bottle of Whine

 

Day 20:  Describe 3 significant memories from your childhood. 

Oh Lord, again? 

Look, I'm not writing that crap again.  I'll give you links to them.  Is that OK?

The day I found out I was fat.
My first experience with being a musician.
Burger King episode.

Thanks.

Blog Challenge Day 18: To Forgive is Divine

Blog challenge is from Can I Get Another Bottle of Whine

 

Day 18:  What is the most difficult thing you have had to forgive?

First, let me say that the people involved in this issue are NOT members of my family (thank God).  Second, the guilty parties are either long gone or long dead.  Third, if you are ultra sensitive, you might want to read a different post.  Maybe something more upbeat.

When I got into recovery and started working the 12 steps, I found it very hard to forgive all the sexual damage that was done to me.  Rest assured, I kept my virginity through it all, but I had to fight tooth and nail to keep it.  I've been molested and nearly raped several times.  I had my first (and last) kiss ruined in college by some numb nut who thought I would like it if he tried to shove his tongue down my throat--I didn't want or ask to be kissed in the first place.  I've had other forms of perverse sexual behavior forced on me (a rather graphic incident at a swimming pool when I was nine comes to mind--I'll not write it here).

Well, if you kept your virginity, what's the problem?

It's a problem because now, at 41 years old, I am damaged goods.  People often ask me why at this late age--like I'm old or something--that I'm not married, or at least dating and looking.  Here's why; no man in his right mind should be subjected to all my junk.  Good men--not lazy, trifling, sorry, thuggish men--are tired of needy, damaged women.  It's not fair to subject them to such nonsense.  He would need to go through a 12 step program to date me.  No kidding!  I have so many fears surrounding sexuality and relationships.  Some of my hangups about this are why I've been obese for so long. I was afraid that a man would find me attractive...

Can I tell you a secret?  My most hated cuss word is the "F" word.  I don't like profanity--real profanity not southern cussin' (that's different)-- but I often wondered why that one word sends shockwaves through my nervous system.  Of all things, a TV program brought it out.  Craig Ferguson was doing an interview with Stephen Fry.  Both men are from Great Britain.  They were commenting on the differences in US television and programming in the UK.  Mr. Fry made mention of the "F" word and said he didn't understand the censorship of the word on network television in the United States.  After all, in his reasoning, the word simply meant "intercourse" or "copulation," which to him were beautiful things, and of course, Mr. Ferguson agreed.  Sorry gentlemen, not to me.  Yes, the word is a slang word for sex, but to me that act is only in the context of rape or a man taking from a woman that which has not been offered.  It is a man trying to prove his manhood by overpowering a woman and forcing her to do his will.  There's nothing beautiful about that. So there is a Late Late Show episode that had me crying with something other than laughter.

...So, if a man found me physically attractive, he would simply take from me what he wanted and go.  Now, do you understand why forgiving was so hard?  These males (I refuse to call them men) stole a lot from me.  They stole my dignity and my right to be a woman and act like a lady instead of a scared little wannabe tomboy.  For a while, they removed my trust of men.   They took some of my innocence away and replaced it with terror and dysfunction.  They stole any hope I have of acceptance.  In our society, it's unacceptable to be older than 30 and unmarried.  They pilfered my children and my mom's grandchildren, thus a lot of potential happiness.

I put on weight thinking that maybe that would deter potentially lecherous goobers.  No luck.  The heavier I got, the more it seemed to happen. (!!)  Now, I care more about my health than the goobers.  I most likely can outrun the goobers.  If not, I can always to Madea on them!  Or better yet, Bon Qui Qui--I will CUT you!

My forgiveness was NOT for their benefit, but mine.  My anger at them was hurting me, not them. My excess weight was killing me, not them.  I didn't forgive simply because God said to;  I did it because He knows that forgiveness is what brings healing.  Bitterness is deadly.  I heard Joyce Meyer say that harboring unforgiveness was like drinking poison hoping that the other person would die.  Doesn't work, does it?

Blog Challenge Day 10: Don't Need Blush

Blog challenge is from Can I Get Another Bottle of Whine

 

Day 10: Describe your most embarrassing moment.

I'm going to make this quick because I really didn't want to visit here.  Most embarrassing moments in childhood are here and here.  High school was a total embarrassment until 11th grade.  The most embarrassing moment of my college days is here.  The jury is still out on what my most embarrassing moment is as an adult.  Geez!

Blog Challenge Day 06: Trying to Look Up.

Blog challenge is from Can I Get Another Bottle of Whine

 

 

Day 06:  What is the hardest thing you have ever experienced?

 

Oh man!  It seems that I've not talked about anything lately but hard times and bad memories.  I've talked about my struggles with being obese and having other problems as a child.  My father's death comes to mind and a very hard thing to endure.  I recently spoke of my embarrassingly hard experience with color guard.  I'm still going through some rough times now that hopefully will soon be over.  I'm trying to look up and keep on fighting, so can we talk about something else?

 

LOOK UP!



Blog Challenge Day 03: Let Me Clear My Throat

Blog challenge is from Can I Get Another Bottle of Whine

 

Day 3: What is the greatest amount of physical pain you have ever endured?

I wish I could say it was in doing something noble like giving birth or something daring like wrecking on a Harley, or something heroic like breaking something saving some one's life.  But alas, I have no children, have not yet learned to ride a motorcycle, and have never broken a bone.  Knock wood Thank God. 

Let me give you some friendly advice.  If you are over the age of 10 and need to have your tonsils out, DON'T DO IT MAN!  No, if you're sick enough to need them out, do it.  I was 30 years old and had been teaching preschool for a little over a year.  There's an understanding with every teacher than the first couple of years of teaching, you will catch everything running.  My sweet Thunderbabies were little snot factories of love.  I caught everything, including strep throat.  The problem is that I got over everything else except the strep.  After the third (or was it the fourth?) round, tonsillectomy here I come.

Oh, but you can have all the ice cream you want.  Sure, I had ice cream, pudding, Italian ice, and mashed potatoes...and couldn't eat any of it.  For the first 5 days post-op, my throat was so swollen that I could barely swallow the liquid pain meds.  Actually, I had to chase them with water to be able to swallow them.  For a while it was excruciating to swallow my own saliva and I wore the roof of my mouth raw from spitting so I wouldn't have to swallow. I also couldn't sleep because the swelling caused me to snore.  Every time I heard myself snore, I'd wake up.  Lord help.

After about a week, the only thing I managed to swallow without much pain was Vanilla Coke.  I didn't eat a single solitary piece of food for nine days!   I may have been able to tolerate this easier if I'd been able to stay home and rest, but my surgery was on a Friday.  I had to be back to work on Monday.   

See, now doesn't a story about rescuing a child while in labor and riding a Harley to the hospital with a broken leg sound like a better story? 

 

The Day I Found Out I Was Fat

I believe that we are all born with a God-given sense of special purpose.  Every baby believes that he is special, wanted, and loved.  Psalm 139:14 says that we are "fearfully and wonderfully made" by our Creator.  Every girl is a beautiful princess, and every boy an awesome warrior of some sort.  Depending on how we grew up will determine how long this joyful innocence lasts. 



If only that 11 year old girl had
known that 171 pounds wasn't
such a bad place to be, she might
have stayed that size.

Somewhere along the line "reality" sets in and all hell breaks loose.  Something happens and we begin to believe that we are fat, ugly, and worthless.  People we love and trust come along to help cement that thought in our minds.  Madison Avenue and the Abercrombe and Fitch's of the world perpetuate a gaunt, lifeless image and taut it as "cool."  Then, who we are doesn't matter to anyone; only what we look like gets us anywhere. 
 
Well, my "reality" set in when I was about four years old.  I was in Anniston's Stringfellow Memorial Hospital, having had my first eye surgery.  The hospital had a lovely play area for the recovering young patients.  I remember that I was being pulled around the room and hallway in a little red wagon.  I don't remember who was pulling it--could have been my mom, one of my siblings, a nurse, or even the doctor.  I do remember looking down at myself.  I was wearing a nightgown, and because I was four years old, AND because all kids that age would rather be naked than wear clothes or shoes, I looked down and saw my legs.  Wow, my legs look like the big fried chicken legs mama makes.  Wait, that ain't right.  Then, like a bolt of lightning, all the snickers and comments from my family and other children made perfect sense.  I'm fat.  I'm not like other children.  That's why I'm in the wagon and not on the floor with the other kids. I'm the one they're laughing at.  I'm not special, wanted, or loved.  So, along with why I had to have the eye surgery in the first place, I had something else to be ashamed of.

That memory fueled more than 30 years of debilitating self loathing, poor health, and a life of mere survival.  That memory continues to put a huge wedge between what is and what should be, what I am and what I should (and want) to be.

To this day, I still look down at my legs.  Although I am still far from my goal, I have a better outlook.  I see strength in those legs.  I see miles ran and miles to run.  I see a future of winter boots and summer heels that accent and show off the definition in the muscles of those legs (nothing provocative, relax).  I see legs that may learn to dance someday. I see legs that bounce babies as they laugh.  I see legs that sometimes recline on my desk when I'm reading a book.

I am looking forward to the day my innocence is returned.  I look forward to the occasions where I can feel like a special, wanted, and loved beautiful princess again.  It's coming.  I don't know when, but it's coming...

SIDE NOTE:  This video is several years old, but it so aptly describes what media images have done to our psyches.  Enjoy!

You Can Call Me Auntie: 30-Day Blog Challenge, Day 20

Nicknames You've Had

[Blog Challenge:  Day 20]
 

I've only had a few nicknames in my life, some good, some bad, some meh.  I'll mention the top three here: 

• "Black Boy" or just "Boy" - my dad always called me that.  He wanted more sons, but had mostly daughters.  I didn't mind so much....then.
• "Shamu the Killer Whale" - Comedian and Late, Late Show host Craig Ferguson talks about being overweight and how kids always give the fat kid a nickname.  His was Tubby; Mine was Shamu the Killer Whale.  It was "given" to me in 11th grade on the band practice field by Dominc Sinclair, one of our bass drummers.  It wasn't long till he had most of the band calling me that.  I remember when we went to Washington DC on a band trip, we were in the hotel swimming pool and I decided to get out of the water.  When I pulled myself onto the side of the pool, I had to sort of roll as I pulled (have I mentioned that I'm short?).  The rest of the band saw it, pointed and laughed, and said, "there goes Shamu getting out of the water.  I wonder what trick she's going to do next?"  If I could have gone home right then, I would have.  I wonder where Mr. Sinclair is these days?  Hmmm...
• "Auntie" - being an aunt and great aunt several times over started the ball rolling on this name.  I adopted it as my permanent nickname because (1) I like it.  and (2) You know how some churches have the "church mothers"--the ladies who take care of everyone and who the younger people come to for advice?  Well, that was me at my home church, but I was NOT old enough to be a church mother, so I became the church Auntie.  I rather like it like that.  I hope to get to know my new church well enough for people to feel comfortable with me as Auntie.  There's people at Celebrate Recovery already calling me by that name.  So, feel free to just call me Auntie. 

{I'm linking up with So, Funny Story http://ktslifeisfunny.blogspot.com for this 30 day  blog challenge.}

Ride or Die!

There are different types of friends.  Friends run the gamut from mere associates to forever friends.  From Facebook friends to the kind of friend who would bail you out of jail (unless he/she was in the cell next to you ).  The best friends in the world are “ride or die” friends. Urbandictionary.com defines these individuals as “the people in your life who are there through thick and thin. They'll do what it [takes] to make it through with you. The ones that'll stick it through ‘till the end.’”  In recovery, as well as in any healthy life’s journey, we need ride or die type friends.

There came a point in my quest for total health where I found out who my real friends were.  I had been in recovery for more than three years.  I was still struggling, but still hanging in there.  I had a small circle of friends who I thought had my best interest at heart. Unfortunately, it took a special day in my life to find out the truth. 

 

I’ve always wondered why birthdays mean so much to me.  After all, it’s just the day I slithered into the world, the last of eleven children (we think).  Is it society that implants the subliminal message that people are supposed to give a rat’s butt about the day you were born?   Is it a subconscious need for attention?  I really don’t know, but unfortunately, I’ve never shaken it.  I can’t figure out why.  As a child, my parents couldn’t afford to have me a party.  Having food to eat and clothes to wear was a little more important (I’m not being snarky; it’s true).  The only birthday party I was ever invited to when I was a kid was a nightmare.  When I turned 15, I tried to have myself a party…no comment on what a catastrophe that turned out to be.  My mantra after that was, “screw this mess!”  I sincerely tried not to care about birthdays after that.  When I turned 18, it’s was only a few days after I graduated from high school, so I was still riding on that high.  Year 21 didn’t mean anything because I’d drank more alcohol before it was legal than I ever have since becoming “of age.”  Year 30 was a blur because it’s the same year I had my tonsils out (strep, surgery, and drugs, OH MY! )  But then last year came year 40.  Oh dear.

 

For some reason, I thought that year 40 would be my year.  I’d finally started making decisions that were more beneficial to my health.  Like I said, I was still struggling, but felt like I was on my way.  The day before my birthday, a friend from church took me out to an early dinner and I was to get together with some other friends afterwards.  Dinner was scrumptious.  As I headed out to meet with my other friends, I felt so special—like one of the cool kids.  Sigh.  Why do I do this to myself?

 

Have you ever seen an intervention?  No, I’m not talking about a Dr. Phil intervention; I mean a real one.  It is my understanding that an intervention is set up because a loved one (i.e.: someone you care about the health and safety of) is harming himself in some way.  Whether it’s an abusive relationship or some sort of substance abuse, an intervention is supposed to be a loving meeting to let the loved one know what harm their choices are producing, to instill in them that they need help, and to give them the comfort of knowing that they have people in their corner.  Kind of like Galatians 1:6 (King James Version) – “Brethren, if a man be overtaken in a fault, ye which are spiritual, restore such an one in the spirit of meekness; considering thyself, lest thou also be tempted.”  Well, that ain’t what I got.  What was supposed to be a joyous time of fellowship turned in to a cartload of crap!

 

First of all, I already knew and acknowledged that I was a food addict and was getting help, so I didn’t see the point of this in the first place.  Second, I found it rather tacky (that’s the nicest word I could write down) to mess with me the day before my birthday.  Third, their entire premise and motive was wrong.  Here’s how it went.  My “friends” gathered together to let me know that (1) they thought I was suicidal, (2) they didn’t support my being a part of Celebrate Recovery, and (3) I was too honest about my struggles and that my honesty was making them look bad.  Stop! Hammer time…

 

Now, let’s see, you don’t support my honesty about my struggles?  O…K.  Any of you who’ve read my blog since its inception know that it started out slightly different than its present form, but that I always endeavored to be open and honest.  Jeremiah 6:14 says (Living Bible), “You can’t heal a wound by saying it’s not there.”   These people took my honesty as a personal challenge instead of a real person with real problems working through real answers and helping others in the process.  I was told “You know, people will use what you’ve said against you to hurt you.”  But wait, isn’t that the risk you take with any relationship, cyber or not?  I needed to take the risk so that I would know that it was O.K. for my voice to be heard, and to know that it was being heard by SOMEBODY!  I’d gone through years of being the squeaky wheel that got no grease.  This was my out; this was my release point; this was a way that I knew the joy of helping or encouraging at least one person with genuine honesty.  But, that’s a no-no!  It’s a heck of thing to find out your friends are ashamed of you.

 

Next, you don’t support my being a part of Celebrate Recovery?  For those who don’t know what CR is (because I haven’t explained it very well, sorry).  Celebrate Recovery is a Christ-centered 12-step program that uses the same recovery steps as the various “anonymous” groups.  The difference is that our steps and principles are Bible-based, and we are allowed to openly worship God and acknowledge Jesus Christ as our higher power.  Now, if my friends had not been professing Christians, this revelation of non-support wouldn’t have been a shock to me.  I asked them why they didn’t support it.  Their answer?  “Well, I wouldn’t go.”  God didn’t tell you to go; he told me to go.  “Well, it doesn’t seem to be doing you any good.”  Now, you’ve lost your mind.  Do you know where I would be if it hadn’t been for CR?  Do you really?

 

Why do I get the feeling that I’m in the presence of Job’s counselors?  Now you know WHY they thought I was suicidal. 

 

I made the mistake of doing what many co-dependents do; I acquiesced.  The deal was that I would hang around long enough to get my 4-year chip in July and then I would totally walk away from CR for six months.  Then we’d reassess the situation.  The caveat was that they were to be there to fill what was lacking.  “Oh yeah,” they said.  ”We’ll be there for you.  We’ll love you and pray for you.  Sure, we’ll take good care of you.”  They promised they would be “ride or die” friends.  Anybody want to guess what happened?   They didn’t ride; they died.  Once I was completely out of CR, they had what they wanted.  They were even more distant than before.  It was three months of misery, loneliness, depression and emptiness. 

 

Again, I picked up the chant of “screw this mess!” and I made drastic changes.  I jumped back into CR with both feet and found me some REAL “Ride or Die” friends.  Now, it’s not that I don’t still love my other friends or that I don’t own my part of the collapse of our friendship.  It’s just that I can’t “do recovery” with them.  We can talk about surface stuff, but anything of a deep emotional nature must be avoided for my emotional health and to keep them from feeling ashamed. 

 

Today is my 41st birthday—exactly one year since this crap happened. I felt that I needed to talk about this because for one thing, somebody reading this may be going through something similar.  Yes, it’s hard, but you are worth having people in your life who have your well being in mind and who will also get in your face and tell you when you’re wrong or need to change.  I also needed to talk about this because I’m dealing with fear today.  My new “Ride or Die” friends have gotten together to take me out for a birthday dinner tonight.  I’m very afraid that I’m going to cause a repeat of last year.  This has NOTHING to do with my friends.  This has EVERYTHING to do with me.  I suffer with waiting-for-the-other-shoe-to-drop syndrome.  Y’all pray now.  I want to enjoy this birthday.

 

UPDATE: The birthday dinner was great.  Laughter, Mexican food, and cute guys singing to me in Spanish...oh yeah!

 

 

 

 

Auntie vs. Burger King

“It is easier to build strong children than to repair broken men.”  - Frederick Douglass

“Death and life are in the power of the tongue…”  Proverbs 18:21

            When I was a kid, making friends did not come easily and getting invited anywhere was a real treat.  Of course, my being the fat kid with the thick glasses was a big deterrent for most of my peers. Fortunately, although I remember a lot of the horrid events of my childhood, I don’t remember who most of the perpetrators were.  So, if you are the kid I’m talking about here, don’t worry about it; I don’t remember who you were.  Unfortunately, one of these horrid events involved a major fast food chain.

            I was around 8 or 9 years old and one of my classmates had a birthday party at our local Burger King and I, surprisingly, was on the guest list.  I was so excited about being invited and allowed to go.  I finally felt like I belonged.  The feeling didn’t last long.

            I rode to the party with my one “bosom” friend (yeah, I’m a fan of Anne of Green Gables).  She went in first, and the birthday girl, who was standing with her mother to welcome everyone, was overjoyed at her arrival.  Her countenance completely changed when she saw me.  Her smile disappeared, her face went from angelic cream to purely pissed-off puce, and she stomped her foot at her mom, pointed at me, and said, “I told you I didn’t want her here!” 

            Before I go any further with this, I need to rant for a moment.  Anyone who tells a child “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me” needs to be hung up by his feet and used as a piñata!  That statement is a LIE!  Let me tell you from experience, I would much rather have been beaten up more, and endured the hateful words of others less.  Physical wounds heal much faster than emotional ones.  OK, rant over.

            Anyway, the girl’s mom calmly explained to her that she had invited the whole class, but she would have none of it.  They continued to argue and I grew increasingly uncomfortable.  Somehow, I got to stay, but the birthday girl made me wish I hadn’t.  Knowing that I didn’t see well, she sat me as far away from everyone and everything as she could, and her mom let her.  I didn’t get to enjoy watching her blow out her birthday candles or open her presents.  Participation in the fun and games with the other children was, of course, frowned upon.  I sat alone.  I ate alone.  This was the first time in living memory that I ever cried and ate. Y’all, that is one of the most miserable feelings for anyone, overweight or not. 

            This event so traumatized me that I couldn’t eat at Burger King anymore.  As an adult, I was obligated to eat there once (someone else was buying and insisted we eat there, so I gave in).  I literally went in the  bathroom and cried before I could eat anything and then I ate with a knot in my belly the whole time. 

            I know you’re probably thinking, “Why does any of this matter?  You don’t need to be eating fast food anyway!”  They DO have grilled chicken AND that’s not the point.  The point is this:  the Apostle Paul said in First Corinthians chapter six that he would not be mastered by anything except the Holy Spirit.  This memory had mastered me; it had put me in subjection to my fear and pain, and caused me to miss precious fellowship with people.  I’d turned down several invitations to hang out with my friends because they were eating “there.”  Many of my friends from Celebrate Recovery worked at Burger King; I missed fun times of seeing them outside of recovery meetings because of the bad memories.  This mess was on the list of stupid crap I needed to be free from (yes, driving on the interstate is on the list too, but let’s not get crazy). 

            About a month ago, my sister and I were running errands in Anniston and she suggested we eat lunch at Burger King.  She had no idea of my issue, plus, I wanted to deal with this anyway.  As we sat down to eat, all the painful memories flooded my mind and I wanted to run to the car, go home, and curl up in my bed into the fetal position.  Instead, I took a deep breath, asked God for help, started talking and laughing with my sister, and had a wonderful time.  Without knowing it, my sister gave me a chance to make new fun memories associated with Burger King instead of being mastered by the pain of being a broken soul.  Seems such a small thing, but it may be a catalyst to conquering larger issues.

Burger King: 1  Auntie: 1

Are there any small mountains in your life that you need to conquer in order to face the big ones?

Auntie vs. Zumba

Now, y’all know that sometimes I have ADD tendencies…hey look, a squirrel... so, I try to switch up my workouts to keep from getting bored.  A couple of years ago, I went with a classmate of mine to a Zumba class.  I didn’t even know what Zumba was, but she assured me that it would be fun.  It wasn’t.  It was a disaster.  The “instructor” silently came in, cranked up the music, turned her back to the class (perfect for instruction—smell the sarcasm?), and proceeded to bump and grind for an hour without any explanation or anything.  I hated every minute of the “workout,” but wasn’t too damaged by it because we swam earlier and got in some real exercise.   I immediately put Zumba on my workout “dookie list.”

In case any of you don’t know what Zumba is, Wikipedia describes it as:

Zumba involves dance and aerobic elements. Zumba's choreography incorporates hip-hop, soca, samba, salsa, merengue, mambo, martial arts, and some bollywood and belly dance moves. Squats and lunges are also included

(Oh yeah, this has Auntie written all over it.  J)

Fast forward to a few months ago.  I’m on the upstairs walking track at the gym and notice that a few ladies from my church were dropping it like it’s hot in the Zumba class downstairs.  So, me being who I am, I started heckling them.  And because we’re all silly, they heckled me back.  Over the weeks, they tried to convince me that I would love Zumba and I tried to convince them that they were CRAZY.  Oh, but it looks like such fun and they TOLD me the instructor would be different from the one I’d dealt with earlier.  So, this Monday, I gave in.  Oh, (insert expletive of choice here)!

OK, to be fair, the instructor was slightly different from the other one.  She was friendly, she did face us and she did call out what move was next (even though I couldn’t understand her).  However, that’s about the only positive things I can say about my experience.  She didn’t explain any of the moves ahead of time, or at the least slow them down for the newbies (O.K. me).  It was an hour of me marching in place and turning in the direction I saw everyone else was already in (insert another expletive here).  No matter how hard I tried, I could not follow her (or anyone else for that matter).  I was literally in tears by the time it was over.  My friends felt bad, but it’s not their fault.  Unless someone can point me to a good Zumba DVD or the instructor has a “short bus” version of this class, this workout is a NO!

Zumba 1, Auntie 0.

Workout Wednesday: Tips, Tools, and Reveiws

Product: Leslie Sansone’’s Punch Up Your Walk. DVD with weighted gloves.

Where bought/available: Bought at Wal-Mart.
 

Why: Wanted to try something new from the author.
 

I bought this video more than a year ago, but never really got into it until now.  As in my first review of one of Leslie Sansone’s products, I wanted a simple alternate workout, plus the weighted punch gloves caught my eye.  I took a cardio kickboxing class ages ago and liked it, so I thought this would be something like it.  Here’s hoping...

 

Rating (on a scale of 1-4 smileys):  J

 

The Good:

• The walking moves in this video are similar to the Walk Away the Pounds Express video, but not identical.  The added punch moves add to the intensity.
• The gloves themselves: these gloves are about 1 pound each, so they aren’t too light or too heavy.   She does give the warning not to fling your arms and risk injury.
• The author’s attitude: I don’t call her “Miss Perky” for nothing.

 The Bad: 

• The chatter: I know, I know.  In my last review I said that the chatter was annoying, but not a distraction.  Well, this time it is a total distraction.  She yacks and giggles so much through this video that she doesn’t give instructions to change moves in time.  In her other video, she yammered, but still gave verbal cues of what the next move was and when to start and stop it (for the most part).  You know, “do such-and-such move in 4-3-2-1.  Yackety, yack, yack, yack.  Giggle, giggle, giggle.”  Not so for this one.
• The music: To quote comedian Greg Proops, “The music sounds like it was written by an appliance.”  Sorry, but y’all know I’m music sensitive.
• It’s not four miles: She starts the stretches before the last mile is over (plus she doesn’t tell you that they are starting).

I cannot recommend this video.  It was thoroughly annoying, and clumsily done.  I do like the punch gloves, so I use them on her “stretchie band” workouts on the Walk Away the Pounds Express Video. 

 

If any of you have used this DVD, tell me what you think.

 

 

Facing the Pain.

This is in answer to the question:  What do you see when you look in the mirror?

There are some things in life that we can't control, and some of those things bring us pain.  Illness or injury bring physical pain.  Other people can say or do cruel things that cause us emotional pain.  And sometimes it doesn't take people at all; circumstances can deal us a bad hand and cause a lot of pain and suffering.  Not all of these events are necessarily traumatic.  Lots of small little hurts in our lives can add up to a general state of sadness or low-grade despair.  Sometimes the simple lack of stimulation from loved ones in our lives can contribute to boredom and loneliness, which can be some of the hardest emotional suffering to endure.

Joyce Meyer's book Look Great, Feel Great, p.  109
 

This is what pain looks like.  This is the pain I keep trying to get rid of. Yes, there are smiles in the pictures because there have to be.  Underneath is utter torment.  This is the pain I'm reminded of every time I look in the mirror.  This is the pain that hollers every morning "NOT GOOD ENOUGH!  HATED!  SHAMEFUL!  UGLY!  DIE!"  This is the outward manifestation of inner turmoil.   This is the product of feelings unfelt, love rejected, depression shamed and untreated,   and humanity unrecognized.  This is what I want to stop, to kill at any cost.

What I yearn for is not fashion model thinness, nor vain beauty that is fleeting (Proverbs 31:30).  Nor do I crave sex appeal (I'm too old for that crap, besides I'm not married anyway and most likely will never be).  What I want is the real me to emerge from these layers of damaged flesh and emotions.  What I want is a stable life--a life that shows the truth of God's divine promise of "beauty for ashes, the oil of joy instead of mourning."  (Isaiah 61:3)  What I want is to be heard, not shamed into a lonely corner of silence.  What I want is to never see someone else go through the same pain. 

This process of open truth is very painful.  I would rather be happy-go-lucky and continue to hide the fact that my life is not OK.  But that is a lie.  I can't help myself on lies and I certainly cannot help anyone else with lies.

What do you see when you look in a mirror?