Recovering My Hope Stone
Last December I was given a precious gift. If you asked me even days before, I wouldn’t have understood any of what I’m about to share. I would have had no reason to.
I lied. Mine was a 50-year kind of lie.
Broken Fences
In our yard, we have a wooden split-rail fence. During the last windstorm, one of the lower rails was irreparably broken. What a bold yet honest metaphor to symbolize the relationship between my mother and me. Some fences can be fixed. Some can't. We couldn’t.
I'm not too sure how old this fence is, just as I don't exactly remember when my abuse started. All I know is that like our fence, my abuse withstood the elements of every season. I never liked spring showers. Raindrops that rolled down the outside of my bedroom window panes were akin to the tears that welled in my eyes and streamed down my face. I would wipe them away just like mother made me her mop to wash away her own childhood abuse.
Read MoreLast
Last week my beautiful friend Meredith shared the sound of her twelve-week-old fetus' beating heart. This tiny promise of life, growing stronger each day, so well-loved and already adored. Even though this will be her second child, it too will have many firsts. Don't we all?
The milestones in each of our five baby journals include numerous "firsts;" first tooth, first steps, first birthday, the first day of school... It almost feels like we are wired to set our goals on being first from the very start.
Read MoreYour Christmas Lighthouse
Beautiful Christmas displays lighten my heart as I consider those less fortunate than I. There is just something magical in the shining splendor secured to lamp posts, fence rails, rooflines and of course, trees. The child in me wants to declare, “THIS IS CHRISTMAS TO ME! IT IS FINALLY IN MY HEART!”
Trust me; it wasn’t always.
Like many, I have lived through abuse. It really doesn’t matter what kind of abuse; every kind of assault to our soul leaves lasting remnants. They are imbedded in our soul like shrapnel. We can form scars to cover them, even hide them beneath the sheets of a bed of beauty. But like a grave blanket, they serve as an unlikely metaphor for what really lies beneath. We silently grieve because our reality is that we are spineless, and our past has rendered us unable to advocate for ourselves. We have no bones.
Read MoreAn Empty Plate
In 1993 I attended a Psychiatric day program facility on the west coast. I was suicidal. I wondered how I could love my own children when my mother couldn't love me. I wouldn't allow myself to recognize that I adored my children beyond comprehension, because my parents had no feelings for me.
I was a brilliant wreckage. At the program intake, I was told, "But you don't LOOK depressed." My nails were polished, my makeup skillfully applied and my outfit coordinated down to the socks. I was the perfect, intact image on the outside of the puzzle box; on the inside, I was a heap of detached, disjointed puzzle pieces. I succeeded in decorating the exterior of a soul that was decimated and demolished by a mother whose demons went unchecked. She suffered the same fate as I did, yet lacked the insight and inclination to break the cycle. She was the epitome of Borderline Personality Disorder. What a heinous legacy.