(This is from Roger in response to John Joseph’s post Dabbling in Discouragement.)
Discouragement is a constant companion some days. I can relate to the posting above a lot. Some days it doesn't take much to send me spiraling into a what's-the-use frame of mind. There is so much that has gone wrong in my life. So much that I've contributed to out of anger, ignorance, or discouragement. But there is much that I have to be grateful for too, and why this seems to get lost in my sadness is hard to explain. I have a good job, make good money, am married to a wonderful wife, and my kids are doing okay too. My health is good, could be better, but I am not on disability or anything so there are a lot of people who would happily trade places with me I know.
Recognizing the telltale signs of discouragement's attempt to dislodge my attitude of thankfulness and learning what to do to derail that little train of thought is what a lot of my recovery has been about. I just wish I had gotten into recovery decades ago. Who knows where I could have been today. But that is another train.
Friday, January 16, 2015
Tuesday, January 13, 2015
Self-Pity
(This post comes from John Joseph.)
D.H. Lawrence once wrote “I never saw a wild thing sorry for itself. A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough without ever having felt sorry for itself.” (Complete Poems of D. H. Lawrence). I wish he could say the same for me. Of all the issues raised by my lifelong recovery from childhood sexual abuse, self-pity is one of the most pernicious and destructive. Would to God that it would drop from the bough, but it doesn’t.
The best that I can do with self-pity is to manage it like an addiction. Addictions have a mind of their own, a life of their own, and exercise control over me by promising relief from existential, mental, or emotional distress. Unfortunately, addictions never deliver what they promise. They can’t. The details may differ addiction to addiction, but the results are always disastrous and lead me to a mouthful of corn husks with a pig pen for a penthouse. They just never pay off. And that’s where managing them comes in, especially in recognizing that feeling sorry for myself is a slippery slope into addictive behaviors. I’m so predictable.
If you’ve never attended a Twelve Step meeting, it’s difficult to describe the inherent power of Step One—admitting that you and I are powerless over whatever is controlling us. A billion words or more have been written about this first step, yet few ever come easily to them. We mostly come crawling to them after waking up in the dregs, bruised, bleeding, and drenched in the sledge of whatever’s gotten hold of us, whatever we’ve given ourselves over to for the umpteenth time, be that heroin or hatred. To finally admit that something has control of us is just the admission that God, our Higher Power, is waiting to hear.
Once we can bring ourselves to admit that we aren’t the center of the universe and admit that we’ve surrendered all of our self-control over to a substance, a feeling, a destructive behavior, or to another human being, healing and freedom can break in. For me, admitting that self-pity is not only unattractive but overwhelmingly destructive and controlling is a great first step to freedom from it and from all the awful things that come with it.
D.H. Lawrence once wrote “I never saw a wild thing sorry for itself. A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough without ever having felt sorry for itself.” (Complete Poems of D. H. Lawrence). I wish he could say the same for me. Of all the issues raised by my lifelong recovery from childhood sexual abuse, self-pity is one of the most pernicious and destructive. Would to God that it would drop from the bough, but it doesn’t.
The best that I can do with self-pity is to manage it like an addiction. Addictions have a mind of their own, a life of their own, and exercise control over me by promising relief from existential, mental, or emotional distress. Unfortunately, addictions never deliver what they promise. They can’t. The details may differ addiction to addiction, but the results are always disastrous and lead me to a mouthful of corn husks with a pig pen for a penthouse. They just never pay off. And that’s where managing them comes in, especially in recognizing that feeling sorry for myself is a slippery slope into addictive behaviors. I’m so predictable.
If you’ve never attended a Twelve Step meeting, it’s difficult to describe the inherent power of Step One—admitting that you and I are powerless over whatever is controlling us. A billion words or more have been written about this first step, yet few ever come easily to them. We mostly come crawling to them after waking up in the dregs, bruised, bleeding, and drenched in the sledge of whatever’s gotten hold of us, whatever we’ve given ourselves over to for the umpteenth time, be that heroin or hatred. To finally admit that something has control of us is just the admission that God, our Higher Power, is waiting to hear.
Once we can bring ourselves to admit that we aren’t the center of the universe and admit that we’ve surrendered all of our self-control over to a substance, a feeling, a destructive behavior, or to another human being, healing and freedom can break in. For me, admitting that self-pity is not only unattractive but overwhelmingly destructive and controlling is a great first step to freedom from it and from all the awful things that come with it.
Friday, January 9, 2015
Dabbling in Discouragement
(This post comes from John Joseph.)
No matter how far I’ve come in my recovery, discouragement seems to be a ready option. As a codependent, addict, and all-around needy person, I seem to have a knack for obsessing over what’s wrong in my life rather than appreciating the long list of good things I have. Experiencing even a small setback can become handy fodder for the recovery blues and send me into a long spiral of discouragement, especially if I don’t watch out for it.
When I get discouraged all kinds of things start happening inside me, like paranoia, sadness, isolation, and a lot of fear. I start shutting down to my present life and feel like I’m “walking beside myself,” something author Leanne Payne calls morbid introspection. I call it hell. It’s like second-guessing every word you speak and finding fault with every nuance of yourself, your looks, your talent, your intellect. Even the way you laugh or the way you walk—everything you do seems wrong and unacceptable somehow. You’ve probably noticed this in others, those people who are miserable inside and out all the time. It’s easy to see it in them, but it can be difficult to diagnose in yourself and even harder to cure.
What I’m learning is that discouragement can start with small things and then escalate into something far too big to handle. For instance, someone makes a thoughtless comment and I take it too deeply, reading meaning into it they never intended. A project goes south and I begin to think there’s no way to get it back on track. I receive a bit of criticism, deserved or not, and suddenly I believe I’m a completely worthless person, unworthy even of the air I’m breathing. That is a very, very unfortunate way to live.
Allowing myself to dabble in discouragement is dangerous for me. It’s like letting a child play with a poisonous snake or a loaded gun. It might seem okay for a moment, but the potential results are deadly. Today I choose to lay discouragement down and be thankful for the good things I have and the good things I know are yet to come in my life.
No matter how far I’ve come in my recovery, discouragement seems to be a ready option. As a codependent, addict, and all-around needy person, I seem to have a knack for obsessing over what’s wrong in my life rather than appreciating the long list of good things I have. Experiencing even a small setback can become handy fodder for the recovery blues and send me into a long spiral of discouragement, especially if I don’t watch out for it.
When I get discouraged all kinds of things start happening inside me, like paranoia, sadness, isolation, and a lot of fear. I start shutting down to my present life and feel like I’m “walking beside myself,” something author Leanne Payne calls morbid introspection. I call it hell. It’s like second-guessing every word you speak and finding fault with every nuance of yourself, your looks, your talent, your intellect. Even the way you laugh or the way you walk—everything you do seems wrong and unacceptable somehow. You’ve probably noticed this in others, those people who are miserable inside and out all the time. It’s easy to see it in them, but it can be difficult to diagnose in yourself and even harder to cure.
What I’m learning is that discouragement can start with small things and then escalate into something far too big to handle. For instance, someone makes a thoughtless comment and I take it too deeply, reading meaning into it they never intended. A project goes south and I begin to think there’s no way to get it back on track. I receive a bit of criticism, deserved or not, and suddenly I believe I’m a completely worthless person, unworthy even of the air I’m breathing. That is a very, very unfortunate way to live.
Allowing myself to dabble in discouragement is dangerous for me. It’s like letting a child play with a poisonous snake or a loaded gun. It might seem okay for a moment, but the potential results are deadly. Today I choose to lay discouragement down and be thankful for the good things I have and the good things I know are yet to come in my life.
Tuesday, January 6, 2015
"You Shouldn't Feel..."
(an encore post from Cecil Murphey)
In conversation with my friend Beth, I mentioned that even though I knew the molestation in childhood wasn't my fault, I still felt shame and guilt over my abuse as if I had failed in some way. "I keep thinking that only if I—"
"You shouldn't feel that way," Beth said.
Before I could respond, she listed my achievements (as if I didn't know them) and told me how much she admired me for the way I had dealt with my painful childhood.
"But still—"
"You don't deserve to feel that way."
Beth was trying to encourage me and I appreciated her concern; however, nothing she said was helpful. She tried to persuade me with logic and tell me how unreasonable it was to feel as I did.
I knew that, but I also knew that emotions don't listen to logic.
Beth could have told me a thousand times not to feel as I did because of what someone did to me. I would have agreed, but nothing would have changed.
What I also hear from well-meaning friends when I speak of my painful feelings is, "Just get over it!"
Easy words, but meaningless and powerless.
Do they think I want to hold on to my painful emotions? Do they believe I want to wallow in self-judgment?
One time when I spoke about the lingering feelings of shame, my late friend Steve Grubman-Black, also a survivor of sexual abuse, said, "Be kind to yourself. Accept those feelings because they're real. When you're able to feel compassion for that innocent child you were, those negative feelings will begin to dissipate."
Steve was right, even though it took at least three more years for me to become aware of the change.
These days whenever I feel a negative, condemning emotion, I remind myself that I can't argue myself out of feeling as I do. But here's something I tell myself, "I accept myself the way I am."
I also remind myself: Emotions don't listen to logic.
"You shouldn't feel that way," Beth said.
Before I could respond, she listed my achievements (as if I didn't know them) and told me how much she admired me for the way I had dealt with my painful childhood.
"But still—"
"You don't deserve to feel that way."
Beth was trying to encourage me and I appreciated her concern; however, nothing she said was helpful. She tried to persuade me with logic and tell me how unreasonable it was to feel as I did.
I knew that, but I also knew that emotions don't listen to logic.
Beth could have told me a thousand times not to feel as I did because of what someone did to me. I would have agreed, but nothing would have changed.
What I also hear from well-meaning friends when I speak of my painful feelings is, "Just get over it!"
Easy words, but meaningless and powerless.
Do they think I want to hold on to my painful emotions? Do they believe I want to wallow in self-judgment?
One time when I spoke about the lingering feelings of shame, my late friend Steve Grubman-Black, also a survivor of sexual abuse, said, "Be kind to yourself. Accept those feelings because they're real. When you're able to feel compassion for that innocent child you were, those negative feelings will begin to dissipate."
Steve was right, even though it took at least three more years for me to become aware of the change.
These days whenever I feel a negative, condemning emotion, I remind myself that I can't argue myself out of feeling as I do. But here's something I tell myself, "I accept myself the way I am."
I also remind myself: Emotions don't listen to logic.
Friday, January 2, 2015
Paper Parachutes
(This is an encore post from John Joseph.)
Addictions are like paper parachutes. We assume the plane we’re on is going down. We snatch the nearest thing and jump only to find that the parachute is made of newspaper. As it shreds into thousands of pieces we fall faster and faster, hurtling to the ground at warp speed.
Once again, something we thought would save us accelerated our destruction. The crazy thing is that the plane probably wasn’t going down, but was having only minor problems. Had we not reacted in hysteria we would have landed safely.
As a sex-abuse survivor, I’ve jumped needlessly thousands of times. My paper parachutes have been forays into drug and alcohol abuse, sex addiction, hyper-spirituality, affairs, and even suicidal ideations. I’ve hit the ground so hard at times that it is a miracle I’ve survived and been able to maintain the relationships around me.
I've discovered about my recovering self that I must resist. Panic is my enemy, not my friend. The bizarre tendency I have to turn minor upsets into major catastrophes must be tamed.
One technique I have used to curb panic is to breathe. As a passenger, my job is to keep breathing and not jump. I’m not the one flying this thing. The pilots know what they are doing (insert your Higher Power here).
Turbulence, even severe turbulence, doesn’t mean we’re crashing. It just means we’re traveling and making progress toward our destination. Mechanical problems and delays rarely result in the mangled and flaming tragedies we imagine and are normal to the process.
Recovering from childhood sexual trauma won’t happen without turbulence along the way. We'll face setbacks, delays, bad weather, and crying babies in the seat beside us. The secret to staying the course and moving from victim to victorious survivor is simple: Keep breathing and don’t jump.
Once again, something we thought would save us accelerated our destruction. The crazy thing is that the plane probably wasn’t going down, but was having only minor problems. Had we not reacted in hysteria we would have landed safely.
As a sex-abuse survivor, I’ve jumped needlessly thousands of times. My paper parachutes have been forays into drug and alcohol abuse, sex addiction, hyper-spirituality, affairs, and even suicidal ideations. I’ve hit the ground so hard at times that it is a miracle I’ve survived and been able to maintain the relationships around me.
I've discovered about my recovering self that I must resist. Panic is my enemy, not my friend. The bizarre tendency I have to turn minor upsets into major catastrophes must be tamed.
One technique I have used to curb panic is to breathe. As a passenger, my job is to keep breathing and not jump. I’m not the one flying this thing. The pilots know what they are doing (insert your Higher Power here).
Turbulence, even severe turbulence, doesn’t mean we’re crashing. It just means we’re traveling and making progress toward our destination. Mechanical problems and delays rarely result in the mangled and flaming tragedies we imagine and are normal to the process.
Recovering from childhood sexual trauma won’t happen without turbulence along the way. We'll face setbacks, delays, bad weather, and crying babies in the seat beside us. The secret to staying the course and moving from victim to victorious survivor is simple: Keep breathing and don’t jump.
Tuesday, December 30, 2014
"We Didn't Know."
(an encore post from Cecil Murphey)
"We didn't know," the civilians said when asked about the gas chambers after World War II.
"We didn't know," neighbors say when they learn that the man across the street had molested a boy.
"We didn't know," parents say when their adult children talk about their past sexual abuse.
When I began to deal with my abuse, I told my three older sisters. They said the same thing.
I don't think they were lying. I think they couldn't accept the enormity of the revelation. If they had known, perhaps they wouldn't have been able to face the personal guilt for doing nothing.
What about abused kids' point of view when they hear those responses? One of the witnesses against Jerry Sandusky said he never told anyone. Asked why, he repeated an answer that rang true to me and to many others, "Who would believe a kid?"
When the perpetrator is a prominent person in the community, leads a scout troop, teaches Sunday school, or runs a charitable organization for kids, who wants to hear such stories?
The answer: No one wants to hear such stories.
Perhaps the question should be, Who needs to hear such stories?
When asked that way, the answer is obvious. Parents, religious and civic leaders need to hear. But too often they don't.
Sandusky's wife said she never heard the boy screaming in the basement. Apparently, she also didn't know when their adopted son said Sandusky molested him repeatedly for several years.
When will they believe us?
When will the cries of bruised and raped boys be heard?
Until they are, the survivor on the witness stand has spoken for all of us who were abused in the past. He speaks for those who are or will be molested.
"Who would believe a kid?"
"We didn't know," neighbors say when they learn that the man across the street had molested a boy.
"We didn't know," parents say when their adult children talk about their past sexual abuse.
When I began to deal with my abuse, I told my three older sisters. They said the same thing.
I don't think they were lying. I think they couldn't accept the enormity of the revelation. If they had known, perhaps they wouldn't have been able to face the personal guilt for doing nothing.
What about abused kids' point of view when they hear those responses? One of the witnesses against Jerry Sandusky said he never told anyone. Asked why, he repeated an answer that rang true to me and to many others, "Who would believe a kid?"
When the perpetrator is a prominent person in the community, leads a scout troop, teaches Sunday school, or runs a charitable organization for kids, who wants to hear such stories?
The answer: No one wants to hear such stories.
Perhaps the question should be, Who needs to hear such stories?
When asked that way, the answer is obvious. Parents, religious and civic leaders need to hear. But too often they don't.
Sandusky's wife said she never heard the boy screaming in the basement. Apparently, she also didn't know when their adopted son said Sandusky molested him repeatedly for several years.
When will they believe us?
When will the cries of bruised and raped boys be heard?
Until they are, the survivor on the witness stand has spoken for all of us who were abused in the past. He speaks for those who are or will be molested.
"Who would believe a kid?"
Friday, December 26, 2014
A Response to "Fractures"
(This post comes from Duane and was written in response to a post from John Joseph called "Fractures.")
My wife read this post and said, "I finally understand the part of your personality where you can be 3 different persons with 3 different ways you act out. At times you were that 5 year old boy again."
My wife has stood beside me but my problems are too much for my family of origin to understand as they don't want to admit that this could of happened. They're the reason I have had a hard time moving on with my life. There is the idea that if people would find out I would bring dishonor to my mother; my father has passed.
I didn't tell anyone until I told my wife. She could not believe I kept this from her for 30 years of our married life. I sometimes ask God, "Why did you let this happen to me?"
Now I feel if I can make it through this and have a family of 5 children and 9 grandchildren. They're my true family that God has seen me through this and he is blessing me in my life.
The last 4 years in therapy have been what I needed, but about the time I think I'm healed and can stop seeing my therapist, I pull back another layer of problems that my abuse started.
The hardest thing I ever did was to talk to my children who are now grown and ask them, "Did I ever abuse you as a child or when you lived in our house?"
Thankfully, they all said no, but I had to be sure because I had learned to block things from my memory that were associated with my abuse. I am here to say that I realize that I am a survivor and that it was something I can't change from my past, but I can choose to rely on Jesus, my wife and children and the friends I have been able to tell. If you need something to help out I think CELEBRATE RECOVERY is a good place to start.
My wife read this post and said, "I finally understand the part of your personality where you can be 3 different persons with 3 different ways you act out. At times you were that 5 year old boy again."
My wife has stood beside me but my problems are too much for my family of origin to understand as they don't want to admit that this could of happened. They're the reason I have had a hard time moving on with my life. There is the idea that if people would find out I would bring dishonor to my mother; my father has passed.
I didn't tell anyone until I told my wife. She could not believe I kept this from her for 30 years of our married life. I sometimes ask God, "Why did you let this happen to me?"
Now I feel if I can make it through this and have a family of 5 children and 9 grandchildren. They're my true family that God has seen me through this and he is blessing me in my life.
The last 4 years in therapy have been what I needed, but about the time I think I'm healed and can stop seeing my therapist, I pull back another layer of problems that my abuse started.
The hardest thing I ever did was to talk to my children who are now grown and ask them, "Did I ever abuse you as a child or when you lived in our house?"
Thankfully, they all said no, but I had to be sure because I had learned to block things from my memory that were associated with my abuse. I am here to say that I realize that I am a survivor and that it was something I can't change from my past, but I can choose to rely on Jesus, my wife and children and the friends I have been able to tell. If you need something to help out I think CELEBRATE RECOVERY is a good place to start.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)