2016

 I went to visit mother in the summer of 2016. She wasn’t doing well physically, and I was scared about the state of her health. It was a shock to see her. She had always been a plush woman, but the woman standing before me in the airport terminal appeared to be skin and bones. Her hair was thinner, her face gaunt, and many pounds were missing from her frame. This wasn’t the mother I last saw. It frightened me. 

She had recently moved into her own apartment, kicking my sister out and moving into a small ground-level complex for elderly and disabled persons. Upon arriving, one of the first things she pointed out was a sign on her wall that said, “As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord.” I remember her saying to me, “If you aren’t serving the Lord, you can’t stay here.” I was astonished. Speechless. Did she not know me? I had gone to church since I was little. I had gone to church when she stopped going. I walked to church when she slept in. I walked to church on Wednesday nights so I could go to youth group. I had gone to church camp. I spent years in college on the phone with her, begging her to go back to church. I loved Jesus. Did she not know me?

It would be months later that I would tell her she did not get to be a part of my walk with the Lord. She would try to tell me things that I already knew. She would try to ‘teach’ me things. She would try to preach to me. For years, church had been my safe place. Home was tumultuous. I was bullied at school. Church seemed to be the only place I was not yelled at or hit or called names or made fun of. It was the only place I didn’t wish to escape from. So for mother to try to come into that, to share it with me, raised my red flags. As a child, when I came back from church camp, there were no discussions that I can recall about what God did there. I didn’t see her praying or reading her Bible. It didn’t feel safe to let this woman who had been so toxic in to my safe place. I remember when I told her this on the phone, she hung up on me. She’s hung up on me a lot over the years. 

During my visit that summer, we went to the library’s painting event. We painted a beach scene, and decided to each add a footprint to the other’s canvas. Everything was going great and I was enjoying the painting when she stated she wanted to add a scripture verse to the painting. I didn’t feel it was necessary to add a scripture verse, but she wanted to. So, I said I’d add my favorite verse, too. She wasn’t happy with that, but allowed it anyway. I still have that canvas, though I’m not sure why. Now and then I’m tempted to take a knife to it. 

We went to the funeral home. She can’t afford a burial, but I wasn’t sure what I believed about cremation. So we went to the funeral home. It was weird, talking about death plans with the funeral home director and my mother. She didn’t seem scared, though. She seemed fine with it all. I was anything but fine. 

When I was little, I’d often sleep on the floor in her bedroom, especially when I was too scared to sleep in my own room. I’d take my bedding and lay on the floor next to her bed. She couldn’t tolerate having me in her bed with her, so it was the floor. While visiting her, I got an idea to write a poem about it. I wanted to print it on nice paper and put it in a frame. We went to Walmart so I could get what I needed. She got things, too. She insisted she make me one, and she also insisted there be cross stickers on hers. I was frustrated, as I felt that my poem had nothing to do with religion, and it was fine to not have any crosses or things of the like on it. But she insisted. What was meant to be a gift for her turned into her making it all about, well, her. I don’t even think she hung my poem in her house. 

She never wanted to pray before meals, not that we ever did before. But, she’d insist that I pray. So, I did. At church (she insisted I go to her church, not the church I grew up in), she wanted to take a picture together at bible study and in the sanctuary. So, we did. I hate those pictures. They seem fake to me. She never nurtured in me a relationship with Christ, nor did she model one for me. It wasn’t something we shared as I grew up. It was mine. I remember times she would call me, “Miss holier than thou,” when I was a teenager. A relationship with Christ wasn’t something we shared. It wasn’t something I felt I could share that summer, either. It didn’t feel safe to share. Perhaps that’s what abuse does. It takes away any safety there could be. 

I was pretty emotional during that trip. I thought my mother was dying, and it wasn’t something I thought I was ready for. I remember she took me to one of her counseling sessions, though I don’t remember why. I’m still not even sure what I think about that. 

That trip was awful in other ways, too. As I said, I was pretty emotional. She had already had time to process the changes in her body and health, while I was still in shock. I was scared. One day, she wanted to take me to a special place and get ice cream. I was looking forward to it. But my emotions hit and she left. I don’t remember what she was upset about, nor what I was upset about, but she left. She left me, still in tears. When she came back, I learned she had gone to get ice cream, and we weren’t going anywhere anymore. I was sad, angry, upset. I felt I had ruined it. Another time, we were working on a craft and she got upset and put it all away. Again, I felt I had ruined it. I’ve always felt responsible for her emotions. It was my job to keep her happy. It was my fault when she was upset, because I must have done something wrong to cause it. I was responsible for her emotions. And that belief made me feel I had ruined it. The truth is that my mother has never been able to be with me in my emotions. She isn’t capable of handling my feelings or emotions. She hasn’t been able to walk with me through them, creating safety and a sense of well-being. No, even as a small child, I have been like a ship in stormy waters, tossed to and fro, with no anchor. I’d been left to navigate my difficult, big emotions all on my own. And this visit was no different. 

When I was in high school, she and I got into a big fight. I was crying and upset. She was upset. She left. I was so enraged that she left. I remember going to my room and laying on the floor, crying and screaming because I was so enraged. My sister called to tell on me. Mother wanted to speak to me, so I got on the phone. I’ll never forget her words to me, “If I hear you’ve screamed one more time, you’ll get it when I get home.” Angry and not knowing what to do, I went back to my room, found a paper clip, unwound it, and used it to scratch my arm. I had never hurt myself before. But it seemed my only option in that moment. If I couldn’t scream my anger out, I’d hurt it out of me. 

One night during that summer visit, I again was upset and crying when we went to bed. She told me to be quiet, but the tears would not stop. I was sobbing for I don’t remember what reason. But I couldn’t quiet them. She got up to leave the room without saying anything. I asked where she was going. She said she was going to go sit in the car. It was because I couldn’t stop crying. Once again, she was going to leave me. She was going to leave me in my big, scary emotions because she could not handle them. She was incapable of being with me in them, of helping me through them. I begged her not to leave, and told her I would be quiet. I stifled my sobs as best I could, my whole body shaking with each one. Finally, eventually, sleep came to me. 

It’s no wonder, then, that for years when I was out of the house, both during college and after I’d moved away, I’d want to hurt myself every time a call with mother ended. She’d often say, “Well, I’m going to go now,” or something like that. But every time, I still needed her. I needed something from her. Some validation of what I had just shared with her. Some acknowledgement of how I was feeling. But, I got nothing. She could not handle my emotions. When I learned my beloved university was closing during my second year of college, the first person I called to tell was mother. I’ll never forget talking to her as I walked down Rudisill Blvd toward campus, telling her that my school was closing. I expected sympathy, but what I got was an agitated and angry, “Well, I guess you’ll have to quit school then and come home.” There would be no salve for that wound. 

The visit in the summer of ‘16 was awful, to say the least. I’d not want to repeat it for anything in the world. With all I’ve just written, I’m sure there’s more I’m leaving out. It’s now 2023, and she’s still alive. She’s been to many doctors and nothing is wrong with her. It seems to be psychosomatic. If you want to know my theory, it is this: she has endured and taken part in so many awful things, such as my abuse and abuse from my father, and she cannot deal with it. She cannot face her part in allowing things, bad things, to happen to me. She is trying to suppress it, but it is coming out as illnesses. Maybe this isn’t what’s happening, but maybe it is. Whatever the case, she’s still alive. She’s not sick. She’s not dying. At least not yet. But I can’t be in relationship with her. 

Belonging

You know those movies about the family inheritance? They’re usually full of drama with the storyline being one of the parents cuts one of the kids out of the family inheritance. Or maybe it’s a movie where someone is pretending to be a part of the family so they can get their hands on a large inheritance. Whatever the storyline, I’m sure you know what I’m referring to. It’s about a family, an inheritance, and one person trying to get in on it. 

The thing is, to receive an inheritance, you have to belong. No one outside of the family can be in line for it. You have to be a part of the family, have the family name, to be considered. 

Ephesians 1:11-14 says that anyone who is in Christ has an inheritance. Now, anyone can say they are in Christ, and a lot of people do. Many people call themselves ‘Christians,’ but don’t really belong. They have not received Him, believing in His name, as John 1:12-13 says is necessary to being His children. So, how do you know you belong? Ephesians 1:14 says the Holy Spirit is the down payment for our inheritance. He is the proof we belong. He is the family name, so to speak. Romans 8:16 says the Holy Spirit bears witness that we are children of God, and if children, then heirs. Heirs receive an inheritance. 

Jesus made a way for all of us to belong. He adopted us, giving us His name and putting us in line to receive an inheritance. Then, in case we doubt our right, He gave us His Holy Spirit as proof and guarantee that we belong. He sealed us. It can’t be undone. We belong. We are His. 

Growing Up

 I’ve been thinking about my mother again lately. And just a fair warning, this post will stray from my usual posts. It’s not pretty, my experience with my mother. It’s not the typical mother-daughter relationship portrayed in movies and TV. Honestly, it’s quite the opposite and, not to mention, confusing. 

Growing up in a single parent home with my younger sister was fine. That’s about as typical as my experience gets. From there, it strays into dysfunction, the kind of dysfunction that’s not really talked about. I didn’t know it was dysfunction until a few years ago. To me, it was normal. 

My parents divorced when I was three because the night my father beat me, the sexual abuse was discovered by hospital staff. Growing up, I didn’t remember what had happened, but I knew from hearing mother talk that I had been “molested” by my dad, whatever that meant. I knew it was something bad, though. Then, she would use other words, like “sexually abused.” I definitely knew that wasn’t good. As I got older, she would tell all of my teachers about it, making me step out of the room when she talked to them. I remember times in the grocery store lines where I didn’t know the people or person in front of us, but she would be talking with them and I’d hear her say, “She was sexually abused by her father, but looking at her you’d never know it.”  As if that wasn’t bad enough, it didn’t stop there. During orientation weekend at my college, I found out she told the chancellor and his wife. When I expressed anger about it, she said she was “making sure you knew you had someone to talk to.” I was frustrated. She had made it my identity and I was finally going to go to college where no one knew and I could start new. But no. It would still remain my identity, hammered in by mother’s incessant need to ensure someone knew about it. 

Not only did I experience sexual abuse, but domestic violence, as well. As an adult, and even as a young adolescent, hearing people argue, scream, yell, and even seeing children being spanked scared me. Growing up, when mother said she was going to spank me, I’d cry and beg her to let me use the bathroom first, because I knew if she didn’t, I’d pee myself because I was so scared of being spanked. There were times, though, where I didn’t know it was coming and she’d slap me across the face. Those were the times I’d pee myself. I was terrified when that happened, terrified because I’d peed myself and what would she do because of that? One time when I was in my teens, she slapped me across the face so hard that I lost my balance, fell back against the wall, hitting my head on it, and peeing myself. At some point when I was older, maybe in high school, she told me that when I was going through counseling as a small child due to the abuse, she was told not to hit or spank me because it would traumatize me. They were right. But she didn’t listen. 

No child is always well-behaved. It’s the parents’ job to teach them when they misbehave. When I misbehaved, my mother taught me terror. I remember several times over my childhood where she would threaten to send me to live with my father when I was misbehaving. I’d cry in terror, thinking she really would do that. She’d threaten to call the judge and tell them that I needed to go live with my dad because she couldn’t handle me. In addition to the terror that would course through me, I wondered how she could want to do something like that. She knew what my father had done, yet had the audacity to threaten to send me there. It told me she wanted him to hurt me. It taught me that if I didn’t behave, I’d be sent away. It taught me that I was only wanted when I was behaving myself. Sometime when I was in high school, she told me she never was going to do that, send me to my father’s. She only said it because she didn’t know what to do. She made me promise not to tell my sister. Sometime after that, she and my sister were yelling at one another, mother from the living room and my sister from the back of the apartment. Mother threatened my sister she would send her to live with our father. When she said that, she looked at me and winked. Like it was our secret she wouldn’t do that. I still cried. I felt the terror that was already ingrained into me. Knowing she really wouldn’t do that didn’t take the terror away. She had already done damage. 

In Kindergarten, I would find rocks on the playground and put them in my backpack. I thought they were pretty. Mother would do “backpack checks,” to ensure we didn’t have anything in our backpacks we weren’t supposed to. I remember one time, I was in the bathtub after school. She left me in there to go check my backpack. She came into the bathroom and spanked me on my bare butt because she found a rock in my backpack. She was so angry. I was never to bring rocks home again, because if I did, I’d be spanked. She didn’t see what I saw in rocks, and to her, they were just garbage. She couldn’t appreciate her child’s interests. That’s how it felt all through my growing up years. When I was in high school, I participated in two school musicals. It didn’t seem like mother was very supportive, as I didn’t have her to pick me up from after school practices. Instead, my drama and English teacher had to drive me home. On opening night, I didn’t expect mother to come. What kid doesn’t expect their parent to come on opening night of a show they are in? Me. I didn’t. I felt like an inconvenience to her. It felt like she couldn’t be bothered with the things I was interested in. The night before my college graduation, there was a parent and grad dinner and chapel service. I had told my mom I wanted her to be there, and that I’d pay for her dinner so she could be there with me. I wanted her there. I reminded her about it. I told her it was important. The night came. I ate dinner by myself at a table with some other peers and their parents, because my mom wasn’t there. After dinner, as I sat in the chapel, watching it fill with grads and their parents, I called my mom to find out where she was. She was at the hotel. Twenty minutes away. And she didn’t come. When I told her I was disappointed, she yelled into the phone, “I’m such a disappointment, I’m such a bad mother.” I cried as I hung up the phone. I cried as I sat through the chapel service without my mom. I cried after the service when I went to the music room to play the piano, the one thing I found comfort in. She couldn’t be bothered to come to an event that was important to me. Years later it still hurts that she wasn’t there. 

Mother was not mentally stable when I was growing up. I remember sometime when I was in high school, she came out after a shower without a shirt. She put her shirt on in the living room where I was, and as she did, I saw her stomach. There was a huge, ugly, purple bruise on her stomach. I panicked, because I didn’t know what happened. She had been stabbing herself with her insulin needles, she told me. I didn’t know what to make of that. Another time, she had a huge, red, raw spot on her arm. I presumed she had taken my nail brush that was hanging in the shower and rubbed her arm raw. Another time, she had a huge burn on her arm that I suspected she did on purpose. As I went through high school, I’d go home most days expecting to find she had killed herself. In college, I expected a phone call saying she had killed herself.

“You’re my friend.” What I needed was a mother. When I told her this, she got angry and yelled that she would be my mother, then threatened to make my life miserable. I recanted. She could be my friend. I was in high school. That day I decided I didn’t need a mom. I’d been doing fine without one, anyway. 

She would do weird things. Once, while we were getting the laundry ready to take to the laundry mat, she directed me to come to her. As I got close to her, she grabbed the bottom of the shirt I was wearing and blew her nose in it. She laughed. I was disgusted. There were times I’d be in the shower and would get out to find she had hung my bra and underwear in the hallway on the wall. She’d scare me while I was in the shower, pushing in the shower curtain with a loud noise, or turning the light off while I was in the shower. She thought all of these things were funny. 

You’d think that after moving out and away the abuse would stop. But, it didn’t. I moved to CA in 2012, and in 2013 or ‘14, cut mother off for about 9 months. I felt like the worst daughter. I wrestled. It was a tough time. When I finally broke the boundary, I found she had gone back to church, been diagnosed with ADHD and Bipolar, and altogether seemed to be a different, healthier, mom. After some time passed, her old self reared its head. For the next several years, I would go back and forth between having communication with her and cutting her off. She’d often say hurtful things and couldn’t understand me. 2016 was the worst. She wasn’t doing well physically, so I went home to visit her for a few weeks. It was the worst visit. She was shockingly different in her appearance than the last time I had seen her. I was afraid I’d lose her. While she had had time to process her stuff, I had not. I was emotional during the visit. She couldn’t understand why I was so emotional. Not only that, but at the start of the visit, she subtly threatened that if I wasn’t serving the Lord, I couldn’t say in her house. That hurt, as I had been a believer since I was a child, and had continued serving Him when she had not. She didn’t know me at all. Then, during this visit, there were times where I’d be upset about something and she would leave. I felt abandoned. She never was able to handle my emotions, and me being an adult was no different. She still could not handle my emotions. Rather than helping me with them, she left. Not only was that trip the worst visit, it was also very hurtful. 

My final straw was in 2019 when she texted 6 of my friends, blind texting, as she had no idea who she was texting, tell them she didn’t know what I was telling them and if it was true, but that she was worried for my mental health and that I wasn’t serving God where I was, but was whining and crying about wanting to go to Africa. She told them she was my mother, but my sister in Christ, and she had things to teach me. She did this because I would not talk with her when she wanted me to. I had set a boundary with her, and this was retaliation. I was so hurt by her words and actions. 

Since then, things haven’t gotten better. In the summer of 2021, I sent her two letters, telling her things I had always kept from her because I was afraid of her. The letters described how I felt about things she had done. Using a third party, because she was blocked on my phone, she said that I could send more letters if they made me feel better, but she would send them back to me unopened. She also said I needed God, then a psychiatrist. 

It’s hurtful to me that she could never be a mother. I’m not sure she’s capable of being a mother. She tried to be my friend, then my sister in Christ. Once, after hearing a sermon at her church, she had the audacity to suggest that our relationship was like that of a married couple, where both of us needed to give 100%. Rather than being my mother, she wanted to be like a married couple. She didn’t feel I was giving enough to our relationship. But, she is the mother, I’m the child, albeit an adult child. I’m still her child. 

I often feel stuck in childish ways, because I never got to be a child. I feel stuck behind my peers mentally, emotionally, and developmentally, because of all the years of abuse I’ve endured. I used to think that the abuse from my father was the hardest thing to get through. It was hard, but to be honest, trudging through and healing from over 30 years of abuse is much harder than healing from 3 years of abuse. Yes, I have been abused by my mother for over 30 years. There is so much more I could share regarding the things I went through with mother. Perhaps I’ll share in another post. Probably reading these things, you are thinking, “So what? That’s abuse?” Please understand that without walking in my shoes, you can’t possibly know the depths of the hurt and pain I have experienced with this woman called my mother. Narcissistic abuse, as well as mental and emotional abuse, are often hard to identify. It has taken me about 30 years to see that her treatment of me is indeed abuse. This was part of my growing up. And in ways, I’m still growing up. 

From the Ashes

 Over the last several years, parts of California have been devastated by wildfires. Flames ravaged communities and forests, destroying thousands of acres of woodland and wrecking havoc in towns and cities. Several towns have been burnt to nothing but a heap of ashes. Driving past previous fire areas, one can see the burn scars on trees where whole forests were destroyed. As time has passed, one can see something else, too: new life sprouting up from the ashes.

Throughout my life, I have often felt like a wildfire has swept through, destroying everything in its path. Hopes and dreams have been burnt to the ground through abuse, betrayal, rejection, and abandonment. Relational bridges have been destroyed, leaving only ashes. So many places in my life seem to have been devastated, specifically by trauma. I can see the burn scars where the proverbial fire has swept through. But, as time has passed, I can also see new life coming from the ashes. 

It’s fascinating that forest fires can be helpful in encouraging the growth of new trees and plants. Forest fires can help clear dead trees, leaves, and competing vegetation from the forest floor so new plants can grow (mylandplan.org). In California, for example, “prescribed fires” are used by forest managers to add nutrients to the soil and rejuvenate plant life. However, for large, unprecedented, destructive fires, active efforts to assist recovery are often needed (frontlinewildfire.com). 

In my life, there have been ‘fires’ used by God, my Forest Manger, to encourage new growth in me. And at times, there have been destructive fires used by my enemy to try and destroy me. I am so thankful for those who have assisted me in the recovery from the destructive ones. And I’m extremely grateful for the “prescribed fires” God has used to grow me, to clear away the muck and dead things and even the things that compete for my attention, in order to sprout something new. From the ashes, new life is born. May it be true in my life and in yours.