Mother's Day

 I used to love Mother's Day.  I LOVE being a mother, and my husband has done a great job of celebrating me as a mother.  

I used to love Mother's Day. I LOVE my Mother-in-law.  She raised an amazing son, and I am eternally grateful for that gift. 

I used to love Mother's Day.  I was so proud of my accomplishments as a mother.  I had six amazing children, and they have grown to be amazing adults, and their love makes my world so much better. 

For many years, I dreaded Mother's Day.  

Not because of my children, or my in-laws, or my husband.  

I dreaded the celebration of Mother's Day because of the train-wreck that was my relationship with my own mother.  Many years ago I went very low-contact with my mother to protect my own mental health.  I had realized from a very early age that things in our relationship were not healthy or right, and that I was not responsible for the mess of our relationship...and that I was unable to fix things, no matter how hard I tried. 

The realization that I was not good enough, pretty enough, attentive enough, or willing enough to give in to her whims and control tactics made it seem like I was the problem.  

But the problem was never me.  

There are probably a dozen or more explanations for the problems.  Maybe half of each one is accurate. I probably won't ever know the why of the the terrible relationship.  

I do know that since she died almost 3 years ago, I have not cried a single tear missing her.  I cannot.  I don't miss her.  I did all of that missing her back in my 20s and 30s, when I was missing the mother I needed but didn't have. I cried a LOT during those years.  

Frankly, I am relieved that she is gone. 

I think about this a LOT.  Most people probably could not see how bad things were.  They did not see the physical abuse, the gaslighting, the guilt manipulation, the controlling, the verbal and emotional abuse. All most people saw was the veneer created to keep others out, to make things look good.  

I used to think a LOT about the way things actually happened and who I might have been had I had a different mother.  Now, instead, I just try to be the best mother I can be. I learned from her what NOT to do.  And because of her, I have had a LOT to overcome in order to be the mother I really wished I had as a kid.  

None of this is to say I didn't love her.  She was my mother.  And she was a brilliant person.  But she was NEVER my friend.  And she was my first abuser.  I loved her like only a trauma-bonded abused child can love their parent who abused them.  

I hope I have been able to break the cycles of trauma and abuse in my family of origin, so that my children don't have to look back on their childhood and work to break free of things to which I subjected them.  I pray I have been successful in this one thing.  If I have been successful in this one thing, I have accomplished the one thing I always said I would do.  

Today I am able to appreciate and celebrate Mother's Day again...celebrating my Mother-in-law, and my lovely friends and their mothers....but also celebrating ME, and the growth and change I have seen in myself as a MOTHER. 

Upside down stories

 I have always LOVED to write.  To create.  I live a LOT in my head, processing the stuff of my life, and the experiences of people around me.  At one point in time, I really REALLY wanted to write novels or romances.  But as I have gotten older, and read more of this genre, it all feels very formulaic, and contrived.  

Imagine with me a typical story line - a young woman runs away from home to meet with huge success in a big city, but not in relationships.  In frustration, she returns to her small hometown to be knocked head-over-heals by the young man who was there all along, and they live happily-ever-after.  Formulaic.  NOT realistic.  Sometimes HE is more successful; sometimes she is a failure at something...still formulaic. 

How many love stories ACTUALLY look like this?  

Why don't authors write realistic love stories?  Oh, yeah.  They don't sell.  

YUCK.  

Why are real-life love stories not as attractive?  

Oh, yeah...people don't want to face the fact that people FIGHT, and screw things up, and it can't be tied together with a pretty bow in 150 pages.  The fact that real life is messy, and unfair, and painful.  How do you sell books like that?  

As time has passed, I have come to the conclusion that I need to write nonfiction...it is a better fit for who I am, and the direction I am headed.  And yet, I procrastinate.  It's not the right time.  It's too much work.  I don't know where to start.  

Today, it dawned on me that real-life stories DO actually sell....sometimes.  And people DO want to read them...SOME of them.  Honestly, *I* read them.  I don't read much "fluff" any more.  Real life is more appealing to me.  But not the ones that are easily scripted and tied up in a pretty bow.  I want the raw, and rough, and the ones that make me look deeper at who I am, down deep.  

Tell me....what do YOU want to read? Do you want the formulas? The fantasy? The real?  The raw?  What draws you in?  

I'm not "there" yet

 There's so much of me that is still a work-in-progress.  

I'm learning to overcome the traumas in my life.  
I'm learning to show grace to myself and others. 
I'm learning and growing in my faith.  
I'm healing from the hurts of life. 

Meanwhile, I'm also learning that the things in my life I experience on a daily basis are making me into someone new.  

I am NOT the person I was at 18 when I left for college.  
I am NOT the person my mother was disappointed in because college changed me.  
I am NOT the newly-married wife flinching because my husband moved faster than I was prepared for.  
I am NOT the new mother scared to revisit my childhood traumas on my children.
I am NOT the mother of all the kids in all the schools trying to juggle all the things all the time.  

For now, I am a daughter of a flawed, dysfunctional family. 
I am a wife of a newly retired-from-the-Navy husband, trying to figure out what is next. 
I am the mom of a bunch of newly-minted adults, struggling to step back and let them handle things on their own, and working to reimagine my life rattling around in a house that is much too large for those of us still living in it.  
I am Mimi to some precious little people that I get to spend far too little time with.  
I am a coworker, friend, neighbor.  

Coronavirus (aka Covid-19) and social distancing

March 15, 2020

We're trying to figure out what this next week will look like.  Frankly, it feels like the whole world has gone crazy.  Schools are closed across the country.  Every teacher and professor in the country is scrambling to adapt to an online format.  Except the homeschoolers...this is old hat for them/us...well, except for the world-ending, dystopian feel of everything. 

We enjoyed a day at home today...and by "WE", I mean *I* have enjoyed the day at home.  Jason went to work, and the kids have suffered through no church or youth activities or work or school.  I'm pretty sure they're going to be having mental breakdowns soon.  Until then, we've done laundry, and there was a Guitar Hero competition...and now there's some kind of card game happening.  I also made and canned bone broth, and also have enjoyed church online, and a virtual acoustic concert with an artist friend from Boston. 

There are all kinds of looming changes for all of us...things that are too big and nebulous to specify, but that will definitely affect us. 

Meanwhile, I am following so many friends in so many different areas

October 11, 2020

So much water under the bridge.  

Today I went back to church for the first time since March.  It was strange.  And SO good.  
In July I was fired from one job after filing for partial unemployment.  
My other job picked up the slack, promoted me, and made me full-time. 

Jason had surgery to reconstruct his foot, damaged by years of running, to the point where it was collapsing on itself.  He is now almost two weeks into recovery, and 4 weeks out from going on terminal leave from the Navy.  He has his first follow-up appointment on Tuesday and has been working on his resume and trying to find a job.  

Justin and Leah are isolating at home, awaiting test results for COVID exposures from work.  Both are at Millikin as students and have emailed their professors to let them know that they won't be in tomorrow.  

Heather is sick...she's in Carbondale, and she is also awaiting results of COVID testing.  

I am struggling to know where to go from here.  So much of my life is up in the air, and I feel like I am living in some strange suspended animation, looking around, trying to figure out where we will land.  While the whole world is trying to navigate life in the middle of a pandemic, we have the added level of trying to figure out jobs, moves, and life after the military.  It feels overwhelming to me, and I don't know where to start.  

I have tried processing with my counselor, and her advice is to just focus on what is here and now.  Which feels like a cop-out.  Like, I know there are things that I need to get done prior to any potential move, no matter when it happens.  I have to shred mail/trash.  I have to sort things that have been moving with us, and get rid of a LOT of things.  Right now, I have no time.  I need to take two children to do their driving tests and get their licenses.  Work still rolls on, no matter what else is going on.  The dog needs a haircut.  I need to study for my licensure exam.  I need to finish registering for that.  Laundry and dishes and toilets and vacuuming and sweeping and driving and sleep....all need to happen.  And cooking and shopping and cleaning up.  

I wish I had been able to enjoy the extended time at home that so many seem to have had.  I have worked regularly all the way through.  I am tired.  And overwhelmed.  And sad.  And frankly, probably healthier than I have been in years.  I am tired of being socially distanced so far that no one checks up on ME.  No one has called me to see how I am.  I get that everyone is busy.  These are some crazy times.  I guess I am just tired of feeling responsible for all of the communication that happens with other people in my life, and rarely do others extend that same level of communication/concern to me, and that makes me feel sad and alone.  

Heading back to my suspended animation, where the husband is busy playing the same football game he has been playing on repeat for the last few years since they haven't made a new season.... At least football is back on TV now!!  

Dumping Ground

Right now my brain feels like a dumping ground. 
It is full of trash...and treasures.
I just have to sort out which is which...
...which feels hugely overwhelming at the moment. 

There's grief. 
Not the expected grieving for my mother. 
Nope.  Not a single tear. 
Those were all cried many years ago. 

The grief I am feeling is for the end of an era. 
Twenty-one years identifying with military life. 
Feeling like an outsider for most of those years...
...and suddenly realizing that I'm on the other end of things...
...and that *I* am an expert on military life. 

Then there's the grief of missed things. 
This year has meant that we are missing out on so many things. 
Cousins, and grandkids, and travel, and friends.
Time with my husband, vacation, plans for the future...

Everything feels so big and overwhelming...
and also minute, and unimportant in the grand scheme of things. 

I want to be able to plan. 
I can barely drag myself out of bed each morning. 
I want to have some idea of where, and what, and when...
I'm lost as to why and how. 

There's so much to be done...
Financial decisions.
Jobs to be found. 
Retirement plans to be made. 
Studying and passing exams. 
Children in college to be paid for and organized, and encouraged. 
Children out on their own to be called, and loved at a distance. 

The everyday has to keep happening.
Laundry.
Dishes.
Pet food.  And kitty litter.  And Doggy grooming. 
Children fed.
Medical appointments.
Daily job/work responsibilities. 
Dietary goals.
grooming.  hygiene. clothing. 
Mental health.  For me.  For the children. For the spouse. 
vehicles (all 4 of them).

There's still grief around the losses of the last two and a half years. 
Losses of jobs. 
Losses of people.
Losses of possessions. 
Losses of relationships. 
Loss of progress.
Loss of trust. 
Loss of hope. 

There's so much anger. 
Anger at the people who treated us unjustly. 
Anger at the people who should have cared, but instead blamed. 
Anger at injustice. 
Anger about loss. 

There's fear. 
Fear that I missed out, and will miss out on so much that I want. 
Fear that no one will ever believe us, or trust us, or want us.
Fear of the unknown. 
Fear of more loss. 

I'm tired.  Overwhelmed.  Sad.  Depressed.  Fearful.
I have *almost* lost hope. 

My life - Part 1 - an overhead view

I was born on February 13th, the oldest child of two oldest children.

My first brother was born 13 months later...the child that my maternal grandmother was convinced SHOULD have been aborted...who later ended up being the Golden Child.

My second brother was born when I was 6 and in first grade.  He was born with a congenital heart defect, which was discovered after a month or so of failure-to-thrive, and he died on the operating table at 5 months of age.

My third brother was born 18 months after the death of the second one.

My only sister was born 12 YEARS later, after 5 or 6 miscarriages, born when our mother was 43 years old, and I was 19, and in college.

***********************

My mother grew up in a family that looked perfect.
Grandpa's family was a Presbyterian family with generations of Presbyterian ministers.  He broke that tradition, eventually becoming a professor, after working for the Presbyterian church in their TRAV (Television, Radio, and Audiovisual) department.  They lived in Arkansas and moved to Atlanta, GA when my mother was 8 years old.  After she was out of the house, my grandparents moved to Austin, TX, where Grandpa was a communications professor at the University of Texas until he retired.  When Grandpa retired, they moved to their newly remodeled vacation home in Montreat, NC.

My mother graduated from high school, and went off to college in St. Petersburg, FL, and graduated from there 4 years later with a Bachelor's degree in Spanish and Russian.  The way she told the story, she was offered a job at the UN, but instead wanted to get married.

She met my father at the church she attended in Atlanta.  Daddy was a college student in Atlanta, originally from Staten Island, NY, but having moved to St. Petersburg, FL, when he was 17 years old when his father sold the family hardware store and retired.

My parents were married on June 25, 1966, and immediately moved to South Carolina, where my father had a job at Regal Textiles as an engineer.  They lived in Fork Shoals, on a "lake", and spent a lot of time skiing on the lake. While they lived on the lake, my uncle Brent came and spent some time there, but tragically committed suicide as he was mourning the recent suicide of his girlfriend.  My parents moved from that home quickly thereafter, living in Ware Shoals until they bought the farm in Due West, SC, which my father still lives on more than 50 years later. 

My mother was 24 when I was born.  Daddy was 28. 

They moved to The Farm just prior to my birth...it was one of two places I lived before leaving for college.  The Farm was the scene of almost all of the abuse I suffered...though The Dairy Farm also saw some of the same behaviors in the 5 years that we lived there. 

We moved to The Dairy Farm when I was 10 years old, and lived there for 5-ish years.  The years at The Dairy Farm were long and hard.  There were endless 18-hour days, injuries, losses, and financial hardship, as well as unexplained illness for Mother.  During those hard years, she experienced 2 or 3 miscarriages, and a kidney infection that could very easily have been fatal. 

At the end of the years on The Dairy Farm, we moved back to The Farm...back into the 150-year-old house with leaky walls, wood heat, and a dying well.  We never lacked for food...there was always meat in the freezer (that we had butchered), eggs in the refrigerator (that we had gathered from our chickens), fresh veggies from the garden, and fruit from the orchard.  But there was never enough money.  Daddy kept the cars running by constantly fixing them.  We stayed in the private church-affiliated school by the contribution of other church members.  We gladly wore hand-me-down clothes.  We never went on vacations, and rarely did any of the entertainment things that our friends took for granted. 

For a few years, we attended a local Presbyterian church, but my parents became concerned about the direction the church was headed and started looking around for another church.  We visited a local Baptist church but landed in a newly-planted Mennonite church. 

Adjustment to Mennonite life had to have been hard for my Mother.  She never quite forgave the very restrictive rules or the fact that some members of the church could get away with the blatant flaunting of them, while others were punished for minor indiscretions.  She was never comfortable in the clothing dictated by the rule-book, but never quite gave it up once they made the decision to leave many years later. 

My school years started with homeschooling.  My parents found Calvert School's curriculum, and did a very unpopular thing for that point in time, and decided that they would educate me at home.  Technically, that would have been my kindergarten year, as I entered first grade with my peers at Cold Springs Mennonite School, where I finished 1st, 2nd, and 3rd grades, prior to our church starting their own school, and my brother and I transferred there for my 4th-grade year, and his 3rd-grade year.  This school was where we graduated 8 years later. 

Refining Fires

2019 was a B.E.A.S.T.

There was soooo much that happened (I only covered the big stuff on my other blog )

Stress.

Financial worries.

Health challenges.

Relational problems.

There was also growth, and change, and sweet family time, and mourning, and loss, and watching God provide in unexpected and amazing ways. 

2019 was really a refining year for me.  The worries and hard times are burning away the impurities and helping me see who I am without all of those in my life. 

This morning our pastor spoke from Isaiah 32:1-8, about waiting to see the harvest God has prepared for this new year.  He said some things that really resonate with me. 

"We live and breathe hope." 

Today, I look forward to 2020 with HOPE. 
Hope to see the harvest God has promised. 
Hope for new, good things in our relationships, our jobs, our finances, our future. 

The verse that I had formerly chose as my life-verse fits very well here:
Jeremiah 29:11

"For I know the plans I have for you," declares the Lord, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future."

Black and Blue

If you were to ask my favorite color, it would probably be somewhere on the purple spectrum right now...royal purple, burgundy, hot pink...all combinations of red and blue in varying amounts.  Many of my go-to shirts are those colors. 

However, if you were to observe my regular clothing choices for the past few years, you would see a bit different pattern.  Yes, there were purples...but more black and grey and blue than anything else. 

The colors I wear reflect my levels of inner torment. 

I have been depressed since I was an early teen. 

I self-medicated with food. 

I wrote angsty poetry and sad stories. 

I cried myself to sleep for years. 

I felt disconnected and unincluded, even excluded, for most of my life. 

All of these things are but symptoms...Complex Posttraumatic Stress haunts me, and shows up as nightmares, and messed-up sleep patterns, and messy relationships with food, and people, and things, and for many years, it reared it's ugly head as a heightened startle-response and fear. 

For close to three years after Jason and I were married, I flinched and cowered and hyperventilated when he moved quickly.  NOT because of anything he had ever done, but because of my prior experiences of abuse at the hands of someone who was supposed to love me. 

After more than 30 years out of that setting, and 20 years of therapy, I know I am doing better.  I have experienced some healing.  I also know that the things that broke me as a child continue to affect me every day. 

Someday, I may know that my favorite colors don't have be shades of pain, or to taste like tears.  I may not always experience the conflicting anger and love and hate and apathy when I think about growing up as an abused child. 

Black and blue may no longer be the colors of my thoughts. 

Dark Times require REST

This evening I am feeling discouraged about the direction of our country. 

On social media, I see bitterness, and division, and anger, and hurt, and fear...SO.MUCH.FEAR.  I also see hatred...especially present in conjunction with fear. 

I see this happening on all sides in politics, and in many different religious environments, and it is so sad to me. 

I was talking this evening with a young lady about taking on emotions from other people and from the movies we see, and the TV shows we watch....and I just realized that I am taking on the emotions of those I cross paths with on social media. 

IT. IS. EXHAUSTING. 

Our pastor did a good job this weekend speaking on one of the topics of current interest, and it is always good to see when God times things like this out...He knows what He is doing, and THAT is encouraging. 

I'm thinking I just need a break...this is something that happens regularly enough that I am recognizing the signs of my needing to back away from the hype, and the beating of war drums, and the yelling louder and louder, because those in the back of the room are deafened by all of it. 

Meanwhile, I have to be able to keep functioning in this real world in which I live....
...the one where my children still need clean, dry clothes, and food to eat, and a warm house in which to live. 
...the one where parents lose their edge as they age, and end up in hospitals.
...the one where friends also get discouraged, and need my presence more than more words. 
...the one where I have responsibilities that do not allow for a day (or week) of mental health time-off.
...the one where creativity is healing...and where I haven't had time or energy to create in far-too-long.
...the world where God has things to say to me that He doesn't say through short memes on social media. 

So, I think I am going to go take a sabbatical.  I wish I could do it for work, and life...but this time it will just have to be for social media.  Because I am giving myself permission to REST...to HEAL..to REJUVENATE. 

I'll be back.  I don't know when...because I know I need a LOT of rest.  But I WILL be back. 

Brutally Honest (and LATE) Christmas Letter

 I came across a challenge that really resonated with me, so I am going to attempt to rise to meet that challenge.  The spirit of the challenge is to be brutally honest with the Christmas letter, instead of creating a fictional front.  Soooo....in that spirit....

PAXTON FAMILY 2018 CHRISTMAS LETTER

2018 has been a strange mix of hard and wonderful.

Our year started with the whole family still in Massachusetts, due to the fact that the Navy couldn't make a decision.  The movers came on January 10, 11, 12...and Jason and Justin took the dog, and left and drove to Illinois since Jason had to be there to take the advancement exam (Spoiler: he didn't pass).  This left Laura, Heather, Leah, and Katherine still in MA, watching men pack, guarding Jason's baby (the Harley-Davidson, for the uninitiated), cleaning the now-empty house, breaking down the garden shed no-one wanted, and camping out with friends.  The highlights included Jason finding an amazing church the first weekend in IL, God having provided a GREAT house, Laura and the girls driving through the night in a blizzard that closed I80, spending a night in OH with friends, and arriving at our new home on January 16th.  Most of the rest of the month was spent unpacking and setting up the house.  We also learned that our children could NOT go to school in the district we thought we were in (off by something like 5 houses!), but were instead supposed to put them into one of the crappiest schools I have ever seen rated...so we are homeschooling.  (Cue unhappy 10th-grader).  Justin was finishing his classes via an online program through his school in MA.

February saw me starting back at Walmart in a job I never wanted to have again, working overnights on the remodel crew, which lasted into May, and I was able to translate that into a job working as a cashier...still don't want to be there, but it is helping pay the bills.   The kids started making friends in the homeschool group and church group.


In March, Justin took his SAT in Champaign.

In April, we had some wonderful visitors for Spring Break.

In May, the remodel was completed, and I celebrated by moving to days and starting working as a Cashier.  Frances also graduated from Gordon College and celebrated by flying to Spain the next day for a summer Spanish intensive.









In June, the kids and Laura drove to MA for Justin's high school graduation.  We stayed with friends, and got to see Nick and to hang out in familiar places with more friends.  Justin successfully graduated, and we drove back to Illinois.

In July, Frances came back from a very eventful time in Spain, having traveled, and seen the country, been hospitalized, had surgery, delayed her return home, and finally arrived home...to travel again a week later...after having Heather to dinner during HER visit to MA to spend time with friends.  Then Frances and Nick, and Jon all came to Illinois for the Shipp family reunion...which Heather was supposed to attend too, but ended up spending 24+ hours in the airport in New Jersey due to crappy weather.

August started with ALL of the kids here in Illinois and ended with everyone back to work in their various places.  Leah began a brand new adventure, taking dual-enrollment classes through the local community college, as well as her homeschool work for 11th grade.  Justin began training as a shift lead at work.  Katherine started her new school year...as a 9th grader.  Heather's job moved to another store, in another town, working as a co-manager of the Journey store there.  Also in August, Laura was reminded again that she was pre-diabetic, and finally figured out what to do about it (why no-one could tell me for the prior 10 years how to make any changes is a subject for another dissertation...).

We also learned that we will be grandparents in April...

September, October, and November are a bit of a blur.  Everyone worked their butts off.  Katherine and Leah attended to all of their school work, along with the requisite fussing by parents to complete homework and do household chores.  There were doctors' appointments for Laura, and adjustments in medications which resulted in more energy, better sleep, and other subtle signs of improving health. The dog went in and out with regularity, which is more than can be said for the rest of the couples represented.  Laura and Jason did KETO...Laura lost 30 pounds, and Jason lost 10 pounds.  Jason traveled for work and saw friends; Laura traveled to see friends and make plans for the future.  Heather turned 21, and we celebrated.  Thanksgiving happened, and we celebrated.

And then it was December.... and it was ALL about celebrating...Nana's birthday, Uncle's birthday, Katherine's birthday, Cousin's birthday, great-grandfather's birthday, another Uncle's birthday, an Aunt's birthday, Sissy's birthday, Jesus' birthday...  ALLL the celebrations.  There have been parties, and gifts, and cookies, and pies, and lots of time with friends.

And then December 27th happened, 11 years after my mother's heart attack and subsequent triple bypass surgery, my mother failed to wake up, and ended up in the hospital again, this time in a short-term diabetic coma.  And Laura and Katherine left, on New Year's Eve, for South Carolina. 

What a year!!  Moving, and job changes, and health stuff...oh my!!  We are glad to see 2018 in the rear-view...and excited to see what 2019 has in store for us!! 

On Belonging and Home

Today I am struggling with hurt and anger and loneliness. 

I am TIRED of feeling left out of life.  Like, I know we have all these great, wonderful, grand adventures, moving around, experiencing life in different places every few years, but I am seriously envious of people who live in one spot for years on end, and have family and friends nearby that they have been able to know for years, and who are their support network, and KNOW them without having to work to develop that in every new place. 

I am TIRED of being the outsider ALL.THE.TIME. 

I am SAD that my children who are trying to raise support don't have that built-in support network that their securely-planted friends have had all of their lives. 

I am ANGRY that I wasn't able to deeply connect with other military wives, and have always felt like an outsider there, too. 

I know that our family doesn't fit the typical MK/PK/TCK pattern, but living this life IS a third culture adventure that has third culture effects on all of us, and it makes me sad and angry, and feeling more and more like an outsider in life. 

I want to BELONG somewhere...but the itch to move on is always there...and that paradox is so painful some days (like today). 

Days like today are such potent reminders of what we don't have...a permanent, secure, abiding home...and a reinforcement of the hope that we have for our promised HOME. 

Until then.... 

I missed out

There are so many different ways that having a parent with a mental illness impacts the children's lives that it would be impossible to list them all.  Suffice to say that every part of life, physical, mental, emotional....all feel the impact of the parent's illness.

For me, I can count the things I missed out on....

I missed having a loving relationship with my mother.  Let me explain...I THOUGHT it was a good relationship...until I started seeing others' relationships with their mothers, and realizing how one-sided ours was.

I missed fun...don't get me wrong.  I had some fun...but it was strictly (VERY) regulated.

I missed friendships.  I had a few...which were VERY limited due to my mother's reticence to have anyone visit our home.

I missed out on differentiation in my teen years....

I missed out on following ANY dreams...mainly because the dreams were squashed so early that they didn't ever have a chance.

I missed out on getting into trouble...legitimate trouble...not trouble with my parents, but truly doing anything that might be considered trouble-worthy in any other family in our church.

I missed out on freedom to roam, freedom to be me, freedom to be unencumbered.

I missed the chance to explore who I was because I ALWAYS had to be/act/do as she determined.

Weariness

I was just re-reading an article by another military spouse, and one sentence she used jumped off the page at me:

I am weary of not being honest about it all.

I find myself identifying with her words.   

I'm weary of the military life, and yet I am proud to be a military spouse. 

I'm weary of moving, but start feeling claustrophobic and anxious to move if we've been in one spot for too long. 

I'm weary of everything being identified by my husband's military service, when I am a person too, and have things to do that are important and make a difference. 

I'm weary of the opportunities missed because we move so much. 

I'm weary of the friendships that haven't gone deep because we haven't had time for that to happen. 

I'm weary of feeling like I don't matter...only he matters. 

I'm weary of fighting to get things done that should be easily accomplished. 

I'm weary of having to explain everything all over again to a new doctor/dentist/physical therapist/counselor, etc. 

I'm weary of being the "new kid" at church, at work, everywhere....

I'm weary of starting over, and over, and over, and over.....

I'm weary of feeling like all of this is somehow my fault...like I should either "suck it up", or make him get out...

I'm weary of being measured against the wrong standards every stinking time...and coming up wanting. 

I'm weary of being weary, and not feeling like I can be honest about it because I am going to get flack from EVERYONE any time I say the actual truth.  There's so much more...but I already can hear the push-back from what I have said so far...and I can't deal with it because I'm weary. 

The unavailable mother

Often, when I speak of my experiences growing up, I see in people's eyes the disbelief, and sometimes they voice skepticism.  The mythical expectations that all mothers are caring, loving people who have the best interests of their children as their main focus means that disbelief is always a response experienced by those whose experiences are outside of the "norm". 

So, what is it really like to grow up with a mother who is unavailable because of her mental illness? 

She is unable to be available as a mother, grandmother, mother-in-law, or wife...never mind friend, sister, or daughter. 

In my house, the unavailability added up to a lot of isolation from outside influences, from extended family.  It meant that she was unavailable to be emotionally available to me, as a child, teenager, or young adult.  It meant that she often "checked out", escaping from reality into books.  It meant that her expectations of our behavior were to make HER look good...to reinforce her personal appraisal of herself as brilliant, the perfect mother.  She was unavailable to transport us to any events, unless those events made her look better. 

It meant that any infraction was met with harsh punishment.  Humiliation, beatings, kicking, pulled out hair, further isolation....all were on the table as regular punishments.  No matter that the punishment didn't actually fit the crime...if I were in the wrong, I made her look bad, and that was unacceptable.  She was not in touch with what it meant to have an actual long-term relationship with her children. 

As an adult, this unavailability has played out to mean that none of her children spend any time with her...she has chased us all away with her unrealistic expectations, attempts at control, and over-the-top negativity. 

While others have mothers that they can ask for help, can be friends with, can discuss their lives....I have none of that.  She is unavailable.

She has refused to take care of herself, so not only is she unavailable emotionally, but she is unavailable physically.  She is slowly killing herself, all while attempting to portray herself as the victim.  She has allowed her anxieties around other cars, and fear of my father's driving isolate her further.  She no longer can drive herself, but refuses to go any distance with anyone else at the wheel. 

*******
My mother is currently 73 years old. 
She has Type II diabetes, had triple bypass surgery, and (by dint of her refusal to eat healthily or take her medications for the diabetes) has developed some form of dementia. 

I am currently 49 years old. 
I have been working toward healing from the abuses of my childhood for more than 15 years. 
I recognize that she can no longer hurt me.  The sad facts of the matter is that a mother's mistreatment lives on in the head of the children they raise, and come back to haunt them for the rest of their lives. The words planted in my head that said so much about what she thought of me have formed the base upon which my lack of self-esteem was based.  The terrible names she spat at me in times of her rages live on in my head.  NONE of them are true, but they are part of the fabric of me. 

Life as an Adult Child of a Narcissistic Parent

I’m thinking through and working through the full impact of having grown up with a narcissistic parent. As part of that process I want to communicate the things that are different for a child raised by a narcissist. 

Imagine with me that at some point in your life, suddenly you realize that everything you know about yourself and others is upside down, off-kilter, or has huge holes in it.  When this happens will depend on how isolated your parent has kept you, and how healthy your outside exposures were as examples.  What exactly does this mean?  It means that suddenly you have to figure out who you are, who your parents really are, how the world actually works, and what is truth.  

In short, you cannot trust anyone or anything. 

You start to recognize that the “truths” your parents taught you were, at best, missing pieces. These truths involved their history and accomplishments, your own abilities and skills, your identity, perceptions of others’ actions and speech. They may have taught you to think poorly of others...racism, elitism, cynicism, and rampant negativity may have formed the foundation of your childhood.  

As the actual truth of what you were taught begins to dawn on you, you may struggle to figure out who you are.  

Looking further, you may realize that everything you believe about yourself is somehow a product of what your parent has brainwashed into your head.  Even if you remember times when you had thoughts about yourself, your future, who you are, what you liked, etc., now every one of those has been skewed. 

*********************

At some point in my teen years, I started to recognize that my homelife was not normal or happy.  I recognized the overt physical abuse, but it took me MANY more years to see the psychological abuse, and I am still processing the full impact of these things.  

I was diagnosed in my early 40s with PTSD, which was amended to Complex PTSD as that diagnosis became a thing...this was a DIRECT result of how I was raised.  

Today, I am happy to say, I rarely have the nightmares associated with PTSD, nor am I as "on-guard" as I once was.  Much healing has happened, but the aftermath of the abuse is still present.  I still have a LOT of questions about myself, who I am, what I might have been able to do, and what to believe about what I was told as a child.  

On Easter, and Baptism, and Internal Conflict

Today is Resurrection Sunday...the day all of Christianity celebrates that our Messiah was raised out of the tomb, and lives again.  Here, at our new church, and also at other churches we have attended, there is the additional excitement of people declaring their decision to follow Christ through the Sacrament of Baptism. 

This day always holds a lot of conflict for me. 

First, the name.  The Western world's fixation on Easter, and the images immediately conjured up of bunnies, and brightly colored eggs, and candy, and families dressed in their finest Spring attire has bothered me for a LONG time.  I am celebrating what, exactly?  I know what *I* am celebrating, and it has NOTHING to do with bunnies, candies, eggs, and new clothes.  Whatever the origins of the name given to the day, I prefer to call it Resurrection Day, as THAT is what I am celebrating. 

Second, baptism.  The Sacrament of Baptism is a beautiful, meaningful way to say to the world, "look, I am a new person...THIS is what Jesus' death and resurrection did for me.  I am turning control of my life over to Him." 

Finally, internal conflict. This is where things get messy.  I cringe every time baptism is brought up, and happens in a new congregation...because of MY baggage around this sacrament.  See, I have been baptized 3 times.  The first time, I was an infant, and it was not a choice I made, but rather one made by my parents.  The second time, I was 13 years old, and was following the proscribed way of joining the church...yes, it WAS my choice, and I HAD made the decision to follow Christ, and to turn over control of my life to Him.  The third time is the one I have a LOT of angst around, as I still feel like it was forced on me...I was NOT happy about it, I was NOT making a new decision, it was NOT a new signal of my decision to turn my life around.  No.  None of that.  Rather, it was a church that decided that the MANNER in which I was baptized at age 13 was not the "correct" method, and in order to be part of that congregation I had to be baptized their way.

I have tried to talk about this, and people seemingly don't understand my conflict.  There is nothing about my part of that service that makes me happy.  I feel like I was forced into a corner, and that how I was expected to act was wrong.  Forcing someone to be baptized conjures up images of the forced conversions to Roman Catholicism...not of a mother being backed into a corner in the 2000s. 

And that is where my conflict lies.  I love the relationship available to me through Jesus' death and resurrection, which we have set aside this day to celebrate.  I value my opportunity to declare to the world that I am a new person. 

I do NOT value being forced into doing something I think is unnecessary, and pressured to act like I am happy about it. 

Things I do differently

To be sure, I AM my mother's daughter.  I inherited her metabolism, the Mongolian eye-fold, and a love of reading from her. 

I AM definitely my father's daughter, also... though I didn't get the Wegener's Jewish nose, I do see him when I look in the mirror. 

I learned many many things from my parents. 

I learned about farming, and butchering, and milking cows, and how to drive a stick-shift (first on a tractor!).  I learned to can produce, and to freeze it, and to process the meat we had just butchered.  I learned who to go to for help in my math (Thanks, dad, for carrying me through Trig!!).  I learned to love animals, and quiet outdoor spaces, and unpolluted night skies.  I learned how to pinch a penny until it screams....and then to pinch it a bit further.  I learned a lot from my parents. 

I also learned some negative things.  My husband reminds me often that we can always learn from people, even those with whom we DEEPLY disagree. 

In that vein, I learned how not to parent.  I learned how to drive my children away.  I learned an up-close-and-personal definition of mental illness.  In short, I learned that I wanted to do things differently than my parents did...at least some things. 

In order to accomplish that, I have parented differently.  I have intentionally built positive relationships with my children, with the aim that they WANT a relationship with me, and with God...instead of having one out of fear.  I have tried to instill in my children the idea that it is a show of strength to recognize one's limits and to ask for help when it is needed.  I have worked to admit my faults, mistakes, and blunders, and to ask for forgiveness.  I have worked (with the amazing help of my husband) to give my children freedom within limits, so that they have room to grow and to learn on their own. 

I have done a LOT of things differently...this is just the beginning. 

I'm Needy....

This is not something I am likely to admit to myself, never mind broadcasting it to the world, and yet here I go again, getting WAY too personal, sharing things better left unsaid, if "they" are to be believed...

Actually, "they" are who I have to thank for understanding that I am "too needy".  They remind me of it with every loss of friendship, every unacknowledged greeting, every eye-roll....some have even SAID it to me... "You're too needy.  Stop being so needy and you'll have more friends."

Ok.  Right.

I like to think that I am a normal human being, in need of adult interaction and connection with people in the form of friendship.  I like to think that my tentative steps into the sea of people are the same as any other person's....if that person is introverted and has a bit of social anxiety....

However, I DO know that I am different.  I was raised in a sheltered environment, and often deprived of the depth of connection that children everywhere crave.  Maybe that is where my neediness came from.

And my social anxiety gets in the way of my reaching out to people that I would LIKE to be friends with....in addition, I was taught that I was a bother, so I don't want to foist myself on these amazing people with whom I would like to be friends.  Frankly, I am scared that I will (once again) prove that the LIES I was told as a child were actually truth, that I don't have the ability to make and keep friends.

So, I perceive myself as needy.
And I perceive myself as broken.
And I perceive myself as unworthy of the friendships that I crave.

I will not, however, apologize for my neediness. 
You see, I believe God made people for connection, for relationship, and part of that was putting within us a NEED for friends, for deep connection, and specifically for a relationship with Him. 

The problem is that parents teach children how to be in relationships...and not all parents do a stellar job of that.  So the children who come out of homes who are deprived of this piece of their training have difficulty making or keeping friends, and are often perceived by others as being needy....because they ARE.  They NEED friends.  They may NEED to be taught how to be friends.  They definitely still need love, and companionship, and friendship, and connection....no matter how they are perceived by others. 

Another piece of the ability to make friends is a broken understanding of friends...say, I have a friend...they think we have a really good, perhaps deep connection...and I think that they perceive me as a bother, and are tired of having me around.  So, maybe I have a LOT of people who consider me a really good friend, but I don't feel like I have anyone, because I can't feel the connection. 

Frankly, thinking through this helps me understand why I have such a hard time KNOWING that God loves me, and wants the best for me....  now maybe someone can help fix this for me??? 

From the perspective of one of my TCKs....

Third-Culture Kids are, in the words of Wikipedia:

Third culture kid (TCK) or third culture individual (TCI) are terms used to refer to children raised in a culture other than their parents' (or the culture of the country given on the child's passport, where they are legally considered native) for a significant part of their early development years.

The most common TCKs are children of missionaries, ex-patriots (aka, ex-pats), and military children, as well as children of the adults attached to embassies.  

I have 6 TCKs, also known as "military brats".

So how many brats are there?In the United States today there are approximately 700,000 children ages six to eighteen classified as military youth. The truth is that no one really knows which is surprising for a country obsessed with polls and statistics. No one has kept a running count of the number of children raised in the U.S. military. The Department of Defense (DoD) school system approximates that since 1946 it has educated four million brats overseas or about 20-30% of the total brat population. One guesstimate would be a total of at least 12-20 million brats.

‘This wouldn’t include the children of National Guard, embassy and Foreign Service personnel, DoD civilian employees, missionary families and mobile corporate families,’ notes Jump Cut journalist George T. Marshall, ‘ – all of who share more in common with military brats than with their fellow citizens.’ (source)

While we live in a community of military families, our children go to schools with a LOT of non-military-affiliated people...and there is the rub.  

Because so few Americans actually serve or have served in the military, many of their children have NO CLUE as to the culture or experiences our children have grown up experiencing.

One of my children was interacting with a friend in the past few days, lamenting the loss of yet another friend who didn't "get it"...and wrote some profound words describing it....

"They don't understand, they don't get it.  They're the ones who are constantly hanging out with someone new every day, while I'm stuck at home, sitting by myself.  That's what makes me feel like the replaceable one.  They just don't get it...they don't understand what it's like to constantly have to try and make new friends just to have them s**t on you.  They don't get having to move every few years to a completely new place with no one you know.  They don't get not knowing the culture or the area or anything about this new place you're just thrown into.  They don't understand having social anxiety and not being able to start a simple conversation with someone no matter how badly you want to. They don't understand having the people that mean the most to you live on the other side of the country or sometimes the other side of the world...they don't understand how f'ing easy they have it.  They've lived in the same place their whole lives, the same house, the same neighborhood, the same people.  They have everything handed to them, and it's so frustrating that they don't see how much it hurts when they talk about how they got to grow up with someone, how they get to know every inch and crevice of the city they live in.  I feel replaceable because I am, people do it all the time.  I leave and move out of state, not by choice but because I'm forced ot and their lives go on, they don't miss me, they don't try to visit, they don't get excited when I visit.  I'm just a memory to them.  My whole life I've been second to everyone...everyone who I think loves me, everyone who I think is my friend.  They always find someone who's better.  Because that's just me.  Replaceable.  

Observations as a Daughter of BOTH...

I am a Daughter of the Confederacy.
I am also of Jewish blood.
I am [probably] also a Daughter of American Revolution.  I haven't actually traced that lineage.
I am a Native Daughter.
I am a direct descendent of immigrants.  French, German Jew, Irish, Scottish, Czechoslovakian.
I grew up in the South with a Southern mother, and a Northern father.

But that is not what you see when you meet me.
When you meet me, you are greeted by my VERY white face, my abundant (graying) curls, and my mystifyingly slanted eyes...which show up when I smile, as I am wont to do when I meet people.

This week I have been in such horrible shock I have not known how to respond to the sickening events happening in our world.  I have been sitting, reading how others, much more eloquently than I, have espoused speaking up, making changes, brokering peace amidst such tumultuous events.  I am forever-grateful for those who HAVE made their voices heard.  

Over the past 18 months, I have had the honor to work with some of this country's amazing immigrants, it's poor, and it's AMAZINGLY resilient people.  I have worked with Africans, Asians of many stripes, Latinas/Latinos, and pretty much everyone in-between.  I have learned SO MUCH.

I have learned that, even though I grew up poor, and abused, and neglected, and dirty, I have SO VERY MUCH privilege.
I have learned about my blind spots.
I have learned to be more open-handed and generous...NOT something I learned growing up.

I have been learning about seeing past labels, and skin tones, and hairstyles, and cultural differences, and looking into people's eyes, and seeing the depth of their hurts, and heartaches, and hangups.  I hope that I have been learning to see people the way God sees them...as people made in His image, for His purpose.

There WAS a point in time I was stuck in the mindset of pride and fear that leads to "demonstrations" and "riots", such as has been evidenced this week.  There WAS a time, WAY back in Bible college, when some very brave young men challenged me to look deep inside me to see my own prejudices, and started the process of (hopefully) weeding out that sin in my life.

In light of this week's events, I hope I can continue this learning and growing process, and I hope you will join me.  Because my past, my background, my roots...they are meaningless.  I am a new person, bought by the blood of Jesus, and He has given me a higher call...one of healing and love and reconciliation with Him.  I am praying to that end.  Please join me.

"...for God did not give us a spirit of fear, but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind;"
2 Timothy 1:7

"Do not conform to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind.  Then you will be able to test and approve what God's will is - His good, pleasing and perfect will."
Romans 12:2