Most of my life was spent marinating in shame. It felt like part of my genetic makeup. Shame held my head underwater and told me to resign to my fate, to stop fighting. Shame left me feeling my very personhood was flawed. At a very young age, I remember telling an adult about the sexual […]
Being in the garden with my grandma while she tended tomatoes and cucumbers was often educational and always relational. Watching her sew on buttons and whip up a meringue was magical. It was a way for us to connect. She taught me well. I love to cook, garden, knit, and quilt. I come from a long line of women who enjoy making and growing all sorts of things.
She taught me well. I love to cook, garden, knit, and quilt. I come from a long line of women who enjoy making and growing all sorts of things.
When I was first living on my own, I would call Grandma often. Knowing how to get the powdered sugar just right on the chocolate crinkle cookies or if it is cold enough outside to leave the turkey in the garage overnight where her specialties. I’d call her and whine about the wonky texture of my lemon pie and how long to boil the canning tomatoes to make sure they were safe.
My best friend recently came to visit. Twenty-six years ago she and I road the same bus to and from junior high school everyday. There was a conversation early in the friendship when we decided to be friends. Best friends.
When clients first visit with me they often ask, “Am I crazy?” They are asking the question in all seriousness. They’ll tell me more of their story and ask again, “Am I crazy? You’d tell me, right?”
For some, the question is asked because the choices they’ve made seem utterly unreasonable. The things they’ve done to themselves seem outrageous and irrational. For others, the things that have been done to them are truly unbelievable.
My response over and over is, “You’re not crazy, you’re hurting like crazy.”
It’s the question I asked, too. It’s easier to think we are crazy than to believe that the memories are actual events. Easier to think we are crazy than to acknowledge the extent of betrayal. Easier to be crazy than to turn and face the choices we’ve made. Easier to brush off the pain by hoping we’ve lost our marbles somewhere along the way.
A new magazine shows up in the mail. I love the way my heart races and I get a bit woozy right after I pull it out of the mailbox. I make sure there’s nothing to distract me, relax into my favorite chair, and open the pages slowly. Two hours are gone before I know what’s happened.
The next day, I resolve not to get sucked into the compulsive vortex. I’m determined not to spend one more cent on the stuff. Then, WHAM! An email shows up with photos of exactly the material I like, or a salacious Facebook post grabs me. It almost seems unfair the way they drag me in.
Addiction sucks! That rubbish is all over my house. I get one little peek and it’s game over. I can’t stop. I have to touch it, smell it, imagine all the things I want to do with it. A skein of that sage green, bulky weight, 100% baby alpaca and I swoon