Staying

It's been a while since I've posted here.

However, I have written some!  

Here is something I wrote about a year ago.  It wasn't time to post this at that point, but I feel it is now.  I called this one "Staying."  

I am planning on writing more - and posting a few more things - in the coming weeks.. I just have to figure out how to organize my thoughts on it all.

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I am never offended when people ask me why I stayed so long.  The answer is complicated at best – a nightmare at worst. Simply put, I could not leave.  I understand that doesn’t make sense. But I will add, it only makes no sense because you’ve never been there.  The layers within a person abuse touches are more than the physical – it reaches to the very core fabric of your being … your soul.  Abuse weaves its way around the fullness of your love, the purity of your trust, the creativity of your mind and the foundation of your beliefs.  And sometimes it happens over time – other times, it’s a quick “snap” – and before you know it you don’t even recognize yourself … too much time was spent hiding and too many years spent trying to appease the abuser … all for naught.   And that’s when you realize you are enslaved in a cycle with a monster who will never change – oppressed – enslaved -- afraid.

I stayed because I loved him.  I stayed because I love my children.  I stayed because I needed to protect my children.  I stayed because the community thought he was amazing – I had no voice.  I stayed because I was alone – isolated from people: friends assigned, all activities monitored, money tracked, phone calls, emails and all texts – monitored, basic essentials withheld so I would always be in need, and so much more.  I had only existed in a culture where divorce was never an option. Some would mumble – “only in cases of adultery” – but never abuse. But they still judged. I was told often as I was being choked out, smothered or slammed against walls and doors that I had made a COVENANT… “til death do us part.”   I believed him. I believed him when I was told that our bodies were “one” and I belonged to him – this is what I had been taught my whole life. I stayed because I was afraid of the family, cultural and communal backlash. I was afraid of change. I was afraid of rejection. I was afraid of being alone.  I was afraid I would have no voice. I was afraid nobody would believe the truth. I was afraid I would die … and my children would be placed in danger.

I felt that I was the only person in the world who could be married to this volatile, angry, manipulative and cruel man.  I knew that very few people could “manage” his erratic behavior … but he trained me well. I was trained to respond to his anger.  I was trained to be silent. I was trained to only be “honoring” and “respectful” as he defined those things in his narcissistic mind.  And I did it very well. It made me feel needed and valued.

 I made a promise.  I knew that … and I was taught that promise would be broken if I separated because of abuse.  I know now that is wrong. Marital promises must go both ways –the other party broke their covenant only a couple months into the marriage.  Yet I held on. I was told I was not smart or even qualified enough to be on my own. And I believed them. I was told that, being a woman, I was not to follow the Lord in whatever ministry He would lead me – or use any gifts He would give … that simply didn’t happen.  Being a woman, my greatest role in life was being a Wife – and Mother. I was both. I would be nothing – no social status whatsoever – without a husband. The church culture pressed me to continue on, even attempting to coerce a meeting with the local men to go over their “reconciliation plan” for us.  I received calls, emails and even read court documents where the church community denied the abuse – while in the same breath explained the abuse. And, at the same time, chastised me for not having a biblical reason for separation.  

I stayed for so long because my mind blocked the worse offenses.  If it had not – I would be dead today. These are slowly coming back in terrifying PTSD moments I now live with.  Instead, at the time, I focused on the love, the good times and the hope that change would come. The love stayed, the good times were fleeting and the change never came.  It wasn’t until I realized the change had to be me… and if I did not accept that, I would die… and so may my children. But it took time to find that strength – the strength to be what I thought would be me - alone.

All that I feared did happen… The gossip was mind-blowing and nothing I ever thought I would be given from “friends.”  I was rejected – by family, friends and much of the community. At first, only one friend stood beside me – but that was all I needed.  Others did come along side as time went on – some stayed, others couldn’t stand the fire. The church I had dedicated much of my life to, turned on me.  And, at first I had no voice. There was nothing left I recognized from the life I left… change had come.

Then I started speaking up.  I took a deep breath of the fresh, FREE air … and stood up.  I had to find the strength – buried so deeply into the shell of the woman I was left with – and I began to fight.  It did cost me everything – Just like I was told. But what is growing is the person I was always meant to be… and much more beautiful than what was previously there… this woman is FREE!

"The Struggle"

This was an image the Lord burned into my spirit many years back.  

As I've grown and the years have ticked by, 

it's taken on different meanings to me.  

I used to say -- 
"If I could paint ... I would paint that".  

It's been bugging me lately.  I suppose I can liken it to a cleansing... 

I just needed to get it out.

It's the kind of thing that evokes a lot of emotion.  And, everybody who sees it has a different opinion and interpretation.  

None are wrong!

Here you go!
... "The Struggle" ...

Picking Up More Than Just the "Pen"

I've always been artistic.  

Always.  

From my earliest recollection I was doodling, studying, creating.

In high school, I was introduced to painting.  I took to it like a duck to water.  It was natural to me.  

Easy.  

Relaxing.  

Enjoyable.  

I took more classes in college, as well as other art classes.  
I also taught art (mainly stained glass) classes to help pay rent and for college courses.

I loved it.  

It was definitely a hobby (haha! ... ner' to become any sort of occupation)... but I loved it.

During my marriage, much of myself was lost... a little more with each passing year.  
But not only that, I was isolated -- so much so, those who knew me before, weren't given to even see me in the daily.  
And, if they did, they might not have recognized who this woman was, me, in front of them.

By the time the Lord woke me up to the abuse I had been enduring (and excusing), I was but a shadow of what I once was.  

Expressions of my being, which had been long gone, surprisingly began to rear their heads.  

In the past, I would see pictures in my head to paint, and would muse that I wished there was enough time.  I was too busy - and, truly, it seemed like EVERYBODY needed a piece of me.  I would say there was no money - no space... and, therefore, no real reason for it.  
My abuser was the brilliant, artistic leader -- not me -- so, I willingly bowed out and said "goodbye" to the favorite expressions of my heart....  

I would say, besides painting, I love gardening and fixing up my homes.  

I love gardens.  

I love flowers.  

I love all the things that go with the above... the smells, the work, the sounds, sharing with others.

As we moved around throughout our marriage, with each home, I lost a little more and a little more interest in gardening, creating, and personalizing my homes.  
The loss of desire to personalize the inside of the home was the last bit of me to go.  
After all, I could justify the living spaces as for the "good of the whole."

But the gardens lay dormant - overgrown with grass and weeds.  
And artistic displays of my being became less and less.  

And I missed it.  I missed being me.  I didn't know how to even address or describe what was going on inside me.  But one word comes to mind - death.

While this was happening -- toward the beginning of the end - I could feel something was greatly missing.  .

It was through  prayer that I attribute my awakening.  
Though, the final "wake-up!" was not on my end (but rather violent physical abuse at the hands of the abuser).  
I began to see that the person I was created to be had been lost.  
But not lost in a way like "I need find myself".  
I KNEW who I was, and it mourned me that so much had been given for what? - to the point of myself not existing anymore - to what gain?  To WHOSE gain? (nothing and nobody's)

Anyway, long story short, I woke up to the abuse in my marriage.  

The betrayal and the lies.  

This wasn't a slow unfolding.  

No. 

It was like a 2x4 to the back of my head.

WAKE UP!!

The Lord gave me a choice... to choose complacency, stay and serve man... OR to stand, take up my mat and follow HIM.  
As I wrote about in "Pick Up Your Mat and WALK" and in other posts, you know I chose to follow the Lord.

This set off a massive chain reaction.  One that could only be compared - in my head - to an atomic bomb... or a RAGING wildfire... regardless, it destroyed EVERYTHING I had come to identify as my "world."  

Complete Destruction.

I had been given pictures in my mind in the past, and still reflect on them.  But this time, all the excuses were gone -- gone in the destruction.

I tried to say there was no space - there was no equipment - there was no time - there was no SKILL.

But the arguments, along with the phony reality and glass house I had been led to believe was mine ... they were suddenly GONE!!

I saw that, in actuality, there WAS time.  An hour here and a half hour there.  A Saturday and maybe a few late nights... the time, indeed, DID exist.

There was plenty of space as I rearranged and cleared out the clutter!

And then the equipment came just as miraculously as the time and space. 

Easel... gorgeous - check!  

Canvases ... check!  

Brushes and Paints ... check... check!!

So, I set it up -- and guess what?!

I STARED AT AN EMPTY CANVAS FOR WEEKS.  

Yup ... I was scared.  

Scared to fail.  

What would happen if what I saw in my head -- if I couldn't translate that on canvas??  

Everything had been stripped -- and, yes the Lord was/is rebuilding me -- but, there WAS the day that saw I stood with only ONE friend.  

ALL ELSE HAD BEEN TAKEN.... DESTROYED.

And, while that should be more than enough for anybody -- I was still scared.

I have received countless threats because I am speaking as to the Truth of my life.  The gossip and lies some days are just too much.  The pure wickedness that comes at me from the most (formerly) trusted of people is enough to paralyze anybody.  And the meanness... inconceivable!

And I'll say it again -- INCONCEIVABLE!! (read that again in your best "Princess Bride" voice 😀)

But the day came I KNEW it was time.  

(That's a reoccurring phrase in my life these days -- "It's time"... but that's for another day)

So, I began mixing colors.  

I picked up my brush...

And I started.

There's a LOT I have to still learn.  Even this time, I found myself reacquainting with brushes, techniques and all that stuff.

Regardless, I started!... It had been nearly 20 YEARS since I had sat in front of a canvas with a brush in hand... and a vague knowledge of what belonged on that blank canvas... But I began.

All I knew about this first painting was that the background was a completely decimated forest.  EVERYTHING was to be destroyed -- burned (by fire or blast, dunno).  
Everything.

Dark.

The picture was to be ... Dark.

The skies were to be gray and stormy.

And there was to be rain... lots of rain.

However, there was to be, in the center, one tree... seemingly dead and burned up.  

As this rain fell on the scorched earth, it began to wash off the trees around it ... only to further display the complete destruction of all that had been living. 

But there was to stand the one tree.

As the rain hits the branches, the soot and dirt from the flames begin to wash off.  The injuries and hurts begin to heal.  The formerly dead branches begin to com back to life... little by little.

That was it.  That was all I knew would be on the canvas.  But, as I began to paint, the Lord began to teach and tell me more about what HE had shown me.

The fire was what happened to me.  

There was death before the fire... and, frankly the fire had been burning for a VERY long time.  

But, somehow, some way, there was one tree... with DEEP roots.  

A stubborn little bugger.  While the bark burned, the inner heart of this tree kept (though slowly) beating.

And, while nothing else was able to survive the disaster that ravaged -- this little tree actually began to come to life.

It sprouts.

And, one day, it will bloom again. 

Oh, there's more to this picture... and my kids tell me I should do a series.

But the truth is, this tree is me.

I didn't know that when I started painting.  But I do now.

You see, even if you have not withstood the furnace -- the blaze -- or the blast yet, one day you will.  And the only thing that will sustain you are those roots ...

I pray this would be your story, too.

... the tree that would one day bloom again,

.... And now... as Spring is here ... the GARDEN awaits!  😊