Perfect

The cause is irrelevant, the reality stifling. This mysterious perfectionism that haunts my every move and torments my soul with longing for the impossible drains my attempt at each endeavor I pursue. The incessant desire to do everything right the first time overwhelms. It borders on the obsessive. No forgiveness for error; no rest for the weary.

I cover this box I’m trapped in with delicately embossed wrappings and ornate bows. I hide behind veils of false courage and mediocre talent. Self-deprecating remarks are good friends that bring laughter and diversion to uncomfortable social situations. But all I want is to hear you’re good enough - from God, from myself, from others. I like to say I’m a realist, but deep down I know I’m a pessimist who makes no room for fault and is thus doomed to failure.

Its parameters comforting, its lid a shelter from insincerities and false hope, I have lived 36 years in this square. It is only now that I realize that in making no room for mistakes I create no space for growth. So I trudge forward, praying diligently that God will help me see once again that His strength comes only through my weakness. His excellence shines in my frail attempts. He knows how hard I try. He says you’re good enough.

Salvation

Failure, rejection, anger, disgust, fear, and sadness swell inside her as streams of steamy tears spill onto her face and gather into puddles on her lap. Vulnerable and deserted like a wounded animal separated from the herd, she sits in front of her accusers waiting for them to attack. The smell of fear laced with blood makes them drool with delight in anticipation of the feast. With heart pounding, limbs shaking, and palms sweating she realizes there is nowhere to run and nowhere to hide. Even if there was, she could never get there in her paralyzed condition.

Out of nowhere the frenzy ensued. The awkward silence and calm had given a false sense of hope. A paused moment in which she exhaled and relaxed ever so slightly signaled the moment of assault for her enemies. Knocked to the ground by the force of wild blows, she was rendered incapable of movement. The room spun, lights flashed, breath eluded. In a pool of blood, sweat, and tears she lay motionless.

Moments passed. One swollen eye unfastened slightly to allow a sliver of image. The dusty, sandaled foot of a traveler took shape. The powder of ethereal places sprinkled from his robe with sparkles of optimism, and in that instant she knew who He was. He gently lifted her from prone position and wiped the filth from her face. Delicately picking up her limp, wounded frame, He carried her to safety at the foot of His cross. Her accusers: gone.

What's In a Name?

I’ve been thinking a lot about names lately – what they mean, how they affect our personalities and if they really have some bearing on how we turn out.  Have you ever thought about the meaning of your name?  Have you ever wondered if it marked you for life?  I have. 

I’m going to preface the following discussion by saying I don’t blame my mom for the curse that is my name.  She told me she picked it out when she was a child.  She thought it was pretty and decided if she ever had a daughter Deidra would be her name.

Honestly, I hate my name.  I always have. I’ve dealt with horrible misspellings and awful pronunciations of it my whole life.  Even more than that, it has a horrendous meaning:  sorrow.  Really, Mom, that’s what you wanted to call your sweet little pink bundle - Sorrow? 

I realize my mother didn’t know the meaning of my name when she decided on it, and I would like to think that had she known she would have picked something a little less depressing. Deidra does have an alternate meaning, however:  wanderer.  While a bit better, it still implies a hard road ahead.  Just what every little girl wants to be – a depressed nomad!

Has my name determined the course of my life?  Has my psyche somehow been damaged by the knowledge that I’m a big ball of sorrow walking around?  I’m not sure, but I do know that names matter.

The Bible is replete with characters named by God Himself.  Additionally, there are instances when God changed a person’s name to reflect a significant shift in his or her life.  Abram became Abraham, Sarai became Sarah, and Jacob became Israel. In the New Testament, Simon became Peter and Saul became Paul. If names don’t really matter, would God have bothered to name or rename these people?  I think not. 

What is a name?  It’s how we’re recognized, it’s what we’re known for, and it reflects where we’ve been. Those things are important to who we are and what we become.   

Do you know the meaning of your name?  Have you ever considered its relevance to who you are, where you’ve been or what you’ll become?  I know I’ve lived up to my name’s meaning at many times, but my life hasn’t been all sadness and aimless wanderings. 

One last thought: Although He’s already converted me from sinner to redeemed and from stranger to daughter, if God were to change my name, what would it be? What designation would reflect the metamorphosis that has taken place and the great things that are to come? 

My Friend B (Part 5)

B was so angry at me. He harassed me endlessly and without mercy. He tried convincing me that I wasn't strong enough to live without him. B made fun of me. And for the first time ever, I told him to shut up.

After finding out how much it would cost to stay at the clinic, we were informed I would have to stay for at least three months and that insurance wouldn't pay for anything. Yet again it seemed impossible for me to achieve freedom from B. We were already barely scraping by, and we had no one able to care for the children while I was away. We went home with deflated spirits, feeling as though the help that seemed so close was actually light-years away.

But something really important happened the following week. I made a choice. The more I thought, the more I realized I could still win. I let B in and I could kick him out. Even though I couldn't stay at the clinic, I could still fight. I could live. I had to live.

And live I did – one day at a time. I pushed myself to eat and forced myself to keep it down.  I chose to go against the furiously strong instincts that compelled me to starve.  I avoided laxative use, even when feelings of fullness weighed heavily on my body, mind, and emotions.  Each day I got stronger and stronger and listened to B less and less. I'd like to say that B left completely the day I kicked him out, but I would be lying. He brought luggage and crates and chains with him when he moved in. He had the place decorated nicely. B was comfortable in his home and refused to be evicted. I battled B for another 3 years before he finally left for good.

For me there was no magic formula – no set of steps to lead the way out. Unable to afford the help of doctors, I knew I had to help myself. I decided I wanted to live. I prayed, I cried, I researched, I read, I released and I fought. My husband loved and supported me unconditionally. God reached down, picked me up, and carried me to safety. He had heard me all along, but He wanted me to fight. He showed me my life was worth living. He gave me a story to tell.

My Friend B (Part 4)

B always did the talking. He never let me speak. If I so much as uttered a sound in his direction, screams, curses, and taunts immediately ensued. He tried to keep me silent, but B was finally losing some of his influence. I knew who he was, why he was there, and how he worked. I was tired of his torturous rampages. I slowly built the courage to attempt to break free.

Irregular heartbeats and fainting spells were becoming a regular occurrence. I knew it was getting bad and if I didn't do something, B would win. He would kill me. My children would have no mother, my husband would be a 27 year-old widower, and my mother would lose her only daughter. That would be my legacy – a vast trail of tears pointing to my grave.

And so I told. On a Wednesday night on the way home from church I spilled the black sludge of my deceit, self-hatred, depression, and bulimia into my husband's lap. He sat there. He listened. And in the beautifully peaceful way he always does when things go wrong, he looked me in the eye and told me it would be okay. And just like always, I believed him.

We talked for a long time and I felt the weight of a thousand worlds lift off my shoulders as I released the colossal deluge of waters dammed up inside. It felt so good to tell truth. He told me he had known for a long time that something was wrong. He presumed I was lying each time I made up a reason to go to the store to buy more laxatives. He sensed my vomiting was far more than the stomach issues I pretended to have. He realized my exercise obsession was out of control.

A few weeks later I scheduled an appointment at an eating disorders clinic in Tallahassee, Florida which was only a short drive away. Knowing how afraid I was, my husband drove me there so I wouldn't be alone. B didn't like that. He harangued me the whole way there. He tried to trip me as I entered the office. He sought to silence my voice. But this time, I didn't listen.

I met with a psychologist and at the end of a lengthy discussion; she recommended that I be admitted to the in-patient facility. I was devastated. Her insistence that I stay was like a knife that pierced my soul. I had to make a choice.

My Friend B (Part3)

B didn't use his full arsenal at first. He slowly crept in. He gave me little ideas here and there. B made me feel like I was making my own choices when in fact it was he who called the shots. But now he owned me.

Having twins only18 months after delivering my first child depleted me in every sense of the word. I was physically, emotionally and mentally exhausted. I became severely depressed and felt so guilty about it. I should have been happy. My wonderful husband and beautiful children should have filled my heart so completely that there would be no room for the dull ache that was there. At 27 years-old I felt utterly used up.

I spent my days at home with the little ones. Changing diapers, washing bottles, doing laundry, and making baby food – that was my life. Added to this was the fact I had little adult conversation or interaction throughout the day. Left alone with my thoughts, I began to feel worse and worse about myself. I tried to cover it and smile big when people stopped by, and if I ever did venture out of the house with my terrific trio in tow, I painted my face and demeanor with happiness and fulfillment for the world to enjoy.

I desperately tried to pull myself out. No amount of church, prayer, friends, or family peeled any of the crusty layers away. That's when B came. He told me he would help me feel better. He convinced me I could be beautiful and thin and strong. He persuaded me to change myself. And like a little lost child, I followed.

Blindly accepting all he had to offer, I took B's hand and let him lead me. All I wanted was to feel good about myself. B made that happen, but my glory days were short-lived. I was back where I started within a few months, except this time I was in a much deeper hole. With no way to scratch, claw or dig my way out, I realized it was time for me to reveal the truth.

My Friend B (Part 2)

B was winning. He had taken over and I was unable to stop him. At first I thought we would just be friends. I thought we would talk occasionally and that I would call only when I really needed him. He could deliver consolation for the current set of woes, and maybe every once in a while he would drop by for a quick visit and then be on his way. I never imagined things could get so out of hand.

When B started visiting every day, I kind of liked it. There was a certain level of comfort I experienced when he was there. I felt empowered and strong. It seemed as though I had mastered my universe. I finally had control. I was looking pretty good, too - sixty pounds lost in five months and still losing. Everyone said I looked so good. They were all impressed with the transformation. People quizzed me about my secrets to success and praised me for my self-discipline.

I liked the attention. People finally acknowledged me. I no longer felt like just another mini-van mom who let herself go. I looked like my old self again. No baby bulge, a spring in my step, and nothing inside. Empty. The thin, pale shell on the outside reflected that truth, but no one could see it. I hid it with cute clothes and a fake smile. I hid behind chubby babies that clung to every part of me.

“Just watching what I eat and exercising,” I would say to people who asked for the secret of my success. Actually, that part was true. I was carefully recording my food intake and I was exercising. But these were concocted code words designed to hide the ugly truth. “Watching what I eat” really meant that I didn't eat at all and if I did, I threw it all up within 30 minutes of consuming it. And just to be sure I got everything, I used laxatives, and not just one or two. My body became immune to their effects, requiring that I take more and more. I was up to 30 a day. “Exercising” really meant that I was obsessed. I worked out until I couldn't move anymore.

I wanted B to leave. I asked B to leave. I prayed so hard every day that God would take B out of my life. What kind of Christian was I, anyway? Did God even hear me? Why would He help someone who was weak enough and sad enough and dumb enough to listen to B? I did it all to myself.

My Friend B (Part 1)

B started calling me in the fall of 2001. At first it was innocent - quick conversations, short glances, brief encounters. But by early 2002, the relationship was much more serious than I could have ever anticipated. Quick conversations turned into lengthy discourse, short glances became glaring stares, and brief encounters became hours-long visits.

B knew I was vulnerable when he first contacted me. I was depressed and longing for acceptance. He sensed my weakness and offered a way of escape. B was seemingly intuitive and caring and saw what others didn't. He really understood the place I was in. He could help me feel better. B would save me from myself. He could rescue me. Armed with the false hope and empty promises B provided, I was ready. Ready to be happy, ready to feel comfortable in my own skin, ready to release all the anguish pinned up inside. And so, I listened to B.

There were many details B failed to tell me about himself in the beginning. For instance, he hadn't told me that once I started talking to him I would find it difficult to rationalize and that I would obey his every command. He had also failed to mention that each time we exchanged glances he was making a long list of things about me he wanted to change. He also neglected to reveal his plans to ruin my life and the lives of my husband and children. He disguised himself as one genuinely concerned for my happiness. He cloaked himself with robes of self-discipline and perfection. He wore slippers which made absolutely no sound, so I could never hear him coming.

By the time I figured out who B was, it was late 2002 and I was smothered by his overpowering hold.

It was too late. There was no way out. He had deceived me so completely that I wouldn't have known the truth had it slapped me in the face. I had fallen deeper into depression and self-hate rather than being freed from it. I had become his slave. I felt powerless against him but had nowhere to turn. I had hidden my relationship with him. No one even knew B existed, and no one could find out.

Deep down I knew it was true. B was a deceiver. B was a manipulator. B was a disease. B was bulimia. And, B had come to destroy my life.

 

Solidarity

"We read to know we're not alone." - C. S. Lewis

In a recent conversation regarding blogs and writing, a friend of mine stated that he was interested in blogging but was concerned that no one would care about what he had to say. Although I admittedly share the same fear, I have come to the conclusion that I must write, whether I have a large following or not.

My compulsion to write comes from a place deep within. It is a need; it is a gift; it is a burden; it is a praise. Far more important than its cathartic release or therapeutic value is the fact that it is my duty. If I don't share my story, who will know what God has done for me? If I don't pen the words to my own life's song, who can sing with me? How does God get the glory He deserves through my silence?

Several things in my life have been so difficult that I can hardly bear to speak about them, but that doesn't mean that they will steal my voice. My shouts of praise are blots of ink on blank pages. My worship comes through poetry and prose. When I can't speak, I can write.

Like it or not, we as humans are social creatures. We seek to belong, to feel that we are part of a group, and to know that we are not alone. We need community; we crave camaraderie; we seek solidarity. That's why I write.

So, if you've ever endured bankruptcy, miscarriage, death of a parent, trust issues, depression, an eating disorder, feelings of low-self worth, or the devastation of job loss, just know that you're not alone. God has brought me through all of these things and He can bring you through them, too. He sees, He cares, and He loves. He forgives, He heals, and He restores. That's why I write.

Under the Rug

We all have a story to tell. Some are more painful or interesting than others, but all are equally important. What will you do with yours? Will you share it or keep it under the rug?

Today I am excited and honored to be the guest on a wonderful writer's blog. Please join me at Lori McClure's site to read more.

"M" stands for...

middle. That's where I always seem to be. In the middle of a load of laundry, in the middle of raising my kids, in the middle of my life-span, in the middle of making dinner, in the middle of balancing the checkbook, in the middle of a place that I sometimes don't want to be. Never the beginning, never the end, always the middle.

Mama. It's my most important name. It's the name I both love and hate to hear. It's my biggest burden and my greatest joy. It's the only title that I will hold dear for the rest of my life.

misunderstood. That's how I feel a lot of the time. Only a handful of people really know me and what makes me tick. Only a handful of people would care to know that I pray everyday that God will make me what He wants me to be. Only a few would care to know that even though parts of my life have been extremely difficult, God has seen me through it all and has never, nor will ever let me go.

mediocre. I feel like that's my middle name. I look at my friends and acquaintances and incessantly compare my accomplishments (or lack thereof) to theirs. I wonder where I would be at this time in my life if certain things had worked out differently. I think that surely there must be more, and that one day I'll be the one that people clap for. I'll be the one achieving all those goals. I'll be the one living the dream.

mushy. I don't like to cry, but I do. I don't like to feel, but I do. I don't like to get so emotionally involved with other people that I let what they think or do dictate how I feel, but I do. But, I do like to care. I do like to help those that hurt. I do want to make a difference in someone else's life. I do want to make my world a better place.

me.

My Source

This time last year I was starting a new venture that I thought would be the perfect thing for me.  I had a plan mapped out with all of MY goals for the future and really felt positive that I was finally going to be in a place that offered the potential to get me where I wanted to be in life. But, it ended up being one of the worst things that has ever happened to me. Although I could not have forseen what was going to happen, God knew all about it and was there ready with the grace I would need to get through it.   Quite honestly, I have wondered from time to time if my difficult experience was a punishment because I went somewhere I shouldn't have, or if there was anything I could have done to stop it.  A year later and not at all in the place I thought I would be, I can answer those questions with a definitive "No."  Sometimes bad things happen.  Period.  God knows about them and He doesn't stop them because He wants to see just what we're going to do, what choices we're going to make, and where we're going to turn in our time of crisis.  Today I am happier than I ever thought I would have been.  I used to be so concerned about having a career and making a difference in the world and getting bigger and better for my family. I used to be so concerned about using my degrees and making sure people around me knew how capable I was of doing the job.   While those are all admirable things, I was trying to MAKE them happen, all on my own, all the while being oblivious to the fact that the world I need to make a difference in is my family's, that bigger isn't always better, and that God makes me capable, not pieces of paper hanging on a wall.   I have also learned that God is my source for everything.  Money, a sense of self-worth, strength - all these things come from Him, not a job.  Thank YOU, God, for being my source!