Reclaimed Living

Restore. Renew. Reclaim.

Page 8 of 8

Chapter 4 (The Gift)

One of my biggest memories of childhood was something my sister taught me.

When I was sad she would take me down to our basement with cement walls and find the little spots where the rebar was visible, and tell me stories about the make-believe animal families that lived there. There were probably hundreds of them and she came up with a different story every time.

Sometimes the Rabbit family would live next to the Fox family and they would all play together at the park. Sometimes the dog family would be best friends with the cat family. No matter what the story, there was always a happy ending that took my mind off of everything else.

I remember this one time in particular when I broke the head of the ceramic doll that my mother told me NOT to play with on the concrete floor (oops) and my sis came to my rescue. I was terrified to tell my mom, so I told my sister. She couldn’t fix the ceramic doll, but she could distract me from my fear.

It was a beautiful gift.

She taught me that even in the scariest moments, there’s a way to proceed. Even if it’s just distraction that saves you, a moment worth of distraction opens up possibilities to move past the fear.

What she doesn’t know is that I’ve used that thought so many times over the past 40 years that it’s now second nature to me. It’s become part of who I am. I’m grateful for those moments with her, and that memory she gave me.

Chapter 3 (The Gut Punch)

I had a pretty sheltered childhood. My parents loved each other. They taught me wrong from right. We had a lot of support from friends and family. I’ve always felt loved. 

My first experience with the opposite of that was in 5th grade. There was this 6th grade boy, out on the playground, that called my brother a retard. 

My brother is autistic and he was certainly different from anyone else in my school, so it was not uncommon for people to talk about him. The shock came when I realized that hate and dismissal was also going to be present in my life, because of him.

I hadn’t thought, up until that point, that anyone would ever be mean to me. It’s not that I didn’t know it existed, it was just that I didn’t think it was meant for me. 

The gut punch was real. 

I didn’t know how bad it hurt to be put on the outside of the “inside”, if that makes sense. I immediately felt aware of my shortcomings and the things that made me different. I DID have a brother that was autistic, and maybe he was what that kid said he was. 

So what does that mean for me? 

Does that make me less? I started questioning everything. My bubble was broken. I was no longer perfect. I had to make up for that imperfection. So I got to work. I started caring about clothes, and who I hung out with. Were they cool enough? Were they athletic enough? Was I smart enough? Was I nice enough?

I started practicing all of the sports I had loved, for the sake of loving up until that point, with a different endgame in mind. I needed to stand out. I needed to be “good” in some way that was noticeable to others. I needed to make up for the fact that my brother was different. If I could do that, then maybe I could mask the pain for him and for myself. 

I know we all go through something similar to this in our lives. I know the valley creates the human, but I hadn’t thought about the ramifications of these lessons in our personalities. 

For example, BECAUSE I can feel this story on every level, I have intense reactions to things related to “not enoughness”. At this point, for me, the physical reaction I have when I see a person being ostracized feels overwhelming, and almost innate. Now, I know it isn’t, but it feels like it could be, and that’s the point. 

If I’m not very aware of how I feel about something, and where it comes from, then my reactions to you might not be what I would choose them to be. I have to always be aware of the fact that we all come into relationships with our own set of stories. It’s of the utmost importance to me that I learn how my backstories affect my reactions because I don’t want to react to you in a way that feels innate. I want to react to you, in a way that I CHOOSE. 

It’s a discipline. It’s a practice. I’m not perfect. I screw it up a lot of the time, but I am trying. 

Chapter 2 (The Foundation)

One of the first memories that I have is when I was 7 years old, being dropped off at vacation bible school, standing at the back of the church, and being completely confused as to why I was there. I remember thinking, “why do these people say things like this? Who made up this story? Why do we talk about it every year in the summer?” 

I promise I wasn’t judging (not that I’m not guilty of being judgmental). It was simply that I couldn’t and didn’t believe. But, my fascination wasn’t with my unbelief, it was more geared towards why humans put on this persona. Why did people tell this story, act like it gave them peace, and then preach it to others? 

At the time I probably just chalked it up to “this whole God thing” being a profession, so someone had to do it. It wasn’t unlike being a teacher or an electrician. Someone had to tell these unbelievable stories about this Jesus guy, and so the job was filled. 

It never occurred to me that it could be true, because the same people that preached about Jesus being love, and only love, would also criticize and dismiss unfortunate souls at school. That’s the reality I lived in.

So clearly, (I thought) it’s not truth.  I mean, that woman talking right now about love, literally just chastised a kid for not being clean when he came to school. 

Obviously love and outright dismissal of a human don’t go together. 

Jesus is clearly just a story that someone gets appointed to tell. 

My next thought was, “I’ll just go out and kick the ball now.” And there it went. The need to understand Jesus was pushed to the side for several years. I put it in the same mental folder as Santa and the tooth fairy because I was already beginning to understand that those things weren’t possible either. 

Over the next several years I filled that place within me that needed to understand things by observing and contemplating humans and human behavior. That need continues still. I am a lover of humans. I deeply care for people. Deeply. 

This may sound like I’m bragging on myself, I’m not. I just feel the need for you to understand that my reactions to pieces of my story are connected to this moment, and this experience of observing humanity. 

I quickly fell into the trap of trying to please humanity because of my first need to understand it.

Some of you might connect with that idea.

I have no way of tying this up with a pretty bow and allowing you to let go of the stress that comes with the need to please, but I will say this, you are not alone. I’ve been struggling with this need for over 40 years. 

I’m in the trenches with you. 

Chapter 1 (The Intro)

New blog. New message. New mission. It just felt like the right time for this. You’ll have to bear with me. I’ve been pulled in a direction that I’ve never fully gone before, and this blog is the representation of that. I’m nervous, and excited, but mostly I’m absolutely sure this is something I am supposed to do at this point in my life. 

My entire goal for this blog is to share my story. Not just my current story, but the entire thing. From the beginning. Every experience that sticks out in my brain, every hurt, frustration or deep deep sorrow will be shared. I will also share the peaks. The moments in this life that make the valleys worth the struggle. 

My hope is that sharing who I am will be a blessing to others. Not because of my story, but because of the way that it makes you more comfortable with your own. I’m a mental health counselor and my ultimate hope is that you can somehow gain a Hope for your own life by witnessing the failures of mine.

I’ve screwed up and it’s important to talk about it. 

My vulnerability won’t be about you feeling sorry for me, it will be about my needing to let go of a social standard that I’m no longer interested in. I think it’s ok for my life to be imperfect. I think it’s ok for ME to be imperfect. I think it’s ok that my house is messy and my cars aren’t new. I think it’s fine to be a struggling entrepreneur, and to have struggling finances. I think it’s ok when your kids screw up and your parenting values are threatened. I think it’s ok to be lost. 

I’m not afraid of sharing the imperfection, I’m afraid of how it will be received. But alas, this is a practice in letting go of that. This is a practice in understanding that being who I am and who I’ve been called to be, is ok even if it doesn’t match the norms. 

I’ll share my heart. I hope you’ll stick around for the full story. I’m honored to share it with you.

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