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So I post it on my blog. This blog is like a wall I write on next to a deserted highway. Nobody has come by these parts...well...since the road has been built ;o) But the fact that it is indeed in existence means the whole world has access, and therefore it feels like genuine social exposure. So here it goes:
I can not get past the mental residue of an entire lifetime of self destructive behavior. I seek God, and I can not find Him here. I experience Him on other occasions, when the fog lifts and I'm no longer centered on this distorted image of myself. It is so hard to be distracted once I become fixated on this grossly distorted image. The image is comparable to the one of those Hoarder Houses you see on A&E. Where do you even begin? The minute I agree that I am indeed that dramatic of mess, my soul crushes under the weight of the (however distorted) realization. I become paralyzed with fear and anxiety.
This is phase 1: Realization, which leads to Phase 2: Plan of Attack
What would you do if you walked into one of those houses? You would either burn it to the ground, or execute a plan of attack. So I have two reactions: I want to crawl out of my own skin, walk out the front door of my house so to say...and since that is not an option I move on to option number two: Renovation. I begin a new diet strategy, and create an exercise regime. I feel somewhat relieved or organized. Okay, now I'm ready to fix this situation (my body).
Which leads to phase 3: The Execution of the Plan. Now, I used to do this with a fervency that is commendable. Well, the fervency hasn't changed, the clarity of what is truly going on has affected my resolve. The truth: This will not work. You will just be repeating a cycle and you will hit this phase again in the future. SUCKY! At least before I had the hope that this would actually fix something! I would execute my plan no matter how dramatic or dangerous. I would succeed at losing the weight. For a brief moment in time I would enter Phase 4: Relief.
The house has been cleaned. It is time to put my feet up and enjoy the fruits of my labor. I would go out, have my friends over, and if I worked really hard: my family. Especially my family. Not my siblings, or my Dad's. No, my Mom and her side. Especially my Mom and Grandma. I knew they would be proud of me. They would admire my efforts and encourage me to push further.
This phase is the shortest phase and only lasts for fleeting moments. What follows is the realization that I will have to double up my efforts in order to maintain the results. If I respond, I enter into a dark place that I can only really describe when I'm there. It is close to or well within the borders of a state of insanity. I am paranoid, more delusional than usual, irrational...the dots just do not connect. It is like a elongated and heightened experience with PMS. It is PMS X. (Pun intended)
The only relief in this cycle has been an additional Phase my husband helped to incorporate: Eat, Pray, Or Die. This phase has built me up enough through out the years to be able comprehend and say the following:
Today, I am standing at the waters edge. I was just about to step aboard this ship for the umpteenth time. Just about to repeat another cycle, and I wondered where God was in all of this. I have been feeling even more frustrated than usual, and the revelation hits as I write:
God wrestled Jacob. I mean, physically wrestled him...
you (the non existing reader of this blog ;o) may be thinking, wow you find yourself rather important to even go there...but it's not like that. Is it really a big deal for God to interact and intervene in my life...I mean, to even the least of these He intervenes. He's not picky. Have a little faith in Him, and He'll show up. I have DEFINTALEY asked for intervention, and thought He abandoned me in this fight, and I'm learning otherwise, so that being said, I'll get back to my point:
So God wrestled Jacob, and I can tell you now, as I'm writing this, that He has been wrestling me. Like a father holds down his hysterical daughter who can not be reasoned with, until she exhausts herself from the struggle to break free from His embrace. I've been so hysterical with this mind set that I attained from years of training from my mother and her allies, that I could not be reasoned with. I could not think. I could not even see that it's been Him holding me. I've been in a rage. It's hard to see it that way when the fit is woven into the fabric of time and space. Life elongates and unravels a broken heart in a way that looks more like a long story than a momentary fit of rage...but that is what I've been in. A hysterical, broken hearted fit of rage. I finally understand. My husband has told me over and over and over that my heart is broken and I stare at him with admiration for being so generous to call my mood swings out as something poetic...but blew him off. Wow, he was absolutely right.
God, I'm tired. You've held me long enough for the waves of rage to pass. I lie here broken in your arms. Exhausted. You hold me here at the waters edge, that ship sits in front of me. That all to familiar voyage calls my name. But You hold me. Hold me so tight this time in Your loving arms. Don't let me take that course again. Let me sit here with You. Talk me through this. I am about to go home again (I mean actually go back to where I grew up.) My Mother sits at the other end of this story. She was my entrance into this world, with her crazy ways and her voyage set on destruction. You are my Salvation and Rescuer. As the Scriptures say: You have prepared a way before Me...You have greener pastures prepared. Help me leave her behind...and get as far away from these waters as possible. I love You.
I’ve been repeating these words for weeks: You are my safety and stronghold. I really didn’t understand that you are actually holding me strongly! LOL I love YOU!!!!
