On a local Yahoo Group I belong to, someone posted an email about Christmas, doing things differently and supporting local businesses. They had some nice ideas. But I had to chuckle at the following part near the beginning: “It’s time to think outside the box, people. Who says a gift needs to fit in a shirt box, wrapped in Chinese produced wrapping paper? Everyone — yes EVERYONE gets their hair cut. How about gift certificates from your local American hair salon or barber?”
Everyone? They don’t know about Apostolic teachings and how they forbid women to ever cut their hair. I would have written a reply, but we aren’t supposed to get into religion there.
I didn’t realize how uptight I was lately, until last night. I heard something outside, went to the door to check what it was, and there was a woman standing on my deck. I’m not a screamer, but I sure squeaked! I’ve been anticipating that someone would show up or call. I don’t like confrontation, so I was leaving the lights off on church nights and hiding in my house. I wouldn’t do anything except during service times on church nights because I was so intimidated that people would “catch” me staying home and either think or say that I was backslid.
Editorial Note: The following is reprinted with permission from Eleanor Skelton’s blog. It was originally published on August 15, 2013.
Content note: self-harm, suicidal thoughts
“Told I talked too much made too much noise I took up a silent hobby— Bleeding.” ― S. Marie
Self harm. When the darkness inside at last leaks out and mars your body.
The reasons most people give for hurting themselves are complicated and diverse. Verbalizing the pain, punishing and satiating guilt, desiring control, a grasping to keep out the numbness.
My years of personal self-injury were mostly guilt-driven. As a preschooler, I saw an Easter play and believed that I needed to hurt myself for hurting Jesus. Every year, the repeat of the same drama I desired and dreaded so much drove deeper into my heart this need to crucify myself.
Little girl me thought that Jesus had to obey His father in the Garden of Gethsemane and die for me because she was a child and had to obey her parents. Surely it would be wrong not to, and Jesus couldn’t sin. Therefore, little girl me believed Jesus was like this abused child that was forced to sacrifice Himself for her.
She couldn’t understand free will. That Gethsemane was not about “I must” but “I choose.” That His love could never be forced.
So self-injury was more than just cutting. The bruises in hidden places and perpetual scabs all around my fingernails were just a symptom of an underlying issue. The proverbial iceberg that sunk the Titanic. An entire worldview lay under the icy waves.
When you believe that you are worthless, that you deserve to be punished and denied love, this perspective seeps mercilessly into every area of your life.
Self harm can be subtle. Some of my closest friends have said that they don’t deserve friendship or to even simply enjoy life.
“Aren’t we supposed to be focused on the next life and not enjoying this one? I don’t have to have friends. I’ll just be alone.”
“Why I am so stupid?”
“I don’t want to inconvenience the waiters at IHOP because I’m in a wheelchair. I don’t have to have pancakes.”
“Wouldn’t you eventually get over it [my suicide]?”
The words from our conversations drip like blood. Emotional wounds seeping silent tears. They don’t see that every person’s unique genetic composition and personality combination makes them irreplaceable. John Powell explained it like this: “You have a unique message to deliver, a unique song to sing, a unique act of love to bestow. This message, this song, and this act of love have been entrusted exclusively to the one and only you.”
The voices in our heads telling us that we are worthless are lies. Jesus said, “The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy. I came that they may have life and have it abundantly.”
Abundant life. Abundant even in the little things. Enjoying hot, syrupy pancakes with friends. Late night laughter. Life contains hardships, but we don’t have to seek them out. My friend Cynthia Jeub recently wrote that we don’t need to live like we were born to be martyrs.
I can live free, and be “free indeed.” I have not been denied love. I am (and YOU are) so loved.
P.S. Me and Pastor Mark Adams from First Baptist Church of Beaumont who used to play Jesus in the Passion Play. I went back to visit last month.
******** Shop at our Amazon store! As an Amazon Influencer, this website earns from qualifying purchases.
Matthew 6:12 (NLT) “..and forgive us our sins, just as we have forgiven those who sin against us..” – Jesus.
“As long as you hate (someone) you give that person control of your life. …It (forgiveness) doesn’t happen over night but when it does it opens up a whole world of possibilities.” (From a TV show, I don’t remember which one.)
I am still working on forgiveness of certain people from my old church. I don’t want to forgive them most of the time, but I know I should. Why should I forgive someone who did verbal injury to a family member when they deserved support instead of condemnation and gossip?
The verbal injury was so deep it has caused my family member to question God to the point of almost losing faith in Him. And those same people who did the injury are quick to say “There is no excuse for anyone to walk away (from the church which in their mind equals walking away from God).” There is also no excuse for treating people the way they do.
Good News: Forgiveness is healing. But it is so hard. It must be hard for the other person to acknowledge what they said or did so it must also be hard for them to forgive their “target.” It works both ways. Sometimes it seems that we can forgive without going to that other person and telling them – they probably would not understand why you need to forgive them and you would have to explain and it might start all over again. All the pain. Or maybe not, but it would be too frustrating to have to explain when you think they ought to know.
More Good News: With forgiveness comes healing – maybe not right away, but slowly and then one day you wake up and think “I forgive that person.” And then you might wonder why it took so long. The old adage should be rewritten “Sticks and stones will break bones which heal in a few weeks, but words hurt for a long, long time and are far more hurtful than a broken bone.”
Someday maybe all the hurt won’t hurt so much and when I think of those people and the harm they have done I won’t have all those bad thoughts going through my mind. It is getting a little better.
Editorial Note: The following is reprinted with permission from Eleanor Skelton’s blog. It was originally published on January 17, 2015.
Source: Source: 40ozheroes.com
The morning I moved out, I texted my research professor who was helping me leave that my parents weren’t letting me take the heirloom violin, but left me an old laundry basket, a case of canned green beans, and a pot they didn’t like.
She replied, “That sounds like Harry’s birthday presents from the Dursleys.” Yep. The crazy relatives who made Harry Potter live in the cupboard under the stairs.
Sometimes my parents act like the Dursleys. Or even Miss Minchin in A Little Princess. It’s easy to compare my parents to fairy tale bad guys. And even helpful sometimes in predicting their behavior.
But villainizing anyone denies the psychological complexity at work.
My parents are more like the mature antagonists in classical literature. They’re more similar to Javert in Les Miserables, whose sense of justice and punishment for lawbreakers overrides any compassion, rendering him incapable of giving or accepting mercy.
And the pastor who said honoring my parents as an adult meant absolute obedience isn’t a villain either.
Sometimes I feel like fundamentalism was like living in Wise Blood, one of Flannery O’Connor’s Southern Gothic novels. The story is riddled with variations of extreme street preachers proclaiming damnation, but unable to uphold their own rigid moral standards.
My parents paid tuition for the A Beka Academy video curriculum, which was more than other families at our church could afford and made sure I graduated with an accredited high school diploma so I didn’t have to take the GED like my other homeschooled friends.
In 3rd grade when I was diagnosed with ADHD and prescribed Ritalin and a depressant, my mom saw how unbalanced I was. She told the doctors she’d make our home quiet so I could focus. She copied my long division problems lengthwise on lined notebook paper so I’d keep the columns straight.
My parents noticed I wasn’t on the growth percentile charts at the pediatrician’s office. They appealed for insurance coverage for my growth hormone replacement therapy when I was 12 to 16. Female growth plates between bones fuse around menarche, so my parents worked with my endocrinologist for an experimental combined treatment that delayed puberty and gave me more growing time.
My dad was even going to sell our more expensive car to afford a year of treatment without insurance.
If not for the daily Nutropin and monthly Lupron injections, today I’d be a real-life dwarf. I wouldn’t be able to drive a regular car or reach dishes in kitchen cabinets.
And they did pay for my first three years of college. My dad always said he wanted to give me “every advantage in life.”
I know deep down my parents love me.
Even if they don’t believe I am an adult yet. Even if they try to control what I believe and what I do.
Their beliefs dictate that they should shun me because I don’t measure up to what they think God wants.
Back in high school, the pastor at my last church talked me through why the King James Version isn’t an inspired translation or the only valid Bible to read. It was one of the first conversations that helped me to recognize the fear and control inherent in legalism.
And now he too believes I should be ostracized.
The summer I moved out, I borrowed the graphic novel Watchmen from my punk friend Kat. It’s about the second generation of a group of superheros blended into American history. But the first generation wasn’t as perfect as the press advertised.
“Who watches the Watchmen?” the book asks over and over. Who makes sure the good guys don’t become bad guys? What happens when authority is corrupted?
And (SPOILER) at the end the “villain” is one of their own. Disaster is sort of averted, they save the planet, but there is no real hero, either. Life just continues.
My parents did many good things. And many hurtful things. I’m not obligated to give into their demands, I don’t have to lose my freedom. The bad doesn’t void the good and the good doesn’t cancel out the bad.
But if I don’t recognize their human complexity, then I am refusing to see the raw reality. And I will blind myself from the truth.
