Sunday, June 6, 2010

Story

it has taken me years to believe, accept, and find relief in the fact that God had his hand on me from Beginning. he used to simply be something not unlike Santa, big, friendly, "up there," and desirable, but possibly not true. then he was a mysterious cloud to be feared, always on the verge of punishing me for sins committed and unknown. then in academic stagnancy, he was clock-maker, marionetter, distant and solid. but then, slowly, a ray of light shining in a storm cloud, he became Real. not quite the God-as-Father or Friend or Lover, but very, very real. so real i wanted to reach out and touch him. so real i feared i'd never touch him. he created me. he has broken me and molded me. he has Authored me.

i grew up for a while in a single-mom household, not much different from other single parent families, excepting the unavoidable fact of my being a triplet. compare and contrast was a fact of life growing up. we only went to church on easter and christmas, and then only when granny made our outfits (always matching, of course). we were poor, often without electricity and food, though i don't recall much of that. i remember eating blueberry doughnuts and riding the carousel. it wasn't til later that my mom confessed she'd bought day-old doughnuts for a quarter and that we went to the "shady" mall to ride the carousel free on thursdays.
then, she met a man and remarried. this was such a novelty for us girls: we were receiving attention from a father figure for the first time in our lives, and we were giddy with it. we were 7 when they married, and we went to church on a regular basis for the first time. we actually had to, because dad was a pastor, and in the early days he often filled in for various holy-ghost types. it was very new and very impressive to a young sponge, and i made a profession of faith. i was mostly scared of going to hell, but i also wanted to be good. i wanted to be loved. i wanted to be complete.
dad seemed to delight in his new brood, and gladly sat us on his knees and gifted us with goodies we'd never been privy to til then. soon, i smiled shyly and smugly at the whispered favoritism i received and was only mildly alarmed at the lingering hugs and kisses. mild alarm swiftly turned to inner dismay and guilty sadness as being tucked in turned to being touched and caressed in a way i knew was wrong. the touches and provocative words and threats lasted for years, and he preached all the while. i began to hate god, but i didn't know those strong words then.
i learned my sisters were also favorites, daddy's little girls. we told mama. nothing and everything changed. he never touched me again, and our family never talked about it again, but i felt a shell forming.
throughout high school i sought solace in grades and quiet perfectionism, fearing being singled out, but forcing myself to continue to be good, do good, seem good. because i wasn't, you see? i was dirty, and shameful and ashamed. i was wounded and bleeding on the inside and perfect and calm on the outside.
i made it to a small, prestigious private school and i feel my true story begins here. i met christian girlfriends for the first time, a sweetness of relationship i didn't even know existed beyond the bond i shared with my sisters. i attended my first ever bible study and remember my leader crying joy-tears when i asked her so shyly what 'grace' meant? i thought i was pursuing grace; little did i know it was pursuing me. i wrestled with faith for the first time, not ever having faced Doubt before (we were required to fulfill a religious component, and i didn't know at the time that it was going to bible-bash!).
and in all of this: quiet, sick-to-stomach anger. and i finally told.
flood.
i went home, asked them why we never talked about it again. why, if we girls were crazy hadn't we been seen by someone? why, if it was true did we never deal with it? why why why why why?
they told me i was crazy. that i had lied. that i had misunderstood. they tried to pit sister against sister. the anger balled but flatlined into unknowingness. i didn't know how to deal, and i was unequipped. i still talked, though, to a couple of counselors, band-aids.
i found relationship, my first boyfriend at 19, and we were pups, new and excited and it didn't last. i'm not sure i expected it to. i still didn't feel complete. my senior year i met another and he took my breath away. we danced and shared what wasn't ours to give and when that tore apart, i felt the ebb of pain pushing against my fragile-ly held barrier. i seeped.
anger has a way of breaking through the cracks and cracking itself wide. i know exactly how a bullet-pierced windshield must feel, spiderwebbing fissures running til there's no stopping them.
real counseling to help: stringent lidocaine to help me stop. breathe. tell. break. breathe. be. believe. hear. all truth.
i finally met him, and he loved me whole. we, too, awakened love before its time, and this time the hurt came from the Bride, who cut us off and faulted us for the beautiful life we created. tails tucked for a season, we nursed wounds and baby boy. this new life! and the Lover woos again. slowly, timidly, we crawl into lap and pray together and share fears/wants/hopes. we return to the fold.
three boys.
i mourn loss of my mom, no one to teach me to hold these little ones close. no one to show me how to love unconditionally. the fissures still stretch, and i lash out at my babes. i cry with them all too often and i breach that promise, unspoken always, to never harm my child.
my heart has been torn wide, and i have suffered long and i know a hope that burns fire and glory and sadness unlike any other. i know the despair of being broken, of breaking others. i know storytelling and storyletting and storymaking, because i am witness to, character in, and daughter of His story. my story.
new counselor, new tools, new sense of cautious, carefree love. i wrap arms wide around the men, big and little, in my life and i thank Him for writing us. i thank him for being bigger than and infinite. i thank him for loving me and using me and folding me under his wing.
story goes. it sears sometimes. it delights othertimes. it teaches and exhorts and testifies. it is I am.


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my story is one of Redemption. i was born in need of a savior. i have experienced the woundedness of sexual abuse. i have known premarital sex and its precarious hold on the heart. i know the kind of severed relationship that feels forever. i know unhealthy anger. but i also know sins forgiven. healing. evil-for-purpose. and a way of turning to Him, to glorify how much i'm not and how much he Is. i am still in professional counseling to aid me in my control of my anger and to find right and proper channels for it. i have been blessed with 3 beautiful little boys, and i am finding new ways to delight in them daily, as hard of work as they can be sometimes! if you have more questions for me, i'd welcome your email to mistygreen13 AT gmail DOT com.

4 comments:

pinkdaisyjane said...

Thank you for your beautiful transparency.

Emma said...

Wow, Misty. Thank you for sharing all these words, your story. Darkness flees light, and I can sense our Saviour's strong flame in your words. So glad we've "met" :)

Elisabeth LaMouria said...

Amazing testimony. Sad and ugly tragedy turned into a beautiful workmanship of God. God is working in you - I can hear it in your words, it's beautiful. Thank you for having the strength to share your story. So many go untold, they do not help anyone. If we do not tell our stories, how can God work through our pain?

Leslie said...

"it is I am."

Something in your imperfect prose post today made me read further. Deeper. And I came to your series of posts, here, about your wounds. Ah, Misty. I am crying for those little girls so abused. And for all the hurt that followed. And for the miracle love you testify to, and for your light in the darkness of enemy territory.

You write these things with grace. I don't know how you do. It is a miracle of Him, in you. May you know His love in the deepest, darkest, recesses of your soul. Keep writing, Misty.