Real Talk: Am I The Only One…?

What is it about Spring that seems to catapult my life into a new level of upheaval every year? Is it the significance of new growth pushing up out of the mouldering layers of Fall’s detritus and Winter’s long, dark sleep that does it? The act of spring cleaning – getting rid of the old, the rubbish, the decluttering, that seems to trigger the discovery of yet another “layer”?

I have decided that Trauma is a strange thing. It’s a fine dust that coats everything, settling into all the nooks and crevices. Places that you can’t even see. So, that even after you’ve wiped and polished and thought you’ve found it all, an errant puff of wind disturbs a hidden corner and sends it exploding again over your gleaming surfaces. Fanning to flame the embers of lies and belief systems you thought you’d left behind.

The triggers can come without warning and certainly without fanfare. They can come disguised as other things. Their influence present, but their presence undetected. Until the damage they’ve provoked is undeniable. Until you end their masquerade and see them for what they are. Until you dig deep and discover there is more to deal with. Another layer of dust.

It can be despairing. To find that all the work you’ve done to uncover, and discard, and heal, seems to be once again unending. It can leave you feeling disconnected. Different. Like you don’t belong. Alone.

Within the last month I have had numerous moments like this. I thought Mother’s Day was the trigger, it certainly seemed the obvious one, but a little more digging revealed that it was simply the last drop needed to send an already full glass spilling over the edge. And it didn’t just trickle this time. It burst like a dam, showering damage all around me. I felt blindsided. Honestly, with all the therapy and work I have done to seek healing over the years, was there really MORE? It left me with the distinct impression that something must be horribly wrong with me. Feeling utterly alone and dysfunctional. Scribbling furiously in my journal, dissecting the way I think and act, and asking the question “Am I the only one?”

Some time and distance from these explosive moments have helped to temper that notion. It may not be trauma related, but perhaps things that have happened in your own life may have led you to believe that you’re alone too. However isolating working through this mess is, I don’t think deep down I really believe I am the only one. But in our perfect Instagram culture, it’s not something people really talk about, so it can definitely feel that way. Maybe it’s time for some real talk. Some down-to-earth, no holding back honesty. And while I don’t claim to have all the answers, maybe sharing some the questions and conclusions I’ve been wrestling with can help someone else feel a little less isolated.

Am I the ONLY ONE…

…that instead of finding joy on Mother’s Day, is filled with disappointment, unmet expectations, and reminders of the precious ones lost? Who has to paste on a fake smile and act as though all is well, but is inwardly dying just a little bit as other women share the joys of their special day?

…that prayed and cried rivers of tears, while empty arms ached through years of infertility and loss, only to pray and cry rivers of tears, while full arms ache with the overflow of little blessings and the overwhelm of it all?

…that hears the platitudes “enjoy every moment of motherhood” because “children grow so fast“, and agrees that, yes, they definitely do, while simultaneously shoulders heavy guilt for having moments of this motherhood thing that she absolutely hates?

…that feels lost and failing in absolutely every area of life, drowning in a sea with so many depending on her to keep them afloat as her head is slowly sinking beneath the water? That strives so hard to be “better” and to give better to her children, but seems to end up perpetuating the same generational mistakes over and over again? That gets told regularly to stop being hard on herself, but has no idea what that even looks like or how to implement giving herself grace?

…that looks around at the chaos that is her home and wonders how it got that way, and why she can’t stay on top of things, but is immobilized because she have no idea where to even begin changing things? Who can feel like the simple question “what’s for supper?” might break her at the end of a long and frustrating day of managing everyone else’s expectations and emotions?

…that wonders if other people can see just how fractured she is, or if she manages to pull off a decent “ok”? That wonders if learning to be “authentic” after a child/young adulthood of living lies – because that’s how things were done in her family – was maybe not such a good idea after all because there are so many people who are just not ready for her “real”? That feels like being honest will have her labelled as “that friend” – the one who is always in crisis, or grief, or processing “something”, and so it might just be easier to hide than to face possible rejection again?

Am I the ONLY ONE…

…that reaches the end of the day, but rather than tackle one of the myriad of things that still needs to be done or do something productive to process the day, she curls up in front of the TV, completely exhausted, so she can drown herself in someone else’s story for a little while?

….that feels stuck in a rut, losing a little more of who she is in the “what” of doing every day? That greets some mornings by pulling the blankets tightly over her head, hanging onto the fleeing vestiges of the dream that just was, rather than face the the monumental responsibilities of another day?

…that feels invisible and unheard, discouraged as she watches friends and family chase their dreams and achieve their goals, while she holds a solemn vigil over her own that are struggling and dying?

…that lies awake for hours at night, beyond exhausted, but her mind won’t shut down because it’s busy replaying what she said and did all day, rehashing how she could have responded differently?

…that avoids looking in the mirror because the person staring back is a stranger she doesn’t recognize; harried and haggard with more scowl creases than laugh lines, wondering where the bloom of youth and life and joy went?

…that feels like she might say something she regrets if one more person tells her “you wanted this” or “this is what you signed up for” in regards to her life choices? Because if she had to do it over, she knows she would choose it all again, and she knows that perfect is a mirage, but isn’t it “ok” to not be “ok” sometimes and share how you feel? And does it have to be so @#$% hard and feel like an uphill climb all the time?

…that cares deeply about people and loves to help others, but is learning that “loving your neighbour as yourself” is a whole lot harder to carry out when she doesn’t love herself and she still hasn’t figured out how to do that?

…that has followed Jesus for most of her life, spending hours studying God’s Word and trying to learn, but still feels like she should be further along in her faith journey than she is? Because if she was, she wouldn’t feel the way she does? That has lain on the bedroom floor, quietly singing “Jesus love me” to herself over and over through her tears, just to remind herself that it’s true?

Am I the only one? I can’t count the times I have asked that question over the years. And if you can identify with any of the above, just know you aren’t alone. I recognize that many of these thoughts and feelings I have just shared are based on lies that the enemy wants me to believe and faulty belief systems that shaped my formative years and young adulthood. But I have also learned that when trauma rears it’s ugly head, or life gets overwhelming, this becomes the loop of things running in my head. And rather than hide them anymore, I think it is better to expose them to the light.

I was raised in a home and church culture that didn’t handle emotions well. Where doubts or anything aside from happiness, or joy, or positivity, were considered a sin, or at the very least a “lack of faith”. And if for some reason, you had to feel something else, then for heaven’s sake do it behind closed doors. But when you re-emerge, put on your happy mask so that no one need know you are struggling.

In the years after I left home and began my own pursuit of wholeness, began to peel back the layers of wounds, I was desperate to shed the façade of “ok” and “fine” and let the real “me” out of the shadows. But that was scary and not always met with kindness, acceptance, or grace. And it left me hesitant and confused. I thank God for my husband and his support over the years, for wonderful therapists, for mentors and leaders, and that I am finally finding my “village” – people I can be real with. And though the fear of rejection and abandonment continues to lurk in the background of every relationship and interaction, I keep praying and believing that someday I will be able to leave those thoughts behind for good.

For now, I am striving to live in a place where I can be honest about how I feel, with myself and with others. Acknowledging the emotions and how they affect me. Wading through them consciously, like wading through a river, while trusting my Good Shepherd to keep my footing sure on Truth’s solid ground and lead me through by His Spirit, rather than letting the feelings and lies drown me and control my steps. Creating a sacred space that allows for the expression of pain, of loss, of grief, and for healing, and grace, and joy simultaneously. Where I can shed the layers and wrappings and just “be”, no matter how that looks. And the beauty of it is, that Jesus meets me in this space. In so many different ways.

When I started working on this art piece, I didn’t think of it as therapy, but over the last month as it’s taken shape, it definitely became that. In the beginning, I thought I was processing my thoughts on the war in Ukraine -of it’s impact and it’s pain (the blue and yellow elements are my way of reflecting that) – but as it progressed, it became apparent it was far more. It emerged from somewhere deep, giving voice to things I didn’t know needed to be said. Through the process of creating, I’ve been able to reconnect with Hope and I have been hanging onto the words that God dropped into my heart.

The Greek word here is parakaleo, translated comforted in Matthew 5:4 “Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted”. It means to call near. It’s the “Come here…” with open arms. A Father’s warm embrace holding body and soul together. The cupped Hands cradling the bleeding, broken shards of a shattered heart. Reminding me that my Father still holds me, He still hears me, and He will never let me go. Even if I forget He is here and that He is good for a little while.

In the aftermath of this last explosion, I feel fragile. A paper flower. I know I’ve said and done things that I deeply regret. There’s no taking that back and I have to deal with the consequences of my actions. But God forgives and I have to trust that He can heal and restore even what seems impossibly broken. I choose to move forward again. Like a baby taking their first barefoot steps on the grass. Like testing new skin on a wound after removing the protective bandage. It feels unsafe. Steps are tentative. Words are thought through more carefully before leaving my mouth. I hesitate more often. Feeling like the ground could shift with any sudden movement. The important thing is that I am taking steps. However fearfully, however uncertain, I’m still moving forward. And I will climb this mountain too, just as I have all of the ones that came before it. I’ll stand on the peak one day and look back and marvel at how far I’ve come held in God’s Hands and by His grace. And know I’m not the only one.

May you know the parakaleo of the God Who sees, the God Who hears, and the God Who holds you too.