In recovery, I am reminded consistently that we are never  victims.  This does not mean that people do not intentionally victimize and persecute others, but that we do have choices about how we respond.  All choices may be highly undesirable, none the less, they are choices.  Like going to a crummy restaurant where you hate evereeeeything on the menu.  Every single thing.

I do not suck, sometimes my behavior does–but THIS- this alllllwaaaaays sucks.  Today is a hard day.  I wake up every single day, so painfully aware and deeply affected by the state of my family.  I recognize that I do not cause or imagine the dysfunction- and that I alone, cannot repair it.  Intellectually and spiritually, I accept this– it is what it is.  However, acceptance of circumstances does not block me from the emotional pain of having been treated poorly, openly diminished and then discarded.  Repeatedly and consistently.  I intend to never get used to it.  Hopefully, I will continue to get better at not placing myself in this familiar dynamic.  We learn what we live and do what we know.  Unlearning–as fast as I am able and dead center in the middle of another lesson. My boys asked me if I thought my mother would leave me anything when she dies.  All I can respond with is :  “I don’t know”.  I suspect she may leave me in the state of pain that she sees as my due.   Of course, it would be nice if her final statement to me and about me to the world, could be one of kindness.  Every day– all of the days, slowly-this kills me. Young hurt lil Magda, still needing a mama, believes this is proof of her unworthiness.  Adult me, in recovery, knows it is evidence only of the sickness in our family.  I can learn, grow, and know all I want– and still not one damn thing will ever make this not hurt.  I may never get my head around the idea of choosing not speaking to one of my children.  Or aligning with one of them, or aligning with any person at all, against one of my sons. I will never stop longing.  The heart wants what the heart wants.  My sweet sons continue to foot the bill for my struggle to make peace with this-to move on-get it behind me.  The best I can do, is to remind them frequently and explicitly of how wanted and loved they are, AND that they do not cause or imagine any of this.  It is a painful mess.  I suffer from depression and anxiety, not from them. Sadness

Oh-  this post!!!!  What an immense comfort and timely topic.  Bullying, oppression, exclusion- behaviors and attitudes:  not as narrowly defined as we tend to think.  Below is a snippet of what Glennon shared at Momastery, regarding bullying-related suicides. And people are sensitive. People are heart-breakingly sensitive. If enough people tell someone over and over that he is not okay, he will believe it. And one way or another, he will die. Each time one of these stories is reported, the tag line is: “kids can be so cruel.” This is something we tend to say. Kids these days, they can be so cruel. But I think this is just a phrase we toss around to excuse ourselves from facing the truth. Because I don’t think kids are any crueler than adults. I just think kids aren’t quite as adept yet at disguising their cruelty.  Children are not cruel. Children are mirrors. They want to be “grown-up.” So they act how grown-ups act when we think they’re not looking. They do not act how we tell them to act at school assemblies. They act how we really act. They believe what we believe. They say what we say. It’s trickle-down cruelty. If I want my world to be less vicious, then I must become more gentle. If I want my children to embrace other children for who they are, to treat other children with the dignity and respect every child of God deserves, then I had better treat other adults the same way. And I better make sure that my children know beyond a shadow of a doubt that in God’s and their father’s and my eyes, they are okay. They are fine. They are loved as they are. Without a single unless.  Because the kids who bully are those who are afraid that a secret part of themselves is not okay.  It is odd, how striving for this brand of kindness and acceptance seems kinda subversive.  Elitist, excluding & exclusive seem to be nearly the norm, common.  Why is it uncommon to want the best for everyone?  Why do so many feel the need to oppress and exclude?!  More importantly, how  do we break the cycle and innoculate our children from messages that any one is more or less worthy of the most basic human dignities and rights?  

Lately, I spend every moment possible reading and listening for comfort, from those who have openly navigated troublesome experiences, who possess the inner strength and courage to share–messages of hope alongside their deeply personal and  messy details.  I, personally, need to hear the mess.  The message without the mess can leave me feeling separated and alone.   And without the message, I find only a sick commiserative and temporary comfort.  I need both, together.  The mess and the message:  the shit before the shiFt.  Daily doses of Bob Goff and Glennon Doyle seem a perfect prescription for now. I am both losing and finding myself in the teachings of those who who humbly share their hardships, missteps, mistakes, confusion and lessons.  It is through them, that God speaks to me and is guiding me—helping me to recover my spirit. I seek their wisdom with the hope and intent to become a better guardian of the spirits of my sons.  They are intelligent, courageous, strong, able, and kind humans.  These things just are.  What they also are, is deeply faithful– and this, I know has something to do with my recovery and parenting.  In all of the many ways I fail and struggle, I am deeply comforted, if not proud of the ways in which I practice protecting and developing their spirits:  their senses of connection, belonging and their deep gut knowing of goodness and kindness.  Below, I share with you my daily dose of healing from Glennon. The thing is that I’m not worried about my little man’s brain. I’m worried about his heart. When I was in elementary school, all of these little teeny things happened to me that made me embarrassed, or confused, or sad. Like when I had to stand against the huge cafeteria wall with my nose pressed against the big purple painted grapes, or when all the girls teased me at my lunch table because my hair was greasy, you could start a car with all that grease, they said. Or when the boys never chased me at recess. Or when a classmate brought a Playboy to school, or when my friend Jennifer called me a gay wad. What’s a gay wad? But these things didn’t seem big enough to talk about, and I didn’t want my parents to know that all wasn’t perfect . . . so for whatever reason, I kept all these little sad and confusing things secrets. And keeping secrets became second nature to me. Which didn’t turn out so well for me for a couple decades. So when it comes to how my kids are doing at school, I don’t worry about academics. I worry about social things. I worry about their time at lunch, at recess, on the bus. Mostly, children learn to read and add and sit still eventually. But not everybody learns that he deserves to be treated with respect and so do others. And not everybody learns that he is OKAY and loved and precious and that it’s all right to feel hurt and all right to hurt others, as long as he cleans up his messes. And not everybody learns that different is beautiful. And not everybody learns to stand up for himself, even when it’s scary. So I worry about that. Seven is young to navigate a big social sea all by oneself. I feel like thirty four is too young sometimes. Last week, I snuggled in bed with Chase and told him all about the embarrassing, sad, scary little things that happened to me in elementary school. I told him that I never gave Bubba and Tisha a chance to help me, because I kept my worries in my heart. So my worries became problems. I told him that this was a shame. Because the beautiful things about being a kid, is that you don’t really have any problems. You might have worries, but if you share those worries with your parents, they don’t have to become problems. I told him that his daddy and I are his team. That his worries are really our worries. And that the most important thing in the world to us is his heart.