Victim or Victor

Every child that comes from a family of divorced parents acts out in different ways. Though some individuals seem to leave a broken home "unscathed," it is much more normal to have, at least a season, of rebellion. There are (in my opinion) four major ways kids of divorced parents can act.

1. The "I-am-a-victim-and-everyone-is-out-to-get-me"passive perspective

2. The "Screw-you-I'll-do-what-I-want" aggressive perspective

3. The "I'll-internalize-all-my-feelings" passive aggressive perspective

4. The "I-ruined-my-parent's-marriage" passive perspective

See, rebellion doesn't mean black fingernail polish, green hair and breaking curfew. Rebellion is not an action but the way one lives. One doesn't "act" rebellious but rather one "lives" rebellious. And the root of all of these three perspectives is simply... pride.

One of my most favorite quotes comes from an anonymous source. It reads:

“Accept fate, and move on. Don't yield to the seductive pull of self-pity. Acting like a victim threatens your future.”

Who would have ever thought that one's wallowing in self-pity leads to a destructive future?

When my parents went through their divorce, there were many moments where I felt that life would never get back to normal. I would never be able to move past my grief and I could easily fall into divorce in my own life.

I remember staring at my husband my wedding day and wondering "Could it really last forever?"

No matter how one reacts to a divorce it is important to realize three things:

1. I am not the reason my parents got a divorce

It seems so easy to say but difficult to understand. At times I remember wondering how I could have done life differently. Did I make life more difficult than it should have been? Again, the pride thing... those who are prideful would OF COURSE believe that THEY are the ones who caused _______. It's the root of all destruction, let me tell ya.

2. I can have a marriage that is entirely separate of what I have seen.

I always heard the saying that little boys want to marry their mommies and little girls want to marry their daddies. I'm sorry, but that is just sick. Seriously??! Nothing against mommies and daddies but I hope Cohen marries someone because he loves her and is not even subconsciously thinking about me. We are not our parents! That's not a bad thing but a liberating epiphany! Run your race, not someone elses.

Bottom line: The man you are married to is not your dad. The woman you are married to is not your mom. They shouldn't have to make up for what your parents didn't give you. That's God's job and no one elses. Embrace a new identity of oneness in your own marriage. It is so liberating.

3. Accept that your parent's aren't perfect and forgive.

So your mom had sex with your dad before they were married. Your mom had an affair. Your dad had a gambling addiction at one point. UNLESS THEY HAVE NOT TAKEN RESPONSIBILITY FOR THEIR OWN LIFE, embrace them and move on. Often times we sin in response to someone sinning against us BUT we can stop the cycle. It takes severe spiritual maturity to forgive your parents and move on. The burdens of their past are not yours to bear.

This most difficult aspect of a parent/child relationship for a child is to see their parents not walking in truth and freedom. It is heartbreaking and at times so difficult but it is crucial to reject the co-dependence. Pray and allow only a relationship with strict boundaries.

Ultimately, one must walk in freedom and truth. As a child of divorced parents there is nothing I desire and appreciate more than truth and authenticity. Not just with words but with a lifestyle.

Be the victor and your own life and marriage apart from what you have seen or heard. Mistakes your parents have made are not yours to try to fix but rather these obstacles are a small hurdle that the Lord helps us jump over if we ask.

Slowing It Down

I put Cohen down for a nap today after many attempts. I did the timer-thing, the bribe-thing, the you-better-listen-or-dad-will-whoop-you-thing, the I-love-you-so-much-thing but ultimately all he wanted was some independence. While I was folding laundry and had given up hope on a nap (he's three and a half anyway), he slowly walked toward me with cautious eyes and told me he was ready for bed. His ratty old blanket was wrapped around his neck a few times which was the only thing he needed. I put him down and he rolled over and fell asleep.

I didn't know what to do with myself after he had fallen asleep. I have this theory that our bodies do better when we are going 100mph and when a busy life stops everything crashes in.

I didn't know what to do with myself.

Now that school has stopped and my mind is not racing all the time, Relaxing is a strange force. I think especially as women or maybe ESPECIALLY as mothers, relaxing seems to always come with a price.

I sat down on the couch and looked around the room for something to do. I could: clean Cohen's toys, vacuum (again), wash my sheets (again), read a book, do...something. I felt a strange sense of anxiety not knowing what to do. I put my head on the pillow and began to realize how tired I really was. Now this isn't a complaining "I'm so tired" feeling but rather an ache to have a moment of quiet.

A real moment of quiet.

Whenever a break comes along I always get sick. I think it's because I allow my body to feel what I have refused it for months. Sometimes 45 minutes with your head on a pillow in the middle of a messy room is ok. I still struggle with that.

I am the kind of girl that comes home from a long day of work and school and without taking off my jacket or purse starts the laundry, dinner and cleaning up. It's as if my mind doesn't know how to just be or just be quiet. My problem has always been to just "be in the moment" as I always am wondering "how am I going to clean all this up?"

If I don't do it, who will?

Life is messy and inconsistent. We can fight it like Cohen did not wanting his nap or we can choose to embrace the mess and allow God to let us sleep while he does his work.

So here I go... quiet, ready and with my head on the pillow.

I'll Keep My Cough Thanks

I have this weird thing about taking medications.

I don’t know when it started and I don’t know why it started but it has started.

As long as I can remember, I hated taking medications. I am huge advocate of “sticking it out” through the pain because our bodies were meant to fight infection or whatever on their own.

Seems simple enough right?

Well… It has turned into a bit of a phobia. Ok maybe a big phobia. I won’t take any medication if I have any alcohol in my system. I won’t take more than 2 Ibuprofen, Tylenols or etc. in a 24 hour period. I won’t take Immodium (why would you ever tell your body to clog itself up?). I won’t take experimental dietary supplements and I track my vitamins/minerals so I don’t overdose on any of them. I will only take half of Dayquill or Nightquill (I will only take Nightquill if it is past midnight and I haven’t fallen asleep). I won’t take Tylenol PM at all. In fact, I won’t take anything that is supposed to help me sleep. I won’t take any cough suppressants (we are suppose to cough!). I hate taking my birth control pills (been on 8 different kinds) because I have had nothing but negative reactions…ever. But hence, I do not want to be pregnant. Running nose? Cough? Sore throat? Normal. Won’t even take ibuprofen. My mom usually has to convince me to go to a doctor. Cramps? Forget Midol! That stuff has caffeine in it!

Oh, and I avoid caffeine and all stimulants.

And truthfully a big reason why I do is that my body is so dang sensitive to all medications.

The thought of combining any medications ie: Gas X and Pepto, Tylonel and Ibuprofen, Dayquil and a decongestant is absolutely horrifying to me.

I get panic attacks.

It’s a little nuts.

So it is always difficult when I go to my dermatologist to get a cortisone shot for my severe eczema. I try to pretend that I don’t need one (as my hands crack, bleed, ooze) and topical steroid creams don’t work.

But I need them. And they have helped in the past.

I allow myself to get one once a year (though my doctor tells me I can get more). I don’t ever want my body dependent on any drug.

So today I went into the doctors office and the nurse whipped out the shot. I sat there and began to panic. Really really bad. It took everything in me to not pass out.

I google search everything and there is a lot of negative feedback about cortisone shots but there is nothing else I can do for my eczema at this point (I have had it for years…trust me, I have tried everything even if it made me anxious).

I mean, you could die from a cortisone shot, it could cause heart failure or you could lose tissue in your body. It lowers your immunity so I kept thinking, “What if I got the flu? Would I die? Would my body be able to fight the infection?’

I’m sure there has to be some sort of moderation somewhere. But I genuinely hate taking medicine. Our bodies are so fickle and at any point a negative reaction could lead to one thing, then another…then death.

It feeds my anxiety and thus I avoid medication at all costs. So when Cohen drank half a bottle of children’s ibuprofen, I don’t know who felt worse: Me or Cohen?

Am I the only one like this? As individuals it seems we are always trying to mask the symptoms or make our selves feel better when our bodies is suppose to do it.

I hope one day I can get a shot and walk away feeling better instead of feeling worse.

I just have this belief that pharmaceutical companies just want your money and want you to take their drugs even if you don’t need them.

Ugh, but that is for a different post.

A New Kind of Ache

Today was a rough day. Not as a student. Not as a mother. But as a woman. Just a woman.

For my extensive research paper I have been writing I have to research the violence done to black women in response to the myth of the strong, black woman. To do this I have been reading For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide When The Rainbow Is Enuf and The Women of Brewster Place. Brilliant pieces of literature. The fact that my entire paper was about the violence done to women my research involved close reading a rape of a woman by a gang in graphic detail. Her moaning, her silence, her bloody stockings, her matted hair, her bruised knees, her split rectum, her slimy stomach. All words I had to close read and immerse myself completely into. Or how about the woman who was forced to have an abortion by her husband and watched as her infant daughter was accidentally electrocuted due to negligence. Or the woman who had her boyfriend come home from the Vietnam war only to suffer from terrible PTSD, abused her with high chair her infant child was in, she files a restraining order to protect her two children from him, he returns only to drop her two children out the window.

Light reading. I know.

Eight hours of experiencing the ultimate betrayal to a woman. Someone taking her children and murdering them as she stands idly by. Men violating the very essence of what make a woman a woman. Beaten and bruised she lay on the floor as mere body parts. Blood, guts, semen, hate, betrayal, lust, pain, exhaustion, frustration, denial… all packaged into a horrific act that gives a woman no voice… rape.

Each of these women must chose suicide or hope because there is nothing left. Stripped dignity, love, joy… humanness.

Broke my heart all day.

Zac fell asleep early (poor guy, he works 12 hour days) and I decided I would watch a light documentary/movie called Trade. Not so much.

I wept and wept watching a young Polish girl thinking she was coming to America to start a job and bring her young son over but instead is sold into the sex trade. Beaten and berated by men along the way. Raped repeatedly. Each sigh and each bat of her eyelids she thinks only of her son and the hope she had to have him come home…to her. I watched as she cried as she realized that she could never escape, smiled and them jumped off a cliff to her death. No hope. Just suicide.

A young boy in a headlock with a needle of heroin forced into the back of his head so some pedophile can have his way with him for twenty thousand dollars.

I walked out of the room. Sat in the middle of the kitchen floor and cried.

For a very, very long time. I cried as a woman who hurts for another woman. Not out of sympathy or some emotional response to a “sad story.” To be violated as a woman is the ultimate betrayal of everything that holds us together. Like we fragmented pieces of a puzzle held together by the bond we have as women. The strong force that comes from locking arms with another female and saying “I see you.”

I went into Cohen’s room and watched him breathe. He breathes 45 times in minute. He smiles in his sleep and I thought about the worst thing that could happen to me as a mother and a woman. Someone forcing him to be inhuman, to have no dignity.

God, where are you? What the hell is wrong with this world?

Tonight I’m thankful for being a woman and given the privilege of dignity. To be seen as a whole woman and not just as breasts, behind and pretty face is grace by God.

To any woman who has lost children, been raped, violated or succumb to the kind of hardship no one should ever experience… I pray for you tonight. That you will remember the God who sees and loves you.

I am thankful tonight for my family, for my freedom, for my life, as I know it… I hold none of it for granted. I pray for the exploited children who are succumb to a harsh reality. That they will see their maker and he comforts them when all seems lost.

My heart hurts. God be with us.

Moments

I have been given so many fat juicy kisses from the Lord the last couple weeks. Each time I feel something (dontcha hate those darn feelings) rise inside of me, I remember who thinks about me all the time. Who has MY best interest in mind. Who constantly affirms my strengths and smiles at times at my silly weaknesses. There are moments when I have to remember whose side I'm really on anyway.

Decided to snuggle with the little guy instead of doing homework tonight. For the first time in a long time I could only think about him and not everything else in my life that needed attention. I read him 8 books...yes...8... and did it with a smile. I only get this moment once and then it's gone.

What moments have you missed? How do you justify those moments?

With each new moment comes a new opportunity.

I have a lot of very difficult decisions in the new few months that need to be made. If you think of it, please pray for us.

I pray that peace comes with what God has called.

Enjoy your precious moments tonight.

I fell back in love with an old band that I was obsessed with in high school. Blue October. This song is addicting and brings back so many great memories. If you like this song check out "Hate me" and "Into the Ocean"

My Canterbury Tale

I had a melt down today. Not a little “I have PMS” melt down. An epic melt down.

I have been running on barely any sleep du to a terrible head cold that has now taken over every inch of my being. I laid in bed most of the night last night staring at a snoring peaceful Zac and I couldn’t help but feel annoyingly jealous. I laid in bed and stared at the clock ...I saw 2am…3:30am…4:30am… Time seemed to move in slow motion and I begged God that morning would just come already. At one point I was sure that I would pull an all nighter.

I got in the car and realized I had only put mascara on one eye and hadn’t brushed my hair. I had an early morning meeting at work, serious in nature, and mustering strength just to stay vertical was work in and of itself.

Finished up the meeting and headed to school and into my infamous Chaucer class with like the WORST professor ever. I don’t really mean that but really...who gives TESTS in a literature class! I was anxious for this class. We were getting back our midterms. I knew that I had rocked the essay and that the other portions of the test were difficult but I would “do fine.”

I found my seat and realized how closterphobic the classroom was with every single person showing up to class to receive their midterm back. I started shaking realizing a cup of coffee is not a sufficient form of breakfast. He lectured to all of us about The Pardoner’s Tale and the class stared anxiously. No one took notes. We just wanted our freaking tests.

He reached in a manila folder and pulled out a thick pile of tests. He then continued to lecture about how 12 people got A’s, 7 got B’s, 18 got C’s, 7 got D’s and 1 person got an F. I began to tense a bit realizing that the A and B range was small and I knew that a lot of people in my class were brilliant.

Great.

He handed on the tests one by one moving around the class in a dance like motion. Some students smiled as they stared at each page, others took one look and put it down never to be looked at again and then there was me.

“Mackenzie?”

I grabbed my test from his hand and looked on the cover. In big, fat, red Sharpie there was a D with a huge circle around it. Laughing at me.

I frantically flipped through the pages which revealed red ink after red ink. I am pretty sure my paper died a bloody and horrific death.

This being a third of my grade I began to panic. My headache moved from the back of my head into my ears, throat, nose and eyes. I was welling up and I needed to get out. As students began to leave we were required to turn our tests back in.

I literally threw mine into the pile as I stared my professor in the eye. He looked at me like he wanted to be sympathetic.

I stepped out of the classroom and began to sob. Not a little tear but an army of tears. The kind of uncontrollable sobs that you have when you can’t even articulate words.

I wasn’t just feeling upset... my entire body was violently tense as I tried to muster back sobs.

I had failed. Literally.

I sat outside on a cold green bench not able to attend my next class. I felt humiliated and mad that I couldn't get it together!!

I couldn’t believe that I had studied and failed.

My emotions hit me like a massive tidal wave that moved out of my soul and into harsh tears that were streaming down my face. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine what I should have done. Studied more. Slept less. Done...something!'

The wind blew against my cold tear stained face and the more I sat still the more I realized my actions.

At this point I am feeling ridiculous. I realize that this is just a grade but at the same time I have never received this bad of a grade. It stung and seeped into every inch of me.

I just didn’t measure up.

I have a hero complex. Not only do I take on WAY more than I should but I expect myself to be amazing at everything I do. I have this visual of me taking every test with ease, writing papers effortlessly and standing up on the stage at graduation with twelve ropes around my neck to show the world that not only did I accomplish going to school but I did it working 35 hours a week and being a wife and mother.

HA! In your face! I accomplished something when the odds were against me!! That is the feeling I want to have when I graduate! But does accomplishment have to "look" a certain way?

To me, I didn’t just get a D on that test. I felt that that D represented every part of my life. That my school work, my job, my mothering, my ability to be a wife wasn’t the way it “should be” or “could be” so therefore I once again had not measured up to my own (super unrealistic) expectations.

I drove home crying and carrying on like the inner victim in all of us enjoys to do. I talked to my mom for a good half hour on the phone and as I am talking (half sobbing) I realize even more how ridiculous I sound. A D is unfortunate. But it isn’t the end of the world.

I have traded in precious moments with my family that I never get back. THIS is what a working mom thinks about all the time.

I will give my child a better life but how can I measure the cost?

I have such a wonderful mom. She just listened and reminded me that the Lord sees and knows my heart.

Oh Lord, I struggle with my own identity. I am all “these” things and at times I just want to be the me I have let go into hibernation for awhile. My loves and passions are set on the back burner and today was a day that my inner selfishness wanted to come out for awhile. Got to keep those mental horses on reigns or they can run wild and skew one’s perspective.

When I hung up the phone with my mom, I walked into my house and took a forty five minute nap. I fell into a deep sleep and allowed my whole body to conform to every contour of my mattress.

An exhausted mind and body needs rest…and often. And I need to give myself a break and remember that.