I grew up in a house of religious fundamentalists. We were in church at least 3 times a week. Sundays started early and ended late. The Bible was taught but not lived. We were not encouraged to read or know what the Bible actually said. I grew up sheltered. Most TV was not acceptable. I remember a sermon that was preached on the dangers of the show "Captain Planet". Everything from books to movies were screened.
Corporal punishment was doled out regularly. My parents were big fans of Dr James Dobson, especially his book The Strong Willed Child. The earliest memories I have are being hit by my parents. I have a vague memory of being bit by my mom for biting my baby sister and having my hand smacked for reaching for something. I remember my brother being blanket trained.
As we got older, it got worse. If I got a less than acceptable grade or mouthed off or did something I shouldn't have, my mom had a paddle with holes in it she used then when my dad got home, I got it again with a belt. Today, he claims he hit the bed...but hitting the bed doesn't leave welts on my butt and legs.
I realized I was different very early on. Maybe third grade. Kids were cruel but that wasn't the worst of it. It was then that girls started having crushes and talking about boys and I really didn't understand. I pretended. I worried. I felt unholy. This continued through my teen years.
By eleven, I was already slipping into a pretty deep depression. My parents sought the advice of a therapist. The therapist taught my mom our favorite game...Legal Obligations. When I did something wrong, anything really, my mom would let me know that she was not legally obligated to love me. She would remind me that her legal obligations were limited to five things: 1. feeding me buttered noodles 2. clothing me with rags from goodwill 3. public education with no access to a computer, library or books of any kind. 4. housing me and allowing me a place to sleep (in a closet) and 5. church. She warned us and then began taking things away. I still can't eat certain kinds of noodles and I only recently began using my closet again. It was marginally better than the hitting I guess.
Every single day, I left my house thinking school could not possibly be worse then home and came home thinking home could not possibly be worse than school. Both were equally bad.
At school, I did a lot of pretending. Pretending I was too stupid to get the jokes, pretending I didn't know about the party the entire class was talking about and I was being excluded from, pretending I didn't realize that even the teachers were making fun of me. I pretended to like boys, pretended to be absolutely obsessed with getting one to go out with me. I pretended to enjoy sports, running and music. I clung to anyone willing to give me the time of day while at the same time pretending to be normal. I pretended life at home was good.
At 14, for the first time, while still pretending to be ok, I tried to take my own life. I took a couple hundred ibuprophen and went to bed, hoping I wouldn't wake up. Of course, I did. I told a teacher, who told a counselor, who told my mom. My parents and I slipped into a course of duck and weave, denial and sunshine and roses that lasted through the next year. Several more attempts, cries for help really, went unanswered because my plans weren't specific enough, my tries weren't deadly enough and my parents could see past praying me through it.
My freshman year in high school, all of that changed. I found a couple people who were willing to tolerate me (even now, I don't think I was *likeable* back then...) and when things got tough and I made my decision, I wrote a note telling them goodbye. I laid my plan out on paper and thankfully, for a freshman and a sophomore in high school, they had good heads on their shoulders. They turned the notes into the counselor and allowed her to handle it.
They refused to allow me back into school until I had some help. I went to see a therapist and saw her daily for three days and my family doctor prescribed anti-depressants. I went back in a few more times, took the meds for a couple months and then...nothing.
My sophomore year, the church we were attending finally split and my parents and I started going to separate churches. It was still evangelical but more of a fundy-lite for lack of a better term. I got the inkling of an idea that girls could go to college. I found a place where I somewhat fit in. But, going into my senior year, my youth pastor left, many of my friends left for college and the only friend I (felt like) I had left was involved in a serious car accident. I felt thoroughly unlovable...until I met him.
To be continued...
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
starting over
Well, 2012 is my year to heal. It is my year to finish my undergrad degree and to decide the route I want to take to begin my career. I have career goals but I am not ready to share them yet.
I have some set goals. First, I am going to cook, from scratch, 5 nights a week, family cooking at least twice a month and cook with my new bride on the weekends. I will phase out my use of canned soups, vegetables and fruits and begin using more fresh stuff. I am going to use a new fruit or vegetable every week. Second, I will begin doing yoga every day. 7 days a week, 3 ten minute sessions a day. Right now I am doing the same series of moves each time but as time goes on, I will work on more. And lastly, I will talk frankly and publicly about the things that happened to me. People are way too silent about all of these things. I want to shed light on it.
I know that it might be hard to see the connection between cooking and healing. For me though the two go hand in hand. For me, the art of creating is in food. I do other things. I paint, I work with clay, I sketch. All things I doubted I could do. And, when I do them, I feel empowered. Learning to cook was one of the first things that empowered me.
This will be my posting schedule. I will post a recipe at least 5 days a week. Every Wednesday, starting today, I will post a chapter of my story. On Saturdays, I will do a weekly summing up of the week.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Forgiveness over coffee and oatmeal
I was reading on the site www.violenceunsilenced.com this morning while my coffee brews...not sure why, I typically don't go to sites like that in the morning before work. But, today I did and it made me think.
First of all, where would I be if I never married him. I would be in less pain than I am in now for sure. Physically, my body would be whole, like a 30 year olds should be. I wouldn't have doctors who believed that I was a liar because I am way too young to hurt this much. Emotionally, all of this would be unnecessary. I would just be any other 30 year old who lived an ordinary life.
But, I also wouldn't have my kids. I wouldn't have the three little beings that I love so very much. I wouldn't be as resourceful as I am. I mean, making meals from only what they had in shelter taught me A LOT! I also wouldn't be as grateful as I am. I appreciate things I never would have before. And, honestly, my faith would never have become as real as it is. The faith of my childhood was tested and tried...brought under fire...and it bent but did not break. I discovered that the God of my childhood loves me for who I am and I learned to trust him fully and completely because of this.
The other thing that struck me is that forgiveness is the only way to make sure my children don't grow up hating him. And, I did, I have. Mostly. I still get angry...especially when I think about Olivia. About the secrets and lies I had to tell for so long. About the friends I lost. About the time I spent alone, afraid to talk to anyone. But, I don't think I let it show to my kids. And I will work on it.
I guess that is where I will start by feeling that anger and letting it go. Look for a cooking post perhaps tomorrow and I am going to pick up clay Friday so look for that adventure this weekend. Family cooking night will be Friday and then another cooking on Saturday.
Em :)
First of all, where would I be if I never married him. I would be in less pain than I am in now for sure. Physically, my body would be whole, like a 30 year olds should be. I wouldn't have doctors who believed that I was a liar because I am way too young to hurt this much. Emotionally, all of this would be unnecessary. I would just be any other 30 year old who lived an ordinary life.
But, I also wouldn't have my kids. I wouldn't have the three little beings that I love so very much. I wouldn't be as resourceful as I am. I mean, making meals from only what they had in shelter taught me A LOT! I also wouldn't be as grateful as I am. I appreciate things I never would have before. And, honestly, my faith would never have become as real as it is. The faith of my childhood was tested and tried...brought under fire...and it bent but did not break. I discovered that the God of my childhood loves me for who I am and I learned to trust him fully and completely because of this.
The other thing that struck me is that forgiveness is the only way to make sure my children don't grow up hating him. And, I did, I have. Mostly. I still get angry...especially when I think about Olivia. About the secrets and lies I had to tell for so long. About the friends I lost. About the time I spent alone, afraid to talk to anyone. But, I don't think I let it show to my kids. And I will work on it.
I guess that is where I will start by feeling that anger and letting it go. Look for a cooking post perhaps tomorrow and I am going to pick up clay Friday so look for that adventure this weekend. Family cooking night will be Friday and then another cooking on Saturday.
Em :)
Sunday, August 28, 2011
On flatbread
Yesterday, I made some gorgeous Naan. It was really good, but I think I can do better. So, I am changing the recipe to see what I can come up with. I am combining several flatbread recipes to make this. This is an italian herb flatbread served with a leftover spaghetti sauce I created the other night.
So, here goes.
Music: Saliva "Always", Bjork, "Army of Me" Miranda Lambert "Gunpowder and Lead" Ani Difranco "Pretty Girl"
Mood: Angry, lonely, restless, nervous.
Recipe:
3 Teaspoons yeast
1 cup water
pinch of sugar
Combine and let sit 10-15 minutes until frothy.
Add yeast mixture to:
1 egg beaten
1/4 cup buttermilk
1 T lard
3 t salt
1/4 cup sugar
dry italian herbs to taste
minced garlic to taste
Add enough all purpose flour to form soft dough. (about 5 cups, maybe more or less depending on humidity)
kneed for 15 minutes then let rise for 1 hour. Punch down and pinch off small pieces and roll into balls. Place on cookie sheet and cover. Let rise 30 minutes then roll out to flat, thin rounds. place on heated griddle, brush top side with melted butter. Grill about 3-5 minutes per side then flip, brush second side with butter. I topped warm flat bread with leftover spaghetti sauce and parm cheese.
So, here goes.
Music: Saliva "Always", Bjork, "Army of Me" Miranda Lambert "Gunpowder and Lead" Ani Difranco "Pretty Girl"
Mood: Angry, lonely, restless, nervous.
Recipe:
3 Teaspoons yeast
1 cup water
pinch of sugar
Combine and let sit 10-15 minutes until frothy.
Add yeast mixture to:
1 egg beaten
1/4 cup buttermilk
1 T lard
3 t salt
1/4 cup sugar
dry italian herbs to taste
minced garlic to taste
Add enough all purpose flour to form soft dough. (about 5 cups, maybe more or less depending on humidity)
kneed for 15 minutes then let rise for 1 hour. Punch down and pinch off small pieces and roll into balls. Place on cookie sheet and cover. Let rise 30 minutes then roll out to flat, thin rounds. place on heated griddle, brush top side with melted butter. Grill about 3-5 minutes per side then flip, brush second side with butter. I topped warm flat bread with leftover spaghetti sauce and parm cheese.
The project
I am undertaking a big project this year. Healing, learning how to feel, how to speak and how to connect to myself. I have taken some tremendous steps in that direction already but I feel like I have a lot more to do.
My wife, I love her, but she is stuck in therapist mode on this one. She feels the only way that I will ever heal is by seeing a therapist. I am setting out to prove her wrong. Not only because I want to prove her wrong (I do) but because talk therapy doesn't work for me. I know myself and there is nothing I hate more than trying to put my feelings into words so some stranger can judge me. The thing I hate the second most is reliving over and over the same exact bad memories. I want to deal with my experiences and move past them not continue to wallow in them. I don't want to draw or paint. I don't want to write really bad poetry.
The biggest drawback to most therapy is that most therapists don't know anything about domestic violence. They try to put the same techniques on DV survivors that they use for single trauma PTSD sufferers and it doesn't work. They over emphasize some events. Other therapies involve pulling further outside of ourselves and for me, reconnecting with myself body mind and soul is essential.
But, over the past few days it hit me. I can do this. I have to be intentional. I have to ask myself the really tough questions that I don't want to answer. But for me, therapy is in taking a long walk and really feeling my steps. For me, best therapy is perfectly seasoning a pot of rice or rolling out beautiful naan.
Some people paint, some draw, some compose songs or poems or whatever...I can't do any of that. My drawings look like something my 8 year old could do left handed. My paintings...well, lets just say they don't compare to anything hanging in the house. I do enjoy clay and I may start working with it more. But, for me, the best way to start feeling is through my food. I can put on music that matches my mood, cook a dish that expresses how I feel and really walk away having really worked through some things.
So, here is the plan that is working through my head. I am going to work through multiple resources to force myself to answer the tough questions. I am going to use "cooking therapy" at least twice a week to reconnect to my emotions. We will cook as a family at least once a week. I will talk to my kids about everything that we have survived. I will talk to my wife, using feeling words. And I will try other mediums. Sand, clay, maybe even other art if I don't have to show anyone else, lol. And, I will write...about my feelings, experiences, dishes I cooked, things I made...whatever.
I promise to keep an open dialogue with my wife and family through this. If something isn't working, we will change it together. If we decide none of it is working, we will re-evaluate and come up with a new plan. In one year, if I haven't made the progress I hope to, I will seek traditional talk therapy.
Well, thanks for listening...and please hang with me this year.
Love and stuff,
Em
My wife, I love her, but she is stuck in therapist mode on this one. She feels the only way that I will ever heal is by seeing a therapist. I am setting out to prove her wrong. Not only because I want to prove her wrong (I do) but because talk therapy doesn't work for me. I know myself and there is nothing I hate more than trying to put my feelings into words so some stranger can judge me. The thing I hate the second most is reliving over and over the same exact bad memories. I want to deal with my experiences and move past them not continue to wallow in them. I don't want to draw or paint. I don't want to write really bad poetry.
The biggest drawback to most therapy is that most therapists don't know anything about domestic violence. They try to put the same techniques on DV survivors that they use for single trauma PTSD sufferers and it doesn't work. They over emphasize some events. Other therapies involve pulling further outside of ourselves and for me, reconnecting with myself body mind and soul is essential.
But, over the past few days it hit me. I can do this. I have to be intentional. I have to ask myself the really tough questions that I don't want to answer. But for me, therapy is in taking a long walk and really feeling my steps. For me, best therapy is perfectly seasoning a pot of rice or rolling out beautiful naan.
Some people paint, some draw, some compose songs or poems or whatever...I can't do any of that. My drawings look like something my 8 year old could do left handed. My paintings...well, lets just say they don't compare to anything hanging in the house. I do enjoy clay and I may start working with it more. But, for me, the best way to start feeling is through my food. I can put on music that matches my mood, cook a dish that expresses how I feel and really walk away having really worked through some things.
So, here is the plan that is working through my head. I am going to work through multiple resources to force myself to answer the tough questions. I am going to use "cooking therapy" at least twice a week to reconnect to my emotions. We will cook as a family at least once a week. I will talk to my kids about everything that we have survived. I will talk to my wife, using feeling words. And I will try other mediums. Sand, clay, maybe even other art if I don't have to show anyone else, lol. And, I will write...about my feelings, experiences, dishes I cooked, things I made...whatever.
I promise to keep an open dialogue with my wife and family through this. If something isn't working, we will change it together. If we decide none of it is working, we will re-evaluate and come up with a new plan. In one year, if I haven't made the progress I hope to, I will seek traditional talk therapy.
Well, thanks for listening...and please hang with me this year.
Love and stuff,
Em
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