Twenty

           First of the month.  Melissa sat at the desk writing checks, making a dent in the pile of bills. Thankfully Social Security and IRA draws created a comfortable retirement.  Their income wasn’t as much as when they worked. They had planned well in advance, paid off the big items, managed monthly expenses with some leftover for wants not just needs.  She’d focused on good stewardship, sound financial advice, and common sense so now they reaped the rewards of wise planning. 

Granted they were at the whim of the stock market which wasn’t for the faint of heart. They’d ridden out two downturns that had resulted in a smaller nest egg.  Regardless they were still ahead of the curve.  When the Stock Market was up, they could pull out extra, so in the end, it balanced out. It didn’t hurt them to tighten their belts in the lean years. After all God had Joseph as an example of wise planning.

“Hey,” Ed stuck his head in the door, “Jan just pulled in the driveway.”

“Jan?” Melissa said quizzically, “I wasn’t expecting her.”

“Don’t know what to tell you,” he shrugged as the doorbell rang, “she’s here.”

Melissa lay down the pen and made her way to the front door.  It wasn’t unusual for Jan to pop in but generally, she called first. She unlocked the door, smiled when she saw her friend and said, “What a pleasant surprise!”

“Was on my way home. Thought I’d stop for a minute,” Jan explained as she took her coat off and laid it on the entry bench.

“Want coffee?” Melissa asked as they made their way down the hall to the kitchen.

“Sounds good.”

“Ed made a fresh pot,” Melissa said as she poured a cup and handed it to Jan.

“Not having any,” Jan stated.

“I left a cold cup on the desk,” she grimaced. “I’ve been paying bills.”

“Oh joy,” Jan laughed, “our favorite thing to do.”

“Yeah right!” Melissa laughed with her.  “So, what you been up to?”

“Ran errands,” she took a sip of coffee, “thought I’d stop to see how you’re doing today on your mother’s birthday.”

“Not just any ole birthday but her eightieth,” Melissa sighed, “Mixed feelings. Sad I can’t help her celebrate.  Then there’s relief at not having to deal with her.”

“Some might say you brought this on yourself.  All you have to do is pick up the phone and call,” Jan stated.  “How’s that make you feel?”

“Angry! To state the obvious! This morning I went over the feeling word list Naomi gave me.  Downhearted would best describe the type of sadness. I’m still a bit puzzled and wrestle with understanding what all this ‘mom’ stuff means.”  Melissa sat down at the table; Jan sat across from her.

“What’s Naomi say?” Jan asked.

“Ah, there’s a sixty-million-dollar question!” Melissa dropped her head into her hands.

“If you don’t want to talk about it, I understand.” Jan softly said, “I just wanted you to know I’m here if you need me.  I know this day is hard for you.”

“You know,” she lifted her head, rested her chin on folded fingers, “I woke up feeling like a quiver of fiery arrows had been shot my way. I know Mom and her cohorts are praying us kids come to our senses. Resist the evil that has led us astray and call her.  Repent of treating our mother so unjustly and reconcile. Because after all, we know how she is, always has been and always will be. So, get over ourselves! I reminded myself that I wrestle not only with flesh and blood but principalities and powers, rulers of wickedness in this world. Their well-intentioned, misled prayers give principalities ammunition to mess with us unless we stand against them.”

“And did you,” Jan paused, “stand against them?”

“Absolutely! I kept it simple. I submitted my will to God, resisted the enemy and commanded him to flee. I refuse to get sucked into a prayer war. The last thing I want to do is give the enemy any more ammunition.” Melissa said with frustration.

“That’s good!” Jan praised her.

“I love my mother and do miss her,” Melissa said with melancholy. “Naomi helped me understand what I miss is the idea of what I always waited for her to be, a mom. And obviously, at eighty years old it still ain’t happenin. She will never be a mom and that makes me sad.”

“What about Sam and Jen, they calling her?”

“Sam probably will,” she frowned, “Jen won’t. Last time I talked to her she said her therapist helped her get to a place of not wanting mom dead.  So that’s good.”

“I remember you saying she really carried on about wanting your mom dead,” Jan cringed. “That seems like such a scary mindset.”

“Big time!  She was even fantasizing how she could go about making it happen!  I’m glad, for her sake, she’s working through the why’s of feeling that intensely about mom’s demise.”

“I doubt your mother will never know the emotional damage she’s done to her kids,” Jan said.

“Neither will those who aren’t willing to listen to both sides of the story.”  Melissa raised both her hands as if to surrender, “It’s not my responsibility to try and get them too.  I’ve appreciated the few who’ve called and wanted to know what I had to say about mom.  Naomi really helped by pointing out if they don’t want to listen, tell them my pain needs to be honored and respected and leave it at that.”

“I must say you’re doing better today than I thought. I know you’ve put the work into it and it shows!  Way to go girl!” Jan high fived her.

“Thanks, I’m trying,” she grinned, “It’s a daily challenge to break free from a lifetime of covering up for her.  An epiphany I had this morning was how strong my sense of responsibility had been, and still is in some ways, an illusion of control when it comes to mom.”

“Hey,” Jan shook her head, “there’s no one on God’s green earth that could control your mother!”

“Too true!  Lord knows, to our detriment, we tried.  Especially Sam!  He’s still a bit of a control freak and doesn’t fully realize it!”  Melissa stated with raised eyebrows.

“Didn’t you talk about control issues last time with Naomi?” Jan asked.

“Yes, we did.  She was surprised my fourteen-year-old self, scored forty-nine-percent control. But that’s where responsibility kicked in to replace that feeling of disempowerment which came from being a victim to mom’s authoritarian control.”

“I remember telling a niece, at her sister’s wedding, her guilt trips about not coming to her wedding wouldn’t work on me.  I’d been raised by a mother who had a Ph.D. in guilt trips.  Mom was and is a master manipulator with guilt trips.  It’s a covert narcissist’s way of dominating the narrative and making themselves the victim or hero, never the villain.  It’s a smokescreen that I’m, hopefully, finally breaking free from.”

“Which brings me to the next stuff I need to work on.  The feeling of embarrassment and shame that comes with having fallen for and into her manipulations.  I have to break free from feeling responsible for her. My only responsibility is to overcome the damage done and let God heal my broken, shattered heart.”

“That sounds like quite the challenge!” Jan responded and encouraged. “But I think you’re up for it.”

“I hope so,” Melissa hesitated, “I’ve covered up, in order to protect mom, the ugly memories.  I’ve quenched emotions thinking I’m protecting myself.  I’m just thankful the Lord taught me a few years ago about His glory being the antithesis to shame.  I suspect knowing that will help me through the messy process of unburying the pain of cover-up.”

“I’m so glad you’re not trying to do this on your own,” Jan said.

“I couldn’t do it without your help and support Jan.  I hope you know that,” Melissa smiled.

“You’re going to owe me big time,” Jan grinned as she Groucho Marxed her eyebrows.

“Oh, I’m sure you won’t let me forget,” Melissa threw back her head and laughed.  “It’s never a dull moment with you.”

“Better believe it,” she answered mockingly, “But hey look at the time.  I better get home. Bill’s going to think I’m out spending all his money.’

“As if,” Melissa rolled her eyes, “you are both such cheapskates.”

“Yep,” Jan said as she stood up and punched her friend on the arm “you know me well my friend.”

Melissa followed her friend down the hall and waved goodbye as she went out the door.  With a smile, she headed back into the office to finish the bills.  The thought of it being her mother’s eightieth birthday lingered in her mind and she sent up a silent prayer God would bless her on this special day. 

Nineteen

            Ed gazed out the window at the darkened evening sky.  An orange ribbon of light on the horizon declared the sun had set.  Where was his wife?  He understood her need to escape.  She wouldn’t do anything stupid, this he knew.  He wanted her home, where she’d be safe and sound.  He wished there was a way to make the bullshit just go away.  Sixty-three years of her mother’s madness had taken its toll.  Headlights crawled up the hill and turned into the driveway.  He muttered; “About time.”

            Melissa dashed into the house, “Hey, smells like you lit the woodstove.”

            “Yea,” Ed planted a kiss on her, “thought you might want to warm your bones.”

            “You better believe it,” she pulled off her raingear, “Tis a bit wet out there!”

            He laughed at her penchant for stating the obvious, it was one of the things he loved about her.  She gave him a quick hug, then skedaddled to the hearth to warm her backside. 

            “The older I get the deeper the cold penetrates,” she shivered.

            “You are a glutton for punishment,” He shook his head, “You could have ‘pondered’ in the warmth of your own home, dingbat!”

            “Ah! You love me! You really love me,” She slugged his arm, “Nerd ball!”

            “So, how’d it go?”

            She rubbed her arms and cocked her head, “Went well.  Had an epiphany.”

            “Seems you’ve had a few of those lately,” he matter of factly stated.

            “I think it comes with doing the work Naomi recommended,” Melissa said

            “I’m glad it’s helped, babe.”

            “Me too!  It’s hard sometimes because I don’t like what I see. But I know in the long run it’s what I need.”  She paused, “That said, I have a question for you.”

            “Shoot!”  He told her.

            “You know how much I hate the pervasive victim mentality that dominates our society,” he nodded at her, “Anyway, I realized I need to acknowledge. Admit. Recognize how I was a victim of mom’s ways as a kid. Do you think I’m over-reacting?”

            “Hell no!” Ed vehemently reacted, “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again! Your mother was not a mom. She used you!  I know you don’t think it was all that bad compared to others. Your childhood might have been your normal. But it was by no means normal! You’re always downplaying the crap! Especially how it made you feel! I bet you can count on one hand the number of times you ever let your mother know you were mad at her.”

            “Probably,” Melissa sucked in a deep breath then exhaled. “But everybody has problems.  I can’t help but feel it could have been worse.  I’ve made a conscious effort to look for the good that came out of my upbringing.  Made the choice to bury the bad because after all what’s the point, it won’t change anything.” 

Ed protested she stopped him with a raised hand, “Let me finish! Having said that, I know that’s how I survived the BS.  It scares me to unbury, dig up memories I don’t remember existed.  It’s a struggle because the feelings, the emotions want to rise to the surface before I have any idea of what they are attached to.”

“My epiphany is to admit I was a victim. Not make excuses for mother’s behavior.  Victim is the shovel to unbury the mom crap. Over the years I’ve detached myself from the pain with laughter and a smile.  It’s enabled me to ignore the deep-seated, buried grief and keep it from rising to the surface.” 

“After all, I’m supposed to be the stable one.  The one everyone turns to for guidance and comfort.  I don’t want to expose myself to the condemnation and judgmental attitudes of those who can’t or won’t understand. It scares the living daylights out of me to step outside my comfort zone and become vulnerable, especially to me!”

“I don’t know what to say or how to help you,” Ed quietly said, “I wish I did.  I do know you need to do this.  Whatever it takes.  You’ll have to tell me when you need me to do something.”

“I will,” she wryly grinned, “You can be a pain in my butt, but you mean well.”

“Gee thanks,” Ed rolled his eyes, “Just what every husband wants to hear.”

            “Ah don’t take it too seriously dear,” she bantered, “You’re still a keeper. I wouldn’t trade you for all the tea in China.”

            “So,” his tone grew serious again, “back to this idea of using victim as a shovel.  How does that work?”

            “Good question!” She sighed, “I think as long as I admit to a sense of victimhood and see the truth of it, then I can deal with and overcome its lifelong hidden effects on my psyche. One shovel is a love style test Naomi had me take online.  I took it as if I was thirteen, twenty-three and now to see the progress I’ve made.  Not too surprisingly the thirteen-year-old came back with high scores in styles that indicated I had a difficult childhood.  107% Pleaser, 71% Victim, 71% Avoider, 64% Vacillator, etc.”

            “Did those scores ring true to you?” He asked.

            “Unfortunately, they did,” she shrugged, “especially after I read their definitions. I could so see myself as Pleaser and Avoider when I was thirteen.  I really, really wanted to ‘avoid’ the idea of victim.  Because I want to continue to protect that girl from the harm it caused.  She’s the one who felt intensely betrayed and abandoned by mother.”

            “The irony is, as Naomi explained, I’m the one who made a mommy connection as a child and I’ve spent my life trying to get that back.  I know it can’t and will never happen. But the thirteen-year-old me still hopes it is possible. I don’t want to disappoint and make her ever feel so hopeless again.  I’m starting to understand that was the beginning of hope becoming my nemesis.”

            “Sounds like the victim shovel may have unburied something there for you,” Ed commented.

            “Maybe so,” she thoughtfully agreed, “I just hope my heart can endure the rush of overwhelmed emotions.”

            “You can do this,” Ed encouraged her, “I’m here for you. You have friends who love and support you. Sam, Jenn and you are the only ones who will ever fully understand what it was like as kids with your mother. They get it and are on the same page. I know some think you guys need to get over it, forget the past and get on with it.  But you know that’s not what’s needed.”

            “That much I do know!  As much as I hate saying this again,” she grimaced, “It feels good to not have contact with mom. Jenn so feels that way!”

            “As well she should!” He stated with conviction. “I get it! I’ve been a part of your mom’s bullshit for over forty years. At some point, you have to say enough is enough and I’m proud of you for finally being able to say you’re done!”

            “I am done,” she said with sadness, “Now I have to put a stop to fifty years of quenching the thirteen-year-old me. It’s time to unbury wounds in need of a scar.”

            “You’ve always said you can do all things through Christ who gives you strength.  The two of you got this babe,” he stepped up on the hearth, pulled her into his arms as she melted into his safe embrace.

Eighteen

          The ashen blue pacific surf rammed against the rock-hard cliffs of the Oregon coastline.  Fall storms came raging in one after another demanding to be heard, not ignored.  A reflection of Melissa’s own emotional storm.  Today was the sort of day she needed to see a facsimile of what she hadn’t been able to put words too.  The raw magnificent emotional energy of nature in its purest form.  It soothed her mind to witness God’s masterpiece in all its intended glory.  Emotions were not as easily soothed. 

            Windswept tendrils of chestnut hair blew across her face as she made her way down the blonde sandy dune.  She loved this time of year when the beach was deserted. Not far ahead was her destination.  A secluded cove whose name she’d never learned. A safe place to reflect without interruption on the cares of this world.

            The wind had erased footprints of previous sojourners. No other cars in the lot bore witness that she was the sole idiot out braving the elements on such a stormy day.  Stocking cap, well- insulated rainproof jacket, gloves, Xtra-tuff boots, and layers of clothing would keep her warm.  Sideways rain pelted her body, she persevered and pressed on. 

            The backpack was filled with snacks, fire-starter, flashlight and change of clothes.  Ed would not have agreed to her jaunt had she not been prepared, like a good Girl Scout.  He knew where’d she be, trusted her skills and understood her need to escape.  

Facelifted to the heavens she noted how dark, practically black the cloud-filled heavens were. They billowed and rolled over the cliffs ready to slam dunk their contents onto the mountains to the east.  The inky sky beckoned her to tell them the dark secrets of her soul.  They would safely place them in God’s heavenly storehouse, all she had to do was ask.

In a couple hours the tide would turn, right now it was perfect and gave her access.  Ahead was the outgoing tide’s stream as it pulled seawater from the hidden cove. Water swirled around her boots as she walked upstream and through the narrow cliffs that hid the entrance.  She sighed, smiled and entered the private, for members only, protected cove.

Rare white granite cliffs offered a semblance of light. Water rippled where it escaped its confines, but the cove itself was calm and mirror-like. Trees were tall and stately, not at all like their cousins, that stood watch overhead, their form determined by the ever-prevailing gusts. The wind was not a member and rarely gained admittance to the coves exclusive club. 

Off to one side was her favorite rock. Over time the elements had sculpted it into a perfect throne.  She climbed up and over a few boulders, took off a glove and ran her hand over its speckled surface.  When the sun’s light caressed the timeless stone, it sparkled.  She could only hope the throne of her heart was as beautiful to His eyes. She sat down and surveyed the hidden beauty.

She liked coming here.  It helped her see what God created in her, a clean heart and a renewed mind.  Her struggle at the moment was wrestling within the confines of long-established paradigms she’d defined about her heart and mind.  It was difficult letting go of what had seen her through dark and troubled times.  Her analytical mind did not want to give up control over her emotional well-being.  It didn’t want to give her emotions a chance to thrive.  At times she wanted to throw in the towel and stick with what she knew, let the analytical stay in control.

But!  There was that inescapable, but, in the long run, it would not be healthy to give analytical control. It was a temptation hard to resist.  She pulled out the journal that documented her process.  A quote from page 165 in The Artists Way put it into words; “We block ourselves to alleviate fear…whenever we experience the anxiety of our inner emptiness.”

How did she block herself? By “reaching for the painful thought.” If she focused on a known pain, she could avoid the buried ones. Time and again she rehashed old worn-out memories of past real and perceived mistakes. What a failure she had been and was! Why?  To avoid the fear that accompanied delving to the root of her emotional pain.

Pain long-buried, because after all it wouldn’t do any good.  It wouldn’t change anything. Compared to others it really wasn’t that bad, so buck up and get over it.  Again, but, then the ‘inner emptiness’ stayed filled with anxiety that was more than willing to raise its ugly head and lead to paralyzing depression. A fear-filled depression that demanded care and attention, which became mind and heart numbing.

Which led to a feeling of, what’s the use?  The only viable answer to that question was doubt-filled thoughts and feelings.  Doubt! Doubt! Doubt the value of feeling worthy enough to heal a heart broken by a narcissist mother! Shattered hopes and dead dreams long-buried and covered over with empty, vain love.  Under the guise of avoiding another failure would she let fear dictate the direction she should take.  In order to avoid a grief-filled desert buried with unshed tears.

What’s the point?  Echoed over and over in her grief stained mind. She didn’t deserve to experience the depth of grief she so adamantly avoided. And she would prove it to herself by once again ‘reaching for the painful thought’ that validated her not being worthy. It was an obsession she’d designed to make herself fail. It was an empty copy, a vain imagination thinking that’s what kept her from yet another failure. An all too familiar illusion of choice!

What did she need or have to do to change this unhealthy cycle of forbearing in a lie of her own making? 

“What? What? What?” She shouted to the heavens!

If only the floodgate of tears would release. Then perhaps she’d find relief from the frustrating backlash of doubt and pointlessness. Turning back to known pain was ultimately stagnating. She was tired of it and struggled to move past feeling emotionally stagnant.  It was an exhausting form of unintentional victim mentality.  She hated anything that reeked of victimhood one of her mother’s covert mo.’s.

Perhaps that was the paradigm shift she needed to make. Recognize she had been a victim of her mother’s narcissism.  She had covered up her mother’s multitude of sins not only to others but to herself!

“I hate this! Please don’t make me do this God!” She cried out and longed for tears of release to cover-up the word she so wanted to avoid.  The label; ‘victim!’

            A label she did not take lightly.  A word tossed about like common clay in today’s culture. Every fiber of her being balked at admitting she could have been a victim.  Her mother was not a monster. Her narcissism had been an insidious dictator. At the time Melissa hadn’t understood it was the motivator for their mother’s behavior.  But now was a different story and she could not continue to justify subjecting herself to its demanding needs.

She’d made the choice, all those years ago, to not become a victim as a result of her father’s sexual molestation.  To walk through inner healing and redemption that over time led to restoration.  She’d reconciled it as something done to her, not who she was. 

But now acknowledging narcissism’s abuse had been an ever-present aspect of her maternal relationship forced her to admit, that perhaps, maybe she’d been a victim.  And what did that mean?  She’d led a grace-filled life of cover -up. Which now demanded she take a cold hard look at how she’d unemotionally validated narcissism. In order to avoid the stark truth of the havoc, it’d wreaked in her heart and mind.

A broken shattered heart in need of healing which could only happen when victimhood was accepted, without conditions. She needed to embrace and understand the label as God intended, not as defined by the status quo.  Discover the value of acceptance with all its messy emotionalism.  Use it as the shovel to dig up buried emotions.  Not an easy choice, but necessary if she wanted to be well. 

She sat on the stone throne created by nature and prayed for a willingness to be made willing.  Prayed before her heart's throne as Christ did at Gethsemane “Not my will by yours.”  Prayed that in her weakness His strength be perfected. Prayed she’d complete what He’d begun. She prayed!