Blessed to be Broken

God's not finished with me yet!

Anger Awakened…

on November 22, 2014

A little over 24 years ago, I wrote this story.  At the time, I believed in God, but I didn’t have a personal relationship with Him.  I didn’t even know that was possible.  As you read this, I hope you see that even though my marriage failed, God never gave up on me.  He kept calling and it would take 20 more years before I finally answered.  I left the story as is and maybe if you’ve been following my blog, you will be able to see the work God has been doing to heal this heart of mine.  Thanks for stopping by!

I wrote the first and last paragraphs in Feb, 2001 for a college English class.  

It was the day before I would turn 27 years old. I was mostly, “happily married,” and I was pregnant with our first child.  My husband had decided to go out for an evening with his friends, and while I told him to “have a good time,” I, in no way meant for him to.  I didn’t comprehend why he wanted to go out with his friends, and I was fuming both inside and out; the anger, had he even bothered to look was so clearly etched on every inch of my face.  It was a look I had felt many times, a look, that if it were allowed, would drip acid into your soul and burn a hole clear through.  It was a look that hadn’t reared its ugly head for at least 9 years.  So, it was on this evening, alone with my unborn child that I finally decided to let loose the anger that had been pent up, for longer than I can remember…

The following is what I wrote that night 24 years ago:

My father was an alcoholic; a mean drunk to the core who seemed to take great pleasure inflicting mental anguish, guilt, shame and unworthiness onto those he claimed to love: his family.  All of us were subject to this drunken onslaughts and each one of us carries hidden scars while he lies in an empty grave.

On the evening of March 19, 1990, I for whatever reason felt abandoned by the man-figure who now encompassed my life, and I could no longer hold back the flood gates that were crashing at my door.   I had to let my feelings out, so, with pen in hand, I put each tear to word.

It doesn’t ever change, the same vision so clearly remembered, day after day, into my nights, only to haunt me again, in my dreams.  I wake up drained, knowing what lies ahead. It sometimes takes all day to “wake-up.” Sure, I laugh, even to me it sounds hollow. I carry out daily chores out of habit, a ritual if you will.  I love, but what kind of love?  So much it hurts and I just know my heart will break from the tightness. Other times, I don’t even know the person who lashes out without conscious feeling, hurting the ones I love most so that I won’t be hurt, but in fact, I’m hurting myself the most.

Everything inside, a tightly coiled spring waiting to be sprung, but afraid of what will really happen if it does. Will I lose control forever; will I know “me” when it’s over?  Me, who is “me?”  Where do I begin?

Dysfunctional-that’s what they call it when you come from a “broken” home.  “They” say there’s help for we dysfunctional types. Funny, where was this help when we cried out for it; when we really needed it?  Now you couldn’t count all who want to help. Bitter, that’s how I feel about your so-called caring.  The big bucks seem to be flashing before your eyes: $70.00, $80.00, $90.00 is that what you make an hour now?  Please!

So now I’m a dysfunctional type. Okay, let’s go with that.  We’ll start with “Daddy” – I read something once and always remembered this, “Anyone can be a that, but it takes a special man to be a daddy.”  That statement told me one thing, my “daddy” was nothing more than my father.

You blame yourself, you know, for his alcoholism. Maybe I didn’t clean enough, maybe my grades weren’t good enough, maybe I wasn’t quiet enough, or maybe, it wasn’t me at all?  No, it must’ve been me or I wouldn’t be down here in the middle of the night listening to him drone on and on about how bad I am.

It’s dark but with each puff on the cigarette, the tip burns brighter.  You catch a glimpse then, his eyes are closed, his head tilts back, just slightly.  The cigarette unsteadily falls to the resting area, until the ashes just fall off.  Has he fallen asleep? With a little luck he has.  You make it halfway up the stairs and he calls you back.  You scream inside wanting to blend into the walls, to be forgotten.  Instead, head hung low, tears of frustration well up in the bottom of your eyes until the pool gets too deep and they fall on your face.  You sit back down in the chair, praying that morning will come soon or maybe he’ll just pass out.

How much longer can he hold out?  The country music in the background all has the same twang. I hate, I hate him, I hate me, I hate God.  A terrible thing to say, I know, but I can’t help it.  Why did he put me here? How long have I been bad? Will it ever stop? Who’s coming?  Mom, did she get enough sleep, she looks awful. Why doesn’t she leave him?  No one deserves this, or do we?  Who’s to say?  It tires the mind to think about it, because the reasoning never ends.

They say God won’t give you more than you can handle.  Oh really, maybe it’s true.  I’m still here. But am “I” really here, or is it a shadow of who I might’ve been?  If, for such a little word it holds so much meaning, but, maybe, “if” I had a different father would I be different? Of course I would.  Worse off?  Possibly, but maybe I’d have been the cherished little princess all little girls dream of being. Why, what silly ideas little girls have.  Can their smile really brighten daddy’s day? Maybe if I have a little girl, I’ll find out.  My smile certainly didn’t do a hell of a lot. But maybe it did.  Maybe he just couldn’t tell me.  Yes, false hope, it’s one of the things that kept me going.

Listen to me, what kind of rambling is this?  Those of a “mad” woman? No, I don’t think so, they are those of a deeply scarred and battered mind, a mind, only years of mental abuse could have created.

What’s the cure?  They say time heals all wounds.  Oh really?  I think time needs a little help from patience, understanding, and a love that runs deep and true.  But is it fair to ask of someone?  I don’t know.  So I ask you my love, how deep does your love run?  Will I push you too far one day into leaving me, or will God decide that for us, maybe even the President?  Will a war take you from me, or I from you?  Will yet another door be closed, or will you and I still be stanind as one laughing and loving, because all that we had to endure made us strong?  I guess only time will tell.

Time, when you think about it, that old saying comes to life: “there’s just not enough time in a day.”  Ha, if we had more time, it still wouldn’t be enough because it seems that all we have is never enough.

And I want to  know how deep your love runs.  I’ve no doubt in my mind we’ll grow old together, we’ve been through so  much in such a short period of time and hectic as it may get, in the end, there’s us.  I sometimes need so much reassuring it must at times tire your mind and body. My holding back sometimes comes too easy.

You’ve taught me quite a few things and I’m just now fully feeling the impact of your love and quite frankly, as much as I want and need to wallow in all your gentleness and tenderness I am also stupid enough to still put up “walls.”  Forgive me and I know in the end, you’ll feel as much love from me as I feel from you.

I don’t recall how long it took me to put my millions of tears to words.  I don’t even recall emptying the tissue box.  I do, however, recall how I felt when my story was “completed.”  I felt emotionally battered, yet, free. I had taken my first steps into a recovery I never knew I so desperately needed.  In one evening, I had taken a lifetime of emptiness, poured it into a sieve, and separated the good from the evil.  I began my journey down a long road that I travel everyday: a road of forgiveness, mending, healing, and love.  A road, survivors the world around, call recovery.


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