Where did all the good grandpa's go?

This is not the original post I intended to write. For two days I have hammered out consonants and vowels, explanation points and long periods but something, something was just
off.
I felt muddy. And like I couldn't see clearly. So I took a deep breathe this morning, hit "save as draft" and took a shower.

Wouldn't you know it? While shampooing my hair all these thoughts and and complete sentences flowed in and out and I thought, "Wait a minute! I can't even write this down.... should i get a tape recorded for the bathroom?"
I mean, come on. Should I?

Because I have to be honest, some I have forgotten and the more I try to piece it together the more I feel like I'm trying to herd a field of cats, so instead, I wiped the page clean.
and here we are.

I like do overs. I think they are pretty rad.

So here we go, I'm just going to let it fly.

My monster died last month. He had a name and a title. But I never use it for him. Just thinking it makes me want to hock a loogie the size of my fist into the ground and then poop on it. Or dance in a graveyard wearing a white dress.
I won't do this though. I don't poop outside and I don't wear dresses.

Instead I will write and I will attempt to rid myself of the junk and maybe, just maybe, help someone else get through the same thing. I mean, one in five ya'll.

That's a fact.

A woman every two minutes. 60% go unreported. So, I'm not a math genius or anything but one in 5 is keeping it on the low side. There's a lot of us walking around out here.
The sexually assaulted. The raped. The molested.
We're breathing, singing in our cars, taking our kids to Chuck E Cheese, filling our gas tanks, hiking up a mountain, sitting in church, and trying real hard to have good sex with our husbands without freaking out because all of a sudden we get so damn scared, and then it's not our husband kissing us anymore.

A lot of survivors. Even more victims.

And some, some, are forced to see their abuser

every
single
day.

They smile, and hug, and go to restaurants,

pretending

it's all ok.

A big high-five to all ya'll that do that for one reason or another. It's a bravery I do not have. I prefer the confrontational kind. But this kind, it takes a different sort of strength to keep moving in dignity and quiet while someone constantly tries to break you with whispers that no one else can hear. I shed tears for you. In applause, not pity.
my sisters, my sisters.

So yes, he's dead.

Finally.
And maybe you can detect a little bit of flippancy here, a tiny fraction of anger as I type? I've got some stuff to work out.

This I know.

But not with all the details. I don't want to get stuck. Freedom is calling. So I am going to post an essay I wrote a little bit back. Just so we're all on the same page and we are clear on who the monster is.
In case any of my family reads this, I imagine you are getting a little excited, a little red-faced concerning all the dirty secrets I'm letting out because "ding dong the monsters' dead" is playing a tune in my brain.
Please. (I'm smiling)
Let me assure you. (My smile is growing)
I let it out (yes?)
a long time ago. (biggest smile ever breaking my face wide open. Can you see it?)

I did it (spilled the beans, lifted the rug, threw poop into the fan)
To my coaches in juvenile hall.
On the internet.
To my therapist.
To my husband.
And my ex-husband.
My kids know.
My friends know.
My church knows.

Women I meet for the first time find out when I hug them and pray with them and tell them...
you don't have to be stuck. don't give him that power. you are free. break free. live your life and be happy. God's gonna get em'. Cross my heart, girl.
Cross
My
patchworked, duct-taped, dragged on the ground, held together with toothpicks and Jesus mercy,
Heart.

God knows. I mean, seriously, ok? GOD. KNOWS.
Beat that.

So here it is. My story. Well, a small portion of it anyway. I saved myself in this one. It is the only time I was able to.

Small…and Slightly Bigger

She was eight when this all went down.
Eight is very small.
She wore her hair in pigtails then. It was long. She’d dress up and walk really fast in her purple plastic high heel shoes so she could hear them click, click, click, just like pretty grown –up ladies. She had a lot of Barbies and a 3-story Barbie Dream house. It was pink and white with an elevator. She loved Strawberry Shortcake more than anything. Her Grammy made her all the dolls and for Christmas one year, she got the record. She would put headphones on and sing at the top of her lungs in the living room… “Ice cream! And my name is Sugar… and I love all the flavors of the world. I like chocolate and vanilla and mocha…”

She used to fish with her Grandpa.

Tucked inside in the dark, knees to her chin, eyes squeezed shut, she hides. She doesn't like the dark much. Bad things happen here, in bedrooms with heavy tapestry curtains that block out all the light and muffle the voice. The bed is too high for her and so she must pull on the blankets and climb up, work her way towards what makes her stare at the ceiling and dream of butterfly cocoons and blue skies that let her float and fly free… far away from here. This room smells like her Grammy; feminine, vanilla, and glamorous. But it sounds like him; old, out of breath, and monster. Where did all the good grandpa’s go?

Her Grammy would read her bible stories at night. Her favorite was Noah and the ark and the rainbow. She loved the rainbow! A multi-colored sticky-note from God. His promise the sun would come back.

She wished everyone would keep their promises the way God did.

She loved snuggling up to her Grammy, she was alabaster and soft, a satin shirt pillow with pink lipstick. She was fascinated by her. She was so different from her own mother who blended in with everyone else that wore bell-bottoms and long hair parted in the middle. Mother was plain. Grammy was a movie star. She would always call her “Darling" but she would say it all southern and draggy and high-pitched, "Daaahhh-ling!", and then she'd throw her head back and laugh so hard and deep her breasts would bounce all over while her belly danced along. She was Marilyn Monroe but better. She was hers.
And she loved her so.

Eight is very small. Very small indeed.

The house she lived in with them and her mother was two stories and brick. White pillars stood tall and grand in the front. The backyard was big with a garden, and a lone oak tree held a homemade swing of rope and boards. There was a birdbath. And anthills. The first time she saw them they made her think of California. She smiled and pushed both hands in all the way up to her elbows so she could smell the salt and feel sand run out of her fingers. But it wasn’t sand and the tiny dots of red fire curled all over her arms in angry protest and she screamed and screamed until her mom came running out of the house to save her.
While she stared at her mom with the remnants of the anthill demolition on her hands and a dirty face of streaked tears; her mom told her she had to be careful with what she touched; things weren’t always what they seemed.

She didn’t know until later her mom wasn’t just talking about ants.
She didn’t know until later her mom would not save her ever again.

This is where she lived. In a house seen normal. In a house others would envy. He was IMPORTANT. Everyone knew him. People at the City. People at the Church. The girls at the school where he worked. But it wasn't normal. It was nightmares and secrets and dark; full of pretend love and make-believe smiles.

She wasn't the only one the monster came after.

She’s just the only one that wanted to leave.

He would whisper to her, in the dark, “this is our secret. You can’t ever tell. I’m just protecting you now.. ‘cause if you tell.. they ain’t gonna believe you. And they gonna be real mad.” Sometimes she would ask why, why would they be mad at her? And he would smile.. and he would kiss her on the lips… and he would say, “because good little girls don’t do these kinds of things.” Sometimes she would cry but not very often because if she did, he would put a pillow over her head.

But she did tell, a lot of days and too many naps later, she blurted it out when she was standing next to her Barbie dream house, still dripping from the shower and wrapped in a towel. Her mom was yelling at her about something else, something small. “Mommy¸ grandpa’s touching me... down there.” Her mom stared... stuck with her arms mid-air and a mouth that moved but no words came out. She doesn’t remember when her mom walked out of the room and didn’t hug her or when she got dressed or how they got to the living room where he sat crying… and Grammy was crying and clutching her bible and sometimes she would yell out, “Jesus Frank! How could you do this?”… and his other daughters were yelling too but not at him, at her… And he was right. They didn’t believe her. They were real mad. They called her bad girl names.

bitch. liar. whore.

I left. I only went back once.

Eight is very small. Eleven is only slightly bigger.
But for me, it was big enough.

My Grammy wasn’t supposed to leave me alone. That was the agreement. I would have someone with me at all times. But the phone rang. Someone called in sick. Now she was showering, blow drying her red hair, putting on her pink lipstick… while I waited, my blue eyes watched her and my tongue was stuck inside my throat.

It made no difference to speak.

She turned to me as she grabbed her purse, “It’s only for a few hours honey. Everything’s gonna be just fine. You two have fun now and Grammy will be back.” Then she was gone.
I stood at the bedroom door staring at the spot Grammy no longer was. I could hear my heart thudding in my ears. I could hear the blood moving through my veins like cars on a freeway going too fast too fast. My eyes blinked.

Who would help me?

I could feel him staring at me from the couch where he sat. He said my name. I looked at him. I did not smile. I did not make any noise.
“Don’t be scared of me. Please.” He looks down at the floor, his hands fidgeting in his lap. I stare at the wisps of gray on his balding head. He looks back at me. He is starting to cry on the couch. His bloated belly hangs over his pants, pulling his shirt tight. “I’m not like that anymore. Please don’t look at me like that. Just come here. Come. Sit.” And he pats his fat old man knee.
My brain has exploded. I can’t hear the words in my own head because it is so loud. I don’t know what to do. He is crying. (liarliarliarliarliarliar) He is old. (liarliarliarliarliar) It’s been three years. (liarliarliarliarliar) Maybe he is… different? (nononononononono)
I walked over to him.
I sat on his knee.
“See there, it’s ok.” He smiles. He pats my knee that is covered by jeans. “There’s nothing to be scared of. I will never hurt you.” And then he did. Just that quick.

I felt his hand go up my shirt, brush my belly, and squeeze my nipple. I was numb. I was dead. I didn't say no. I didn’t beg or cry or scream. It really is my fault, I thought. I sat on his knee. I am a whore. I asked for it. Just like they said.
stupidstupidstupidstupid
And then he put his tongue IN. MY. MOUTH.

It was then that I saw her. In the dark. Eight. But she looked different. Her eyes were not squeezed shut. Instead they were wide open and blazing and fierce. Her face was wet but it wasn’t fear leaking out of her eyes.
It was anger.
And it was hate.
And it was BIG.
She screamed at me. "GET. UP! You knew this would happen, you knew he was the same. You knew it! Don't just sit there. GET UP!! You are not 8! Fight him! WE are not 8!"
And then the whisper.
"No one else will help you."
I knew she was right.

I whipped my head back and jumped away from him, even as he tried to grab me back down. Into the kitchen I ran, looking behind me to see where he was, and turning back to snatch what I was looking for.
I grabbed a knife.

It was a very big knife.

Just the kind of knife a girl at eleven may need to keep herself safe.
Because she knew no one else would help her.

I held it in front of me and we did not shake. We did not cry. We did not stutter. We pointed it at him. He stopped walking and watched us from across the kitchen.
I spoke quiet and bold, pushing the fear down and letting the hate rise up.. into my heart, into my blood, into my hands.

My fingers clutched the knife.

“I will kill you if you come near me ever, ever again.” He flinched.
And he did not move. He knew that we meant it.

Under Construction

.... And that's not the end of the story.
Me finding Jesus or being saved, that is.
The story did not stop and the happy ending start when I cried my soul out to Jesus on the church floor that day. If it had, then I guess everyone would get saved wouldn't they? A life without suffering. A daily guarantee of comfort. It's sticking it out - this Christian faith - when life gets really hard and too much for us to understand. That's when we see what we're made of.
If there's any substance.
Anyone that tells you finding Jesus will make your life rosy is lying to you. A few months in you may want to find them and high -five their face.
And then ask for forgiveness.
It's not rosy. It's not white picket fences. It's not a whole, smiling family. It's not a place where jobs are never lost, bills are always paid, Target trips happen every two weeks, kids stay drug free, and husbands never cheat.

Nope.
You're not in heaven just yet.
You have the Hope but life right here can still throw mud in your face and drag you into a pit of crazy. The difference is - Jesus has a rope that doesn't break. You just have to hang on. Tight.

No one really warned me about that. I think some tried to, in a really nice good Christian way, but i wish someone would have just quit trying to be so nice and said straight up, "You've spent the last 18 years in all this crap and your family was in the same crap for at least 18 years before you and your husband and his family? Another twenty years of a different kind of crap. The consequences are still rolling in like waves.

Wear a life jacket."

Some of those waves weren't bad. A few feet. The kind I could boogie board over. But then others would come, tidal wave status, and I'd would watch my life get sucked right out from under me while I tried not to drown.

I wish I could say all these waves, especially the big ones, were of someone else's doing.
It's hard to look at yourself and know the role you have played in the crumbling of your own life. Oh but I did.
I gripped it sometimes with both hands, hurling down bricks with my words; leaving my fingers and relationships, damaged and bleeding.

A wise woman builds her home, but a foolish woman tears it down with her own hands. Proverbs 14:1

I was foolish. And the worst part is that I knew it. I knew it and i felt unable to stop it. I remember huddling on the floor, wailing, helpless, lost in an abyss of frustration and inadequacy, and then i would grab my own hair and start to pull it. I would drag my fingernails down my face to try and make myself bleed, try to make myself disappear. I would bang my head against the wall, eyes wild, screaming.

I was going crazy. I couldn't do it right. No one saw me.
I wasn't good enough.

The helplessness I would feel would wrap me in a straightjacket of fear so tight I felt like I couldn't breathe. I was coming undone.

Isaiah 1:17 says to "learn to do right." Know what that means? You also have to unlearn how to do wrong.

No one told me this either. I thought it would just happen. I thought all the badness would vanish and "poof!" in it's place would be all this shiny goodness. It was a shock to me to still struggle - almost more because now I knew better. I knew I had to be better.

Looking back, I can see how the Enemy must have laughed and laughed, using me and my life, as his personal game of dodge ball. There I stood in the center as he hurled, "ANGER" and "FUTILITY" and "DEFECTIVE" at my head. If those didn't work, out flew "ugly" and "fat" and "unwanted" and "slut". These would knock me down. These would leave me hardened; scar tissue all over. These would make me fight back.
Except I couldn't see the devil.
So I fought everyone else instead.
With my words. With my hands.
I tore down.
Until there was almost nothing left.

No one told me I could catch the ball. No one told me I didn't have to keep playing the game. No one told me all I had to do was stop and stand, stare him down with the Word and he would run from me. I was told things like, "This too shall pass" and "Just trust Jesus" but no one told me how to do that or what it meant.

And it's pretty simple really.
I choose to react with His words rather than mine.
Simple.
Not easy.
Just to clarify.

I wouldn't lie to you like that.

So, I have learned and I have unlearned.
Learn - to love my enemies. Unlearn - I don't verbally castrate every man that gets on my last nerve to prove to him I am just as good as he is if not better. (see the attitude there? Still a work in progress folks.)
Learn - to show mercy and give grace. Unlearn - If my feelings are hurt, I don't try to hurt back. I keep my mouth shut and sometimes, walk away so if it opens, no one will hear me.
Learn - to recognize jealousy and envy and ask God to help me with my heart. Unlearn - lashing out because I don't have what someone else does.
Learn - pride really does come before a big fall so I better wear a helmet if I'm going to keep it up. Unlearn - the universe is not named "Shannon" and everyone is going through something. Just love on them already and then the helmet is not needed.

I am happy to report, I no longer try to rip my face off with my fingernails (well, at least not very often). I no longer think my self worth is nothing and I try really really hard to avoid dodge ball.
I am not able to do this by pinning a zillion personal affirmations from Pinterest, although I do think I am a little awesome and ya know - God thinks so too.
It is not made possible in watching every episode of Oprah although I wouldn't mind attending her "Favorite Things" episode. That would maybe help. For a bit.
I am not following instructions from Dr. Phil, or Dr. Spock, or Dr. Anyone.
And while exercising certainly makes me feel better about how I look in my jeans and yes, my insides flow along a calmer river, I cannot run 24 hours a day. (Nor would i want to)

What has given me back my life? What has left me a hammer and nails and some 4x4's that aren't all dinged up and termite ridden? What is telling me how to rebuild a life that I tore down a long time ago?
It's not a mystery and is so simple I am sure for the self-proclaimed intelligent and perspicacious, there may be some eye-rolling and nose snorting.
but guess what?

I really don't care.

This is what has worked for me. And for countless others.
It is honest. And truth. And mercy. And grace. And life. And it is page after page of love in its purest form.

The bible. My happy ending. Under construction.
Right now.
and forever.

What is my darkest anyway?

On my facebook page, my cover photo displays a heart with this in the middle, "Shannon - I have loved you at your darkest. I have always loved you. - God."

It's beautiful to me and ever so comforting. I don't know how dark your darkness is, but mine is intense. The kind of dark that makes you wonder if you still exist or if you are floating into nothing. dark. alone. small.

So what is my darkest anyway?
And where did God say that? Because it sounds surprising hip and not very King Jamesey.

When i think of my darkest, my first thoughts are of all the bad things that have happened to me. Things in which i had no control. Things that make me shudder and whimper and want to puke. Those things are black. Yes, yes they are. But are those my darkest? I mean i can claim them as parts of my life but i can't own them as my own. They are things some other evil did to me. And yes, God loved me there (that's a whole other post)or I would not have made it through ... But what are MY things? What dark did I spread? Because if God loved me at my darkest - He loved me in my own darkness.

Not as easy to write.

But i know what they are.

All the times i tore someone down with my words, peeling their feelings away from their heart, layer by layer with each swipe of my sharp tongue. I could stop there and it would be enough. Don't scoff. Don't say,"that's not so bad". Because it is. Oh yes it is dear friends. Still not convinced?
How would you like to hear..
I don't love you anymore. * You're getting fat. * I wish you had never been born. * Why do you make my life so hard? It would be easier if you were just gone. * I hate you. * You make me sick. * I should just kill myself and everyone would be happier. *I hate me. * You're not my friend anymore. *

Can you feel it friends? Can you feel the darkness slithering up on you with each statement? I can. Some of these i have said. Some have been said to me. This is dark.

Or how about lust? Oh i know... lust?! What's the big deal? The world makes it so easy to lust doesn't it? We see so much skin, it's become commonplace. We tell ourselves it's ok if we look, if our spouse looks, because no one wants to be THAT girl - the one that isn't "secure" right? The one that must have self-esteem issues. The one that is a prude and no fun. We want to be the cool chick.

lie. lie. lie.
It's amazing how we fight for so many things but when it comes to our marriages we throw boundaries out the window, we practically shove them out the door, and then we wonder why things fall apart later? But i digress. That is another post as well.
What about MY lust? Looking too long at someone that is not mine. Allowing myself to think, to imagine, what it would be like. Fantasy. I know. It's just fantasy, right? It's not real. It's just in my head. And here's the best part - no one else has to know. Oh secrets secrets. How you trap us from the inside out. It's dark here friends. My dark. Because the more you lust, the more unsatisfied you become. The more your spouse starts to irritate you. The more you notice his nose hairs aren't trimmed and did he really just fart again?! He didn't take out the trash and he bought you flowers but geez, doesn't he know by now what my favorite is? The itch spreads. The complaint list grows. Distance becomes reality. You can both feel it. Gratefulness has been replaced bitterness. Gentleness for abrasion. And it all started in my head.

There are other darks. The Enemy is doing the happy dance right now with placards being raised to remind me of them all. "Smoker!" "Drunk!" "Rude!" "Unforgiving!" "Impatient!" "Road-rage freak!" "Shopper at Target when there is no money!"
You get it.

So I'm going to stop now and move into the light. You know, the love part.
Where does it say God loved me at my darkest?
It's a paraphrase folks. Of the coolest kind. This is what it does say ...
But God demonstrates His own love toward us, in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us. Romans 5:8

Now for some of you, the whole "sin" word puts your panties in a bunch. That's kind of your issue. Sin. Wrong-doing. Bad choices. Whatever package you want to wrap it in - it's still sin. You know it. How? Because you felt guilty when you did it and some really bad stuff went down afterward.

For some of us - for me - love has not been easy. I have always always had the fear of doing something wrong and i would lose it. This has been my truth. More than twice. Losing love. Because i wasn't worth it.

But here - in this verse - a new truth.
While i was still a sinner.... while i lusted, while i tore down, while i was drunk, while i was high, while i screamed there is no God, while i had sex with people i did not know, while i took my frustrations out on my kids, while i nagged, while i was selfish, while i laughed when someone else was down, while i did all these and more - he loved me anyway. he wanted me anyway. he waited for me anyway.

darkness. gave way to light.