My dirt

In the dance of abuse, I am not completely innocent.  I engaged and fed into the cycle.  I am just as guilty of yelling and name calling.. Whether out of frustration or retaliation or defense, I yelled, I called names.....nevertheless, its never right.  Early on in our little hell we called marriage, our fights were at times physical, where things were thrown..by me. So I would in no wise say that I did not participate in this dance of hatred and anger early on, because I did.

As time grew on, and I became a mother, I grew and made better choices of how I would respond to the ugliness that took up residence in my home.  Yet, I would still yell back at times. Which I guess really isn't a better choice.

 As the other party morphed into someone I no longer recognized, I knew something was desperately wrong and fixing it was beyond what I was able to handle.

All of the couples counseling in the world did not help. All of the books I read on my own did nothing.  Both of us were not committed to the process of change or invested in the time it took to make change occur.  I couldn't wrap my brain around if I was doing what all the books told me to do, listening to seminars on tape, doing what pastors, and counselors told me to do, why weren't things improving?

The bottom line is unless each party involved makes a concerted effort to do the work, its not going to work. Simple as that.    I could not make him change. I tried to say the right things, wear the right things, have sex as much as he wanted to, make the right meals, keep the kids quiet, pray more, read my Bible more, none of it worked. None of it!

People change when they commit to changing. No one person can change another person.  I can not control what other people do.  I can only control my actions and my words. I can only treat others with dignity and respect.

Today I take responsibility for my dirt... and no one elses.

Where were You, God?

"Where was God?" is a question I stopped asking.  I stopped asking:

"Where were you when he hit me in the face with a towel and sent my glasses flying?"

"Where were you when he kicked me with his steel toe boot out of frustration?"

"Where were you when he pushed me through the spindles in the upstairs hallway?'

"Where were you when he shoved me when I was pregnant, causing me to fall backward onto the top rack of the dishwasher?"

"Where were you when he blocked me and had me cornered in the hallway?"

"Where were you when he mercilessly called me names and yelled at me?"

"Where were you when he was throwing furniture in the house?"

"Why was it that you answered so many prayers but, when it came to my marriage you were silent?"

I stopped asking those questions and resolved to believe after a lot of convincing that God does not waste pain.  That every painful place I have walked through in this life, He will use so that others might be touched and healed. 

I stopped asking questions and realized that all of my "situations" are an open opportunity for God to show Himself as a healer.  He will heal this broken heart.   He created me and is committed to seeing me whole... again.

My story starts here

I don't know where to begin.  Most classic "stories" begin like: "Once upon a time...".  I wish it were that easy for me.  My story has many turns, and unexpected plot twists, that  sometimes it's even hard for me to follow it.

Since I don't know what the "beginning" of my story is, I will start where I am. 

Here goes.. 48 hours from now  will mark 1 year to the day that I called 911, for the last time on "the other party".  I was being forcefully pushed out my front door by someone I once knew, in hopes that I would fall down the concrete porch stairs and bust my head open or get hurt in someway or another.  I mustered  up enough strength to brace myself in the door frame so that  I would not find my body broken, or bloody on the porch stairs.  To say I was afraid would be an understatement.

The  intense rage I fell victim to was so surreal, the fear even larger than life. Yet I knew that it was very much reality and it would be the last time I would allow it to go on.  That day I called 911 and the other party was arrested.  That is the short version, with a lot of detail omitted. 

The sad thing is, somedays, I can't remember, other days I wish I could forget.