Ever had one of those days when you just knew that it was out to get you? One of those days when all your energy got sucked up by a greedy monster before you even rolled out of bed?
We were trying to beat the heat to get caught up in our yard work. Funny how much easier it was before we got old. From sunup to sundown, I’d work like a madwoman till the job was done. One day, my neighbor made me stop long enough to eat lunch with her. That was annoying, but what could I say? She was a good, old southern cook.
But those days are far behind me now. Sometimes, I don’t realize how far behind me till I try to play catch-up with everything I should have gotten done already. Like I said. We were trying to beat the heat, like two old turtles trying to cross the road before they become roadkill.
My husband climbed on the mower, and I went to work rearranging the rocks bordering one of the flowerbeds. Nature has a way of moving things around when you’re not looking. The skies were overcast, and the humid breeze was pleasantly cool. Perfect day for working in the yard.
I was digging a stubborn rock out of the dirt when suddenly, my hands and arms were stinging and burning like fire. Stomping my feet, I ripped off my gloves, yelling and waving my arms like a scarecrow in a hurricane, “Yellow jackets!”
Jumping off the mower, my husband helped me to the house and called 911 as I stood at the sink, whimpering like a wounded puppy, splashing cold water all over my arms.
Oh, it hurts! Oh, it hurts! Suddenly, my heart started racing, and my arms and legs turned to spaghetti. I’m gonna die! I’m gonna die! Hubby helped me onto the bed, and by the time the EMTs arrived, everything had settled back down, except for the excruciating pain.
The good news is, I didn’t die. The bad news is, I continued getting worse until after ten, long, miserable days of intense itching, burning, and swelling, I finally broke down and went to Urgent Care. I wish I had gone sooner, but this wasn’t my first rodeo with yellow jackets. But it was my first for multiple stings, with one leg in the grave already! I will know better next time. Wait! Did I just say next time?
I’m fine, now. The yard is still screaming its head off, and it’s hotter than blazes outside. And since I’m not a glutton for punishment, I’m staying inside until it gets cooler, like around September. Or maybe October. Maybe I’ll just wait until Spring, before it gets hot, and I have to start this insanity all over again.
Do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous hand (Isaiah 41:10).
I am your God. Not your worries. Not your fear. Not your fickle emotions. Not your relationships. Not your home. I am your God. I will take care of you. I will fight for you. I will give you everything you need. I will give you complete rest.
How long has it been since you’ve been able to rest without the burdens of the world screaming in your ears? How long has it been since you’ve felt at ease living in your own skin? How long has it been since you felt that someone genuinely cared?
Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you (1 Peter 5:7).
As a chronic worrier, I bow down to fear and kiss its feet. Fear is the boss of me. I trust it to always be there, and it never lets me down. Crazy, I know. But that’s what I do because that’s what I learned to do. Fear it, then worry yourself to death about it, and maybe it will disappear. If it doesn’t, worry some more.
Last Sunday, my grandson delivered a powerful message on the topic of idolatry. And like a guided missile, the Holy Spirit took aim and pierced my heart to the core. That’s it! Fear, and all those other destructive cousins, aunts and uncles are sitting on the throne and controlling my life! They crawled through the window when I wasn’t looking and are working diligently behind the scenes.
Worries. Emotional torment. Failed relationships, misunderstandings, and irrational thinking; all those little gods now standing in my mind as tall as trees. I crowned them all, trusting them more than I trusted God. All my tears, all my begging and pleading God’s deliverance while clinging to the filthy rags of idolatry.
In the parlor of my mind, I see a big, brown, heavy door. Behind that door is a lifetime of pain and misery that I’ve been clinging to like an old, tattered security blanket. That door is closed behind me, now; God has sealed it shut. And standing there, feeling fresh and clean, like a newborn baby, my life suddenly has meaning and purpose. As if I just woke up from a long, deep sleep and seeing the splendor of the universe for the first time.
What about you? Are you ready to tear down the altars of those little gods tormenting your life? Are you ready to stop trusting your worries and fears and start trusting God? Are you ready to fall into his arms, kick off your shoes, and rest completely in his love? His power? His protection?
The Lord is my Shepherd, I lack nothing. He makes me lie down in green pastures, he leads me beside quiet waters, he refreshes my soul. He guides me along the right paths for his name’s sake. Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me. You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies. You anoint my head with oil, my cup overflows. Surely your goodness and love will follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever (Psalm 23).
It is for freedom that Christ has set us free. Stand firm, then, and do not let yourselves be burdened again by a yoke of slavery (Galatians 5:1).
Meet my brother, Leonard, the youngest of six siblings; a rebel to the ninth degree. At home, at school; anywhere he decided to kick and scream against society. In his twisted thinking, rules were made to be broken. He didn’t know the meaning of respect and felt entitled to do and to take whatever he pleased. He never worked for it; he just took it. What he didn’t steal, he destroyed, like the abandoned house he set on fire when he was just barely twelve.
After spending a year in reform school, we thought he had learned his lesson. It only made him worse. He blamed everyone but himself for what he considered cruel and unusual punishment. With a heart burning with rage, he continued his bitter war against authority, serving time in jail, getting out on parole then back in jail for breaking parole and committing even more devious crimes.
Addicted to the thrill of the chase, and hallucinations of drugs and alcohol, my brother became a prisoner of pride and self-destruction. More than five decades of living a life of crime, death was his final destination, where his penniless, decaying body lay in a shameful, pauper’s grave.
But, as a Christian, was I any better? Was I freer than he? Less angry? Less rebellious? Less responsible for my twisted thinking and kicking and screaming against injustice?
For decades, I thought I was safe, hiding behind the walls of my religious facade. It was too risky opening the door to my soul. What would people think when they saw the blazing fire of anger and rage? And, what about the green-eyed monster of jealousy and the double-edged sword of vengeance? What would they think about the barbed wire fence around my heart, and the snarling, junkyard dog chained to it?
We can parade through life fooling people, but we can never parade through life fooling God.
The acts of the flesh are obvious: sexual immorality, impurity and debauchery, idolatry and witchcraft; hatred, discord, jealousy, fits of rage, selfish ambition, dissensions, and envy; drunkenness, orgies, and the like. I warn you, as I did before, that those who live like this will not inherit the kingdom of God (Galatians 5: 19, 20, 21).
Like an earthquake, I was shaken to the core of my being after reading these blatant, condemning words: those who live like this will not inherit the kingdom of God.And the Holy Spirit whispered to my soul, not even you, Sandi.
It’s as if a dam broke inside me and all the sludge and filth I’d been holding back for decades, began pouring out. The Holy Spirit removed my blindfolds, revealing every sin labeled and dangling before my eyes like puppets on a string. What I so carefully kept hidden in the dark was exposed before God like creepy, ugly bugs scattering in the light.
Falling on my knees before God, he washed my heart clean and set it free. He tore down the walls that Satan helped me build and showered me with his love and forgiveness. He renewed my mind, restored my soul, and sent the Holy Spirit to teach me how to live. He pulled me out of the quicksand of sin, released Satan’s death-grip from my heart, and gave me peace and joy and everlasting life in him.
Freedom in Christ is not a free ticket to a trouble-free life, nor is it a one-time deal, but an ongoing process of moving farther away from what we were, and closer to what we are becoming in Christ. It doesn’t mean we will never fail and disappoint God, because we will. We’re humans, bent towards the alluring pleasures of the devil’s playground of sin and destruction.
And, because God created us with a free choice, he allows us the freedom to run away, and to get all tangled up in Satan’s web of lies and deceit again. The choice is ours, and so are the dire consequences we will face. Continue living for Satan and die in the tar pit of sin, completely separated from God, or live in the everlasting power and freedom in Christ. The choice is all yours.
For the wages of sin is death, but the gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord (Romans 6:23).
So I say, walk by the Spirit, and you will not gratify the desires of the flesh. For the flesh desires what is contrary to the Spirit, and the Spirit what is contrary to the flesh. They are in conflict with each other, so that you are not to do whatever you want “Galatians 5: 16, 17”.
Even as a child, I knew something was wrong with me, and so did everyone else living in the house. For instance, every Saturday night was hair-washing time; a Freddy Krueger nightmare for me and a Jack the Ripper moment for my parents.
I was a high-strung, temperamental six-year-old. Mom was the lady with the shampoo bottle in her hand and daddy was the man with the willow switch across his lap.
Whimpering like a frightened puppy, I squeezed my eyes shut, gritted my teeth and tried my best to be brave. But the instant the warm soapy water drenched my long, red hair, cascading over the edge of the old galvanized tub, panic devoured my brain.
Like a streak of lightning, I bolted from daddy’s tight grip around my wet, slippery arm, and raced out the door half naked and dripping wet, arms flailing, kicking and screaming like a wild donkey. Down a spooky, wooded, dirt path. In the dark. Where trees turned into giant monsters and grizzly bears ate little children alive!
Suddenly, the thought of drowning was better than being eaten alive, so I hightailed back into the house, where the woman with the shampoo bottle and the man with the willow switch sat like a pair of statues.
Back in the fifties, I was labeled super sensitive. High-strung. Strong-willed. Problem child. Had anyone looked beyond the labels, they would have seen a frightened little girl buried beneath the rubble of torment.
I was fifty-something when I was finally diagnosed with borderline personality disorder. Fifty-something years of living with my skin turned inside out, feeling every little prick as if I were being chopped to pieces with an axe.
Finally, I had something to blame; I have a brain malfunction. I can’t help it. I was born this way. It’s not my fault. I’ll just take my meds and go with the flow. Hopefully my psychotic episodes will be less frequent and severe. Hopefully the highs and lows will level out, and I can finally be at peace with myself.
It doesn’t work like that. In fact, there is no medication for BPD, only for the anxiety and depression associated with it, which is like taking a baby aspirin for a severe migraine. And when my emotions are triggered out of control, nothing helps. I’m too far gone, too over the edge, too emotionally fractured to think and react rationally. The Grim Reaper is my only ticket out.
BPD is like an invincible monster; a devil controlling and manipulating every corner of your life. It toys with your brain, convincing you that what you see and feel is real, that people are out to get you, that they hate you, and deliberately want to hurt you. They constantly judge and criticize you, stab you in the back; anything to get you all fired up until you’re spinning completely out of control.
BPD shows no mercy. Not for you. Not for anyone around you. It slaughters relationships and makes working a public job nearly impossible because everything and everyone is out to destroy you. Loud music, loud people, loud anything causes an emotional explosion impossible for Superman to contain. So, it ruptures, like a volcano, destroying every shred of sanity clinging to your twisted brain.
For a Christian, BPD is a double-edged sword. You’re damned for not reading your Bible enough, not attending church enough, not praying enough, not doing whatever a good Christian is supposed to do enough. If you were a REAL Christian, following all the golden rules, you wouldn’t act like a blooming idiot when your emotions are shot to smithereens. Shame on you!
No! Shame on you for turning your back on me when I’m crying for help. Shame on you for leaving me stranded and drowning in my own tears. Shame on you for judging me without even knowing me. Shame on you for kicking me deeper into the pit of despair.
Long before I even heard about BPD, I made weekly visits to the mental health clinic for nearly two years. My relationship with my mother was so toxic that I walked out of her life before she completely destroyed me. During our separation and numerous cognitive sessions with my therapist, I became less confused and began to see myself for the first time.
I began to understand why I bawled my eyes out for weeks on end when we moved from the city to the country; why I couldn’t sleep until I quit that noisy, nerve-racking sewing job; why loud noises pushed me over the edge; why I felt that I was living in a house without walls, and why it seemed that I was being eaten alive from the inside out.
Fear is the sinister monster, devouring my confidence and self-worth, demolishing the walls of safety and protection, leaving me feeling naked and exposed for all to see and to judge and to shame and to ridicule. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. Nowhere to feel safe.
Yesterday, my husband and I celebrated our eight-year-old great-grandson’s birthday at our granddaughter’s house. There was a crowd of people there that I didn’t know, but I was okay. My heart wasn’t pounding, my brain wasn’t screaming, and the urge to run never entered my mind.
Self-discovery is the antidote for BPD; the process of seeing deep inside yourself and the ability to finally understand who you are and why you overreact in stressful situations, and why you feel so angry and overwhelmed by anxiety. And as discouraging as it is, you must realize that healing is not in a pill, it’s in yourself.
But you can’t do it alone. You need a support system of family and friends you can trust. As for me, I wouldn’t have come this far in my journey without God’s help, and the support of my husband and my son, and his loving, growing family. They may not always understand my struggle, but they always love and support me.
God is good and wants us all to experience his love and understanding toward us. He knows our pain, our struggle, and he is always there to help us. All we have to do is ask him.
I asked God for all things that I might enjoy life. He gave me life that I might enjoy all things.
How many years has it been like that? At least two, I think. When I first realized the birdhouse had flipped, I decided to keep it like that as a reminder for me to stop expecting everything to be sooo perfect. Even the Garden of Eden had a slithering, conniving snake in it.
Yesterday, while resting our tired, aching bones from working in the yard, I asked my husband if he would fix it; I don’t need a reminder anymore; my perfectionist self doesn’t come by as often these days. Sometimes she thinks about moving back in, but I slam the door in her face. Temporary visits are more than enough for me to handle.
“I’ll fix it when we’re finished with the yard this evening.”
Suddenly, a bluebird flew in and out, and then another. There’s a family living there now! All those years it’s been hanging upright, absolutely vacant. Now that it’s upside-down, it’s the perfect home to set up house-keeping. We’re not home wreckers, so we’ll wait until they move out before we renovate it.
And I got to thinking. That old, imperfect, upside-down birdhouse is hardly a dream home with all the modern conveniences, a double car garage, and a swimming pool in the backyard. But the happily married couple chose it to raise their little, blue-feathered babies.
We live in a generation a million miles away from the old farmhouses with no running water, no light switches, and a toilet a mile from the house. A generation that doesn’t find pleasure in walking through the woods, sitting on a log before a trickling stream, dreaming and meditating, and feeling close to God.
When we take our eyes off the treasures we already have, we begin comparing ourselves with the rich and seemingly more successful than ourselves. Young people, still wet behind the ears, have the biggest houses and newest cars equipped with more gadgets than they know how to work or will probably ever use. And we’re sitting in our wheelchairs, beating ourselves up because our dreams turned into dust.
I’m learning, ever so slowly, that life is less complicated when I stop beating myself up for my imperfections and bringing my lofty expectations back down to earth. Like the bluebirds nesting in the old, broken-down birdhouse, I’m learning to be more content and reminding myself that life isn’t perfect and neither am I.
From a distance, I observed him, forever studying his somber, blank face, every line, every wrinkle in search of a smile, a spark of light in his eyes, a mere hint of someone living in his skin.
My brain told me he was my father, but my heart said he was just a stranger living in our house. And that’s how I always saw him: a stranger living in the shadows of solitude, with a barbed wire fence around him.
Many times I’ve tried writing about my dad and the painful impact he had on my life, only to delete the few paragraphs that took me hours to write. Even now, I’m not sure if I will do it justice.
Observing my dad was like observing a shadow. He was there, but had no substance, no voice, no passion, no warmth; like a hermit living in a faraway place, with not even a dog for companionship.
What makes him tick? What sets his heart on fire? What’s his favorite color, his favorite book? Why did he get married? Why did he have kids? Why?
His steady, artistic hands worked like magic, restoring broken, neglected antique furniture and bringing it back to life. With only an eighth-grade education, he read books that a seasoned professor would find difficult to understand. He had the patience of Job, the brilliance of Einstein. Yet, he didn’t know how to be a father.
Before he was drafted to serve in World War II, he and his best friend had a machine shop together. Before going overseas, my dad gave his partner power of attorney, just in case he didn’t make it back home. After two years of hell, he was discharged, only to discover that his well-trusted best friend had sold everything out from under him and kept the money for himself.
He was a good man in every sense of the word. His only bad habit was smoking. He never yelled and screamed, never lost control in a fit of rage, and would rather jump off a bridge than wield a switch across my bare legs.
He had so much to give, yet hoarded it like a stingy, selfish miser. To make matters worse, he contributed very little financial, emotional, and moral support to the family. Those responsibilities he piled on my mother’s shoulders; an emotionally broken woman, who, many times over, became a raging monster beneath the weight of it all. Not surprisingly, our home became a battlefield of broken, bleeding souls.
I blamed my dad for everything. I fought him like a tiger, deliberately provoked and sassed him; anything to get his attention. Anything to get even. Anything to stir up something alive in him.
I hobbled through life like a three-legged dog, longing to fit in, longing to belong, longing to know a father’s love. To know what it feels like to sit on his lap, to be held in his arms, and to hear his heartbeat. To know what it’s like to feel safe. To feel loved.
It would be years before I discovered a father’s love. Years of pretending that I didn’t want it, that I didn’t need it, that I could make it on my own, all by myself without it. I will wipe my own tears, doctor my own wounds, pick myself up, brush myself off, and keep going.
I knew how to survive, but like my dad, I didn’t know how to live. So, I stumbled through life pretending to be a sweet, loving Christian girl who had it all together. When my heart raged with anger, I hid it. When my insides were churning with fear and anxiety, I hid it. When jealousy rose its ugly head, I hid it. No one must know who I really am, because they won’t like me if they discover the truth.
After years of hiding, stuffing and pretending, lying to myself and to the world, my heart became a swollen, pain-festering boil. Slowly, it began to ooze, but I covered it with a flimsy patch of denial.
Suddenly it happened. That one last thrust of the smoldering blade straight through the heart knocked me to my knees before God.
You can’t run from God. He will hunt you down. He will find you, and He will reveal Himself to you beyond your understanding.
The Breakthrough
Self-discovery is a long, arduous process of facing the truth and owning your brokenness, and the bad choices you made through your pain and confusion. You begin to stop blaming others and eventually stop crying the blues because your fairy tale childhood went up in a puff of smoke. You roll up your sleeves, dig deep into your soul, and face the ugly truth about your past and the person you became as a result of it.
That’s where I was that quiet, early morning when I felt a presence beside my bed. By now, this invisible being and I have developed a strong bond during my wild, healing adventures, so I knew I was in for a bumpy ride. Bracing myself, I closed my eyes and, sighing deeply, I whispered, “Okay, Lord. Where are we going today?”
Immediately, the journey began, down a dark, narrow stairwell through the dungeon of my soul.
This place reeked of evil destruction. Battered souls were locked in cages, brutally murdered with the bloody axe of hatred, guilt and shame, abandonment, selfishness, arrogance, and pride. Generational sins of the parents. Generational stomping grounds of the devil.
Buried beneath a pile of rubble, I saw my inner child, broken and discarded like a useless rag doll. Her clothes were faded and torn, her face dirty and streaked with tears. Slowly, I bent down and gently pulled her out, cradled her in my arms, and cried till I could barely breathe.
My pillow was drenched in tears. I didn’t want to be in this place anymore. I wanted to turn back, slam the door shut, and never come back here again. But the Holy Spirit was on a mission and stuck like glue beside me. I felt His comfort, His peace, and understanding. I even felt his tears splashing on my battered heart.
At the bottom of the stairs, I see a little girl standing in the doorway, gazing into a misty, foggy room. Through her eyes, I saw a man sitting in a rocking chair, smoking a cigarette and drinking coffee. He seemed frozen, like a zombie, staring into space, his eyes as vacant as the empty room in which he sat.
Suddenly, she began to cry as bitter words spewed from her mouth, telling him how much she needed his love and protection; how much he had hurt her, and how ugly and stupid she felt. Words she never said before, feelings she never owned before, sprang forth like a gushing spring. And like a zombie, he just sat there in a cold tomb of silence.
Suddenly, I felt a gentle nudge, and as I turned to walk away, there, at the bottom of the stairs in the deepest recesses of my broken soul, I saw God! All these wasted years, He’s been patiently waiting for me to turn around and see Him standing by my side. He never left me for a second. But, blinded by my own pitch-black darkness, I couldn’t see Him.
Turning to leave this morbid tomb, I glanced at the man one last time. And before he vanished in a cloud of smoke, I whispered, “Goodbye, daddy. I have a new daddy now.”
I’m still a work in progress. The difference now is, I have a Father I can trust and depend on. My Heavenly Father reminds me every day of His indescribable love and mercy for me. He is everything I need. Having a loving, caring earthly father may have made life easier for me, but it may not have led me to God.
We all want and need a dad in the flesh to love and support us. And even if we are blessed with that, he’s only flesh and blood and will one day leave this earth. But God, our Heavenly Father, the Creator of the universe, Savior of the world, can’t die. He can’t leave us. Because He’s an awesome, mighty God and wants desperately to show us how much He loves us, even when we don’t believe it.
What about you? Are you searching for a father’s love? Is your heart broken and bleeding? Call on God. Repent, and surrender to Him. And I promise, you will never be the same.
Then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free. John 8:32
What price are you willing to pay to know the truth? How deep will you dig in search of the truth? How badly do you want to know the raw-naked truth?
The majority of people in the world today avoid the truth like avoiding a rattlesnake. Why is that? What is so horrible about the truth that we want to hide it and would rather bite off our tongues than to tell it?
FEAR
That little four-letter word has the mighty power of Superman to keep the truth dead and buried; no matter what it takes. And the longer we allow fear to control us, the more watered down the truth becomes.
Let me introduce you to my mother. When she was just a child, her mother was between a rock and a hard place. Her alcoholic husband left her alone and penniless to care for her children. So, in my eyes, she did the unthinkable; she put her kids in an orphanage, with the promise she’d come get them when she got on her feet.
My mother, the youngest of twelve siblings, was farmed out to an abusive, foster home. They beat her, humiliated her, molested her, sent her to school with stones in her lunch box in the place of food, and worked her like a mule when she got back home. They told her she was ugly, stupid, and no good. And the final blow, that her mother was dead and was never coming back for her.
Throughout my childhood, my mother recited her broken past as if rehearsing for a horror film, which my tender heart and mind soaked up like a sponge. How could anyone be so mean and cruel to my mother? I wanted to beat them up with my little clenched fists!
Even before I started the first grade, I decided to be her savior. Her protector. Her golden child. With all the love and understanding I could muster, I surrendered my heart and soul to her. I became her golden child. Her savior. He protector. Her puppet. Her victim.
But the one thing I never surrendered was my stubborn, independent, strong will. And that became a monstrous problem in our relationship. Even as a child, the harder I resisted, the more ruthless she became with her twisted mind games; guilt and shame. Tag-along demons from her abusive past to now wreak havoc on me.
By the time I left home, the golden child I tried so hard to be was a broken mess of confusion, anger, hurt and rage, overwhelming feelings of worthlessness, abandonment, and betrayal. Is it any wonder relationships didn’t work for me? Is it any wonder that my first marriage failed? Is it any wonder that I didn’t even know who I am?
Having a loving, peaceful relationship with my mother was impossible. She was like an octopus, with her tentacles reaching every nook and cranny of my life. Everything broken in her life I was supposed to fix. EVERYTHING! And like a drunken fool, I kept trying.
One day I snapped. I couldn’t stop crying. I couldn’t stop hurting. I couldn’t pretend anymore. I couldn’t stuff my feelings anymore. My heart was a swollen, festered boil and was exploding all over the place. What is wrong with me? Why do I hate my mother? Why do I hate the world? Why do I hate myself?
After walking out of my mother’s life and two years of weekly, cognitive therapy sessions at the mental health clinic, my heart was finally at peace. But my mind is still in the painful process of recovery, and probably will be until I die.
But, I finally know the truth, about myself, about God, about life. Bad things happened to my mother. Bad things happened to me. The difference is, I got help. I uncovered the truth. I repented of my sins. I stopped the abuse. I forgave myself. I forgave my mother. And yes, I forgave God.
How badly do you want peace? How badly do you want to know yourself? How badly do you want to know God? How badly do you want to know the truth and be set free?
I’m a full-blooded, empath people-pleaser with a built-in pain detector. A complete stranger can pour out their heart to me, and tears gush from my eyes like Niagara Falls. Sometimes, I even feel guilty, as if it were my fault somehow. And I always, always, always want to dive in and fix it.
People love empath, people-pleasers. Right? They will stick to them like glue, treat them like royalty, and never, ever leave them stranded in a dark and lonely place. Right?
WRONG!
People with a false sense of entitlement love to be pleased by people-pleasers. They love controlling, confusing, and gaslighting them, making them feel helpless and believing they could never live without them. The world is full of predators like that. And they can crop up in the least expected places.
I think my first introduction to reality was when I bought a car from this guy recommended by a friend. The only problem was, he needed a few weeks to get it up and running. I was a single mom in much need of a car with a motor and four wheels. But what I got were empty promises from a jerk who took my hard-earned cash, and built himself a Nomad, dream car using the parts from the phantom car I bought, and skipped town, never to be seen or heard from again.
Was I angry? Not one bit. I just wanted to wrap my fingers around his scrawny neck and choke him till his eyeballs popped out of his head and rolled across the floor! I just wanted to hammer his brains out, rip off his arms and legs, and drag him to a den of starving lions. . . Over and over again!
Still, my stubborn, fearful heart refused the silly notion of setting boundaries. Besides, Christians aren’t supposed to have boundaries. Christians are supposed to turn the other cheek, wash people’s dirty feet with their tears, and keep giving away their soul.
But, where does it say that in the Bible? Matthew 5:38, where Jesus says to turn the other cheek, is He telling His followers to be doormats, allowing others to walk all over us? Is He telling us to be weak and surrender to our abusers?
No. But that’s what my twisted, religious brain believed. Now, a thousand years and a million scars later, I believe that Jesus was and is teaching His followers to live in peace with one another; to hold on to our integrity by snuffing out the flames of revenge. Turn the other cheek and walk away. But, if they follow you, stand your ground. And if they come at you with a knife, fight like hell to protect yourself. That’s what I believe today.
But how do you set boundaries when you’ve never had them before? When you’re afraid that people will hate you for it and turn others against you because of it. How will you survive without your family and friends?
You start by saying no. No, I won’t allow you to hurt me anymore. No, I won’t be manipulated and controlled anymore. No, I refuse to bow down and kiss your feet just to keep you in my life when you’re killing me. No more crossing the line. No more sleepless nights. No more guilt and shame. No more! You choose to believe in yourself, to love and respect yourself, and to live in peace, with or without them.
My circle of friends is very small these days. And that’s the way I like it. The less people I have in my circle, the less stress I have in my life. And at my age, I don’t have much time left to waste on users and abusers.
I’m still an empath. I still enjoy pleasing others. But not for the same reasons anymore. The people I once allowed into my heart broke it to pieces. The scars run deep. Recovery has been long and painful, like crawling through a dark, slimy sewer with a zillion rats eating me alive. That’s when I finally woke up. When I finally realized that my own family was killing my soul. That’s when I put up a no trespassing sign and closed the gate and locked it. And that’s when the painful healing began.
With the heart of a lion, I endured all the ramifications of walking away; the glaring eyes, the shunning, the blame, the gossip, and overwhelming feelings of anger, hurt, and shame, hours spent questioning my sanity, and the fierce temptation to fall on my knees and beg forgiveness. The story of my life. But not this time. This is the time I break the chains and take back my life. This is when I dig deep into my troubled soul, scoop out my broken inner child and learn to love her. This is when I planted my heart in the rich soil of truth, watered it with my tears, and slowly began learning, forgiving, and growing.
What about you? Do you allow people to take advantage of you and hurt you over and over again? Do you grit your teeth and just bear it? Maybe it’s time to figure out why you keep allowing that abuse. Maybe it’s time to draw the line. Even if it hurts. And it will hurt like hell. You just gotta be tough and do it. If you don’t, you will never have the peace and satisfaction you long for.
Straight From the Heart 