Atonement

Atonement

How do I allow it to enter me and heal?

How can it be set at one,

In a space of parts inside me

That battle to stay broken and confused,

Fragmented, continued in disagreement

To maintain the order of their chaos?

And how is it when I have believed,

Fully and with faith, tears streaming down my face

That I could be whole, I have felt more broken and alone

Than before my desperate plea?

And the holes from nails, forced through hands of Jesus

Seem less real than the scars

From holes I have nailed into my face

With my own hands, thousands of times

Screaming a message that does not meet

The need, or the Maker,

or the holes in my heart

Atonement

There was a time I felt it as the truth,

Surrounded by His arms, I let Him in,

Placed my future in His hands,

Believing He would always guide the way

A vision of the infant Christ

Kept me warm in snow,

Blinded by the blizzard and my tears

Having stumbled from my car

Near the summit of a mountain road,

One that should have been . . .

Has always to my knowledge remained closed

Throughout the winter months,

Somehow was open this December night

In the dead quiet of the storm

The clouds parted as I prayed,

To reveal the moon and stars

And the glory of the heavens opened,

The King of Heaven left His throne,

To come to my low place

And rock the cradle of my being

But I wonder now, is that all I could allow

In my state of innocence,

Not yet stricken with the blows and

Messages, conflicted

That have weathered me since then?

As my mortal age has doubled,

The old truth has outgrown its home,

Broken through the mirror of my youth

Into a world of endless truths

And symbols that expand my faith,

Not to justify or deny the old beliefs,

Or to change what can’t be changed,

Dismiss what gives the universe its order

The existence of some universal laws

That when broken lead to consequences,

The need to repair, to be accountable

Those will never be erased

But they are not meant to be contained

In one tight space of worship

Of faith, belief, and truth

That I now understand and see as new,

Emerged from darkness fed by fear

And confusion from the foggy lens

Of a glass darkly, needing to be cleared

Not by an added law or focus on our sins,

But by the careful nurturing of freedom

That we already hold within,

That holds it all together from beyond

That we seek to unearth and integrate

To unveil, and to create

Atonement

Is it a process we each face alone at times?

Is it a weight some of us carry to understand

How it is to be like God?

Or are we wasting time on sacrifice

That a mortal man, also divine and

Not just human as we are,

but nearly complete,

Completed for our sake?

Wisdom has expressed that this denies us

Each of what we need to grow

But I have yet to know

the answer

I have yet to feel the comfort

Transcend the deeper pain, the darkness

Closest to my core

Do I protect it too fiercely?

Is a Savior there?

Or am I the Savior inside myself,

Reaching for power from the space

Of power beyond my own

Reaching into the stars

And among the multitudes of saviors

To find what keeps us spinning

And alive

Atonement

Is it more than one man who gave it all?

Or is He what the Bible claims He is?

I truly want to know and let Him in,

Accept Him for what He gave with love

I also want to accept what drives me from inside

The Savior that toils inside of me

Is it more than a man? Is it uniquely who I am,

Experience and prayers and what I have created,

Summoned from beyond, from the earth and children,

From women and men,

Angels and mystical dreams?

I do not know for certain,

All the sources of my seeking

But I do not doubt that

They are based in Love

The action of allowing it,

Receiving it and giving it,

Beyond all wrongs and pain and justice

Is what makes possible

Atonement

(by Mary Anne, January 22, 2016)

The Mask

Update (6/10/16): This article describes what one therapist labeled my "Apparently Normal Person" (or ANP). This is my reality, and it is the reality of so many around me. It frightens me that we can be so, so disconnected from one another -- all in order to preserve the appearance of wellness and to continue the belief that if we do not show our pain, we will make the world a better place than if we show it . . . or, if we hide our suffering, somehow it will not burden others.

Nearly three years after this post, I am still struggling to keep the mask on, but it is not working . . . 

10/13/13

The mask is fading, and yet I keep holding on to it with great force. For I am afraid to let go, not knowing if I will be able to find and accept the reality of life without its protection. Only love will soothe this kind of pain, this depth of fear I still hold. 

I am only a few steps away from being like Cate Blanchett's character in the movie Blue Jasmine. She loses her mask over the course of the movie, and the film ends with her babbling on in endless anxiety - not really connected to anyone. That is how it often feels on the inside for me. Disconnection and dissonance . . . a constant, chaotic storm in my brain.

Sometimes I think it is too late, that love passed me by years and years ago - back in my twenties, when I was the most capable and felt the most free. Now that I am ragged, feeling unattractive  - and anything but free - it seems less likely than ever that I will be able to find the love that seemed so readily available back then. I just did not know what I really needed then. I was only subconsciously aware of my desperate need for safety and love, so I pushed it away when it was offered. 

Now I feel more alone than I ever have. I am unable to escape my fears, to reach out from behind the mask that protects them, and to find the love I so desperately seek. And it is not from a lack of trying, or even from a lack of giving out love - I do that as much as I possibly am able. I do it with friends, with my children, and at work. And I still am not able to internalize it as anything peaceful. 

I am truly desperate on the inside, and yet still portraying some semblance of sanity - or at least attempting to do so - on the outside. It has struck me over the past few days how strong my need to appear well and high-functioning has been for most of my life. It has been the most damaging, yet most reliable narrative that I have clung to in my mind, a place of false security when allowing myself to be genuinely vulnerable seemed far too insecure. 

Related to that narrative is my ability to stay dedicated - a somewhat genuine trait that has often been over-directed into my almost compulsive need to appear well. Even in the last nine excruciatingly difficult years of being a single mom, I have never slept in when my kids needed to be somewhere. I have not missed one day of work for any reason except when I had another obligation to meet. I have not once intentionally blown off something I committed to - not once. I did not miss one day of grad school, except for one class that I ended up dropping the semester after I was hospitalized for my severe depression. There is something almost frightening about my ability to stay dedicated, when there has not been one day in those past nine years that I have naturally felt like getting out of bed . . . and here I am still doing it . . . every day that I have someone to accommodate or a commitment to keep. I hope to be able to keep the part that is sincerely attempting to move forward in spite of the desire to shut down. But I need to release that horrible part that is desperate to please and accommodate others in order to be less of a burden, less in the way, less of a problem. 

It is only a matter of time before I finally allow myself to fall, unmasked, unable to meet my obligations obediently. I will no longer have energy to hold on to the mask. I will surrender to the depths and finally release it, let it rise to the surface . . .

Drowning - Claudia Dose http://claudiadose.blogspot.com/

“Promise me you will not spend so much time treading

water and trying to keep your head above the waves,

that you forget, truly forget . . . how much you have

always loved to swim.”

-Tyler Knott Gregson

It Feels Like Thunder Inside Me

This post began with a journal entry from 5/13/2016, and then I kept adding to it until it could no longer be contained:

"These thoughts are keeping me up, so I need to write them somewhere besides the crowded highways of my brain."

Between work and my personal life, I hear an average of at least two stories -- firsthand accounts -- each week, where victims are blamed and/or blame themselves for traumatic sexual incidents where they were not at fault. My experience is that is is the default for victims to blame themselves -- no matter what they wore, if they were drinking or not, if they were making "good" choices or not. 

For weeks, I have been following stories in the news about sexual assault where the women have been blamed, shamed, and re-traumatized for being violated by men. I have been grateful for Elizabeth Smart's empowering position of advocacy that she has created out of her own devastating trauma (here is one example). 

Yesterday, this story had me in tears. Thankfully, at least half of those were tears of gratitude for this woman's courage, particularly as she expressed it through this letter to the person who attacked her. On a personal note, her words were like balm to my soul. It is so rare to read something that helps the wounded, sexually traumatized part of me, and this woman's words did just that. She gets what if feels like to suffer on the inside without being understood from the outside. She articulates truths that I wish every person on this planet could read and understand - regarding the real effects of being assaulted or sexually violated in any way, at any age.

*A few weeks ago, I heard two devastating stories -- one firsthand from a survivor of an assault, and one about a child (from the perspectives of two adults) -- within a 24-hour period, where victims were punished for behavior. At the very least, these girls needed someone to hug them and tell them how much they are valued. If discipline was necessary for either incident, love clearly needed to transcend any punishment. The first was a child (under age 12) who was caught and chastized by law enforcement for interacting with an online predator. The second story I heard was from a girl - barely considered an adult - who was gang-raped by multiple men.

[*The two stories I mentioned above did not occur in my family or at work, but outside of those spaces, and I have not included identifying details.]
In both cases, there were clearly responsible perpetrators who did not seem to be the focus of being held accountable. I try really hard not to be mean, but my next statement may seem kind of mean if you do not agree with me.

If you believe that recent media attention given to "victim-blaming" in our society is exaggerated or ridiculous, you are wrong . . . and you are adding to the problem by denying it.

It is so insidiously woven into our culture to blame girls and women for causing men to sexually act out-of-control (this is not to diminish incidents where men and boys are victimized, or where women are truly responsible for abusing others), that when women or girls blame themselves for some of these incidents -- including rape, incest, and other forms of sexual assault -- many people go right along with it, adding to the shame for these survivors. I completely understand the discomfort of being in a victim stance, and it is not empowering to remain focused on being a victim. However, to deny it completely, and then to punish someone who has been victimized is a lose-lose-LOSE situation -- for the perpetrator (who needs to go through the process of being accountable), the person assaulted (who often willingly takes the blame), and the system within which these people function (which needs to be challenged to grow and thrive).

I feel a wave of shock and nausea each time a girl or woman tells me that she did something to cause a man to sexually take advantage of her. While this self-blame may temporarily give people a sense that they were able to choose what happened in the situation -- choice that was not a real possibility while being violated -- this act of false empowerment (which is a very understandable response to a traumatic incident) ultimately robs people of real empowerment. It gives denial permission to persist . . . and persist . . . and persist. There is no real control or power present when blame is fearfully swept away from the violator towards the person who is least responsible in the situation.

Sexual assault and abuse will not diminish if you keep pretending they do not exist or are not serious problems. Abuse will not be eradicated if the focus is placed on all of the bad things the victim did to "contribute" to it. Unless there is equal consent between two adults, it really does not matter what the person not in the position of power was doing. The person in the act of attempting to control another takes advantage of some aspect of power - often physical strength combined with assuming a role of authority - and uses that to temporarily make the other person weak. While it may not be real power, the perpetrator has become the violator and the one who needs to be responsible for any damage that occurs. Anything that the victim did before, during, or after the traumatic event becomes insignificant compared to the perpetrator's actions.

In other words, the instant where the person attacking assumes power over another individual, the person being attacked is not responsible for the violator's behavior in any way. The instant the person who violates even thinks about violating another person, it becomes that person's responsibility, and it is that person who needs to be accountable for any behavior that follows.

And yet, a common tendency is to look away from the actual threat, the monster hiding like a small child behind his fading facade of strength. The shrinking man behind the mask, like the Wizard of Oz character, as he is ultimately portrayed in Wicked (the musical that is loosely based on the original story).

It is much more comfortable to point the finger at the person who was attacked - the person who is, while still in fear, often willing to be blamed. She has been exposed in that moment, while the others involved often find a way to hide. How convenient it is to tag the exposed with the red mark of shame. How quickly it halts the process of change that needs to occur instead. That which is not allowed the dynamic process of growth through sunlight, air, and water is more likely to decay than disappear. And so continues a layer of pain beneath the surface, until people are willing to visit those rotting places and clear them out to plant new seeds.

The attitude of denial is emptier than silence, 

and it feels like thunder inside me.

I never, ever grow desensitized to these stories of people (usually from the people assaulted or abused), week after week . . . year after year. Instead, it seems I become less capable of tolerating the wave of emotions that strikes me each time, as if I am being stabbed from behind and deprived of air -- all while the ground is removed from beneath me.

I usually feel that I am able to empower people, one-on-one, without making a public scene. However, I am not able to remain silent about the stories I keep hearing. 

Is there anything I can do to help the child who was blamed for interacting with a person whose intent was to take advantage of her sexually online? What if the system I turn to is the same system that blamed this child for what happened? 

I took a social work class years ago, specifically to increase my knowledge and understanding of how sexual abuse is managed in Utah. I have attended countless workshops that have assured me about specific incentives being implemented to educate and train people in the law enforcement system to develop increased empathy and compassion for people they are called to assist in various crises -- especially where children are involved. I have been inspired by and involved with programs that use ideas like restorative justice, compassionate teaching, trauma-informed care, and so on . . . but this story does not fit into any of those categories.

Many of the stories that have surfaced in the media and that have been shared with me personally feel like they came straight from 1955, and the reality of that kind of time-warp blows my mind. Yet, these continue to be the stories of many, not just a few.

God, please intervene here, if you have any connection to this insanity . . . any way to piece this broken world into something worth keeping it spinning.

The Center Knows

The Center Knows

Mary Anne Stewart - January 15, 2016 

Sometimes it is the ones

who believe they are crazy

who may not appear

unraveled and gnarled,

scattered and split,

who hold it together

at the center where no one sees

Sometimes the ones

who appear to be free,

to have the answers

to questions they have not asked,

they push their way through

without having to tell the truth

without having to carry the weight

Of years and generations

come and gone, and here and now,

outside the walls of time

They pity the ones

who belong to the grief

who accept their share

of the pain

The heaviness of space,

not seen by most,

but felt by some

Who try to be the pole,

the axis that allows insanity

allows the world to madly spin

without a total fracture at the core

The center knows

 It knows more than it wants to know

And holds, and holds,

and holds

to keep itself together,

to keep the pieces close,

to hold them, even if they hurt,

even if they do not fit

Even if they make us bleed

in places no one else will look,

we have to stop and open up

the fragile wound

  the ears and eyes inside the heart

the parched throat

of the silenced voice

Too long it feels

the waiting has removed us

from the soul

Too long it feels

the waiting has depleted

what we thought was strength,

believed would make us whole

And all the while

Hands we may not see
Connected to a she, a they, a he 

Softly rock and whisper peace
They know the sorrow, born of hell

They know that rocking us will mend

the broken shards

The Center Knows

 No surgery or sudden miracle

or saving out of fear

or rushing of the waters

is the way

Just rocking us, allowing us

to bear the heat,

the shaping of the clay

The fusing of the broken glass

the light of each sharp,

isolated piece,

daring to reflect

and be refined,

magnified, eventually

united with the rest

These hands,

they will not interrupt

the seething abyss

that sets the soul on fire

They will not stop the heart

that draws the lines

back to their breath

Love requires pain

and patient witnessing,

remembering 

how they came to know us,

how they come to show us

the freedom

in the space

The Center knows