I’m Not a Victim

Nov 6th, 2017

So, turns out carpel tunnel surgery isn’t that bad after all…but not the not using your hands, for me, torture. I won’t lie, it hurts to use my fingers and the surgery is uncomfortable. But a little ibuprofen has been all I’ve needed…wow. So unreal, right? They cut your hand open and cut a pretty honkin’ tendon thingy in there straight in half, and not much pain. How’s that work? Funny story about it real quick, then I’ll get to my real post. So, my dad and his dad have always taken way more anesthesia and local numbing then it seemed possible or needed for their size, weight, all that. We found out I’m the same way when I had my c-section…3 hours of the anesthesiologist and everyone else watching me come in and out of conciousness and pass out again over and over because I could literally feel the huge hole in my stomach and he didn’t believe me because he said he’d given me enough to put me out. Well, was I out? No…

Anywhoo, I go in for the surgery and Daryl now makes me tell everyone in the medical field about how I seem to take way more meds to actually put me out and how my dad’s the same way because it was so hard on him to watch me after that c-section and he loves me so. (blush)  I just hate telling people because it’s always felt like they thought I was lying and just wanted more pain meds or more morphine to knock me out or something. I don’t know why I’d want to be MORE knocked out rather than just plain ol’ knocked out, but something about it made me feel like they thought I was surely lying and had some ulterior motive.

So, I’m telling the anesthesiologist about it and feeling all guilty and he says, “you must have an elevated level of “such a such” enzyme in your liver. That’s a genetic thing that’s kind of rare, but when you have an elevated level of it, it causes you to need more of everything, basically, and it often runs in families.” What the what?!?! I felt so validated in that moment…so many surgeries, so many hospital trips (all of which you’ll hear about in “My Story” if you want to) that I felt like I was a drug addict, only to find out it’s a real thing and I’m not crazy, and there’s actually a medical reason for it?! (other than we’re just weird or because our bone structure is so solid or we’re so muscly (;)) , or we just have this super high pain tolerance or whatever other excuse we’d been using for all these years which made me kinda feel fat or like a man and kind of like a horse). So, he gives me something for nausea and says we’re going back now. OK. They put you all the way under for just a minute to do the local block because that’s such a crucial part, then bring you back awake for the actual surgery. I think I went under for a sec, but boy, I bounced back quick and there he was as I was rambling on and on to my surgeon who’s behind the curtain doing all the crunching noises I heard, telling him how much he looked like my nephew and how I really had fond feelings of him and how it comforted me strangely that he was doing my surgery because he looked like my nephew and how when I got my next hand done, I definitely wanted a picture with him so I could show my nephew. (oh gosh, embarrassing!)  He just said, “ok”…I’m sure he was just humoring me knowing I was a little loopy and wouldn’t have normally told him that, but actually I had already decided I was going to tell him that during the surgery so I was actually way more with it than he thought. Haha, joke’s on him. The anesthesiologist proceeds to tell me, “ya, you sure do have that elevated level of “whatever it is” because I had to give you DOUBLE what I’d normally give someone your size and you’re STILL talking to me. I was like, really?! Ha, that’s funny…ya, I feel like I’m pretty fine right now and he was like, ya, you are. Surgery was done. They sit me up, I see the bandage, we put my sweater back on, I get up and walk out to the car where Daryl’s waiting and we go eat Thai food where I start to feel my fingers already and think I’m in for it. But nope, no big deal. Pain wise, it’s alright.

I can’t do anything though, other than type slowly and very gently guide my pants up with my left hand. That means, I can’t really cook, do dishes, sweep, clean, even take a shower without having to shave my right pit with my right hand (ever tried that? It’s not pretty, but I’m getting ‘er done. Who wants a hairy right pit?) It’s throwing me all off…what do I do? It’s kind of like quitting smoking. Any of you done that before? It’s like you have to learn how to do your whole day all over again just differently. Like, you have to think about everything you do before you do it and not do most of what you’d normally do. And all inside, you have to wrestle with these feelings of impatience and worth and relying on other people and fear what’s going to happen if there’s no one there, and what’s going to happen if I have to ask them to help….I have some extra issues here, I know. That’s what I wanted to talk about today.

Needing others and being ok with it. Being reliant on other humans to show you love and being humble and able to receive love. I thought for the longest time that it was a pride issue…after my divorce, I was bound and determined to show everyone I could do it by myself. I got myself in to this mess and was alone because I made a bad choice, so now I don’t need any of you to fix it or help. I didn’t want to burden anyone anymore or be the black sheep who was always screwing up and needing extra help because of my own bad choices…PRIDE. I also thought it was this screwed up independent spirit that had found me in high school. I liked being independent. There wasn’t anything wrong with liking to learn and do things on my own, but I let the enemy of my soul take it to the extreme. I have 2 older brothers. Part of me was just going to be independent. I loved doing things myself. I loved being capable. I’m tough. I’m hardcore for a girl, sometimes (I deadlift a mean ol’ big #). I liked doing what my brothers did. I rode my horse around the ukarumpa base in PNG by myself at age 11, over the mountains, around town. I was strong, wiry, quiet, but determined. But when that thing hit in high school, I decided I didn’t need anybody. I hated drama and the girls I was friends with had drama. The guys just wanted the wrong things. So I decided I didn’t need anybody. I could do it on my own. Coming back from PNG, I had an attitude towards most people here anyway and never felt like I didn’t fit with anyone, so “like me if you want, but I don’t really give a *&^* if you don’t” kind of became my attitude. ISOLATION. (Did you know that’s a major ploy, tactic, plan of the enemy? It’s such old news, I should have known, but didn’t and he (that stupid little craphead did).

Then it turned in to rebellion. Which is actually one of the most obvious forms of “following” and being needy that there is. I didn’t see it that way though. I saw it like I was going my own way, but really I wasn’t. I didn’t want to be disliked, I didn’t want the pressure of fitting in to what the good kids did though either and I was upset that I didn’t know where I belonged…I ended up following the easiest crowd, the rebellious crowd. They accepted anybody. Fast forward to 1 husband down, 2 kids up and I was alone and going to prove it to everyone that I could do it, right? And actually, that was it for a long time. That was actually why I hated asking for help and hated showing need. I became more and more independent, pushing people away, not showing weakness. I was pretty good at it, guys. I didn’t let people in, had no social skills really, and no friends. Ha! I won! I basically held it together for my boys (sorta, but not really). I never wanted to show weakenss because they needed me to be strong. That added a whole, really thick level of independence to the mix. My boys were being played and manipulated by their dad…he didn’t treat them right. He used them to make himself feel better. They needed me to be strong. They needed me to cry on. And if it killed me, I was going to BE strong for them. I went for so long this way, never really recognizing how depleated of everything I was. Every now and then, something would happen (usually the Lord touching my heart) and I would weep, uncontrollably, and violently, usually when my boys were with their dad on his weekend and I knew no one would possibly see me. I would curl up in the closet, not able to breath by the end of it and fall asleep eventually from exhaustion from crying. Did you know how good a really hard cry is for your core? I’m gonna make that up…the “good, hard weep core workout.” Seriously 6-pack ab inducing, but of course, I didn’t do enough to have good abs.  I wasn’t THAT weak.  Geez…

I’ve been dealing with all this though over the years. 13 years and couting since I married Daryl, who’s been such an intregal part of my healing along with the Lord. I’ve been working on it. Daryl has the gift of “helps”….HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! How ironic is the Lord?! That’s not a sense of humor like a lot of people say about stuff like that. That’s an intentional act of God to perfect me in to the image of Himself. I know that’s super serious and sobering, but it’s the truth. It’s not funny. He did that on purpose and it’s tortured me for years…and Daryl too, and I can only imagine how painful it’s been for the Lord to watch. Imagine, a man who was created to help and is fulfilled and uplifted and feels value and love when he can help marries a woman who won’t let him help her. Poor guy. So, he goes off to help other people to meet that need and use his gift, which in turn makes his wife mad and feel unloved because he wants to help everyone else but her. Oh dear Lord, it’s all so clear now.

So, I knew all that till this past week…what I realized this past week before this surgery and knowing I’d need all sorts of help, was that I felt like a VICTIM every time I needed help. Have you ever been a victim of something? Even a small thing? It’s one of the worst feelings ever. It’s enough to cripple you. It’s enough to cause all of these things inside you that you never even knew were there to “fire” and “rise up” and “engage.” Actually, God made us that way. Did you know that? He gave us this self preservation mode that our brains actually click in to when we’re dying or suffering or in a situation that can’t be changed so that we can physically keep going and not just keel over and die or have a mental breakdown and fall apart. So, for some things, it’s great…it’s just when we don’t come out of that that it becomes a problem. That’s what I’ve done. I never wanted to be a victim again or let my children see me as a victim again that I put up these huge, strong, THICK as concrete walls around my heart and mind to NEVER. FEEL. THAT. WAY. AGAIN. Being a victim is probably one of the weakest places a person can be. And being a victim of sexual abuse is probably the one that’s going to pierce a hole in your heart big enough, tender enough, wide enough to have the energy to build some huge a** dang walls to never feel that way again. And remember how strong I was and capable? Ya, my walls are big, huge.

I did that. And 14 years later, I’m finally dealing with those walls. The Lord said, let’s use this carpal tunnel surgery (??? ;)) to deal with that victim spirit that you’ve never dealt with. Maybe it’s because I’m finally secure enough in His love for me that I can actually admit that I felt like a victim, maybe it’s because I’ve finally decided to believe that my husband of 13 years actually loves me even though I’m not perfect, maybe it’s because He’s a gentle, merciful, tender God who never goes to places we aren’t ready for and He knows me better than I know myself, and loves me still…even though I can’t do it all. I can’t actually lift 50 lbs with my left hand after carpal tunnel surgery or even make dinner after carpel tunnel surgery and it’s ok. I can’t even do the dishes (very easily) because of the incision I have to keep clean and dry. Maybe it’s because I finally believe how much my Father in Heaven loves me and He wants me to be whole even more than I do. Maybe it’s because His love is so much greater than I could have ever imagined and I’m finally able to receive it even though I was a victim, once (but not anymore). Maybe I finally can see that He wasn’t happy about me being a victim and I can still believe that He loved me even though He actually allowed me to BE a victim (He does allow us to have hard things, but that doesn’t mean He doesn’t love us–it’s true!). I don’t know. I’m not God. But I’m happy He’s still perfecting me. I’m happy He hasn’t given up on me. I’m happy He who began a good work in me is FAITHFUL to complete it, even in me. I love Him for it. And I even strangley love this place of vulnerability and weakness…probably because when I’m weak, He is strong. Thank You, Jesus.

Amen.