There is a season for every thing. It is interesting how I'm seeing and recognizing cycles in my own life and experience. One new-ish cycle I've only recently come to truly understand is one of the most troubling because of the great (negative) impact it has on my whole family.
The sin cycle. Okay, so that's super general. Let me get more specific... my husband's BIG sin cycle. There are the daily sins... those make an impact, but don't cause seismic shocks that the whole family is jarred by. It's the big sins... like lying, stealing, adultery through porn viewing... these are the BIG sins I'm thinking about.
I've realized that when my husband does something big there are a few things that happen. First, when I find out about it, I become full of righteous indignation (especially those that hurt our family) and freak out to one degree or another. Then I usually get depressed because, ultimately, there is NOTHING I can do to improve the situation. I cannot stop Beauty Man from lying. I cannot stop him from stealing from our family. I cannot stop him from looking at porn. Oh, trust me... I DO try. In doing so I experience a punishment for the wrong he has committed... in trying to make sure he doesn't hurt me again, I am limited because I "must" police him. I "must" because it's part of trying to feel okay with all the crud I have to deal with and trying to lengthen out the days between one earthquake and another. Anyway...
Next, Beauty Man starts to focus his negative feelings on work instead of dealing with what he's done wrong. He projects his distain on his job. Eventually he either quits or gets fired. Usually sooner than later. It's so freakin' obvious. I see it clear as day - now that things are lining up as they have at least 4 times before. Why has it taken me so long to see this horrible cycle? I have to believe it's because I just didn't want to see all the connections. Seeing them doesn't enable me to alter the situation. I can speak encouraging words until I'm blue in the face, but my husband won't hear them as long as he is determined to be down about something.
That's one of the big differences between us. When Beauty Man gets "down," there's no gettin' him up until he's darn good an' ready. Now me... if someone tries to cheer me when I'm down, I'm all for it. I may sink down when the cheerer is no longer around, but I'm not one to TRY to stay mad when there is happiness to feel. Ya know?
So, I wonder how many of you see cycles in your life? Are there any like this that you see plainly, but have no ability to alter at all?
Friday, March 23, 2012
Monday, March 19, 2012
The Seismic Shock
The Seismic Shock
January 31, 2012.
Just after midnight.
(The devil loves the dark.)
The jolt was nor recorded
on any earth-bound
earthquake
monitoring device.
But it registered at close to a ten
or more
on my own personal ricter scale.
Pornography.
Such a fancy-shmancy word
for dispicable deeds.
Porn.
Much more appropriate a word.
A four-letter word
of the dirty deed type.
He was watching.
Moving porn.
He says he cannot remember what.
"2 people having sex.
Porn.
It's all the same."
He won't say more.
He says he dozed off
in the middle.
And that is suppose to be comforting?
I know he won't say
because he's hiding
to protect himself.
That's what he does.
"Gay porn," the whispers speak to my mind.
And I cannot conot compete.
Not that I could with any sort,
anyway.
The seismic shock that hit,
when I saw what he was trying to
hide,
knocked down every part of me...
...but one.
My FAITH stands
still.
Other faceades
only a few walls
still sway
in after-shocks that hit
nearly every day.
There is no part of me
left steady standing;
But the construct of FAITH.
Strong and firm, steady and still
stands apart.
Upon closer inspection...
deeper pondering
I realize...
I come to understand.
This man should never have had the
POWER
to destroy me in far under an
hour.
I gave it him.
I trusted in the arm of the flesh.
I built most of me
on our marriage.
My FAITH, though,
built by inhuman hands,
supports and joists and all that important build-y stuff:
sunk deep into THE ROCK.
And so I see.
I need to rebuild me
with supports and joists and all that important build-y stuff
sunk deep in The Rock.
I thought I had,
honestly.
For, you see,
this is not my first
earthquake.
But apparently,
I did not sink deep enough
or connect profoundly enough
to The Rock
to be swayed, but not broken
by a seismic shock
of mega-proportions.
And the whispers urge me
to build more carefully.
I certainly intend to!
But just right now...
I'm just trying, right now...
to clean up the mess
of me
in my little nothing world.
For what he, my hubby,
and you
can't see
is the crumbled structures.
The shattered glass.
The brokeness
inside me.
He fusses, "Don't you see me trying?"
And I feel to hang my head
and whisper, "Just like every time
you do wrong... but it doesn't stick.
You don't KEEP trying."
But he wouldn't hear,
because he wouldn't want to hear.
Just like me.
You see...
we are one.
His deed now...
was my deed long ago.
He didn't care.
Wouldn't have cared.
But I still did wrong.
So now it's come back to me
in the most painful way possible
thus far.
And I wish
I had always been
a different me.
For then,
the one we are
would be different,
too.
POST-Post Note
I meant to share this immediately after the Shame post, but forgot. Sorry. I hope you appreciated it somehow.
January 31, 2012.
Just after midnight.
(The devil loves the dark.)
The jolt was nor recorded
on any earth-bound
earthquake
monitoring device.
But it registered at close to a ten
or more
on my own personal ricter scale.
Pornography.
Such a fancy-shmancy word
for dispicable deeds.
Porn.
Much more appropriate a word.
A four-letter word
of the dirty deed type.
He was watching.
Moving porn.
He says he cannot remember what.
"2 people having sex.
Porn.
It's all the same."
He won't say more.
He says he dozed off
in the middle.
And that is suppose to be comforting?
I know he won't say
because he's hiding
to protect himself.
That's what he does.
"Gay porn," the whispers speak to my mind.
And I cannot conot compete.
Not that I could with any sort,
anyway.
The seismic shock that hit,
when I saw what he was trying to
hide,
knocked down every part of me...
...but one.
My FAITH stands
still.
Other faceades
only a few walls
still sway
in after-shocks that hit
nearly every day.
There is no part of me
left steady standing;
But the construct of FAITH.
Strong and firm, steady and still
stands apart.
Upon closer inspection...
deeper pondering
I realize...
I come to understand.
This man should never have had the
POWER
to destroy me in far under an
hour.
I gave it him.
I trusted in the arm of the flesh.
I built most of me
on our marriage.
My FAITH, though,
built by inhuman hands,
supports and joists and all that important build-y stuff:
sunk deep into THE ROCK.
And so I see.
I need to rebuild me
with supports and joists and all that important build-y stuff
sunk deep in The Rock.
I thought I had,
honestly.
For, you see,
this is not my first
earthquake.
But apparently,
I did not sink deep enough
or connect profoundly enough
to The Rock
to be swayed, but not broken
by a seismic shock
of mega-proportions.
And the whispers urge me
to build more carefully.
I certainly intend to!
But just right now...
I'm just trying, right now...
to clean up the mess
of me
in my little nothing world.
For what he, my hubby,
and you
can't see
is the crumbled structures.
The shattered glass.
The brokeness
inside me.
He fusses, "Don't you see me trying?"
And I feel to hang my head
and whisper, "Just like every time
you do wrong... but it doesn't stick.
You don't KEEP trying."
But he wouldn't hear,
because he wouldn't want to hear.
Just like me.
You see...
we are one.
His deed now...
was my deed long ago.
He didn't care.
Wouldn't have cared.
But I still did wrong.
So now it's come back to me
in the most painful way possible
thus far.
And I wish
I had always been
a different me.
For then,
the one we are
would be different,
too.
POST-Post Note
I meant to share this immediately after the Shame post, but forgot. Sorry. I hope you appreciated it somehow.
Friday, March 16, 2012
The Window Revisited
So, enough additional stuff has happened since I wrote the Parable of the Window that I've made some changes in my "room". Perhaps it really happened when I became Monster Girl and I just didn't realize it until now.
Last night I realized that I just don't care any more if Beauty Man comes in to open the window enough. I think I'm not truly in apathy about it all, but I'm definitely on the verge of it... and rather glad to be where I am - emotionally speaking.
I think I hear you wondering what changes I've made in my "room". Well, I imagined myself in my "room" the other night. Surprisingly, instead of seeing myself curled up almost dead, as has so often been the case, I saw myself curled up in a corner (as I've "seen" before) and realized I wasn't in complete fetal position. My face was turned oddly. Upon closer consideration, I realized I was breathing through something like a straw, sort of. I realized, as I studied the situation, that I'd scraped a hole through the wall in my "room" and the straw-like object was pushed through the hole into the world of air. And I was breathing. Not totally naturally, but breathing just the same. And the breathing requires mega-focus... but still breathing!
Additionally, I saw that my fingers were busy working around the straw-like think to make the hole bigger. The hole I'm carving out of the wall will only be big enough to allow a free flow of air. I'm not trying to get out of the room. I'm just trying to create a way to stay in the room that is not dependent upon someone who has proven unreliable and uncaring.
How does this analogy compare to real life. I'm not really sure, to be completely honest with ya! Odd, aint it?
I will tell you, though... my husband has done some nice things lately. What he has done has been totally inconsistent, though. And because of how close (in time) they are to unresolved issues (for me they are unresolved)... Anyway... it just doesn't matter to me. Not a bit in my conscious caring mind. In the back of mind it registers... but I'm just so focused on breathing that I can't deal with anything else.
For instance, Beauty Man called to tell me he loved me (in the middle of his, probably 14 hour, day at work) and tell me he missed us a lot. Yeah, that used to be nice. I used to like that kind of thing. I used to look forward to it and hope for it. He USED to do it pretty regularly. Now... don't care a bit and, in fact, it's annoying because I was trying to finally eat my lunch (3:30pm!) and it was then he called. Probably I should've just had my eldest ask him if he MUST speak to me, and if not for her to take a message... but given our past, I knew he would probably be completely miffed by that. So, I answered the phone. Told him thank you for trying to be thoughtful and that I'm sure the children missed him, too. I don't miss him. Not a bit. In fact, I think it would be simpler if he would just work 14 hour days 6 days per week. And I only say six and not seven because I believe firmly in keeping the Sabbath Day holy. *sigh*
This is from the woman who has been fighting with her man to be home more because the children need him. I'm not even worried about that anymore. He's been too much a jerk to them too often that I can't help but think it's all around better for him to work more than less. Not that his hours have ever really gotten to BE less... he's been steadily working 63+ hours since he started this job too long ago.
Is that totally mean? Probably. But I just don't even care right now. :(
I probably need to study the stages of grief/mourning. It just seems highly likely that this anger is part of a mourning process. Mourning the death of another hope. *sigh* I'm so tired of this full morgue!
Last night I realized that I just don't care any more if Beauty Man comes in to open the window enough. I think I'm not truly in apathy about it all, but I'm definitely on the verge of it... and rather glad to be where I am - emotionally speaking.
I think I hear you wondering what changes I've made in my "room". Well, I imagined myself in my "room" the other night. Surprisingly, instead of seeing myself curled up almost dead, as has so often been the case, I saw myself curled up in a corner (as I've "seen" before) and realized I wasn't in complete fetal position. My face was turned oddly. Upon closer consideration, I realized I was breathing through something like a straw, sort of. I realized, as I studied the situation, that I'd scraped a hole through the wall in my "room" and the straw-like object was pushed through the hole into the world of air. And I was breathing. Not totally naturally, but breathing just the same. And the breathing requires mega-focus... but still breathing!
Additionally, I saw that my fingers were busy working around the straw-like think to make the hole bigger. The hole I'm carving out of the wall will only be big enough to allow a free flow of air. I'm not trying to get out of the room. I'm just trying to create a way to stay in the room that is not dependent upon someone who has proven unreliable and uncaring.
How does this analogy compare to real life. I'm not really sure, to be completely honest with ya! Odd, aint it?
I will tell you, though... my husband has done some nice things lately. What he has done has been totally inconsistent, though. And because of how close (in time) they are to unresolved issues (for me they are unresolved)... Anyway... it just doesn't matter to me. Not a bit in my conscious caring mind. In the back of mind it registers... but I'm just so focused on breathing that I can't deal with anything else.
For instance, Beauty Man called to tell me he loved me (in the middle of his, probably 14 hour, day at work) and tell me he missed us a lot. Yeah, that used to be nice. I used to like that kind of thing. I used to look forward to it and hope for it. He USED to do it pretty regularly. Now... don't care a bit and, in fact, it's annoying because I was trying to finally eat my lunch (3:30pm!) and it was then he called. Probably I should've just had my eldest ask him if he MUST speak to me, and if not for her to take a message... but given our past, I knew he would probably be completely miffed by that. So, I answered the phone. Told him thank you for trying to be thoughtful and that I'm sure the children missed him, too. I don't miss him. Not a bit. In fact, I think it would be simpler if he would just work 14 hour days 6 days per week. And I only say six and not seven because I believe firmly in keeping the Sabbath Day holy. *sigh*
This is from the woman who has been fighting with her man to be home more because the children need him. I'm not even worried about that anymore. He's been too much a jerk to them too often that I can't help but think it's all around better for him to work more than less. Not that his hours have ever really gotten to BE less... he's been steadily working 63+ hours since he started this job too long ago.
Is that totally mean? Probably. But I just don't even care right now. :(
I probably need to study the stages of grief/mourning. It just seems highly likely that this anger is part of a mourning process. Mourning the death of another hope. *sigh* I'm so tired of this full morgue!
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