hope

JAMES’ STORY OF CHILDHOOD ABUSE AND RECOVERY

Splsh4Ripls

In this blog, I share the story James sent to me. He is from an entirely different culture than my upbringing, and what I generally share here; stories from within Anabaptist community. James, who served in the military, reached out via my blog to ask if I would share what he has experienced, and the abuse he has had to overcome. Abuse is in every culture, religion and country. None excluded. I share James’s story because it deserves to be told. And because abuse is not only ‘among us’ in the Anabaptist culture. To verify his identity the best I could, I found some articles online that tell parts of his story. (Read here: Mental Camauflage I especially like what he writes at the end. It will resonate with survivors of trauma who have been called crazy, bitter, holding on to the past, etc.)

Since it seems to be happening more frequently, that individuals send me their stories to read and share, I want to address this for others interested in sharing. I welcome your story. Stories of overcoming. Stories of struggle. Stories of the impact of the abuse, or the trauma after. Your stories are welcome here, as long as my blog is up and running. I cannot write much right now, due to my spine injuries, but am happy to give you that opportunity. The amount of detail you share is yours to decide. However, before I post, I do need to be able to validate your identity, ideally in the form of some kind of ID. That is true whether your story is anonymous or you choose to identify yourself. Since it seems to be happening more frequently, that individuals send me their stories to read and share, I want to address this for others interested in sharing. I welcome your story. Stories of overcoming. Stories of struggle. Stories of the impact of the abuse, or the trauma after. Your stories are welcome here, as long as my blog is up and running. I cannot write much right now, due to my spine injuries, but am happy to give you that opportunity. The amount of detail you share is yours to decide. However, before I post, I do need to be able to validate your identity, ideally in the form of some kind of ID. That information will be deleted upon validation. That is true whether your story is anonymous or you choose to identify yourself. Everyone who suffers abuse should have a safe place to tell their story. I offer that place.

It is a terrible thing when a child has to choose between being with their best friend, and being abused, or give up their best friend. At an age where there is little to no understanding of what that abuse really is, and there is only the anxiety and fear — or other feelings — telling the child something is wrong, options aren’t even on the table. Some children will withdraw from their friends, others look back years later and see what it all really was. This is the story James shares with us.

*****

I was born in a beautiful little town in Belfast, Northern Ireland. The first nine years of my life were wonderful. However, in beginning in 1967, my childhood was abruptly changed forever.

Often, when I would go to play at my best friend’s house, his older brother would be home hiding in the shadows waiting for his opportunity to abuse me. I remember being there and hearing a door locking, knowing I was in trouble. I would get this sinking feeling in my gut, dreading what was in store for me. My friend would hold me down while his brother attacked me. 

At the time, I did not know if my friend’s brother held power over him too, forcing him to cooperate, or whether my friend willingly participated. All I knew was that it was wrong, and it made me feel sick. Afterwards, I would run home to shower, desperate to wash off this filthy feeling of utter guilt and shame. 

Experiencing this abuse from him for nearly three years — and wondering why my friend did not come to my defense and stop the abuse — made an impact on me and my mental health. Decades later, I think back, wondering how I could possibly have considered this boy to be my best friend. 

Sexual abuse is a kind of trauma that carries intense feelings of shame and fear. I remember that I just wanted to hide. 

My mental health deteriorated; the shame was eating me away inside. I felt obligated to keep this secret — to hide this terrible knowledge from everyone around me. The ever-present shame convinced me that I deserved to suffer from the hurt I felt. 

Looking back, I now know that it wasn’t even my shame to carry. What happened wasn’t my fault. But reaching this conclusion came from a long recovery process. My healing took time.

Needless to say, I never brought charges against my friend’s brother.  At one point I tried to find him in order to confront him but found it too painful to continue on that journey.  I never told my parents nor my children.  It took me over 50 years to disclose that I had been sexually abused as a child due to the mis-founded shame and guilt I carried.  By the time I did, I was just about non-functional and it was obvious that I needed proper medication and professional counseling. It was hard, and it hurt, but it’s what I needed to do — get it out in the open. It affected me so much emotionally. As time went by this trauma kept getting worse.  In order to get better I needed to seek help.  My local doctor referred me to what is now my mental health team at the UK’s National Health Service (NHS).  My problem had been building up for so many years.  Once I was diagnosed with Complex PTSD (CPTSD) and was taking the proper medication and had one-on-one appointments with my assigned psychologist I was able to open up and tell my experience of being abused as a child. 

Finally talking about it forced me to face and deal with the long-term effects of the mental trauma caused by being abused as a child. Time and help from the right people brought healing.  I am no longer at the mercy of this mental trauma and am now able to identify what happened and understand that none of this was of my own doing. I can see how I carried this trauma into adulthood, and I can identify with others who have been through similar experiences. 

Trauma needs to be dealt with, and we must prioritize our mental health for healing to begin. If you have been through childhood abuse of any kind, please, please, please seek help.  If I can go through that long, dark tunnel and reach the other side, so can you. It can make all the difference in your life.  It did mine!

My deepest desire for anyone on their healing journey — remember, you are worth it!

*****

James has done some hard healing work. Healing he was not able to do without help from professionals. Which leads me to address the common belief among Christians that “All you need is God. All you need is to trust more. All you need is to repent. Professionals will lead you astray… or they will fill your head with anti-God nonsense.” In reality, good professionals in therapy and counseling are trained NOT to do these things, the same way a heart surgeon wouldn’t go poking around the pancreas mid surgery. And I have yet to see the Christian community (broadly) tell someone fighting cancer that they should not speak to a professional. Or looking at someone having a heart attack and telling them to read their bible and pray. God is part of the healing, and He uses avenues such as professionals and medication for the mind, just as he does for heart patients and other illnesses.

Take a bit of time to research how meds work, because there’s a lot of overlap in their function, yet somehow we demonize some and embrace others. Or embrace them for one thing, but when treating the mind would demonize them. Metoprolol, for example, is a beta blocker used for heart patients. It also affects the mind and is used for stage fright and decreases anxiety, for some.. Gapapentin is used to treat seizures and nerve pain. It can also trigger severe psychological issues, or escalate pre-existing ones. The list goes on. It is either all around demonic to seek medical help and medication, or it is not demonic.

Why are we ok with professional help in every crisis except mental health? Why are so many Christians, at least in our Conservative Anabaptist community, on medications to treat depression but still advised not to get counseling. It is a mystery to me. Because I know first hand the incredible harm that medications can do to the body, having had two heart attacks due to meds. Some doctors won’t prescribe antidepressants *unless the person is also getting counseling/therapy, because both are needed. It is not that medication is evil, or that therapy is the sole solution, or that therapy is evil. It is about working with professionals to do their part, finding support within the respective community — whether Conservative Anabaptist or other community we find ourselves part of — and being treated with kindness and respect.

There are no easy answers. For the unwell individual, there is real and hard struggle. There is fear. There is anxiety. There is hopelessness. There is a sometimes a desperate cry for an end to come. (And before you judge too wildly, go read your bible; 1 Kings 19, specifically, in which Elijah asks God to kill him. Frankly, the prophets were a bunch of weeping depressed spokesmen for God).

From the community, there are a variety of responses. There is judgement. There is easy answers. There is the “God told me… and God showed me…” solutions, that sometimes include ‘enlightened’ Christians telling the depressed or struggling person what triggered the depression, such as repressed memories of abuse or Satanic Ritual Abuse and the like. The unwell mind then sometimes adopts that ‘revelation from God’ as their ‘reality’, creating a whole new set of problems. Or there is throwing more information at a fragile mind than what they can handle, escalating the unwellness.

Other times there is kindness. There is compassion. There is respect. There is support. There is giving space. There is love. These support healing. I can’t imagine anything worse than being in a fragile state and then being further pressured and beaten down, as some are. And I can’t imagine anything more healing than acknowledgement that the mind — the human brain — is part of the human body, subject to a fallen world, while supporting the journey to healing, whatever it takes. And, let me assure you, it often takes more than a few bible verses and a prayer. I have lived long enough, experienced enough, worked with enough trauma survivors to know that this mentality does more harm than good.

The best gift you can give is support. Not feeling sorry for. Not trying to fix. But honouring the individual and their journey, while supporting their path to healing, without easy answers, even if their healing looks different than yours.

As always…
Love,
~ T ~

© Trudy Metzger 2024

Hope, birthed in an Easter Candy Hunt

Splsh4Ripls

Easter.

What does it mean?

I awakened this morning to the wonder of this day, Easter. A day when we Christians celebrate the resurrection of our Saviour.

For me, a day filled with warm childhood memories during the early years in Mexico, before religious traditions put an end to Easter egg hunts. Was it an annual tradition? Or did it happen only once? I don’t know. But I remember searching for Easter candy as a preschooler. Tagging along with older siblings, the place I remember with greatest fondness is the straw bales, and finding candy there.

Life was harsh, back then, with family violence and struggling parents. But those moments were sweet. It wasn’t just the candy. My memory of the day held much deeper meaning than candy, though, back then, I did like the sugar rush too. (Less, now). The sweetness was a blend of the treats and a reprieve from the mundane, struggling, ordinary life. A life I would grow up to discover was not ordinary at all. But back then it was.

Easter morning, long after the candy hunts ended, or hunt as the case may be, became a day of hope for me, starting in childhood. We moved to Canada the summer before I turned six. If we ever did an Easter candy hunt again, I have no recollection of it. But I distinctly remember the hope.

Hope that filled my chest one crisp Easter morning when I was around eight. There was no particular reason for it, other than a feeling that I had been conditioned for, in Mexico. It was a day set apart. I was dressed in my Sunday best, with little white ankle socks and shiny black patent shoes, with straps. It was the straps I liked the most. They made me feel pretty. I went outside that crisp Easter morning, and as I breathed in, it was as if I breathed in new life. It had been cool enough the night before that a thin shell of ice had formed over the puddle. I tapped it with my shoe, breaking it, and picked up a piece to feel the coolness.

It was a happy morning.

My father stood chatting with someone who had dropped by. I listened without hearing, and watched them. And then I ran off to play in the old car, with no wheels, sitting amongst dad’s junk collection. (Or ‘prell’ as we called it in Plautdeutsch, rolling the ‘r’).

I’ve often wondered why I recall that morning so vividly, and still, at 50, feel it when I think back. The scene, forever etched on my memory, is profound only for what I felt. Joy. Peace. Hope. That same feeling is associated with a special yellow dress I had in my early teens. And every Easter, most of my life, since childhood.

Easter. What does it mean to me?

In childhood, Easter was the silver lining in a hard life. It took me years to understand why it filled my chest as it did, long after the candy hunts ended, no longer part of our family’s tradition. Even before I truly understood the symbolism of its spiritual meaning. 

Today I understand.

That special day, searching for candy among the straw bales, hope was birthed in me. In stark contrast with the harshness of life, the simple celebration of that morning, wandering our property in search of candy, was a blessed relief. It promised a better life is possible.

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Somewhere in my teens I started to grasp the deep spiritual significance of that childhood hope. The stirring in my chest transitioned from that childhood unknown, to a powerful awareness of what Jesus did for me on the cross.

I, a sinner. He, God eternal. And He chose that broken path to the cross, for me. For my sin. My redemption. He chose trauma, death, and suffering. For me. To offer me reprieve from the brokenness of my life. Dying for my sin. And, not only for my sin, but all the brokenness that I would experience. And yours. He stepped in, unhesitatingly,

A promise of love, that declared I am worth being loved. Of being valued. So worth love that He would die to buy my freedom to know love.

We call that day, “Good Friday”. I read the story, and ponder the path He walked, His suffering, and I think there’s not one good thing about that day. Nothing. How can it be good when they kill an innocent man, and it is my sin and shame that played a hand in it?

It is the darkest of days in our Christian. history. It is symbolic of my life before I knew Him personally. That day. It feels like the days when violence ruled my childhood. Heavy. Broken. Tragic.

That Day.

I remember it. I acknowledge it. I worship my God on ‘that day’. I am deeply, deeply grateful for that day. But it is not ‘Good Friday’ to me. No offence to my Christian heritage and chosen lingo. It was a Friday (or Thursday, depending who you ask), from hell. It was evil, at its lowest depths, attacking the sacred like it never had before. Like it never would, or even could, again. 

That Day was the epitome of evil, the height of spiritual darkness.

Oh… but Easter was coming!

On that third day, when hope of a fulfilled promise, seemed to have died… When death would have begun to set into the corpse… When the rituals of spicing the body of The Christ had been delayed because of the Sabbath, and would not be so pleasant with decay having begun…

That Easter morning. Hope was dead. The harsh reality of practical burial rituals beckoned Mary to return and begin the process of grieving properly.

There, in utter hopelessness, He was. A promise fulfilled. Risen from the grave. Fully alive.

In that moment, as His body breathed in deep of our fallen world, He took in, again, the sins and sorrows of the generations.

And as He exhaled, He breath filled our world with His Eternal Presence.

Hope, birthed in an infant, snuffed out on the cross – or so it seemed, came alive in His resurrection.

Hope breathed the eternal into our fallenness. Our brokenness. Our sorrow. Our lostness.

Hope.

That’s what Easter means to me.

Hope. A promise fulfilled. New life.

This Easter, wherever you find yourself in the midst of this present chaos, I pray His life will breathe hope into your heart.

I pray that…
Where there is fear, may you be filled Hope. Where there is brokenness, Hope will touch you with His healing. Where there is fallenness, Hope will cover you with forgiveness, grace and redemption. Where there is betrayal, Hope will surround and fill you with love. Where there is emptiness, Hope will rise victorious in you; that your life will be the testimony of the empty tomb giving birth to new and greater things, of eternal value. Above all, I pray, that you will know the Jesus of the resurrection, personally. No matter who you are (or think you are), or what you have done, Jesus died, for you. But He did not stay in the grave! He conquered death so that you, so that I, would know eternal life with Him.

This is my prayer for you today, and for me.

Happy Easter!

*****

As I wrote this, Broken Vessels crossed my YouTube playlist.  I will leave it here for you to enjoy, if contemporary worship is your thing. It is my testimony. The revelation of His love. The wonder that He would lay down His life to raise the broken to life.

What a Saviour!

As always…

Love,
~ T ~

© Trudy Metzger 2020

Update: Anabaptist Church’s ministry moves Bronx nurse to tears

Splsh4Ripls1 Comment

Last evening Rich shared an update that left me in tears. It is so beautiful, the doors God opens, and how the care of His children gives the weary frontline workers a safe place:

***Quick report on today’s opportunities to deliver Subway/ DD/deli sandwiches, sodas, box of Joe (DD) and box of hot chocolate to the ER workers at Jacobi Medical Center. Our contact, the director of communications at Jacobi, asked us to meet her at the ambulatory entrance to the trauma center, so we pulled up there and offloaded our food and drinks, enough for about 60 people. Our friends Stan and Sharon from our church made these cool little cards with verses on one side and “If you need prayer” contact information on the back and we taped the cards on the sandwich wrappers. Sandy prayed with our hospital friend who received the food with gratefulness. She said that her father has just been admitted to the hospital this morning, and she talked about the stresses of this time at the hospital. She also took a small packet of masks that our friend Sharon had sewn and told Sandy that they could definitely use these masks for patients and other people who come to the ER.

Our friend Brendan from our church got the Subway sandwiches, so it was a neat team effort. Our daughter Bri was closing down the Eastchester Dunkin’ Donuts this afternoon because the owner (he has seven Dunkin’ Donuts) needs to consolidate his dwindling work force. So the owner told Bri to give the doughnuts and bagels to her parents to give to the hospital. Sandy returned that afternoon to DD to pick up those items and she spoke with a police officer in line. She had the opportunity to speak with that police officer and pray with him, and he recommended that she take the free doughnuts to the EMS station. Sandy thought to herself that this is what she loves to do, pray for people.  She took the doughnuts and bagels and headed off to where she thought was the local EMS station, but the GPS took her back to Jacobi. So there she was at the Jacobi Medical Center. Sandy sat in the car and prayed about what to do. She saw an ambulance pull up and decided to go up and offer the food to the paramedics. A male nurse came up behind her from getting out of his car and said “May I help you?” She said “I just came to encourage you today.” He lifted his glasses to look at her and told her “I had to step away from the madness for a little while and take a break.” The man started to cry and Sandy asked if she can pray for him. She stood there, praying for this big male nurse, with tears running down his cheeks. The man told her that he and his coworkers had just stepped outside earlier that afternoon and held hands and prayed, because there is so much stress. Here is this big guy, broken up and crying, telling her “I just had to step away from it for a while.”

Brianna has two coworkers who have each lost family members to COVID-19 in the past week. One of her co-workers lost her Grandpa, and they couldn’t even go to visit him while he was in the hospital. Another of her co-workers lost her Uncle. The co-worker who lost her Grandpa is now at home, sick.

Our friend up the block on Corsa Avenue is perhaps a few years older than us, and she has been hospitalized since Friday with COVID-19. Today they had to put her on the ventilator, which seems kind of like her health is headed in the wrong direction. Please pray for our friends and neighbors around here, and pray for us. The “news” out there gets more real when it is the news right here in our community.

Rich ***

Today they planned to serve the local EMS.

Again, if you would like to financially support the costs of this ministry,  the following email is the church’s PayPal: bjcgive@gmail.com

******

One medical professional, I am told by a friend, had to wrap over a dozen dead bodies in black plastic yesterday, March 31, 2020. Unless we are them, we cannot possibly imagine being responsible for that task. The strain of this, knowing that with each infected body they are exposing themselves to this virus, and with that exposure they risk infecting their families at home, is almost too much for some. Yet they press on, knowing they, too, could be that body. You don’t work that closely with death and not feel your own mortality. It is no small wonder that a medical professional would be reduced to tears when a kind strangers shows up to care and pray.

It is my hope that hearing these inspiring stories will give more believers the courage to be bold in love, practical service and prayer in this COVID-19 crisis. We live with pre-conceived notions about the people around us. A big tough nurse, on the outside, does not show us a tender soul on the inside, taxed to the endth degree by present circumstances. To be surrounded by thousands dead and dying in your city and hospital, as these healthcare professionals are in New York, would be most difficult. Not only is there sickness and death, there is the awareness that loved ones are being torn apart in their time of suffering.  That is a form of suffering all its own; one these healthcare providers are obligated to enforce. One we do well to be aware of, to pray for the healthcare providers, all frontline workers, the sick and dying, and to support those in our lives who are isolated in ways that wear down the mind and body.

I think of my brother fighting a hard battle with cancer. He has been courageous, as has his wife. We, as family, have tried to visit regularly — with some able to go more frequently than others — and cook for them. Now they are isolated, going through this battle without the physical presence of friends and loved ones. I hear her voice, the loneliness and heaviness of the journey, and ache for them.

These are difficult times for many. I am more introvert than extrovert — ambivert would be most accurate — and adjust easily to being home, or being alone, though I do miss friends from time to time, and especially miss seeing our children and grandchildren. For many this is depressing and lonely. For those in abuse situations, this is a terrifying time. As someone who grew up in violence, I remember well how times of stress and financial hardship escalated violence and death threats. For those spouses and children, this isolation is a most hellish thing.

In some way most of us, or all of us, have been impacted, in big or small ways, and for many this increases the risk of depression and suicide. As believers in Jesus, we have love and hope to offer, even if only by extending a listening ear.

For this reason the churches who insist on meeting, rather than allowing themselves to be ‘scattered to serve’, boggle my mind. Whatever the motive — whether to prove they can do their thing, or to keep the money rolling in, or whatever else might be their motives — it does nothing to convince the world of love. Absolutely nothing. It is selfish.

If we would all lay aside our temporary losses and call one another to love, prayer and kind deeds, would we not exemplify the love of Jesus beautifully? This is what drew me to the little Anabaptist church in NYC. They are heroes. They are human. They are not seeking to be noticed or idolized. (So please don’t). But they are living the love of Jesus well. They are preaching with their hands and their feet, and encouraging through prayer. They inspire me… make me ask, “What can I do to show His love?”

And amid the pressure of completing this term of university, I’m trying to find little ways of making a difference.  In the weeks and months ahead, we will have opportunity to serve our fellow mankind,  to rise up like we never have before, to carry the burden of the inevitable cost and consequences resulting from this tragic time. We need to prepare our hearts today for this call, and the doors God will open for us to take His love into the world around us.

To have one foot firmly planted in the present reality — so we can be present and supportive, and the other firmly rooted in eternity, with a heart invested in Jesus and people, this is my desire and my commitment.

My prayer for you, for me, for us today is quite simple, “Jesus, hold your children tonight. The lost ones. The found ones. The struggling ones. The secure ones. We invite you to be present in our stories, in every part. Help us, who know you, to be mindful of those in need around us… to lean in and listen to the fears around us and offer love and compassion… to hear the hearts that feel lost and alone, and offer encouragement. Help us to represent you well. Always. And in all ways. Thank you for loving us in our brokenness. Now, help us love others in their brokenness too. Amen.”

NOTE: If you have a good news story you would like me to share in the midst of the tragedy of COVID-19 , send it to my personal email. There will be no shortage or tragedy in coming days, and that tragedy needs to be acknowledged. But we also need to hear encouraging stories, and see humans coming together to support one another, and blessing those who are in the front lines.

As always…

Love,
~ T ~

© Trudy Metzger 2020