Confession of a Fair-Weather Christian

I don't know how much of a confession this really is, but I am a fair-weather Christian.  I profess a love for God and Christ, and I willingly give Him praise and glory when things work out in my life.  But give me one frustratingly sleepless night and praising God is the last thing I want to do.

Insomnia is a horrible state.  I would be willing to call it a mental disorder in my case since it is more often than not the continual racing of my brain that prevents sleep from coming.  Have you ever been so bone-weary that you don't even have the energy to fall asleep?  Been there.  How miserable it is to drag through the last few hours of your day, wishing for nothing but a nap every time you yawn, and then not being able to fall asleep when you finally turn off the light.

This is an all too common occurrence in my world.  I have been an insomniac my entire life.  I have very early memories of being awake all night playing with my toys in the dark so as not to wake my  brother, with whom I shared a room at the time.  By the way, that ploy seldom worked.  More often than not, the commotion woke him.  As a young teenager, I would spend my sleepless nights lost in books.  Despite dyslexia, I would devour a novel in a night or 2, since I had nothing better to do.  As an adult, I have gone through phases of how I handle insomnia.  As I age, the effects of a single sleepless night are much more devastating than they had been in my younger years, and multiple sleepless nights leave me pleading with people around me to keep an eye on me so that I don't do something stupid.

Extreme exhaustion can do strange things to people.  Much the same way that a panic attack or depressive episode can create a warped lens through the individual sees their world, extreme exhaustion can cause an altered mental state in which the individual may not be able to use rational or logical thinking at the highest degree, or in my case, at all.

Which brings me to last night's insomniac attack.

Ordinarily, despite the fact that I run my tail off most days, I utilize pharmaceutical assistance in order to sleep.  Some nights I forget.  Last night, I forgot.  But last night I also drank the better part of a bottle of wine, so one would have thought that the alcohol would have done the job.  That would be a negatory.  After tossing and turning for 2 hours, utilizing every mental trick in my proverbial bag, I decided to get out of bed and spend my wakefulness being productive ~ I did homework.  Woo hoo.  After 2 more hours, I decided to try to sleep again.

By this point, even if I had fallen asleep the instant my head hit the pillow, I would have gotten less than 2 hours.  Alas, it was not meant to be.  Lying there dodging invasive thoughts and praying for rest, my prayers eventually turned into gripes, then into full blown curses.  The book of Lamentations has nothing on the thoroughly pissed off, ridiculously exhausted complaining that I was doling out. Four-letter words were the order of the wee hours of that morning, and I think I may have even invented a few new ones.  I let God know that I "fucking hated Him for torturing me".  Ironically, earlier that day I'd had a praise song stuck in my head, and the fact that it is a bit of an ear worm was part of the reason I had trouble falling asleep.  As it continually tried to creep back into my thoughts, I became more and more angry, reminding God that I had no intention of praising Him at the moment, that I wanted Him and the rest of His trio out of my head.  Like an entitled teenager throwing a hissy fit, I demanded that everyone get out of my room and leave me the hell alone!  Any guesses on how well that went over?

At some point, I managed to drift off into a fitful, restless nap, waking much too soon in order to assume my duties as mother to a teenager who refuses to get himself out of bed in the morning.  Per usual in the wake of an insomniac attack, I have managed to drag myself through the day.  I even read my scripture and devotional, in spite the overflow of aggravation with God's lack of mercy on my drained soul the night before.  What really sucks is I still won't sleep tonight without pharmaceutical intervention, regardless of exhausted I am.  A racing mind is a terrible thing, and a frustrated, wearied Christian mind is definitely the devil's playground.

Family Matters

I should be doing homework right now.  I've got a paper to write and a chapter to read, chapter review questions to answer and an exam to study for.  Yet, here I sit, not doing any of it.  My sick teenager was in bed by 730 this evening, which is the other place I could be right now considering the sinus crud I've been fighting the last couple of days.  Yet, here I sit, not getting any real rest.

It's not as if I would sleep anyway.  My mind is racing, which is nothing unusual.  As a lifelong insomniac, I have always had trouble shutting my brain down.  Tonight I am plagued by an internal conflict, one which I cannot win by any of the choices before me.

Today I was informed of our grandfather's passing.  Considering I have had no real relationship with the man for several years, this news was not particularly upsetting to me.  My heart hurts for those who mourn him, but I mourned the loss of this relationship years ago.  In fact, I'm not even 100% certain of the last time I saw our grandfather.

It seems to have been our grandfather's wish to be cremated.  If this was not his wish, it is that of his surviving children.  Initially, I was told that there would be no memorial service.  In a weird way, this made some sense since I had found out via facebook that there had been a large 90th birthday party for him back in July.  I only know about it because a relative posted pictures.  That relative has since unfriended and blocked me, which I find fascinating since that relative sent me the initial friend request and I can't think of any reason I may have given them to unfriend and block me, but whatever.  So, the real family sort of had their chance to remember the good times of his life while he was still with them.  But then I was informed by someone else that there was to be something of a memorial in a couple of days.  Hence my dilemma.

Do I go to the service to merely put in face-time to a family that has essentially ignored me for years, or do I not?

Truth be told, I feel no obligation to be there.  In fact, I feel it to be almost hypocritical to "pay my last respects" to a man I have not respected with my time or presence in many years.  Some might say I have an obligation to comfort the family who mourns.  You mean that family that has ignored me for the last several years?  The people who have had countless "family" events - bon fires, holidays, fairs and festivals - that I was never invited to?  The ones who drive literally right past my house en route to my brother's but never think to call to say, "Hey, I'm passing through.  Do you happen to be home?"  Please explain to me why I should pour myself into people who do not seem to even care that I exist.  Would they care if I was at the memorial?  Would they even want me there?

But then, if I DON'T go, will I be labeled the schmuck who didn't come to her grandfather's memorial?  The rogue grandchild who continues to disrespect her grandfather, his family, and his memory?  The defiant child who refuses to support her father in his time of loss and mourning?

Probably.

Therein lies the conflict.  Do I continue to be true to myself and be outcast (tho, let's be honest, that has already occurred) or put up a false front for the benefit of people who probably couldn't care less.  Fabulous choices, yes?

God bless my husband.  He assumed we'd be making a whirlwind trip in a couple of days and was quite confused when I ask him why we should.  I suppose I didn't realize that he didn't realize the extent of the hurt I feel.  But when I thought about it, I realized that there are so many things about how my family has treated me that he doesn't know.  All of the get-togethers that I found out about by accident because someone mentioned off-handedly that I missed a really good time.  Well, maybe I could have been there had I known about it.  All the shin-digs I was never invited to because someone didn't think I could get a Saturday off.  Well, if I'd been given some notice I may have been able to finagle it.  None of these situations surprise me anymore, so they are not worth mentioning when they occur.

But they still hurt like hell.

So again I ask someone to explain to me my obligation to hold people who have kept me at far greater than arm's length.

Because it's my Christian duty?  Because it's what Christ would do?  Maybe.  But I have absolutely no problem admitting my fallen human state and to the fact that I will NEVER in this lifetime reach Christ's level of selfless righteousness.  He knows better than anyone that I must often be dragged kicking and screaming in the direction of His righteousness because it is the last place I want to be.  I am quite content, at times, to wallow in my humanness.  I will freely admit that this is one of those times.

Even before I began this writing I knew what my decision would be.  The misery of the whole shenanigans is that neither decision will bring me peace.  Just like our most recent election, there is no lesser evil ~ simply a different evil.  And evil never brings peace, only conflict in its wake.

A Funny Thing Happened On The Way Home From Cincy

It had already been a long day in the car.  The round trip to my sis's house is close to 4.5 hrs, and we needed to travel from there another 30ish minutes out and then back before heading home.  Per the usual division, James was riding back with Joshua and Ty was riding with me.  As I was passing the time listening to a podcast, Ty was playing a game on his tablet.  Par for his course when he gets frustrated with a game, Ty began to vocalize his discontent.  I turned off the podcast to ask him about what he was playing.

Anyone else play Plague Inc.?  From what little I learned about the game, it seems to be one of strategizing an infection capable of eradicating life on earth.  Why my child is playing something that seems so dark is anyone's guess.  As his infection progressed, he asked me what anemia, hemophilia, and necrosis were.  (These are things he is going to become WELL acquainted with when he gets into nursing school.)  And as the infection progressed, I became more curious about this game.

The creator of the infection can customize it, make it evolve and adapt as it progresses and causes more fatality.  The creator can also cause it to originate anywhere on the map.  One trend we noticed through his failed attempts at the wanton destruction of life is that he couldn't get the infection into Greenland.  First I suggested that maybe the infection couldn't survive the extreme cold.  He hadn't considered that and made the adaptation when the game allowed.  He still lost that round.  When I suggested starting the infection in a county close to Greenland, he took a look at the game map and saw that only Norway and Iceland had any real contact with Greenland and decided on Norway.  He lost that round, too.  Then he decided to try originating the infection in Iceland.

Did I mention that the creator can also name the infection?  I don't know what name he had been using, but he said he'd had better luck when he used the name Ultron.  I told him if he really wanted to use a name that struck fear in hearts of men he should call it Mom.  He said, "Or Banshee."  (As an aside, Banshee is the "b-word" Ty IS allowed to call me.  It's an inside joke, and almost a term of endearment, so don't ask and don't judge.)

So Ty originated the Banshee infection in Iceland and watched its painfully slow progress the rest of the drive home, which really wasn't too much longer.  Once home, I put the game out of my mind and moved on to other things that demanded my attention.  Until, while running an errand, I got a text from Ty.  I hope you will find the following conversation as entertaining as I did.

Ty:  IT FINALLY GOT INTO GREENLAND!!!
Me:  Congrats!!!  Where'd you start it this time?
Ty:  Still on the round where it started in Iceland.  It took forever, but it finally got in.
Me:  How's it spreading otherwise?
Ty:  Rapidly, actually.
Me:  Nice to know we have successfully brainstormed an infection that could possibly eradicate the human race.
Ty:  We're probably on a watch list now thanks to this conversation.  Congratulations, Banshee has wiped out all life on earth.  Didn't know you were that powerful.
Me:  Never underestimate your momma.

Apparently, I am an all powerful destroyer of life.  Who knew?

What Is It About Me?

In so many ways, I am becoming Ebeneezer Scrooge.  Certainly not in the more-money-than-I-know-what-to-do-with way, or the mean, stingy, miserly way.  No, I am becoming Scrooge-like in the generally-hating-the-holiday-season way.  As much as I appreciate the birth of the man who would willingly die on the cross for my sins, I've never been much of a birthday celebration person.  And with all the hype and hoopla surrounding the anticipation of the holiday season, the day itself always seems anticlimactic, like is was far more work and worry than it was really worth.  But more than the seeming aggravation of the season, it is the obligatory family shin-digs that I dread the most.

Anyone who knows me or has been following my writing is aware of the strained relationship I tend to have with family members.  If not, a brief whirl-wind tour of family history may illuminate the rest of this story: my brother broke my leg, my sister got me turned in to Children's Services, and my father forgot he had daughters.  Sounds like a fabulous family get together scenario, yes?  Don't get me wrong.  I am capable of loving my family in spite of their perceived ills because they are family.  That doesn't mean I particularly enjoy spending tons of time with them.  Which works out for everyone because I seem to be little more than an afterthought to them in most regards.  For example...

My brother lives in a very small town where everyone knows everyone and it seems like everyone gets along.  The neighborhood collectively has a big brew-ha every year for Halloween, and for years now the family has been invited.  Except for me.  Well, that's not entirely true.  Several years ago, I was told in advance this was happening and was actually able to make it.  Since then, I have known this tradition continues, and I have known that the rest of my family attends, but I have never received another invite.  Pretty much yearly, after the fact, my sister mentions that the kids missed seeing us at the Halloween event.  Well, maybe if I had been given information about when it was I could have been there.

This is just one of MANY such scenarios, as is evidenced at every family shin-dig I am obligated to attend.  As I am sure happens at most family gatherings, memories and reminiscings of good times past are enjoyed around the table.  In my family, this is the point in the conversation that I fall quiet because I have nothing to contribute to the happy memory being shared since I have no idea what they are talking about.  Birthday parties and bon fires past are remembered with great fondness while I am reminded yet again that I am out of sight and out of mind.  Listening to the kids talk about when they have had overnights with my brother or sister causes me to question why my own kids were never offered the same experiences.  Watching my sister's kids fawn all over my brother while they hardly seem to recognize me drives the point home.  Overhearing about comical interactions over facebook reminds me that I have more FB friends that are in-laws than blood.

But why?  What is it about me that makes me so invisible, so unnoticed, so forgotten?  Is it simply a matter of the so-called "middle child syndrome"?  Is it because both my brother and sister were wild kids and therefore demanded parental attention and, since old habits die hard, that is simply where the attention continues to be focused?  Actually, in my heart of hearts, I believe I know the answer.  But even if I am correct in my supposition, I still don't understand why it makes me a black sheep.

So as if the holiday season itself weren't stressful enough, I am doubly burdened by the knowledge that I will be forced to endure the hurtful reminders that for the rest of the year I am not even on the family radar.  Sometimes I wish they wouldn't feel obligated to include me in holiday events, since, with the exception of my sister's invites to her kids' birthday parties, they feel no obligation to include me in anything else.

Garbage, Ghost, or Guardian Angel

In my line of work, I come across some characters.  Conversations have the potential to be unusual and thought-provoking, or plain old down-right weird.  For example...

At the chiro's office, there was a patient, Bill, who was a recovered cocaine addict and a born-again Christian.  As a fellow Christian, I never judged, but considering the documented effects of long-term cocaine use I DID take some of the things he said with a grain of salt.

Bill usually had morning appointments.  During one of his treatments, the hot stones were set up in one corner of the room heating for a later appointment.  We didn't keep the stones set up in the room when they weren't needed since they took up valuable work space and the appointments for the service were few and far between, so this was the first time Bill saw the set up.  Bill was a chatter, and during the course of the conversation he asked more about the hot stone service.  Then he said very matter-of-factly, "The spirit in this room doesn't like the stones being in that corner.  That's where he hangs out."

I beg your pardon.

Bill went on to explain that he had the ability to see spirits, call them angels if you prefer, and that there was always the same spirit standing in the corner of my treatment room.  He said he got the impression that the spirit was nothing to be afraid of; instead, it was watching over the room, as if it were a protector ~ a guardian angel.

Huh.  Really?  There's a guardian angel in my treatment room?  OK.  If you say so.

I wondered aloud if the property had been some Native American holy ground or ancient burial site, then the conversation turned to other topics.

I had all but forgotten about this episode until very recently when I was back in the office for a massage trade with my former coworker.  We were trading 90-min massages, so we were in the room for the better part of the morning.  At some point, the lights in the room dimmed and re-surged a couple of times and my coworker said, "That was weird," When I mentioned that this used to happen periodically when I worked there, she jokingly added, "Must be the ghost in the room."  I knew she'd said it in jest, but it sparked the memory of the conversation I'd had with Bill years earlier.  I asked if she had ever treated him and told her about the conversation we'd had.  She said she did remember him because he had mentioned to her that the spirit was not in the room when she was working, and he figured that the spirit was not attached to the room, but to ME specifically.

Wait.  What?  The spirit doesn't watch over the room, it watches over ME?  I'm not sure how I feel about this.  Who is this spirit?  Does it watch me workout?  Does it watch me take a shower and get dressed?  Does it watch when I'm intimate with my husband?  Should I be creeped-out here?!

Then I thought about the time I was running on the Scioto Trail and heard a very real, audible voice tell me to turn around.  And the time I was riding on the Olentangy Trail and heard yelling in the woods along the riverbank but was told to keep going.  Joshua thinks this spirit is the guardian angel that rides in the car with me to keep my aggressive driving from causing harm.

OK.  I suppose I shouldn't be unnerved by this spirit following me around ~ if there really is a spirit following me around.  Call me crazy, but I'm not ready to fully rely on the word of an eccentric recovered drug addict.  Besides, what make me worthy of my own personal guardian angel?  I'm not complaining, just doubting.  Why me?  Why is there not a spirit attached to my coworker?  Or every believer, for that matter.  What makes me more deserving of this protection that anyone else?

I do seriously doubt whether or not there is a guardian angel that is continuously at my side.  Yet, I must admit that I am comforted by the idea that someone ~ or something ~ is constantly looking out for me.  I wonder if Bill saw whether this spirit is wearing a jet pack in order to keep up with my driving.

Holding On To A Promise

Since January 2008 I have:

~ Dislocated ribs T8, 10, and 11 in the back; ribs T2, 3, and 4 in the front; and my collar bone at both ends - all on the right side.
~ Dislocated the left wrist 3 times in 3 different places.
~ Partially dislocated the L2 vertebrea
~ Dislocated both SI joints.
~ Dislocated both kneecaps.
~ Partially dislocated 3 different joints in my left foot - all at the same time.

This list doesn't even scratch the surface of the myriad of injuries sustained throughout my earlier life due to the maddening joint hypermobility I deal with or the developmental quirk that causes sciatic pain in my left hip.  Am I a train wreck, or what?  I feel like the embodiment of the the passages in the Gospels, "the spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak."

I haven't slept well in weeks due to the pain in my hip and shoulder preventing me from getting comfortable.  I toss and turn most of the night, jockeying to find a position that doesn't cause pain, tingling, or numbness somewhere in my being.  Lying on the left side hurts my hip, lying on the right hurts my shoulder, and lying flat on my back not only hurts my low back, but also causes tingling in my forearms and hands due to the way my elbows hit the mattress.  So more often than not, I end up in an uncomfortable looking twist, with my upper-body flat and my arms resting on my abdomen so the elbows don't hit the mattress, and my lower body twisted to the right with knees bent so there is no pressure on the left hip or low back.

My ribs have been bothersome for several days, and I've worn my brace more than once this week.  When the ribs are out in the front, muscle tension creeps up my neck into my jaw and ear.  When the ribs are out in the back, muscle tension radiates from my bra-line all the way up to the base of my head.  Today has been particularly rough as I woke up with muscles so bound up that I couldn't turn my head to the right without pain.  After several hours of wearing my brace, a few rounds of utilizing the heating pad, and a regular regimen of 30min on/30min off with the TENS unit, I can once again look to my right shoulder, but tension remains ~ and will, I have little doubt.

I'm too young to hurt like this.  I sometimes envy my "little old ladies", as I like to call a few of my patients who are in their 80's, who live very active, independent lives with little or no pain to speak of.  Here I am, less than half their ages, and I am completely falling apart.  I have a "Bucket List" a mile long that includes things like hiking the Appalachian Trail, hiking El Camino in Spain, and taking bicycling tours of foreign countries.  But, given how I feel at this exact moment, I doubt whether my body will hold up long enough for me to do any of it.  It truly sucks being held back by one's own physicality.

My spirit is more than willing ~ in fact, it yearns ~ but the body is less than cooperative.

My only solace is the faith and hope that one day my spirit will no longer be confined to this decrepit body, that one day my spirit will be free, with a new heavenly body that will never hurt, never feel pain, never be limited by the confines of mortal flesh.  In the meantime, I believe in a God of miracles, so I will continue to pray for one.  I doubt my worthiness and His willingness to answer in my favor, but it never hurts to ask.  Right?

What Do You See?

Look at me.
What do you see when you look at me?

Do you see beauty?
Do you see mischievous eyes and defined cheek bones?
Do you see full lips in a sly smirk?
Do you see sun-damaged white spots among freckles?

Look at me.
Really look at me.

Do you see a confidence?
Do you see triumph over adversity?
Do you see leadership?
Do you see authority?

Look at me.
What do you see?

Do you see a confused little girl?
Do you see the baggage of molestation?
Do you see wariness?
Do you see fear?

Look at me.
REALLY look at me.

Do you see exhaustion?
Do you see weariness?
Do you see sadness?
Do you see depression?

Look at me.
What do you SEE?

Do you see ugliness?
Do you see anger?
Do you see spite?
Do you see obstinance?

Look at me.
Really LOOK at me.

Do you see love?
Do you see compassion?
Do you see forgiveness?
Do you see a healer?

Look at me.
What DO you see when you look at me?

Do you see a strong will trapped inside of a weak body?
Do you see frustration?
Do you see resentment?
Do you see determination?

LOOK at me.
Really look at me.

Do you see dark under-eye circles?
Do you see droopy breasts?
Do you see a saggy paunch decorated with the Silver Medals of Motherhood?
Do you see chubby thighs?

Look at me.
What do you see when you look at ME?

Do you see the war for my soul raging within my flesh?
Do you see the mercy of God?
Do you see the love of Christ?
Do you see the touch of the Spirit?

Look at me.

Do you see me at all?