Tag Archives: Recovery

Egomaniac with an Inferiority Complex

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Ever feel like you’re walking around inside out? Like people can see, not who, but what you are?

Or that you have a neon word glowing above your head?

I do.

For me, it could be any number of things over the years… alcoholic, people pleaser, bulimic, liar, gossiper, faker, cheater, doubter, wounded, hypocrite, quitter…the list is lengthy and it only gets worse.

What’s your word?

Did you immediately think of something negative?

Why do I turn into a “Nancy negative” (no offense Nancy) when it comes to self-awareness checks?

Is it because I’m humble? Hardly!

It’s because my ego gets the better of me and I begin comparing my insides to your outsides. I become fixated on the past, instead of focused on the future, while living in the present.

Humor me for a minute and let’s go another route.

What if, when I went out into the world, I walked around with a different list of words adorning my head? Words like…Believer, Redeemed, Recovered, Loved, Forgiven, Cherished, Treasured, Saved, Blessed, Beautiful, Capable, Wanted, Free, Worthy, Accepted…as I wrote these words, I read them out loud. It is amazing the tone, the energy, the transformation of thought from one paragraph to another simply by changing a few words.

Ladies, we are the worst about this. Be careful what you are speaking into the hearts and minds of your daughters, friends and more importantly, yourself.

May I encourage you to try a little experiment with me? Come on! It will be so fun!

Take a dry erase marker (or lippy, whatever works), stand in front of the mirror where you get ready every morning, and in the space (on the mirror) above your head, choose one word of affirmation.

Write the word on your mirror so that when you look at your reflection you will see truth.

I call it, “Affirmation in Action.”

My word right now is “Redeemed.”

I begin my day with that word in my heart and on my mind. I don’t give the lies a chance to one up me.

There is power in our words. Even those never spoken, but that we allow to take up residence between our ears.

If you’re walking around all day with a head full of negative self-talk, stop it.
No really…STOP! You are going against your purpose, everything that you were designed to be. You are deeming yourself spiritually useless.

Harsh? Yes.

I speak from a position of repeat offender when it comes to bashing myself. What I am encouraging you to do, I am doing myself. Work in progress, remember. I don’t have all the answers, I am just very persistent.

It begins from within.

What’s inside you can either tear down and infect those around you with the poison of darkness. Or it can shine, igniting the light in others that is within us all. For some of us only a spark remains, while for others a fire rages.

Here is my promise to you…for the next 7 days, I am going to pray for you. I would LOVE it if you would tell me your word in the comment section below. However, even if you don’t, God knows your word and more importantly, He knows your name.

The future is very bright!

Now…

What’s your word?

 

Let go…or be dragged

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While you’re reading this sentence, I want you to ball your hands into the tightest fist you can make. Come on, squeeze until your nails dig into your skin and your knuckles turn white.

Now…open your hands. Stretch them as wide as they will go. Ahhhhhh. Release.

Do you see the fingernail marks in your palms? Run your finger over the shallow indention that will soon fade.

Are there things in your life showing evidence of a struggle by the indention’s that your fingernails left behind?

For me to think that there was any other way to believe that I could hold on to what was mine without digging my fingernails in, was going to take a complete transformation of the mind.

This is exactly what is happening. It has been a slow, but steady process.

Have you ever seen a child hold a piece of candy that they were afraid was going to be taken from them? Especially chocolate. The tighter they squeeze, the more misshapen it becomes. At times even melting under the force and heat of their little hand.

What’s left?

A mess.

When I have tried to pry open the little fingers of my child when they are locked onto something they want, not only does the mess get all over their hand, but it gets on mine as well. The worst place being under the nails where it is so difficult to remove.

Why am I telling you this?

Well, I hope you can relate.

I have had to physically open my palms to the Father many times this week while in conversation with certain people who are making decisions in my daughter’s life.

I have prayed, “Lord, if necessary, bring out your spiritual crowbar and release my grip on this situation. Father the harder I hold on, the worse the outcome. The more I squeeze, the greater intensity of pain. Help me, please. I don’t know how to hold my child with an outstretched arm and open palm.”

God has been so patient with me.

I should know by now that He doesn’t use a crowbar. He doesn’t use force. For if He did, I would be resentful. These are the times when He is very still and beckons my heart to meet Him in the quiet places (which are few and far between in my house).

He whispers to my heart, “Don’t you know she was Mine to begin with? Don’t you know that she is Mine still?”

“Yes, Father. But…What if…”

“What if, you trusted Me the way you tell others to trust Me? What if, you truly believed that I want the very best for your life and your child’s life. And though that doesn’t always mean comfort and happiness, you can rest in the assurance that you are greatly loved and adored by your Father in Heaven. What if, when you were afraid, you sought Me instead of relief through external methods? What if, every time you think of one of your children, you give them back to Me, once more, leaving the pen in My hand to write the chapters of their story? What if, you commit My words to memory so that when doubt floods in, it is absorbed by My truth and replaced with My peace that passes all understanding?”

This is how the Father speaks to my heart. This is the way he gently opens my fists tightly clenched in fear until my palms face the Heavens with fingers stretched as wide as they will go.

Then and only then, can He pour out His goodness, mercy and love. And there is enough that when it spills through my fingers, those around me benefit.

Bella, my Bella, belongs to God. Chris and I have worked tirelessly to lay the foundation and instill truth in her heart and mind. Our responsibility now, is to reiterate what she already knows. It is to combat lies with truth. It is to encourage, nurture and provide a safe place for daunting questions.

When I close my eyes and pray for my girl, I see the 5 year old explorer/princess/rock star. I see overalls and pig tails…I see somersaults on the grass and make believe castles in the trees.

I see more potential, beauty and promise than she will ever see. Isn’t that what we do as mothers though? We dream BIG for our girls and attempt to stifle the urge to project ourselves onto them while intercepting those who would cause them to believe that they are anything less than a child of The King.

Here’s the deal, I have to let go.

I must open my fingers and release the fist. I do not want my beautiful girl to have nail marks of any kind on her spirit, especially mine.

So when fear consumes my mind with thoughts of losing the control that I never had to begin with, my heart will respond with Ephesians 3:20-21“God can do anything, you know—far more than you could ever imagine or guess or request in your wildest dreams! He does it not by pushing us around but by working within us, his Spirit deeply and gently within us.“

What is beneath your fingers tightly clenched into a fist? What or who are you holding on to so tightly that they can barely breathe? Let go. The longer you struggle, the messier it gets.

Let go. Or be dragged.

The Maze of Ministry – Part 2

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In Part 1 of this post, I left you with a flashback from my childhood. (Sounds like a sentence from a shrinks couch, doesn’t it?)

These sentences are where we left off and where we will pick back up…
“And then it broke. Never to be put back the same way again. After all, with so much at stake, how could it be?”

When my parents decided to divorce, we, as a family, were suddenly and forcefully broken.
This is not a sob story about what happens to a girl from a “broken home.” So just hang with me here.

I was left questioning everything that had happened in my life.

I wanted to run.

So I did.

Without spending hours and thousands of words giving you details of the path I chose, I will sum it up this way;

~ I moved to another city and signed a modeling contract with an agency who immediately began bookings and photo shoots.

~ I discovered a drug that muted my mind and helped me stay thin.

~ I made a lot of money in a short period of time.

~ I was in breech of my contract for missing too many “Go Sees” and not returning my manager’s calls. They were able to use all of the pictures taken just days before without paying me a dime.

~ I began to spiral downward and burn through some serious cash.

~ I thought I was lost, but God still knew exactly where I was.

One night I woke up in an ER hospital bed, my wrists strapped to the rails while the nurses attempted to find a vain to start an IV for severe dehydration.

“Why am I strapped to the bed?!” I asked one of the nurses.

“You won’t keep your arms still enough for us to start a line, we may have to go in through your neck.” She responded.

“Wait. What?! No. How did I get here?! Why am I here?!” I said, confused and angry.

The doctor then walked into the room and said, “Why don’t you tell us? What have you ingested tonight?”

My designer dress had been cut right down the middle with surgical scissors. Apparently doctors don’t worry about preserving your clothes when they are trying to save your life.

It didn’t take long for my blood work to come back and show a list of things in my system that didn’t belong there.

When the doctor came in and read off the list, his next response was, “Damn druggies. As soon as that IV bag finishes, you’re gettin’ the hell outta here to make room for someone who really needs this bed.” I had od’d and come very close to loosing my life.

It’s interesting how differently you are treated when the medical professionals helping you, discover that the damage is self inflicted.

There are many examples of this type of chaos happening within a span of several years.

I chose to elaborate on this one story because this is a clear example where God rescued me from myself, in a way that I would not recognize until much later.

No one was in the waiting room to take me home. I didn’t even know how I got there. The person in registration said that several people had brought me in and said that they didn’t know what was wrong with me, but to save my life. They paid cash and left.

I knew then who it was.

I was shocked that these individuals would risk being caught to save my life. I was surprised they didn’t just let me die as I had heard stories of them doing with others who didn’t know when to stop.

(For those left wondering…the answer is yes, I had to take a taxi home in an ER gown and heals. Although I’m pretty sure I went barefoot, which totally grosses me out to think about!)

Do I blame my parents for this behavior? No.

It may have manifested itself in a different way were they still together, but I now know, with all certainty that I would not be who I am today without the hell I willing walked through years ago. I was fortunate, God always had His hand on me, protecting me, only allowing me to go so far.

The journey came to a crossroads when I sat down at a bar table with an undercover officer. I started talking to him and he asked what I was doing there. “What do you mean?” was my response.

“You don’t belong here. Get out while you still can.” He said, with a serious certainty on his face that I had never seen from anyone.

He drove me home that night. On the drive, I vividly remember staring at the yellow line in the center of the road. I thought about what my mom had told me when I needed to focus on something other than feeling carsick, “Focus on the yellow line and you’ll be fine.” She would say.

I had been traveling a road with no yellow line and it was time to refocus.

I called my dad the next day for the first time in months, told him I was alive, but scared and didn’t know what to do. He advised me to put everything I owned in garbage bags and come home that day.

I had a friend who helped me pack a u-haul and just as darkness fell, we began the six hour drive to my dad’s house.

I had not slept in more than 72 hours, so when I arrived, battered and bruised, I slept for a couple of days.

Three days after I had left, the house that I would frequent was raided and everyone inside was arrested (or so I was told). The amount of items confiscated had the potential for a hefty prison sentence.

You would think that would be the end of it. It wasn’t. There was much more to come, but that’s a story for a different day.

I was having coffee with a friend yesterday and we were talking about a different part of my story. She said, “That must have been when you hit your bottom?”

“No.” I said. “I had lots of bottoms.” I declared my bottom when I threw the shovel down and began climbing out of my self made burial ground.

I knew many who were not so fortunate.

I attended more funerals before age 20 than most people, other than a pastor will attend in their lifetime. Why I was not one of them, only God can tell. He has the final say and fortunately, He now holds the pen.

I like to read and listen to the writings of Jud Wilhite. He has said, “None of us were made to be made much of. We were made to make much of God.”

God was not surprised by anything that I did. He knew that more than a decade later I would have the irrefutable desire to work with women and girls, equipping them to make decisions that would lead them down a path much different from my own.

He knew that instead of gaping wounds, I would one day have beautiful scars that told my story and that there would be no shame.

In attempts to make much of myself, I failed miserably. I can see with clear eyes that it’s all about pointing to the Father and making much about Him.

Check out these incredible resources written by Jud Wilhite.

Also, explore the community he has created called People of the Second Chance Here you will find many stories that you can relate to and who knows, you may even decide that you want to tell your own story of second chances. You can follow on Twitter @POTSC

The Maze of Ministry

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Growing up a PK (preacher’s kid) I had a front row seat to all kinds of things done in the name of “ministry.”

I saw religion, spirituality, atheism, agnosticism. I saw searching. I saw people who were “worshipers of satan” and those who claimed to be their own god. I was never allowed to be in the presence of anyone who was supposedly possessed by demons. Though my dad would get calls at all hours for these types of things.

He only talked about it once. Said that it was the most frightening thing he has ever witnessed and hoped that he would never have to witness it again. It was a girl. A teenager. She was speaking in different voices and climbing the walls. Weird, huh?!

This can be very confusing for anyone, but especially a child.
I found that the easiest and most convenient path to take was to adopt the God of my parents understanding.

The only problem was that they had very different views of who God was and how He sees us, His children.

Flashback Time

During the Summer, my dad would meticulously pack up the Buick and we would all pile in and head off to where he was speaking for the week.

This usually entailed at least a 5-10 hour drive.

I am the youngest of 3 girls. We would all three be in the back seat with our one thing that we were allowed to bring along to entertain ourselves.

Keep in mind that these were the days of 55 mph speed limits on the highway.

I have always been prone to motion sickness. My mother would say multiple times during a road trip, “Focus on the center yellow line and you’ll be fine.”

This would be right about the time that my mouth would begin to water and the imaginary knot grew bigger and more uncomfortable in my throat. You know the feeling…right before you lose it.

“Oh God, please don’t let me vomit in this car!”

I could only imagine how awful the next few hours would be with the smell on the upholstery.

I stared at that yellow center line for more miles that I could count.

Though it sounds rather horrific, I loved those Summer travels. Even though it meant we were not with our friends, I met knew friends and before you knew it, we were running up and down the seemingly endless isles of a gigantic auditorium.

It was always great to come home too.

I can close my eyes, even now, and remember walking into our house on a hot summer day in the south. The turn of the key in the lock and stepping over the thresh hold. The air had been off for days, making it just bearable to be inside while waiting for dad to turn on the AC.

Upon the first breath through my nose, I knew I was home. The smell was familiar and comfortable. The sun streamed through the sliding glass doors, across the carpet and onto the tall stools at the kitchen counter where we ate breakfast every morning.

I remember as if it was yesterday, seeing the dust stir in the sunlight. I turned the corner, walked down the hall to my room and felt at ease. Collapsing on my bed and looking up at the popcorn ceiling, life was good. I didn’t know any different.

And then it broke. Never to be put back the same way again.
After all, with so much at stake, how could it be?

(This is where I will place the bookmark…for now. Let’s pick up where we left off in the story, tomorrow.)

Restless

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Here I am again…in the corner…head in hands…asking God, “What’s the point?”

This time it’s not physical crouching, with the seam of two walls against my back, it’s a mental corner.

I am no stranger to this restless place made up of questions, irrational emotions, irritability, and self pity.

There was a time when I would have walked into my closet, closed the door, sat on the floor, and in the dark, through my sobbing, begged God to help me feel something other than pain.

I don’t go there anymore. Not to that place.

I have seen and felt God move enough to trust that once invited in, His hand will be on me.

And yet, that doesn’t help the waiting or lessen the emotional toll that this season of the mind takes on the one enduring it.

What does one do in this place of unrest and discomfort?

For me, I must look back at the faithfulness of my Savior.

I must not forget all the times that He has rescued me from seemingly impossible circumstances.

I must rely on the promises He has made in His word.

I must cling to the hope that Christ has given in this tumultuous life.

“I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.” John 16:33

And… I must wait. Sometimes in silence, sometimes in stillness, sometimes in uncertainty.

Trusting that, though silent, God is here with me.

He goes before me, making a way in the wasteland.

He stands beside me, as my advocate.

He walks behind me, so that when I want to turn and run, His face is all I’ll see.

He leads me through a story that is all part of His plan.

And though the words don’t always make sense, when the chapter is complete, I know with great certainty that I will look back and see His sovereign grace. 

What was your name again?!

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(This post is dedicated to my beautiful friend who is drowning in a sea of self-pity, completely blind to her incredible worth while attempting to numb the pain of reality through addiction. May God save you from yourself, friend. I love you!)

Has this ever happened to you?

Not just to those of you who woke up this morning beside someone who’s name you didn’t know or couldn’t remember, so you slid out from under the covers relieved to find that you were still wearing the clothes from last night. Luckily you were able to slip out undetected and make the walk of shame home or back to your last stop to pick up your car. (For those of you who are reading this thinking, it’s Tuesday morning! Who does that on a Monday night?! Congratulations! You are not a hopeless alcoholic or drug addict.)

I’m also talking to those who forget introductions right after they happen (I know this happens because I do it). Trying with all your might to remember someone you just met who holds the future of your career in their hands. Or someone you were supposed to connect with about a job interview in this bad economy where one cannot take any referrals for granted.

I have heard that when being introduced to someone, if you will repeat their name 3 times in your head, you are sure to remember it. Tried it. Didn’t work. Maybe I’ve killed to many braincells?

How about this one…have you ever forgotten your own name? Sounds crazy, right?

Well, call me crazy, there was a time when I forgot my own name.

Not in the literal sense, mind you, in a far more devastating way. 

It may be better said that I denied my name, ignoring who I was and falling prey to what I had become, which I thought at the time, defined me.


Joy by definition means;

a : the emotion evoked by well-being, success, or good fortune or by the prospect of possessing what one desires : delight b : the expression or exhibition of such emotion : gaiety
2 : a state of happiness or felicity : bliss
3 : a source or cause of delight
 Just look how many different fun and happy ways the word can be written. Google it! You will not find it written in any other way than that which is uplifting and…happy.
There was a time in my life when I was anything but one of these definitions. It’s a lot of pressure to walk around with a name that means happiness, delight, well-being. I mean seriously. How could my mother have been so mean when deciding what to call me?! Knowing that every time I introduced myself to someone they would expect me to be happy ALL the time. Right? I mean, how can you walk around angry, sad or expressing any negative emotion whatsoever when your name is something that means happiness?! (This is assuming of course that she thought through all of the scenario’s that I would be in for the rest of my life)

My mom has said that she almost named me Ginger with a J (Jinger). My dad didn’t like the name, thank the Lord! He said that no one would spell it right and I would forever be known as Ginger with a J. So when I look at it that way, I am incredibly grateful. (No offense to any of you Gingers with a J!)
I had a roommate at the peak of my self destructive behavior who called me out on my bs. When she had finally had enough of my lying, stealing, destructive behavior, she told me that I had until the end of the month to move out. I was so angry with her.
She didn’t ask that I pay her back the money she had given me to pay the utility, phone or water bill, after I spent it on drugs (more than once) or the cash that I freely claimed as my own if it was laying out anywhere. She simply asked me to leave.

She later told me (when I was capable of listening) that she hoped she was saving my life, because instead of a Joy, I had become a Pain. Instead of being a source of light and hope, I evoked hopelessness. (Ouch!)

Pain by definition means;
1: punishment
2 a : usu. localized physical suffering associated with bodily disorder (as a disease or an injury); also : a basic bodily sensation induced by a noxious stimulus, received by naked nerve endings, characterized by physical discomfort (as pricking, throbbing, or aching), and typically leading to evasive action b : acute mental or emotional distress or suffering : grief
3 plural : the throes of childbirth
4 plural : trouble, care, or effort taken to accomplish something <was at pains to reassure us>
5 : one that irks or annoys or is otherwise troublesome —often used in such phrases as pain in the neck 
She was right! I am beyond grateful that she had the courage to stand up to me and say she wasn’t going to stand by and watch me self destruct. I am so thankful that she did not, instead, enable me to continue down the path I was on. That, my friends, is real love. It’s difficult, honest and unconditional.
It has taken over a decade, but I am coming back into my name. Sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly (that would be me…the sometimes slowly part!).
Instead of my path of destruction that looked similar to this…

I now do a lot more of this…

 

Today, I love my name. Don’t get me wrong, I can fall into that same old pattern of thinking. The difference being that I now have the tools to snap out of it before I am on a full blown trip of my big ugly ego.

It’s a daily, sometimes hourly, surrender. Turning it over to the One who knows me best. Giving up control and admitting that when it comes to managing my own life, I suck at it. Asking for Divine help. Forget this earthly garble. I want something with an eternal guarantee!  

So today, I am owning my name. FINALLY, at 35 years old. Well, someone congratulate me!

If you are like I was, broken and without hope, but there is no one there to speak truth into your heart, I beg you to reach out to someone at one of the resources I am listing below. Click on the name and it will take you directly to the website. As long as you are breathing, there is still hope.

To Write Love on Her Arms

People of the Second Chance

Central Christian Church: Las Vegas

He forgives me…He forgives me not…He forgives me…

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“Therefore, there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus,” Romans 8:1

Do you believe that scripture? Do you care? Do you even think about sin? Do you justify and rationalize behavior that you know separates you from the One who knows you better than anyone else?

I do.

Do you ever play this game with your sin? “God, I know you forgive me for that one, but maybe not this one? I mean, how could you? This one is hideous. I cringe whenever it comes to mind.”

I do. More than I like to admit.

So I continue to ask forgiveness over and over and over again…for something God doesn’t even remember after the first repentance. 

There are verses scattered throughout God’s word about forgiveness. How the Father remembers our sin no more after we come to Him. So why can’t we “remember no more.” ?

I think I know the answer. At least for why I won’t let myself forget.

I think that I deserve punishment. I should suffer for the things I have done whether 5 minutes or 5 years ago.

I call it my pity prison and though not my intention, it deems me absolutely useless to the work of the Father.

That’s not how God works. Nor is it what He wants for my life. Not because I am destined to be a programmed robot who spits out bible verses every time I’m in a situation that calls for a response. But because He wants me to live life and live it more abundantly.

He tells me right there in John 10:10 “A thief is only there to steal and kill and destroy (that thief is my shame). I came so they can have real and eternal life, more and better life than they ever dreamed of.”

Do I really believe this?

Do I truly believe, with all of the terrible things happening around me that He wants what’s best? That He wants to exceed all expectations? That His plan is without flaw, unlike my intentions?

“Because of the sacrifice of the Messiah, his blood poured out on the altar of the Cross, we’re a free people—free of penalties and punishments chalked up by all our misdeeds. And not just barely free, either. Abundantly free! He thought of everything, provided for everything we could possibly need, letting us in on the plans he took such delight in making. He set it all out before us in Christ, a long-range plan in which everything would be brought together and summed up in him, everything in deepest heaven, everything on planet earth.” Ephesians 1:7-10 (MSG)

So, in other words, when my being a repeat offender leads to becoming a repeat confessor, I am saying that the cross is not enough. That the blood of my Savior, poured out for me, is not enough. That the hours of pain so intense I cannot even wrap my mind around it, was not enough. That the nail scarred hands where He was pierced, was not enough.

That even though He would have endured Calvary for my life alone, I need a little more proof that not only the little thing was forgiven, but the really big thing that I have been carrying around for years.

No matter the size of the sin, that is what held Him there.

“God rescued us from dead-end alleys and dark dungeons. He’s set us up in the kingdom of the Son he loves so much, the Son who got us out of the pit we were in, got rid of the sins we were doomed to keep repeating.” Colossians 1:13-14

I love the word rescued. Say it out loud… Rescued. Just the sound of it stirs feelings of hope.

Many times I have found that the hardest person to forgive is myself. My mind sits on repeat and torments me with feelings of guilt and shame. These are the times when I ask the Father to lead me to the cross.

If there is one thing I am sure of my friend, it’s that the cross… is… more than enough.