Bear Witness

If I am being honest, I have to tell you that I have been struggling lately. I have so many thoughts that I want to put into words, so much I want to write and accomplish. Yet, many days, I do not write at all, and am miserable because of it. I promised myself almost a year ago that this would be the year I would make progress, that I would have something concrete toward writing a book by the time my birthday rolled around again. I have a few pages, nothing substantial, and really just have not done the "work" that is writing. The "work" that requires coming back to the blank page, day after day after day, until there are more words gathered into place, and something of substance begins to take shape.

Sometimes when I consider doing the work of writing, I hear a record player in my brain that is stuck on an old, familiar loop. The record plays the same message over and over again on repeat. The message tells me that if I cannot be the best, I should remain silent. It says that my writing is without purpose. It tells me that my thoughts are best kept to myself, because ultimately I have nothing to bring to the table.

And then, this guy walks through the door:

My youngest boy decided recently that he was going to write the story of his life. He has been writing faithfully, almost every day, about the things that make up his world. He feels tremendous joy in learning that he can express his heart by putting his thoughts into words on a page, and then share those thoughts with others. He does not come to his notebook with an agenda. His mission is to record his life, to find a way to bear witness to all that he sees and does and feels. He writes it all down because he believes that his life, and his story, have value.

My heart breaks wide open when I see it. This is why I write: to bear witness. My writing bears witness to my own heart about all that I have seen and done and felt. My writing also bears witness to another heart that may have seen and done and felt something similar along the way. My writing declares that my life and my story have value.

The joy on his face is a jolt that moves the needle on my broken record. Now I can hear again the better message playing. I may not be the best, but I will not remain silent. My writing has purpose because my life has purpose. I have plenty to bring to the table, if only I will come and share what I have been given.

I intend to try to be more like Asher this month, and just keep filling up pages. I will remind myself that writing to record my thoughts and feelings will bear witness to all that I see and do and feel, whether in the form of day-to-day life and memory on the blog, or in words filling blank pages just for me. I will try not to have an agenda, but keep the record player on the truth, and just bring what I have to the table. That's all that any of us really needs to do, and there is so much joy when we each bring what we have and pour it out, sharing our gifts with one another, and growing together in love.

Thank you so much to all my friends and family who reminded me again this year on my birthday how very blessed and fortunate I am. Your goodness propels me toward a better message and truth in my heart. 

Right Type of Story

I have been thinking quite a bit lately about my story.  I have been trying to unravel the series of events that make up the narrative of my life until now.  I am searching for clues, trying to fill in the blanks, putting together pieces of memory and outside views of certain chapters of my existence.  Because my story has very dark moments, I struggle to decide what exactly I want anyone to know about this journey, the conflict and climax and resolution of my experiences on this earth.  I know that the antidote to darkness is light, and the desire to shed light on hidden places causes me to feel compelled to find words to share about those dark moments.  But the words don’t come easily.

When I was six years old, I was being evaluated by a mental health worker due to confirmed reports of sexual abuse.  My uncle admitted that he was a pedophile, and had violated numerous children.  He acknowledged that he had committed various acts with me so many times that he could not recall the exact number or complete nature of the encounters.  Throughout most of the proceedings in the case, I was silent.  While I accurately confirmed the accounts of the abuse in a matter of fact way when asked, the most frequent note in the reports from various police officers, family service workers and counselors is that I refused to speak, and that I cried.

During one of many counseling sessions intended to help me talk about my feelings regarding the abuse, the therapist asked me to complete an exercise by looking at various pictures and telling him a story about what I saw.  A family services worker who was observing the session noted that I was extremely reluctant to participate in the exercise.  His exact words were, “La’Tisha is very much of a perfectionist and was afraid that she would not tell the right type of story.”  Already, at the age of six, I felt a desperate need to please the people around me.  I had already seen that when a story deviates from the allocated plan, upheaval would follow.  I knew that my story caused problems, people were angry, and it was better to keep my mouth shut than to invoke more trouble by speaking how I truly felt.  I needed to tell the right story, the one the people around me wanted or needed to hear, and I made it my business to do so.

Years later, I want to find a way to speak for the little girl who cried silently.  I believe that the story I tell—with my life, my time, and my words—is important.  I know that a good story can open our eyes, shift our perspective, and change the way we see and interact with the world around us.  I want to tell my story of beauty for ashes, of restoration for what the locust has eaten, in a way that makes others believe that kind of reconciliation is possible.  I’m trying very hard, though, to be less concerned about telling the “right kind” of story.  The only story I have to tell is my own.  The only way I can tell my story is to share it honestly.  The only way this story can be wrong, I think, is if I do not tell it at all.

I am tired of being silent about how surviving this kind of childhood trauma affects my life every. single. day.  I know that I am not the only woman who is trying to be a loving wife, mother, daughter, sister and friend while constantly battling the demons of her past.  I believe that my children should know something of what I have experienced, because I believe that history we do not learn from is destined to repeat itself.  It is time to find my voice and speak.  I want to tell my story because I know how isolated, lonely and discouraged I feel at times, and I believe it may help others to know that they are not alone.  It is time for me to break the silence of what it means to live as a survivor.

Because these are the most important truths: I live.  I survived.  Each and every day that I continue to struggle to be here, to be present, to be enough, is a victory of survival.  I am realizing that the truth is that I will never completely move on.  I will move forward, but I cannot change what I see in my rear view mirror.  This is my life.  Every once in a while, I have to look back and notice that the past is still there, behind me.  Sometimes, peeking in that rear view mirror helps me to correct my course.  Keep moving forward, but don’t forget what got me here. 

That is what I’m setting out to do.  Look back through that past and acknowledge how it has shaped me.  Stop trying to shut it down and pretend that I am fine now, and that the story isn’t integral to who I am.  I need to accept the fact that my abusers took from me things that I will never be able to regain.  The plan now is to get loud about how I’m dealing with that loss, and to share gratitude over all that I have also gained.  Some days I will blog about the here and now, and other days I am dedicating to writing the past in a book.

As survivors go, I know that I am fortunate.  Throughout the storms I faced as a child, there were always places of shelter.  I am grateful, so grateful, for the opportunities to be where I am today.  I am overwhelmed with gratitude for the people who showed that they cared and intervened on my behalf.  And so I recognize that when I raise my voice, I do so not only for myself, but also for those who were not so sheltered.  I raise my voice for those who are forever silenced by their circumstances, those who are perhaps destined to repeat the cycles of abuse, those who had no pause for breath in a lifetime of shame, beating, berating, and abuse.  I also raise my voice for the little girl who could not find words, and silently cried.  This is ultimately where I find the courage to share my story, on behalf of the many, many stories that may never be told.

“Speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves;

ensure justice for those being crushed.

Yes, speak up for the poor and helpless,

And see that they get justice.”

Proverbs 31:8-9

Finding my voice...

So, here's the thing.  I am pretty sure that I have a story to tell.  I believe it's a story that needs to be told, a story that others can identify with, a story of healing and hope and restoration.  It is a story that is continually being written and rewritten; one where the very early chapters still thicken the plot as it unfolds today.  I also believe that I am capable of telling my story.  I think everyone has been given a way of communicating their story and thereby leaving their impression on the world--in paint or sculpture, in intimate relationship or corporate leadership, in financial generosity or time spent, in music or movement or verse.  The best way I know to tell my story is through the written word.  

The challenge I am facing is that I read all of these amazing authors telling some pretty cool stories.  As I do, I find myself wondering why on earth anyone would care to read my story when there are so many incredible people out there sharing theirs so well.  I seriously stalk the amazing blogs of Kelle Hampton and Glennon Melton.  I get lost in great articles I stumble on via Facebook like this one a friend shared tonight.  I cannot wait for new books from authors I admire like Shauna Niequist or Donald Miller who are weaving stories of redemption with threads that make you yearn to experience it, and who are telling about Jesus in ways that make you want to get to know him.

For as long as I can remember, I have been plagued with self-doubt.  The voice in my head has always warned me that failure looms just around the bend from trying something new.  Seeds planted very early in my life have grown into strongly rooted, barbed and twisty vines around my heart.  These vines bear fruit like fear and uncertainty, and they are a haven for the belief that as long as someone else is better than me, I am not worth listening to.

What I love most about the writers I listed above, though, is that they speak in their own unique voice, and their voice tells a personal story in a way that is riveting and compelling.  I could say that they are better writers than I may ever hope to be.  And yet...  They cannot tell my story.  They do not have my voice.  

For me, this is both the challenge of writing a blog and the motivation to keep going.  I must find my voice.  This sort of writing and sharing gives me the opportunity to try expressing little parts of my life and my heart in different ways.  This is the chance to find the balance and the rhythm of my own expression.  I want to find a way to be honest and raw and real about how very hard life can be and how much I struggle.  At the same time, I want to continue to bring myself and others back to the truth that in the midst of all that seems like chaos, God is bigger, and He is telling a better story than the one I am walking out on this earth.

I don't really know what that means just yet.  I can't decide just where this blog should focus.  Do I write about special needs and seek to raise awareness to the awesomeness having someone with an extra chromosome in your life can bring?  Do I chronicle motherhood, the joys of Tasty Tuesday and the trials of Mount Laundry?  Do I try to unpack spiritual truths in a devotional way, sharing what God reveals to my heart from His word or through relationships with others?  Or is this a way to put words to the story of a little girl, who has grown into a woman that is given beauty for ashes?  I feel like I need a focus, but for the moment, I really don't know.  I would love to hear your feedback if there is a topic that leaves you wanting to know more.

Thanks for joining with me on this journey to find my voice.  I pray that you will find a way to tell your amazing story in your own voice as well.

Loves.

Oh, and photos of my cuties.  Because, hello...  They're cute!