Debriefing and Revelation

 

Turn your eyes upon Jesus.

Look full in his wonderful face.

And the things of earth will grow strangely dim,

In the light of his glory and grace.

 

Helen Lemmel/Cindy Rethmeier

 

  I wasn’t going to write this morning but I find myself up early. A single chime from my phone ignited the alertness that is a huge part of PTSD. There was no going back to sleep.

  This song in my head has helped the things of earth grow strangely dim. Thank You, Lord, for bringing it to mind and playing it constantly since yesterday afternoon.

  There won’t be any art today. I need a break.

  Recent events have the flashbacks pouncing. They create electric and pulsing cognitive dissonances because they are so far removed from all that is pure and holy and beautiful. The carnal memories batter the love of God that also fills my heart and mind. I have no idea how these things can ever be reconciled. I can only pray the evil things be redeemed and used for good.

  After yesterday’s post, I went for a walk in the park across the road. Winter has damaged many of the trees. Many large ash trees have been cut down to help prevent the spread of the Ash Borer which is killing most of them anyways.

  The bare and naked branches, the white scars of winter wounds, the piles of fallen debris commiserated with the weight I was carrying. I felt like the trees.

  A chorus of spring peepers urged the sun across the sky.

  There’s a river in the park. A small flock of Merganser ducks flew away as I approached the shore. So did a Kingfisher.

  I took advantage of a gray and weatherworn picnic table to sit beside the water for a while. It wasn’t quiet. The Canada geese on the lake hold constant debates about politics and love. The trucks and cars on the nearby highway generate a background hum that never goes away.

  The first swallow of the year flew over head, making the official announcement that spring is here. While the mosquitoes haven’t landed yet, there must be other insects that warrant this acrobatic bird’s appearance.

  Leaving the riverside, I followed the path through the campground area. It’s empty until the opening May 24 weekend. It’s strange seeing the empty sites with their own picnic tables waiting for families to gather around. The rusty, metal fire pits are waiting, too, for marshmallows and hotdogs. Maybe the fallen branches still have a purpose, being needed to hold the culinary delights that always taste best when cooked over flame and eaten outside.

  Cricket and I talked for a bit. God is working towards reconciliation there, too. It helps to have included her story in much of the recent writing. It’s made me realize I’ve held a huge part of my identity in a prison.

  I distanced myself from me, from Cricket, by emotional numbing. The lingering effects have taken a long time to dissipate. She, I, did it out of necessity because the feels were just too big to be felt. The doctors describe it as Dysthymia, a low grade, chronic depression. It’s been around since I was seven years old. Come to think of it, that’s when the songs to Jesus ended.

  It’s still in me to shut-er-down. I only need to flip the switch. This survival skill has been honed to perfection. It has only happened a couple of times since I came to the Lord. An overwhelming emotional response exploded during situations I was ill equipped to handle. Terror/fear/anger/rejection/outrage/guilt/shame had me reaching for the big guns of numbing. It was a lot to feel in one second.

  My son was there one time. He grabbed my shoulders and gave me a gentle shake, “Don’t do it, Mom. Don’t go there! Mom, come back!” He pulled me away from the abyss with his desperate cry.

  The shut-down is a place of emptiness, of aloneness; a hollow darkness that wraps the soul in shadows.

  It is also indiscriminate. The hard stuff is turned off but so is the good. In this place there is no joy, no hope, no childlike delight at the sight of the first swallow. It’s like walking through the world as a ghost.

  Shutting ‘er down smothers creativity.

  It means I can’t play the piano so that each note sings its own song to Heaven.

  It means the ability to paint a picture with words will no longer exist.

  It means it won’t ache for the poignant and fleeting beauty of a sunset.

  It means I am only half alive.

  I never want to be that way again.

  The deep, complex and sometimes bewildering emotions that now have a home in my breast are God’s gift. There is no shame in the tears that pour down or the outbursts of rage as I follow His calling to write the difficult writes of the last few weeks. There’s no shame in laughing about eating my chocolate Easter bunny ears first…obeying mandatory childhood protocol on how to consume a bunny.  Never eat the tail first!! It filled me with giggling delight to obey this rules!

  This glimpse of forgotten childhood innocence helps me love Cricket a little bit more.

  I don‘t have it in me to blame her any more, for being the one to teach me how to shut ‘er down. She had to, you know. It was the only thing she could do to survive.

   I can also forgive her for doing things to provoke a glimmer of emotional response; for desperately needing to know she wasn’t the walking, unfeeling, soul-less dead.

  The shut ‘er down power off switch stayed hidden from sight for most of my life. I am so grateful God knew where to find it.

  In Him I move and have my being. 

 

  “But I am like an olive tree, thriving in the house of God. I will always trust in God’s unfailing love. I will praise You forever, O God, for what You have done. I will trust in Your good name in the presence of Your faithful people.” Ps 52:8-9 

   NOTE: In doing my last proofread, it seems a single switch is a misleading metaphor. There were layers of shutting down, one on top of the other which, basically, turned off the lights in my heart. Compare it to the ones controlling the overhead lights in a massive factory. God has turned them on slowly, methodically, one switch at a time so as not to overload the fuse panel!