I was unable to keep my eyes open this afternoon and elected to take a nap, rather than sleep through an online support group meeting – one that I usually enjoy. But in fact, I found myself nodding off a bit during an earlier meeting and didn’t want to repeat myself.

Yesterday, in contrast, I ran a half marathon – meeting my goal of keeping it under two hours – and spent time in celebration with some of my extended family and their friends.

It was a bigger deal to me than that, though. I quit entering any running events after betraying myself and my wife with a female “running friend” five years ago. Well, except for one “virtual race” I entered during the worst of the COVID days, and then didn’t actually train for or complete.

Yesterday felt like redemption. I was in tears a few times while running – the feelings of gratitude and restoration were so overwhelming! Yesterday was big, and grand, and amazing.

Today has been a whimper. I slept for 10 hours last night, yet I’m still exhausted today – body, mind, and emotions. Seeking my familiar fix would, I must admit, be very pleasurable in this moment. The lie is that it could “kickstart” my emotions, but I know it would all come crashing in on me – and I’m dealing with enough feelings of “meaningless, meaningless” today.

I’m realizing that yesterday, I was outside my affect regulation Window of Tolerance – wayyy on the “high side”, in a hyper-arousal state. So I shouldn’t be surprised to find myself to be on the flip-side today – in a very low, hypo-arousal state. I’ve been able to practice enough self-compassion to stay out of the ditch, though it has taken me all day to fire up any curiosity about it. I guess that’s to be expected, considering my exhaustion. As for the third part of my recovery loop – connection- I’m endeavoring that, in part, through writing. And, I’m about to go for a short “recovery run” with my wife.

So, maybe the run wasn’t full redemption. More like redemption-ish?

I’m so disregulated right now!

This weekend was going to be a really enjoyable experience! I’m traveling to spend time with some of my extended family members and run a half marathon on Sunday. Today is my travel day.

Out of nowhere, I received a text that has absolutely confused me! It’s from someone I worked with (under) back when I was a “missionary” staff member. He and I didn’t really get along – probably because he undercut me from the moment he became my supervisor. I tried reasoning with him, which went nowhere. Looking back, it’s obvious now that he totally gaslit me. I was hurt by his actions, and asked to be transferred off his team not long after that. This is not a guy whose phone number I even kept in my phone. Why would I? I haven’t given him a single thought in several years.

Then today, he sends me this “hey bro, thought of you this morning” message, with a link to a podcast about something he thought might interest me.

I started to fire off a reply/retort that probably would’ve sounded like it came from a wounded animal. Instead, I messaged my sponsor, sent a video message to another friend, and started writing.

The thing is, the specific topic of this podcast does very much interest me. Also during my mission staff days, I had some close, deep interactions with the people in the podcast. The work they did and my time with them made a significant difference in my life. Their influence still directs my way of navigating the world today. It always will.

But why this guy thought of me, specifically, and chose to text me? I’m baffled. And, I’m feeling an old wound has been re-opened. I don’t want to deal with this, but I will. I must. I’m also feeling a lot of curiosity about this guy’s experience around this same topic. Maybe he needs a safe place to talk about things he’s experienced? I’m not sure, nor am I sure I want to be that for him.

I’m grateful I have safe outlets to process this. I don’t have any impulses to pick up old habits in order to medicate or numb out. I can exist in this tension, and will persist. I will continue on the recovery path. As for what happens with this guy…I just don’t know yet.

I was pulled into a difficult conversation last week, with one person I perceive to be as a dangerous individual who is either not at all self-aware or potentially very self aware – which is the greater danger. The other person in the conversation was someone I highly respect and consider to be very self aware and safe. The purpose of the conversation was to give me the opportunity to voice some concerns I had about the way dangerous guy was doing some things which were having a negative and even destructive impact on a larger group of individuals for whom I care a great deal.

The conversation started out somewhat amicably. However, the pattern was that I would state a concern, and DG would bob & weave, duck and deflect. He had what seemed like rehearsed, practiced, reasonable-sounding answers that didn’t ever really address the core issues or at all ease my concerns.

Even before the conversation ever started, I felt pretty emotionally on-edge. The guy had already been very dismissive towards me in previous 1-1 interactions. My perception was that a rock might be more likely to receive what I was hoping to get across, but I had to try.

And, try I did. With zeal and passion, I addressed my concerns. The guy was unmoved, uncaring. I added more details, more passion, more reason. Nothing. I added some volume, changed my cadence, and when nothing else worked, threw in a couple of zingers just to try and get him on his heels. Safe guy cautioned me about my approach. He didn’t tell me my position was wrong. He did what he could to restate my concerns, in a calm fashion, and even stated he shares the same concerns. Still, the conversation basically went nowhere. Dangerous guy made a couple of what seemed like concessions, yet I had no sense that he actually meant what he was saying.

An hour later, we ended the conversation with safe guy saying we would need to continue watching dangerous guy to see if things change on his part, and if not further action would happen.

I felt completely wrung out, and still the emotions were welling up inside of me. I felt a lot of criticism building up towards myself regarding how I’d handled the whole conversation. Why couldn’t I be more like safe guy?? Why couldn’t I be more easy-going and level-headed?? Why did I have to be so effing passionate?? Maybe dangerous guy would’ve responded differently if I hadn’t been so worked up!!

This self-critical conversation took up significant square footage in my mind, for longer than I care to admit. But then, I found another story forming. Another voice reminded me that when I was a child, I wasn’t allowed to bring big feelings into the room without encountering additional pain. My dad couldn’t allow me to have big feelings, because this would bring a risk that he might feel something. He could not attune to my disregulation or my emotions, because that brought the risk of him becoming emotionally disregulated. He was the single parent, with no one to help him co-regulate. He was convinced he had to be dispassionate in order to cope with life. Feelings were dangerous. Passion was just not allowed. If I wanted to cry, he would give me something to cry about – because inflicting physical pain on me was always an option in order to avoid emotional distress within himself. He had to remain in control.

Of course I was feeling so down on myself. My formative story was heavily at play. The dispassionate, reflective response of dangerous guy very much reminded me of my dad. Of course I felt like my passion was too much, out of place. But here’s the deal: it’s not my fault my dad didn’t know how to deal with my big emotions when I was a child. It’s not my fault dangerous guy is unresponsive to an emotional plea.

I am passionate. I care deeply about others. I’m designed that way. It’s part of what makes me who I am. I can own that rather than shame or be upset with myself for it. I don’t need to carve off parts of myself in order to have value and worth, or to bring value to conversations. I don’t need to be less than who I am just to fit someone – anyone – else’s unrealistic idea of who I am – least of all, my own! I am passionate. I can be regulated, reasonable and passionate.

It’s never okay to say “this is just who I am, deal with it”. It’s not okay to bulldoze others with my passion. That would be no different than what my dad did to me – just on the other end of the spectrum. I have agency in how I show up with and for others. And, it’s quite okay for me to be the fully passionate, deeply caring person I am.

I’m at the unknown place of solitude today. My friend and I arrived several hours ago. Now it’s a somewhat known place of solitude. He quickly got set up at the large table in the main area, and has since been at his computer and keyboard, headphones on, immersed in his work and world of creativity. I’m in another room, immersed in my own world, and letting my phone charge.

When we first arrived, I began noticing things around the exterior.

First, it was the sounds. Wind blowing through the forest around this place – a quiet roar. The various birds chirping, twittering, and squawking. The gravel and leaves crunching under foot.

I took in the sights. The relatively new construction. The sturdiness of the building itself. The metal roof – wouldn’t that sound great if it rained? The nice seating areas on the front porch. The hanging swing underneath the awning of the back porch. Ooh! I’m a huge fan of hanging swings. Definitely spending some time there!

Then it was the leaves – but not their sound this time. The piles of them on the front and back porches. I told my friend I would need to find a broom. How could anyone enjoy the porches with so many leaves piled on them? He just laughed. He doesn’t judge my compulsion for clean.

As we brought in our stuff, I noticed the clean smell of the interior. I mentally appreciated the arrangement and thought put into the seating and decor. I was glad to find there were ample rooms with nice enough bedding. My friend told me his room choice. I picked one with a couple of beds in it, with a small on-suite bathroom. Yay!

And then I went to locate a broom! The porches are now leaf-free. I’ve already spent considerable time on the swing out back. It’s comfortable, but creaks a good bit. Just another sound to notice.

I’ve also spent considerable time grappling with some difficult stuff. A couple of different situations where people within my circles are treating others poorly. These are people I want to believe have positive intentions, but their methods are unhealthy and damaging to others. “Eat the fish and spit out the bones”, some would say.

Brené Brown said:

“If you are not in the arena getting your ass kicked on occasion, I am not interested in or open to your feedback. There are a million cheap seats in the world today filled with people who will never be brave with their own lives, but will spend every ounce of energy they have hurling advice and judgement at those of us trying to dare greatly. Their only contributions are criticism, cynicism, and fear-mongering. If you’re criticizing from a place where you’re not also putting yourself on the line, I’m not interested in your feedback.”

(from this video – the quote starts around the 8 minute mark.)

I’m in the recovery arena. Nothing new there, right? What is a recent development is that there have been a couple of guys causing problems in the arena. They seem to have somehow crawled up into the cheap seats, and have been hurling some rotten fish back into the arena, hitting me and others just for being in the arena. Sorry, no, not gonna eat that fish. Actually, no…not even sorry. Hell no! I stand against stinky fish-hurlers. When something doesn’t smell right I am compelled to say something and start clearing the fish! This very much comes with the territory of being a disagreeable giver. I didn’t ask to be this way, and I can’t not be this way. If you come at me, I’ll stand up for myself, and I’ll endeavor to be reasonable about it. If you come at people I care about, Imma come in like Miley Cyrus!

My friend – the one I’m spending time with now – was someone who came at me, initially. In fact, it was only a short time after the reckoning. I was not in a good place at all, emotionally. Yet, I stood my ground and asked him to reconsider his position and approach. He was furious and told me I had no right to say any of the things I said. It was really painful, and I was already second guessing my every thought. I figured maybe this time my head was just too messed up. I must’ve been wrong.

But then, a few days later, he reached out and asked for some time to talk. When we met, he told me that everything I said was absolutely true, and only God could’ve revealed those things to me. That began the process of a friendship forged through some really hard seasons of life – at different points – for both of us. He was the friend I called after my horrible plane ride into the valley of death and before I sent my wife into shutdown mode. He has been my friend through it all – even though we both have moved several times and lived in separate states for several years.

There’s a comfortable-ness with our friendship. We’re rarely in the same space together. And even when we are, physically, we still find ourselves in two different worlds, creatively. But there’s no awkwardness about it.

I think this is how it is, with old friends.

21 years ago on this date, there was a reckoning. Yes. This date. Valentine’s Day. Yes, that reckoning. I handed my wife a “gift” she never wanted, and certainly didn’t deserve; a shitload of betrayal trauma. And it wasn’t wrapped up very neatly, either. In fact, I told her “mostly” the truth, and still hid some facets of the story. The rest of the truth (about that betrayal) “leaked out” over the next year or so. And then, 17 years after the first time, I did it again.

We know, now, the how and why behind it. The healing has come for both of us, over time. It’s still coming for us. I don’t have words to express the gratitude I have for how it’s gone. I know it could’ve gone any number of different ways.

We don’t really “celebrate” Valentine’s Day. We got out to celebrate Shrove Tuesday last night. Went to a restaurant where they were playing some great jazz and blues music – though maybe a little louder than necessary, it was super enjoyable to just hang out and be together.

This morning, we started with yoga together, and then just sitting and being with one another and listening to some music for a while.

“He heals the brokenhearted and binds their wounds”. Psalm 147:3

We don’t celebrate Valentines Day. Celebrate isn’t the right word for it. There’s a heaviness, for us, to this day. But there’s something else, too. A sweetness? A sort of peace that doesn’t make sense?

“And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.” Philippians 4:7

One of the songs we heard this morning is a new one from Ellie & Drew Holcomb: Brick by Brick. It’s been a long, painful process. But like the song says, the prison walls have been torn down, and in its place a home has been built. Theres still some work to be done, but it’s home – and it’s ours. Anywhere we are, I’m alright.

————————————————-

Note: if you or someone you know finds themself dealing with betrayal trauma, I want to point you to a blog I’ve been following for a while now. It’s the Sex Addiction Partners blog.

My therapist fired me yesterday.

No, don’t be sad about it. This is a good thing. Actually, I cannot tell you how incredible it is! When I first sought her out, I was feeling terribly stuck on a recovery plateau, with no understanding of how to continue moving forward. Like a rock climber stuck on a ledge, in need of a hand to help me up to the next point. She has been that hand.

I’ve worked with other therapists – with mixed results. Taking the good with the not-so-good, or even the confusing. Some people told me I shouldn’t work with a female therapist. Some people told me I needed to find one with the correct letters as part of their title. What I knew was that I needed someone with empathy, intuition, and understanding of trauma. By the end of our first session – just over a year ago – I felt certain she was exactly who I needed.

I am certain there are many, many highly qualified, highly skilled therapists in the world. I’m grateful I found one of them!

Over the past year, my therapist helped me care for the most painful, most ashamed, most angry, most controlling parts of myself. Not once did she bring even a speck of shame into the room. Always compassion. Always a level of intuition that was nothing less than a gifting.

We started a year ago with weekly appointments, and over time they became bi-weekly, then monthly. Even as we were scaling back, there was one time when I got pretty disregulated, and I was able to meet with her same-day, And then, towards the end of last year, we began talking about scaling back the sessions to as-needed. Yesterday, we talked about a few issues I had been working through, and then we agreed. It was time. She told me “You know who you are and where you are”. We both expressed our joy for how much things have changed for me in this year’s time. I got a little choked up. So did she. It was sweet, and beautiful, and right. And then, on my way out, I skipped past the receptionist’s desk and didn’t schedule another appointment. Then I sat in my vehicle, cried a few tears of joy, and began writing this post.

Of course, she’s still there if I get into another sticky spot. I am grateful. I’m also super grateful for the new ways of thinking and being that I am practicing. This, I’m certain, is what recovery is all about.

Our little dysfunctional “family” of four sat down together for dinner last night. This is not something that happens every night – more like 2-3 times per week, at best. My dad is a very particular eater, and has the palate of a third grader. He wants to know every ingredient that’s in a recipe, especially any spices or herbs. Anything mildly flavorful is considered “too spicy”. He all but stands over my shoulder to examine anything I’m preparing. This makes me want to just not cook anything for him. Meanwhile, my mom-in-law loves spicy food, and pretty much always adds more to whatever is prepared. When it comes to making meals, my wife is a recipe-follower, whereas I’m more of a “little of this, little of that” kind of cook. All that to say: we’ve eaten together twice this week and I’m pretty much at my limit.

So, while we were eating (a very mildly flavored taco soup prepared by my mom-in-law), somehow we got to talking about dessert. My dad said that rhubarb pie is his favorite dessert – even better than ice cream.

Rhubarb, on its own, is quite tart – almost sour. To make a rhubarb pie that tastes good, it must include a lot of sugar. Sometimes people add strawberries to help sweeten the flavor. It’s often served with a scoop of vanilla ice cream, to further sweeten the over-all flavor.

But… better than ice cream? There can be no such thing. Not as far as I’m concerned. It’s his answer, though, not mine.

I knew rhubarb pie was my dad’s favorite. I’ve eaten it through the years, on his birthday. What I didn’t know was how long it has been his favorite. From childhood? Sometime later? So, I asked “when was the first time you ate rhubarb pie?”

Dad thought for a minute, and then stammered “I think it would’ve been when your mom, er, natural mom, er, birth mom made it for me”.

He immediately followed up with “did I tell you about the time your mom (my stepmom) first made rhubarb pie for me?” and then launched into a story about that first time.

I understand that my dad was only married to my real/birth mom for a relatively short time (five years) compared to the forty years with my stepmom. And, I can even imagine that the first marriage wasn’t easy, and losing my mom, so young, to cancer was a very painful experience. I mostly have to imagine because he just doesn’t really talk about her. It’s always like this. She has forever been written off to the margins of his life. If he does talk about her, it’s “just the facts”, followed by a quick diversion down some other path.

And here’s the kicker: I’m so accustomed to him doing this. He dodges and deflects with great efficiency! Or, when pressed, he’ll just say he doesn’t remember. He gave me my answer, but then followed up so fast with the next story about my stepmom. I didn’t even notice it.

Yet this morning, when I woke up, I felt off somehow. Thankfully, I did not wake to a headache. Yet something felt amiss. I sat with it for a short while, and it came to me. I got an answer, but as usual it wasn’t what I was hoping for.

Fifty something years after my mom’s death, I still feel this ache, this empty place where memories are meant to be. My dad’s memory is getting worse. I don’t think I’ll ever have the answers I desire. But hey, at least I know it was my mom who first baked dad a rhubarb pie.

Just like that…we passed the 10% mark for this year.

I woke up w̶i̶t̶h̶ to a headache. No obvious cause. This puts me in a place of wanting to get away from myself. A perceived need for escape. For an addict, that’s more than enough cause for a relapse. I feel I just need to say that.

I have agency in this. I started with hydration. Unknown headaches can be due to mild dehydration. And then yoga – mindfulness can help me be more aware of the why behind the pain.

And, I’ll get in a meeting. Connection with others is part of my recovery loop. Admitting how I actually feel, rather than trying to “tough it out”. So, this post will be brief, and we’ll see how the day goes from here.

When we were doing mission work, my family and I traveled every couple of years to a big week-long gathering with thousands of people who were also part of the missions organization. During one of those trips, we took bikes with us, because the town where we were going had bike lanes and trails everywhere! Getting around was just easier on bike than by car. We were an open foster home at the time as well, so there were two adults and four teens on this particular trip. This meant hauling six bikes to the event. But once we arrived, we didn’t have to drive our vehicle anywhere for the whole week!

One afternoon, we were all gathering at our hotel after being scattered in several directions for much of the day. The next thing on our agenda was dinner at a place we were all pretty excited about!

The hotel was a small-ish hotel, just two stories high. Our rooms were on the second floor. We carried our bikes up & down the stairs and “parked” them in our rooms. Only, that day, I decided I would just stash my bike under the stairwell temporarily. We wouldn’t be there long – no sense in lugging it up & down!

I ducked under the stairs, leaned my bike against the far wall, turned around, stood up, and immediately sat down hard, seeing nothing for a few seconds, then seeing stars and feeling very disoriented. In my haste, I’d stood up too soon, smashed the top of my head on the steel stairwell beam above me, and almost blacked out from the sudden impact. Within the next few seconds, I crawled out from under the stairs, put my hand to my head which felt warm & wet, then ran up the stairs, barged into the room, and headed straight to the bathroom sink, bleeding profusely from a long, deep gash on the top left side of my head. I’d split my scalp!

I managed to get my head over the sink fast enough before much of the blood dripped anywhere else but on me. And wow, a head wound can sure bleed a lot! I just let it bleed for a while, then started trying to figure out a way to slow it down. Our other five family members were all there. My daughter wanted to see the wound. She even took photos so I could see it. About that time, one of the kids asked “does this mean we won’t get to go have dinner?” I’d forgotten about dinner.

We called a nurse friend who was there, asked her to come assess me and see if I might need to visit the ER. She looked carefully and said I could probably use several stitches, but I might also be able to dress it with some antibiotic cream and let it heal. Either way, I was going to have a sizable scar.

I didn’t want to be the reason everyone else in the family didn’t get to go eat at the place we were all so excited about. I decided not to go to the hospital. Instead, I waited for the bleeding to slow, slathered the whole area with gobs of antibiotic cream, covered it strategically with a “maxi pad”, put a hat on my head, and off to dinner we all went! Significantly later than we had planned, but we went. I don’t remember how dinner was. Might’ve had something to do with my throbbing head?

This incident happened years ago – 11 years ago, if memory serves me correctly. I can still put a hand up to my head and place four fingers in the “divot” that remains. I guess if I were to ever lose my hair, it would be obvious. As it is now, no one can see it. But still, I know. The wound healed, but the scar will always be there.

I’ve had a lot of headaches over my lifetime. I had them before this accident occurred, but I don’t think it helped. You know how some people say they can tell it’s going to rain because their elbow aches? Well, I get migraines sometimes when the weather pattern takes a significant shift. Coincidence? Maybe, maybe not.

Wounds heal. Scars remain. This is true for the body, and true for the mind, soul and spirit. Most scars are not visible. It’s safe to say that everyone who’s lived very long on this planet has scars of some kind. If we take time, we might even notice. Emotional scars can run much deeper than physical wounds. 11 years is a fairly long time, yet my head still bears the evidence of trauma. How long might it take for someone to recover from emotional trauma?

Maybe you’ve been hurt deeply. Please give yourself gobs of grace, kindness, and compassion. If you haven’t been hurt deeply, consider yourself fortunate – and just know there are people all around you who would be blessed by your grace, kindness, and compassion.

Wounds heal, scars remain.

A couple of days ago, I was just pulling up to the gas station when my phone rang. My heart sank. It was spin doctor‘s dad. I feared the worst. He’s still in jail, awaiting trial. Stuff happens in jail.

SD’s dad got straight to the point. His trial will be soon, and no one has sent in a “support letter”, except for his parents. These support letters are shared with the judge, as consideration for his sentencing.

I sent SD a letter, a while ago, and he never wrote me back. I asked his dad if he happened to have mentioned anything about me writing. I was led to believe by SD’s dad, in a conversation a few weeks ago, that they’re in pretty much daily communication. He told me they haven’t talked much lately and SD doesn’t really answer letters very often – not that he doesn’t have time or ability. He just chooses not to. I was also led to believe that SD had a group of guys from his church recovery program who have rallied around him, providing support and staying in frequent contact with him. SD’s dad says he doesn’t really talk to anyone other than his parents. He just reads books and waits.

I can understand how SD would be feeling depressed right now. Ashamed. Despondent. I am having a lot more trouble understanding how his support group would not keep reaching out. I can’t understand how none of them would be willing to write any sort of letter on his behalf. But then again, I’ve felt uneasy about the particular church recovery program he’s been part of for a long while. Too much smoke blowing, not enough material to keep the fire going.

After that phone call, found myself getting pretty angry. What was I supposed to do?? SD hasn’t even responded to my letter. Why should I even write a letter for him?

I know what it’s like to feel as though there’s something terribly wrong with me – the despondency that brings. I know what it’s like for someone to speak a little hope into my life, even when – from all outward (and inward) appearances, I probably don’t deserve it. I’m reminded of what it’s like to receive what I once heard Dr. Curt Thompson call a “beautiful surprise of grace” and how that can begin to do an incredible work. I know how – as Brené Brown writes – shame, when exposed to empathy, loses its power and begins to fade. I was also just reminded of Mary Gauthier’s beautiful, poignant song Mercy Now. I am only too aware that people only get this broken because they’ve experienced a crushing level of trauma in their own lives. And, without assigning any blame, they didn’t get the help they needed to overcome it. I could blame SD for not owning his shit – which I truly don’t think he’s ever done. I could blame his parents for whatever part they’ve played in him being a grown-ass man and still being this effed up. I can certainly blame his “recovery group” for not having the cojones to actually support him when the shit hit the fan. All of this is somewhat conjecture on my part. I recognize that. And obviously, I’ve got some more work to get through before I know what else I can (safely, in health) do to support spin doctor. Maybe nothing. We’ll see.

It took me a couple days to get through my frustration with SD, my anger towards his “support group”, and go ahead and write the damn letter. Not that I’ve released those feelings entirely…or hardly at all. This just sucks. And I didn’t sugar coat what I wrote, either. I didn’t make up stuff about him that might not be true or try to spin him in any overly-optimistic way. I basically just said I know how difficult addiction is and how challenging recovery can be, and I hope he is given some avenue to seek help – including therapy, so he’s not just rotting in a cell, becoming just another statistic. And still, I’m really bothered by SO many aspects of this whole damn situation. So, as soon as I hit “send” on that letter (emailed), I came to this blog and kept writing. I needed it.