The Red Carpet of My Mind

It occurs to me that making friends on the internet is kind of an odd exercise when it comes to me. I spend a lot of time watching people…how they speak, what they say, body language, tone inflection, etc. Last night, I spent a good amount of time talking with Sara, and we talked for hours about subjects I’ve almost never discussed with anyone in my entire life, except maybe with Audra.

When I first set up my blog, it never occurred to me to not put my picture on my gravatar or in the About Me section…But some of my new friends on the internet chose to keep their physical appearance a secret. In fact, most of my Blogosphere friends who opted for anonymity have been assigned a “look” in my head based on some pretty goofy criteria.

For instance, Sara looks like Katherine Heigl to me in my head from 27 Dresses. I guess it is because of her alters, though I never really have analyzed why she looks like that specific character except that she gives not many hints about her physical attributes…

What Sara looks like to me in my head…


And then there is Terry, who has only ever told me that she is a tiny bit overweight, which is nothing much to go on because I know anorexic looking women who say the same thing. So, in my mind, Terry looks like one of my favorite actresses of all time — Kathy Bates, but specifically how she looked when she was playing Delores Claiborne..I loved that movie! And Kathy plays a wonderful, fierce caregiver in that movie for her friend Vera, who wasn’t always all that appreciative, and frankly I think she looks beautiful.

Terry looks like this in my mind…


The phenomenon works on anyone I tend to communicate with or about that causes any big emotion in me. For instance, any one who reads Sara’s site knows that her therapist recently violated her trust to a spectacular degree, is kind of arrogant and dismissive of her reactions to said violations of trust , has breached his code of ethics, if you ask me, and has been a general stumbling block to Sara’s fight to heal from her childhood sexual abuse. So, in my mind, this is what doctors who cause more damage than healing look like:

George Burns…or decide..

Last night, I actually had a better monkey picture, but after I looked closely at it this morning, I decided I wasn’t as brave as I was last Sara even dared me, but I can’t use it, so I lose this dare. But I think this picture pretty much says how I feel about people who misuse their power. 🙂

I wonder, does anyone else do this image assigning in their heads? Or is it just me that is so weird!!

— Bird


Shame’s Destruction And How Satan Almost Won

Do You Believe in Shame?
Do You Believe in Shame? (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

This is a hard post for me to write, but for the last several hours, and even in my sleep, it keeps coming up, so I’m just going to write it, and have faith that it will mean something to someone. Rebekkah, you probably won’t want to read this one…

When I was molested as a girl (12), it set into motion a ton of painful things. Children are not physically designed to have sex. They aren’t mature enough to deal with all of the powerful emotions that this act creates.On top of this, this trauma physically changes the brain of the person that it is happening to.  So,  a child that is introduced to it too early, and unwillingly, basically has their life derailed from that point on. And it was no different for me. There are libraries of books, and a ton of websites, not to mention specific blogs, dedicated to the after-effects that sexual trauma to children wreaks on these now-adult people’s lives. So, I’m certainly not going to be able to sum it all up in one little article on my little site. Instead, I’m only going to discuss one particularly hard part of this experience that I ended up having to completely depend on Jesus to heal. And that was the shame.

Shame is a complex emotion if you really think about it. There is the good kind of shame, which any person with a conscience should have. If you steal an old woman’s purse on a bus, and you feel shame right afterward, then, good. You should feel ashamed of yourself. But then, there is the bad shame. And this is the shame that makes you ashamed of who you are, not what you’ve done.

The first time this person molested me, my mind went into shock. There was a numbness that I would never be able to convey to anyone who has never had this happen to them. It is like my very soul was screaming, knowing that nothing would be the same again, and yet my mind was strangely silent. But my body responded to what was happening to me, and that was just unforgivable to me. I was being betrayed by my own self. You can get away from anything in the whole world, but never yourself.

Later that first night, alone, in shock, devastated, and feeling dirty and used, I couldn’t even cry. In fact, it took me days, maybe even a week, to come out of the fog of what had happened to me. And the one thought that kept ringing over and over in my mind was that my body had betrayed me. That I had to be a whore that deserved this. I threw up every time I thought of it, and to this very day, I still get sick to my stomach when I think about those feelings of shame.

The shame, introduced to me at the age of 12, never lessened at all as I grew up. Derailed, but still a teenager, I would have an occasional crush, but I mainly kept them to myself. I was terrified that one of these boys would actually like me back, because I knew I could never really be close to them…I had a secret to protect. I couldn’t let on that I was so horrible…

My first boyfriend in high school, Shane (not his real name), was kind of a lesson in how this was all going to go for me. Shane was a normal, nice guy….my first introduction to “bad” boys..ha, ha. He had a band, and I simply fell in love when I heard him sing “I Wear My Sunglasses At Night”. But, as soon as he was officially my boyfriend, I could feel myself tighten up, withdraw, withhold.I didn’t really want him to touch me, or kiss me, or anything. I know it sounds strange, but I wanted to be loved, but not touched. I simply didn’t trust my own body..I didn’t want him to find out that I was dirty and shameful. And eventually, it died out, because I just couldn’t deal with my own self-image, and what I was portraying to him was an illusion that I couldn’t maintain.

This experience rang true in every relationship that I had until the one I’m in right now. And even this one suffered quite a bit due to my inability to deal with my horror at my own reaction to being molested. It wasn’t until I came clean to my husband now about why I had such a hard time with intimacy that I was actually able to begin the long, hard road to reprogramming my own self image.

As Jesus does with all of His children, He started to lead me out of the shame by first pointing out that God designed our bodies for this sort of activity, and it had not been a sin for my body to respond. Next, He pointed out that only one person in this little hideous activity was sinning, and that this particular sin was abhorrent enough to the Lord that it had a special vehemence in the Bible…A millstone, a neck, and the deepest part of the ocean are all involved. That is how much Jesus grieved these sorts of things happening to children.

Next, I had to embrace the fact that the blood of Christ washes away the most foul of sins, and was indeed powerful enough to cleanse me. That done, I had to forgive myself. Even though I hadn’t been guilty of anything, my own mind had judged my body and found it guilty. I had to grant a pardon to my body, and then let it go.

After forgiving myself, I found it easier to forgive the molester, and all these years later, I can honestly say that I have completely forgiven both him, and myself. I do want to say, though, that physical intimacy is an area that I continue to struggle with even to this day. But, it is only a shadow of what it once was, and sometimes serves to remind me of just how far I’ve come since this all first happened to me.

Now that I’ve written this painful thing, I’m going to go in my room, cry, pray, and go to sleep and never read it again.

— Bird