Several Years - a healing poem by survivor, Joshua Scott
Joshua was 16, when he wrote his heart & healed a piece of mine.
Sometimes I lay awake at night
There doesn't seem to be any light
Its twisted and warped and bent
There is just so much pain
Horrible hurt, livable hell,
But those are one in the same
Locked in, trying to break free
Invisible cages that no one can see
Spiritual ropes and whips on a rack
Secret things done behind your back
Things that are only done in the dark
Things that would hurt you
And break more than your heart
I stare at the ceiling and think in my head
There are so many people who wish they were dead
Think they are worthless over and over again
Dragging a blade over the top of their skin
Beating themselves 'till they're black and blue
...sometimes, I want to do those things too
When the pain is just so much
That you can't feel peace
Or loves’ touch
You feel like a beast
You feel crippled without a crutch
Just smile at least
But just that is too much
Because you feel so weak
You can't even cry
You can't speak
And you can't even die
The world is caving in
You can feel it collapse
You tried to start over again
But this is a relapse
You can't tell the difference between anger and grief
All the pain is one and you just have to grit your teeth
But the sound of the grinding is getting louder
You've done it so much that your teeth are now powder
You wish it was a nightmare
Just a terrible dream
But this is no nightmare
And you just scream and scream
But you can't scream out loud
Only in your head
Or others will find out
And then you're as good as dead
For isolation and death are just as well
They are the fire
And they both make up hell
You see no one wants to walk through this with you
Stand by your side
Carry and support you
Always be there and never leave you
Crawl through the fire while holding you
No one wants to feel that much pain
Over and over and over again
But there is one who will make it known
That you do not have to walk through the fire alone
He will be there as long as you need Him
As long as you have planted your life's seed with Him
To Him the fire is nothing
He walks through it every day
He's felt everyone's fire
He's felt everyone's pain
And He will never leave you alone to burn on this rack
As long as you never turn and show Him your back
“For He loves you and if you give Him your heart
He’ll protect it for you while the world tries to tear you apart ”
But some people hate Him and call him a liar
They say "if He really loves me, then why won't He spare me the fire?!"
But you see, it is not His desire
For you to burn forever in the fire
He wants to see you come out the other side
Holding your head up, beaming with pride
For if you can take the heat a little bit longer
You will come out of it ten times stronger.
#Hope #Healing #NOTDestroyedFamily
"Mama, my banana isn't full" and other heartbreaking + empowering moments in parenting.
It started whimsically. After calling Hannah “Hannah Banana” so many times, I started to rhyme Joshua’s name, too. “Joshua Squash-oo-ah” - you know, because it rolls right off the tongue, right?
Not really. But families are goofy at best & we are the goofiest of all.
But a friend of ours couldn’t stand that the middle child was left out of the consumable nickname trend going on, so as he left our home one day he proclaimed “I’ve got it! He’s “Noah Cup-a-Joe-ah!” and it stuck. They were 2, 4 & 6 years old. My goodness were they cute. And tiny! Tiny little edibles.
Hannah Banana
Joshua Squash-oo-ah
Noah Cup-a-Joe-ah
Often they were called by the second half of their names only. Banana, Squash-oo-ah, Cup-a-Joe-ah & that’s just how it was. No one questioned it!
As they struggled to make sense of their emotional ups and downs, we talked. A lot. (still do!) We talked about how that sad feeling they had sometimes was because their cup was empty and it needed to be filled. Joshua and I talked about it the most. He was dealing with his therapy and recovery from the assaults he’d endured and this helped him to name where he was on the emotional scale that day. A good day meant his cup felt full. Days where he felt heavy and sad, angry at what had happened or just a general feeling of frustration, he could tell me his cup was pretty empty and we’d work together to fill it up and make things incrementally better. It was a wonderful & empowering tool for our boys in recovery. I highly recommend it.
Then one day, a tiny Hannah toddled up to me and told me her Banana was empty.
Now, you’ve just read all of this back to back, so of course you get what she meant. All that talk about Cups & Noah had cup in his nickname, so little Hannah had connected the two and then told me her Banana wasn’t full. I didn’t have that privilege & I have to tell you it confused the heck out of me!
But when I did get it, I felt both happy she was able to express her emotions and sad she felt empty. One look into her eyes and I knew it was true - her banana was, indeed, empty. But I knew what to do for my little girl & we filled her right up!
For years, she expressed herself in measures of banana and like other moments of being little, she grasped what she’d done and changed her language. I was sad all over again.
As they grew older, Joshua and I refined the discussion to where they all have multiple cups - one for God, for each parent, for peer relationships, for adult relationships, finally for romantic relationships. The tool has expanded to help us understand one another’s needs and when to fill them. We seek to help those who fill their cups in all the wrong places and/or walk around empty. It’s still empowering.
And there’s never been a better example than the day Hannah told me her banana wasn’t full.
(Just so you know, today she is VERY full in ALL her cups!)
Finding Feel-Good Food
My grandmother passed away around the age of 70.
My mother passed away around the age of 60.
I’m not superstitious, but I turn 50 in 30 months & I have to tell you, I’m nervous!
Hannah was having bouts of unexplained fatigue & we realized she hadn’t been to any sort of doctor appointment for at least 4 years. Since she follows her gluten free diet, celiac disease no longer keeps her ill more than she’s well. As it turns out, she was being glutened at work, which led to the fatigue, but while we were investigating she had all the requisite bloodwork done & filled out the obligatory family history.
Our family history is shriek-worthy.
Cancer? Yep. Everyone.
Heart disease? Yes. All the men.
Diabetes? If you live long enough.
Mental Illness? Don’t ask!
What to do? What to do?
And besides our family’s celiac disease being combated with dietary changes, we also have Hemachromatosis, Ulcers & High Blood Pressure, High Cholesterol - all in our immediate family. (Noah is the lucky one without a diagnosis, but at 20 he already has to watch his weight. Not sure which is worse!) We’ve learned we can prevent illness and combat illness by changing our diet.
Celiac Symptoms? Gone.
Hemachromatosis Symptoms? Gone. (blood donations are required, too)
Fibroid Tumors: Gone.
ALL from changing our diets.
And after many years of research, trial and error plus stocking up on the ulcer meds & probiotics I need whenever I change my diet, since my digestive system rebels, I’m going to take the next 30 months to heal through food.
“Let food be thy medicine and medicine be thy food.”
The hardest part of this? Feeling Selfish
My poor mom had no love language. She was such a damaged person, she didn’t know how to give or receive love even to me, her daughter. But because it comforted her, she did always have comfort food around. And I equate food to love to this day. Obviously, I’m not alone in this. Not even close.
When Joshua was recovering, we discovered he was hoarding food. I knew children of trauma did this coming from abusive homes, but didn’t know it could happen in a safe home where a child experiences a few incidents of assault from an outside source. As soon as we discovered it, food was everywhere in our home and the restrictions on eating between meals and whenever anyone wanted were lifted. I kept healthy options on kid level and a few fun fillers and (somehow) these choices were enough to stop the fear-based hoarding. My kids don’t have a faulty, broken, pathetic relationship with food like mommy. Thank you, God.
Every member of my family is on board with my health journey. They believe in me & they all have a love for good food. And if they crave something off the menu, they can drive to it. Anytime.
But it was the only “love” I received growing up & the idea of taking that away from my family immediately puts me in tears. Shouldn’t I have cinnamon toast & sweetbreads ready in the morning? Pancakes on the weekends? Shouldn’t we have dessert on the weekends?
Nope. I need to pour nutrition into my body while it heals. Or I’ll be the next one to have cancer. Heart Disease. Degenerative Disease of my choice. And I don’t want to die young. I want to be a mom, a grandma, a wife, an adventurer until at the age of 105 during a trip no one could believe I was able to take at that age, I die peacefully in my sleep. Next to David. He’ll go at the same time. We’ll have just celebrated our 85th anniversary.
Dream big or go home & become another statistic sitting in a chair watching other people on TV, right? Until you die.
I’m scared, but I’m doing it anyway.
I’ll be back to tell you all about it.
The Year Hannah Became Formidable, Fearless & Fierce
At 4, she refused to dress as another princess.
No.
She would be “Princess Hannah” and that was that.
Always a vision for her own future, never one that looked like anyone else’s. That’s a tough order to make for yourself. And she had extreme shyness, loss and more to overcome.
But she did. She has. And 2019 has been an incredible journey of self-realization, loss, overcoming & victory for my little girl who’s not so little anymore.
Before 2019 began, Hannah was still in a cycle of insecurity and newness - new job, new to being the only Scott kid in homeschool, new to discovering her first crush & a new church. And then she got the part of Millie in Hello Dolly, just when she needed it. Of course, she killed it!
As the musical closed and Hannah’s closest friends in the cast began to post photos on Instagram of gatherings she wasn’t invited to, I looked to Hannah for how this would make her feel. Not one ounce of resentment or sadness poured out of her. She knew she could make musicals and her theater friends the center of her day-to-day life and they would embrace her with open arms - they’re lovely that way. But she also knew she sometimes had a hard time relating to their lives, with new cars in the driveway with a giant bow on the top, trips to New York for musicals and piles of amazon boxes on the porch. If she wanted a car, she’d have to work for it. Amazon boxes, too. She’s never been to New York (yet!) Her friends with more financial resources never - not once! - made her feel less than. But she had discovered people at her job could understand her better, simply because their lives were different. She’s so much wiser than I am & because her love for all of her friends never wavers, her life is better than mine ever could have been as a teenager.
CFA
Where Hannah found her people!
She’s not superhuman though, & the loss of her cast friends interacting on a daily basis while she wasn’t fully comfortable at her relatively new job was still a stretch for her. Just in time, God stepped in. As He so often does! Hannah was scouted by a talent agent and that’s why we have photos like the one below.
But, wait! There’s more. This next story gets me in all the feeling places - anxiety & fear, tears of loss, sadness as she questions her worth & finally, relief.
You see, My brave girl went month after month wishing the boy she liked more every day would notice her.
He didn’t.
Not once.
So she plucked up her courage and flat-out told him she liked him.
”You’re adorable… I like you…. Now you know… Ball’s in your court….” (I’m paraphrasing)
Can you even imagine? And you know what happened next?
FLAT
OUT
REJECTION.
NO THANK YOU, MA’AM. I AM NOT LOOKING TO DATE ANYONE AT WORK.
”Mom. I know you’ve told me I’m pretty my whole life, but you’re my mom. You’re supposed to think that. And I’ve never been asked out by a boy. Not once. Are you sure it’s not that I’m…….”
”Oh, baby. I’m sure. “
The next shift, she worked alongside him. I dropped her off, remembering the tears of the night before, knowing there was nothing I could do to take the pain of rejection away. She stepped out of my car and walked in. She & I both learned that day - Hannah really does NOT run from that which is hard. She faces up to it.
She was so much more relaxed around him, now her truth was out in the open, that when she was forced to receive training from him (by an unknowing 3rd party) she sucked it up & began to make jokes.
He laughed.
Really, did he even stand a chance?
It didn’t take him long to figure out he was turning down an amazing opportunity, and now - of course, he’s smitten.
He was slow, but he came around.
Yep. They’re adorable. We adore him. He’s every bit as sweet as she is. I already wrote about what a gift he is & many months later, it’s even more true.
While this relationship was developing & Hannah was discovering that being a very girly, very blonde person means there’s not a lot of audition opportunities, many other things were happening in her life.
Our sweet Alyx got married!
and Hannah danced all night long.
HAMILTON!
This was a VERY BIG DEAL.
Travel is always a huge part of our lives - the three photos at the top were just Hannah & me, exploring Canada & California. The bottom three are during our spring trip to Walt Disney World. She may look the same, but Hannah’s heart was very different by the end of trip #2.
Loss
2019 was a year of loss for not just Hannah, but all of us. And during our trip to Florida, she was coming to terms with her first one of the year as she lost the affection of who she thought was her dearest friend. During the second trip, her sweet boyfriend’s close friend was tragically killed. They skyped via internet from the ship, while we were at sea. My heart broke, just listening to them talk. Losses continued through the rest of the year, but none compared to the one we had no idea was coming.
Sweet Channing
We had to say goodbye too quickly, too early & the pain is fresh. We lost our Channing between Thanksgiving and Christmas and it will never feel okay. Not ever.
Hannah loved to make Channing laugh. Channing loved to make Hannah laugh. That’s what they were doing in these photos - in all the photos I have of them together. Hannah especially loved to give Channing spontaneous hugs, that she pretended to hate. They were each other’s oldest friends.
In the months leading up to this grievous loss, we were able to spend whole weekends together. Hannah laughed with Channing, as always. And for the first time, she helped her with her medicine and troubles with the bathroom & showers. I saw Hannah jump to be Channing’s personal caregiver without hesitation, question, pity or repulsion. I thought it would happen for the rest of their lives. I still can’t imagine it ended so quickly.
The loss is fresh, but I look forward to sharing the journey someday.
My girl also became a more deeply rooted Christian, stronger in her faith, more attached to her family & increasingly driven toward Christ-driven adulthood this year. She prays more, studies more, lives her faith OUT LOUD.
For the first time, she took a trip without me. It’s a gift to never doubt your child’s personal convictions, because they are 100% her own. Just like she would never be another princess but Hannah. She’s not another version of me. She’s Hannah. All Hannah. All the time.
And even though we ended our year with penetrating loss, Hannah did finally make it to an audition she could get. She’s in rehearsals for her second romantic lead, to perform this February.
To know Hannah is to realize she is fiercely loving, kind, thoughtful & generous. She has a tremendous sense of justice, a desire to please God, then her family, then to care for others. We surround her with protection for her physical self, yes. Even more so, we surround her by pouring love in so she can continue to bless others with a whole and giving heart. The world is a better place with Hannah in it. I am a better person for having her in my life.
Brokenness - My personal story of sexual assault
As my daughter begins her journey of dating and relationships, I’ve found myself revisiting my past to help her navigate her present. Gentlemen. Predators. All the shades inbetween. Like most women, I have multiple chapters where I was forced into something sexual I didn’t want, followed by a period of pain and shame-filled actions as a result. Perhaps by writing my experience here, I can help other daughters navigate their present, too. Perhaps I can help you?
As my daughter begins her journey of dating and relationships, I’ve found myself revisiting my past to help her navigate her present. Gentlemen. Predators. All the shades inbetween. Like most women, I have multiple chapters where I was forced into something sexual I didn’t want, followed by a period of pain and shame-filled actions as a result. Perhaps by writing my experience here, I can help other daughters navigate their present, too. Perhaps I can help you?
WARNING: This post is graphic and painful. Yes, there are triggers - for victims, those who love victims and people who love me. Proceed with caution and guard your heart.
How I Was Groomed To Be A Victim
I was 17. I’d been going to my new high school for less than a year, and been posturing the whole time. I stepped from a small town world where everyone knew I was a “good girl” brainy person, into a faster-paced world of popularity, partying and impurity. My desperation to fit in kept me in a state of constant deceptive performance. I poured beer into bushes at parties so people would think I drank it. I held a burning cigarette, but didn’t inhale. And I could talk the talk, but I’d never walked the walk of sexual experimentation.
And then I met a boy who paid attention to me, who professed his love for me on the first date. My even greater desperation to have someone love me was huge, and I drank his “love” up like a person dying of thirst would drink water. He was tall and accepted, if not the most handsome of boys who were vying for my attention at that time. He was just goofy enough to make me feel like he was safe; like he was the exception to those surrounding us. His father was an attorney in town and they were active members of the Baptist church, so why shouldn’t I expect to be treated the way boys treated me back home? By home, I meant the town I grew up in. Where I lived now in Texas, felt nothing like home.
Then he began taking me to his house for the last hour or two of our dates, where we walked straight into his darkened room and he shut the door. I followed like a lost lamb. His parents would greet us as we walked through. I knew they heard his door lock. I was overwhelmingly uncomfortable with the whole situation, particularly when he showed me the collection of Playboys his father supplied him with, stacked neatly in the closet.
As uncomfortable as I was, my senior boyfriend never forced himself on me. He never pushed me physically, that I remember. He just began a methodical emotional push toward sex, until I at least considered it. I went so far as to go get a prescription for birth control pills, which promptly made me vomit. Daily. My plan was to stop taking them, but I didn’t know how to tell my boyfriend, so in my typical weak fashion I kept taking them. And I kept vomiting.
I was taking them when I left for my spring break trip to El Paso, to stay with a youth pastor’s family I met while at a leadership camp for my church. I was so happy to be wanted somewhere, and usually summers and school breaks meant watching others go and have fun while I stayed at home with a nearly agoraphobic mother, so I knew this was going to be great. And I got away from the pressuring boyfriend, too.
Looking back, my growing acceptance of my boyfriends’ treatment had groomed me not to speak up for myself. Coupled with my mother’s severe insistence I never rock the boat, bother anyone or really be something anyone could ever remotely be upset with, I was destined for abuse. I only needed someone who was ready to take advantage of me, and I was headed straight to that person without any ability to defend myself or anyone ready to defend me.
My first hint of what was to come was when I walked into the house where it would happen. I was entering a home of a family with parents, siblings and my friend, someplace I never dreamed would be unsafe. I’d let this young man chastely kiss me one time the summer before on a bridge at camp, but in my naivete I had thought informing him I had a boyfriend when he invited me to visit for a week “and go to church events” meant that he would consider me off limits, and we’d just be friends. I was excited to see him, to meet his family, to see our mutual friends who lived in the beautiful city of El Paso. I wasn’t attracted to him, but we’d been friendly without a mention of anything else for nearly a year. All of a sudden, my nightmare began.
“Where should I put my bags?”
He walked me to his room. He motioned to his bed.
”Where will you sleep?” I asked.
”With you, of course. You don’t mind, do you?”
Of course, I minded! But I had zero idea what to do. His room was right off the living room. His mother watched us walk in and I felt pretty sure she’d overheard what he said. I immediately began to justify this somehow in my head. I was probably being prudish. They had a small house & maybe this is just what’s comfortable for them? I’d slept in a bed with my best friend, Brian before. We had no trouble treating each other like brother & sister, so maybe this guy had the same thing in mind? Surely, he did! I mean, his mother watched us walk in the room! If he meant something different, that would make her complicit. And in my mind, there was no way a mother would be complicit about something like this.
But then I thought of my boyfriend’s mother watching me walk through and hearing the click of the door. I thought of his stack of Playboys above the basket of clean laundry she’d placed in there, proving she was complicit in all ways. Yes, mothers could be complicit.
I wanted to throw up. This time it wasn’t the birth control pills.
How It Happened
That afternoon, we walked over the border to Mexico with a large group of friends - his friends, not our church friends. I had fallen in love with Mexico as a child, and felt no fear of visiting the country. Many members of my family were/are from Mexico and everything about the culture feels safe and happy to me. Everyone with me was Mexican & they all pledged to watch out for the lily-white girl in their midst. I began to relax and feel safe. I started to have fun.
We went to a club with loud music in english - I recognized all the music and sang along. The club was clean and full of all colors of people, and I so loved to dance. I was having the best time! “Look at me!” I thought. “I DO get to go places.” I would have something to talk about when we all got back after spring break and returned to school. “See, people! I am NOT a loser!”
My friend asked if I wanted something to drink. By the way he said it, I knew he meant an alcoholic drink. I’d learned how to be a partying participant without risking my well-being, or so I thought. I told him I would drink ONE drink, but it needed to be girly. Something frothy or frozen, or fruity. I knew those were expensive & he’d only want to buy one, plus the alcohol would be minimal.
No one had told me - ever - that girls can get drugged in these situations. And because no one had described it to me before, when the haze washed over me and I needed help standing up, I thought this must be what people meant by a strong drink. Nothing had prepared me for this moment.
They were working as a group to help me back across the border. Later, my memories came back to me in fragments, with gaps inbetween. I remember their frantic talk before we talked to the border crossing guards. Would they stop me? Would something happen to them because of me? In my stupor, I think I tried to convince them it would be fine & it didn’t matter I was caucasian. I didn’t understand what they meant.
I kept looking down, trying to focus on the lines in the pavement. Burned American flags littered the space outside the entrance to the US from Mexico. “Should this make me concerned?” I wondered. I was too out of it to care.
And suddenly, I was in his house; his room; his bed. And he was on top of me. I don’t know how I got there, or if I even helped. Did they carry me? I wasn’t very big. My first fully formed memory of the night after I took the drink, was pain. So Much Pain. His penis was pressing against my pubic area, but he hadn’t tried to enter me. Perhaps he’d already realized I was a virgin and it would be difficult? I honestly didn’t know what had happened in the moments leading up to this painful, methodic thrusting going on over me, in my friends bed. Not all my clothes were off. This confused me. “Didn’t people take all their clothes off to have sex? Why didn’t my friend have all his clothes off?” my brain was in a state of wondering confusion about this person, my friend. I wondered what my friend was doing, as I emerged from the haze.
At that moment is when I finally realized, he was not my friend. He had never been my friend. And my ever-increasing pain told me I was in trouble. Also, my assumption was that crying out wouldn’t help, because in that moment of barely emergent fuzzy non-clarity, I believed his family had clearly gotten together and put me in his bed. My messed up mind believed she was in on the whole plan. I was still out of it - only my pain was garnering my attention, and the pain was forcing me to ever increasing levels of coherence. I could feel my pubic hair being ripped out from his dry thrusting against me. I felt what would later turn out to be blood, dripping down and inbetween my legs. The introduction of fluid as lubrication - my blood - increased his excitement and he pushed more and harder. The pain was intense. And all the time, he was begging me to let him in. I could make the pain stop, if I just let him into my vagina. I honestly don’t remember telling him he could. Maybe I did? I don’t know. But I do remember the relief of no longer having skin and hair ripped out in chunks. And I’m pretty sure at that moment, I again passed out. I know my memory stopped from either drugs or trauma, though I’m not sure which.
How It Never Happened
The next morning, his mother made tortillas. I don’t remember if I ate any.
We went to church. I don’t remember the service.
I stayed for many more days. I took my pills. I let him do what he wanted to me, when he wanted to do it. I was no longer drugged so as to allow it, but I might as well have been. In that moment where I was aware of the assault, I ceased to care what happened to me. The shame consumed me, instead. As the days wore on, I believed I must have created the problem. It was my fault. I mean, I was there and letting it continue? Wasn’t I just as complicit as his mother, as his friends, as him - the person I thought was my friend?
Right before we parted at the airport, he gave me a piece of jewelry as a gift. It felt like a burning coal in my hand. I thanked him, and walked away. I threw it away when I got to my home airport. I would never see or speak to him again.
While on my flight home, I planned how to tell my mother. The depth of my pain, fear and even my physical healing made me nervous. I was in over my head, and I knew it. I wanted to tell her everything. I wanted a doctor to tell me I was okay, that I could have kids. The violence of the sex I’d experienced left me scared I was truly destroyed from the inside out.
As soon as we were alone - my mother and I, I approached her with my birth control pills in my hand. In my mind, they were the beginning of the problem. If I’d never considered having sex, this wouldn’t have happened to me. Right? It was ME. I was the problem. I needed to start with that - with my own culpability. I need to confess it all. To purge. To feel some relief. She stared with hard, steel eyes at the pills I held out. She didn’t seem to be breathing.
When she did speak, it was with fury. How could I make up such a horrific lie? How dare I do this to her? Was I really that cruel?
I’m not cruel. I’m kind. I’m a lot of things, but cruel has never been one of them. I was confused by my mother’s words; by her accusations. How could my own mother not believe me?
After many tears and pleas for help, something I said must have penetrated, because my mother said she didn’t care if it was the truth, she didn’t want to hear about it. I’d brought it upon myself by wanting to go visit & pressuring her into letting me. And I absolutely, positively must never tell anyone - and especially my father. If I did, he would hate me & leave, then where would we be? She couldn’t support us on her own. I’d need to shut up and leave her alone, already. I was required to shut up & never speak of it again.
So, I did. I shut up. Instead, I acted out my shame. From March of my senior year, until I met my future husband on Valentine’s Day of my freshmen year in college, I walked in worthlessness. 11 months of regrets would follow, one by one by one.
How I Failed To Cope
I didn’t pour the drinks out anymore. I drank as much as I could. What did it matter? I was worthless.
I let my boyfriend have sex with me. What did I care? I was worthless.
And when some of his best friends picked up on my newfound hypersexuality, they took me out behind his back. I didn’t have sex with them, but I came close. I’d become a giant tease, convincing myself my sexuality was a tool I now had control of. But really, what did it matter…….
You know, hypersexual girls who act out as a result of abuse look like they get it but they don’t. I began to dress more revealing, flirt in a new way, tease and play with boys. But it wasn’t until years later when I saw other women and girls walking in the same kind of pain, that I saw what it looked like from the outside. What appears to others as a power play is actually the saddest, most desparate cry for help, masked as something different. And I was wailing the loudest cry of anyone around me, but no one cared.
I partied with a fraternity, as their “little sister” my first semester of college. Thursday night parties were what I looked forward to all week. By then, I’d had a few sexual partners, was well over my high school boyfriend and was in a completely numb state, or so I thought.
Then, the partying caught up to me & one of my fraternity “brothers” violently raped me while I was drunk. That part wasn’t what broke me, though. It was when he told the nice boy on campus, someone I had just gone on a normal date with, that I’d thrown myself at him and we’d had sex. It wasn’t sex. He raped me, but I knew I had no voice and no one would believe me.
Something about that combination of events broke me apart. Perhaps it was that it was the 2nd time I’d been raped? Perhaps it was because I had finally started to imagine I could be with a nice boy, again? I’ll never know for sure, but it felt like something inside of me physically broke in two.
Shortly afterwards, I withdrew and went home for the remaining part of the semester. The rapes weren’t the only horribleness going on in my life that led to this decision, but that’s a story for another time. When I went back to live with my parents, I rapidly descended into a full fledged depression and began to plan my suicide. I lost two months of memory, but I’ve been told it was spent mostly on the couch or my bed. I checked out and tuned out. I have scars from self-injury, but again this was before anyone talked about it, which made it easy to hide.
(I Don’t Know) How I Chose Survival
Then, as if by some miracle, I began to emerge from the fog. Something strong in me, something that I didn’t know I had, led me back to school and a vision for a tiny bit of a life. I changed colleges and for the first time since I’d moved from my little town of friends to this nightmare of a place, I went back to being a debater. I returned to public speaking. I began to shed my horrible habits of self-destruction, one decision at a time. I wasn’t good at it yet, because I was still looking for “love” in all the wrong places, but I was finally trying.
By the time I met my husband, David on Valentine’s Day of what was still my freshman year of college, I had begun to return to my former self. I was in a pattern of romantic relationship after romantic relationship, but my fragile sense of worth was at least being considered as I chose who to spend time with.
How God Chose Me
God sent David to save me from myself. It felt like he was the first person to see me. Ever. His gaze penetrated right through me as he drove me home from where we met., and it felt magnetic to be with him. I was so attracted to him, I had to think about my breathing. I loved how he made me laugh, how we both laughed, how I just knew he’d be the next boy smitten with me. That was, until he exclaimed “You’re a Christian. Why are you cursing? Christians shouldn’t curse.”
And that was the moment I noticed more than the way David fit so very well in his jeans. David spoke truth to me - and he spoke it to me like I actually could and should be held to a standard. You know, like someone who is worthwhile, instead of someone who is worthless. Like he could SEE me and like I counted! He looked at me and saw I could be better than the person in front of him, and I so much needed someone to see that.
After being friends for a bit, then dating for a bit, David accompanied me to my grandmother’s funeral, back home where I grew up. This was an especially bitter loss, as my Grandma was the most gentle and loving soul of all my relatives, and I never doubted she loved me for me. She was the only one who made me feel that way. While we were waiting for family to arrive for the lunch after the service, David & I got into a theological discussion and he discovered something about the way I saw myself. He realized by questioning me that while I had accepted Christ as my savior, I felt confident I had only gotten in because of God’s steadfastness and faithfulness. I was saved by default, you see. I didn’t see myself as chosen, wanted and certainly not as the daughter of the King. Then, David said it.
“If you had been the only person on earth, Jesus would have died on the cross JUST FOR YOU. He loves YOU. He wants YOU. He chose YOU.”
And in that moment, I was no longer choosing healing for myself. I was allowing myself to be healed; to be walked through the process by the maker of Heaven and Earth. And in Him, there was no shame. There is no shame. There was no fear. There is no fear. There is only acceptance through Christ. It’s not my fault, and it’s not any other victims’ fault. It’s never the fault of anyone but the criminal and those who help, hide or ignore. Because of David, I knew that. And I know that. I’ve never stopped knowing that.
Hope
Do you know that? Did you know Christ loves YOU so much, he would have died JUST for YOU? It’s absolutely true. He cares about all the things about you & He would never want anyone to hurt you.
You are precious.
You are amazing.
You are fearfully and wonderfully made.
You are loved.
If you’re reading this and you have a story, know you’re not alone. Victims. Survivors. Overcomers. We’re everywhere. It’s hard to talk about, but the more you do the less the shame can creep in. Speak once and it pierces the balloon of shame. Keep speaking and you can drain it completely. Find Christ and you can live abundantly and walk in joy.
I believe in you. You can do it! And if you’re not sure, ask me how.
Fighting Fear and Finding a Life
Courage isn’t the absence fear. It’s the absolute presence of fear, but you DO IT ANYWAY. But when you’re doing God’s will. When you’re doing seemingly courageous things because He is calling you to do them, it’s not courage. It’s not bravery. It’s STINKIN’ AWESOME!
Looking around, I see a hollow existence for most of us. It’s all about the watching, watching, watching. We watch people on TV, in movies, on social media and even actual humans circling around us. All the time we’re forming excessively strong opinions, alliances and a sense of ownership over things we’ve had neither a hand in creating nor in the perpetuating of success or failure. Yet, we feel like its “ours” to attack or defend. And you know what?
It’s weird.
It’s pathetic.
When someone’s life becomes all about watching others live theirs, they’ve stopped living. And why? Because they’ve given in to fear, and sometimes apathy. It’s the dedicated player whose life has become about watching, instead of playing. It’s the romantic who stopped trying for a relationship or investing in their long-term relationship & instead seeks to fulfill themselves with watching and reading others’ experiences instead.
Watchers tend to have an ever-growing list of rules and diatribes about their lives, too. I’m reminded of a woman who never failed to lose my respect when she interacted with others rudely replying to a waitresses offer with “We don’t DRINK coffee” before returning to her conversation at the table. After her rudeness to our server, she continued extolling the virtures of the latest crime playing out on the national news, something she also had passionate opinions that (of couse) must be shared. But when it came to real lives and real people, the only interaction she could muster up was pulling out her expanding list of do’s and dont’s which she loved to whip out and beat others with, at the least provocation.
Fear leads to isolation, which leads to ugliness of spirit.
Interacting with others - many others of many backgrounds, lifestyles and paths, leads to an open-hearted life of joy.
Life in the bubble is hollow and ugly, and it makes people who live in the bubble ugly.
In college I volunteered as a counselor in a variety of locations and in one particular facility, I had a recurring patient from the church of Wicca. She was a lost, angry soul who came to yell at me, even as I endeavored to love on her as perhaps the only Christian who’d ever done so. She was big, scary and furious. But, she came! And I got to talk to her. I spent time away from the office learning about Wicca, so she would know I respected her beliefs enough to take the time to learn about them. I would dearly love to tell you she became a Christ follower in that time, but I always knew the best hope I had was preparing the ground and maybe, must maybe, planting a seed or two. I treasured my time with her.
In the same office were two fervent middle-aged church-going ladies, who were wonderful when they spoke to me. But dang, were they scared of that Wiccan. They would actually shrink & hide when she came in. They had been in the bubble way too long. Their list of do’s and don’ts, legalistic canon of backstories and reasons to NOT do something grew by the day. They looked at me like some sort of superhero, willing to take on the world, when all I was doing was walking into a room to share Christ’s love with a Wicca follower. See why I call it pathetic? Those poor ladies had stopped living, and it broke my heart.
Courage isn’t the absence of your fear.
It’s the absolute presence of your fear, but you DO IT ANYWAY.
Growing up as the daughter of a mentally ill mother who suffered from severe traumatic stress, I saw what fear could do to a person & it wasn’t anything I wanted a part of. I’m drawn to the driven, the brave, the courageous, the boundary pushers. I want to ride their train & I want them to ride mine. For that reason, I choose courage.
But when you’re doing God’s will. When you’re doing seemingly courageous things because He is calling you to do them, it’s not courage. It’s not bravery. It’s STINKIN’ AWESOME! God doesn’t bring a spirit of fear. He makes you BOLD and BRAVE and LOUD and AMAZING! Sometimes your life will confuse others, those who are watchers and waiters, who make lists and rules to keep themselves safe. But in the end, God’s glory will shine all around you and because you are walking in HIM instead of in FEAR, you get to be a front row witness to the incredible and the profound. You get to be the reflector of His glory, the vessel of His love, the hands and feet of Christ. You see HIM in others.
Now, that’s something worth watching.
Love
God has answered this other deeply rooted prayer of my mother’s heart with Hannah’s first romantic relationship. He has blown me away with his goodness and Love for my child.
Before Hannah was born, I prayed very specifically for blessings to shower upon her. I chose to pray for the things I longed for myself when I was growing up or looking back at regrets - older brothers, a healthy sense of herself, a driving passion for the Lord, a desire for relationship but without ever compromising herself.
God said yes.
And it humbles me constantly. I prayed a hundred smaller prayers over her, and they were answered too. God so abundantly blessed and exceeded my prayers for her, I struggle to write them down. It feels prideful, even though I know they are from HIM. Just the presence of her beauty, inside and out - it humbles me. She is a delicate gift of steadfast Love. I couldn’t imagine anyone who would deserve her, but I prayed for him to come into her life.
And now, God has answered this other deeply rooted prayer of my mother’s heart with Hannah’s first romantic relationship. He has blown me away with his goodness and Love for my child. I don’t know how this will play out - they’re young & there are unique hurdles to their future - but I do know how blessed we are right now, for knowing this young man (who shall remain nameless and faceless for the sake of his privacy). I do want to write about him, though. I don’t want to forget this precious moment in Hannah’s life.
You see, the longer he is part of Hannah’s days & weeks, the more I realize he is a blessing because he epitomizes Corinthians 13. He is an answer to our prayers, because he walks in LOVE.
Hannah chose him. She developed feelings for him over many months and confided in me the silent torture of being in his presence without him noticing her. She isn’t a girl who will flirt or tease. She’s straightforward. And without a hint of what would happen (though I suspected any boy would be crazy not to at least get to know her) she told him. SHE TOLD HIM. I still marvel at her bravery. And, to his credit, he didn’t jump at the chance. He was cautious. He was careful. You know, for a hot minute - then he started to see how amazing she is.
And now they’re smitten. It’s young love, with all the passion and persistent desires to be with each other, the glow of happiness when they’re together and sadness when they’re apart. All that is to be expected.
What’s surprising is the pervading and consistent sweetness to their relationship. I didn’t know young love could be this way. Like so many other areas of my life, I only knew how to get it wrong & I simply pray for my loves to get it right.
My heart swells in their presence. The way he touches her with respect and sweetness, cradling her like the greatest treasure he’s ever known, is precious to be near. He’s more respectful of her boundaries than I knew possible and he actually guards her purity openly. He encourages her, delights in her, seeks her joy and is protective of her heart. I couldn’t ask for a better companion for my precious daughter, except I did. And again, God said yes. I couldn’t be more grateful.
“Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.
Love never fails. ........
And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.”
What kind of a pirate are you, anyway?
Dance? Check! We’re ALL in.
Sing along or even take the stage? We’re all over that, too.
Dress up & play. YES, please!
Follow all the societal rules? NOPE. We’re OUT.
The last thing the Scott family wants to do is BLEND IN.
Make no mistake, If there’s a chance to party & play along, our family will be there.
Dance? Check! We’re ALL in.
Sing along or even take the stage? We’re all over that, too.
Dress up & play. YES, please!
Follow all the societal rules? NOPE. We’re OUT.
I’m the greatest illustrator of this on a regular basis, but Noah is a close second. He lives to push the boundaries and find new experiences in the midst of the ordinary. He seeks to make life extraordinary.
The only problem is, sometimes others just don’t GET it. In fact, sometimes they run. Recently on a Disney cruise, some people physically scurried away from Noah - and we were left wondering what’s UP with people’s sense of humor, anyway?
You see, nearly every Disney cruise includes a “Pirates in the Caribbean” night of celebrations, where everyone dresses as pirates, dances like pirates & even eats pirate food for dinner & again at a late night buffet following the only fireworks at sea. Pretty awesome, right?
Four of us dressed as traditional pirates. And then there was Noah.
Noah wore a trenchcoat & dark glasses. Inside the trenchcoat were 4 movie cases with covers of movies that hadn’t come out yet. Hannah sewed them in with elastic loops, so when he opened his trenchcoat while asking “Want to buy a pirated movie?” in a gravelly voice, he had something to offer to those on the receiving end of the joke.
Except hardly anyone got the joke! One poor “I was born a grandma” looking lady appeared terrified, like our little family had brought an outlaw aboard the ship. The people who did get it would always pause for just a second to process what had happened, before bursting into laughter. Sadly, those people were few and far between.
Lighten up, folks. Play along. Join in the fun! Look beyond the ordinary & you may find the extraordinary. If you’re truly lucky, you may find something or someone as extraordinary as Noah.
Celebrating my most important job descriptor - MOM!
I’m a cliche and I love it.
Nearly 22 years ago, I was blessed to conceive my first child . And while I’ve written much about the experience of motherhood, every single day holds a surprise! Today’s surpise was how happy I could be just breathing the same air and standing in the same light as my precious young-adult children. Yes, I’m a cliche and I love it. These three are quite simply, the most amazing creatures ever made & I’m constantly in awe of the people they’ve become.
I longed to be a mother from the time I was small, and I know I’m unusual in how early I wanted it & how fervently I desired it. Even now, with 22 years come and gone & a 21 year old, 19 year old & nearly 17 year old walking this earth, I still revel in how much I love them & love my job - it takes my breath away.
They cooked for me, took me to lunch, bought me presents, went to church and sat with me, praised God alongside me and then laughed alongside me, as we spent the afternoon at the movies. All of that was awesome! But it wouldn’t have mattered where we were, really. I’m just happy to be with them. They are my light, my life, my everything. My Joshua. My Noah. My Hannah. As always, I am #moreblessedthanideserve
Packed Bags
The first time I remember a bag being packed and unpacked, it was my new foster sister arriving to stay with us and eventually be adopted. At 13, I thought I knew what it would be like to discover her past & her personality, but nothing could have prepared me for the plastic bags she brought with a few pieces of stained clothing. And that was all. Nothing else, that I can remember.
While I’d never before considered myself a privileged child, wealthy or exceptional in any way, that all changed in an instant. It was if someone picked me up off the earth & planted me back down, but with a new identity: entitled, spoiled, suburban, white brat. Instantly, I feared I was that person and always would be, and set out to instead be kind, loving and just the best sister and person ever.
I was 13.
I failed. Miserably.
But I was deeply impacted. And eventually it was a catalyst in making me a better person.
And now, I own a thriving travel company, which allows me to pack bags & travel frequently with and without my family members. I pack big and often new, suitcases. I evaluate which one is best for a particular trip. I visit beautiful places and sleep in gorgeous spaces. But I will always and forever remember my sister’s bag. I will refuse to be an entitled, spoiled, suburban, white brat.
I suppose it would be easier to walk through life and turn away from what I’ve known and battled, suffered and witnessed, but that’s not who I am. It never will be. Instead, I’m the downer in the room who looks at something beautiful and remembers the tragedy in my past; Not even my past - a past I witnessed. It’s who I am.
Since my first experience brushing up against my sister’s painful childhood, I’ve gone on to love and adore many adopted persons. I have relationships with grown and adopted survivors, along with children of all ages and stages. I’ve taken many kids in, some for months and one for years. In fact, so many stories have dominated my walk through this life, it makes me wonder what I’m supposed to be learning now so I can be of use, later.
Because I didn’t know at 13 what I was learning and why. I didn’t realize what it meant when I was plucked off the earth and returned forever changed, but I know now. When people speak about white privilege and entitlement, I know exactly why they’re concerned. I again feel the earth tremble beneath my feet as I’m jettisoned off the ground. I want to stand up to them and say “ME! They’re talking about ME!” and I’m washed anew with incredible gratefulness I wasn’t allowed to remain in my state of ugliness; my suburban bubble.