Barely a Whisper

About a month before my friend died at Christmas, I made a post to social media, "Nothing Can Take My Hallelujah," with my comment in all caps, "DECLARE IT."

Oh my friends, up until the recent past, my hallelujah has been so loud, so declarative, I've felt it so deep. My hallelujah was SO. SURE.  I was positive nothing could shake it. I felt it deep in my bones.  I dared the enemy to give it his best shot. I taunted him. I prayed bold, dangerous prayers.  I've sung with my heart open wide, even in the trials with Avery's health and my own and Ezra's heart, even when tears have streamed down my face, I have declared it well with my soul--God is in control, I know on Whom I could rely.  My arms held high in adoration, or across my chest in a hug, I sang to my Sovereign Savior.

And now--now, I can't raise my arms. I can't even stand for worship. I sit in my seat in the fetal position with my arms wrapped around my legs.  I am shaken to my very core.  I silently beg to be made invisible; I want to be there, I know I need to be there, but I cannot handle being there, I don't want to be seen or have to interact.  I can't raise my voice.  I can barely whisper a prayer, the words to songs, even by rote.  I can't choke them out, for the tears that block their way.  I want desperately to feel something, to feel anything, but it's just not there.  I don't even feel anger, I don't feel bitterness, I'm not sure what I feel.  I feel a sadness sometimes so intense it's physically painful and it doubles me over.  Sometimes there are tears, other times, there's just nothing, I'm left feeling empty.  Sometimes I suddenly feel too much and I desperately yearn for nothingness again.

There is no in-between.

I am tossed overboard, clinging to the driftwood that is my Abba.  Clinging to those He gives me during this time as I'm crashed about by the rapids.  Reminding myself that a wobbly walk is better than no walk at all, as my tired, worn out body is bruised and battered by the sharp, slippery, moss-covered rocks and boulders along the shoreline.

My body is bruised and worn out, my mind is numb and all at once racing, my soul feels crushed and spat upon.

My hallelujah may be barely a whisper forming only inside my head, but I know--God is still in control.  He is still the One on whom I can rely, and still my Sovereign Savior.

Excuse me? Hello? *taps mic* Is This Thing On?

Um, is this where I air my family's dirty laundry?  

Because I'm getting damn tired of trying to be the good person, the good Christian, the one who forgives and keeps on going, the one who walks away, the one who sets the proper example for her children.

For years I've done the better part of keeping my mouth shut, of not sullying the names of my parents, no matter what was said about me or to me.  I've never publicly spoken against them, I've never said anything they wouldn't have a chance or reason to defend themselves against.  I've carefully worded my blog posts so as to not drag their names through any indefensible mud.

Forgiving and moving on.  And again.  And again.

Then our mother turned my sister's viewing into her own personal circus.  Wait, I'm sorry--her daughter's viewing, not my sister's, not our cousins' cousin's, not her grandchildren's mother's, not my sister's husband's--to be clear, HER DAUGHTER ONLY.  She was the only one with the right to grieve.  It didn't matter we were all hurting, my mother's 'hurt' took precedent, and she lashed out in true Janet fashion.  And that look she gets on her face when we all know we're in for it, when she's about to go on a tear, and she did not fail to disappoint.  She demanded things from my sister's husband at the viewing that had not been rightfully hers for several decades.  Even if I tried to explain everything to you, you would think I was busy writing a screenplay.  Excuses will be made for my mother's behavior, as always happens; she's a grieving mother, she didn't know what she was doing, she wasn't in control of herself, blah blah blah... Yep.  It's always someone else's fault in Janet's world.  It's her world, we just get to live here.  

Our father didn't even bother showing up.  Didn't even send his condolences or regards. Typical, head in the sand, emotional neglect, in true Paul fashion.

I don't know what I expected.  Well, yes--I do--I expected exactly that from both of them.  Why should they change now? 

But--some still small part of me had some still small stupid hope.

I'm tired of it.  I'm sick of it.  I'm done with the cheerers-on of happy family reunions, the ones who have heard I'm the problem, the ones who genuinely believe they mean well, the ones who have only ever heard one side--one very toxic, sick side--and relentlessly beg me to kiss and make up.  I'm done.  I can't do it anymore. I won't do it anymore.  Unlike with my sister, there is no regret with my parents.  I do not look back, only forward.

I am not the problem.  

I was certainly part of the problem at one point, but I chose to leave it behind me.  I had to.  I couldn't keep getting sucked into it, leaning to every whim of my mother's like a small child, even though I was a grown woman with a family of my own.  It was toxic, it was unhealthy for myself and my family, especially my children.  It was powerfully destructive.  

Working through it, I was shocked to learn what my sister and I dealt with went back for years into our childhoods.  I thought we had lived this great Wonder Bread, white picket fence childhood, until a therapist put a label on it--maternal emotional abuse and paternal emotional neglect.  

I worked through a lot of it, and I even forgave my parents.  I needed to, for myself, and for my family--and again, to lead by example for my children.  I needed to forgive so I could come out on the brighter side, not the bitter side.  Contrary to what many people believe, I do not need to have a relationship with them once I'm forgiven them.  I do not need to continue to expose myself and my children to their behavior.  Part of forgiveness means that I can wish them well, that I can pray them, and hope to see them in heaven.

I lost my sister.  Everyone lost someone the day she died.  Just because we had our differences and did not have a relationship--I don't think we were capable of having a normal, typical sister relationship because of the damage done by our parents; some part of me was able to move on from it, and some part of my sister was held back--does not mean I don't love her.  It does mean I do not intensely feel the incredible pain of her absence.  

I am the one who has to live with the regret of not picking up the phone.  I am the one who has to live with all of the regret leftover from a damaged relationship. There are moments and events and things I won't get back.  I am the one who has to miss my sister for the rest of my life.  I am the one who has to stand up, and not only forgive my parents all over again, but I also need to answer the call to serve as a lesson to those of you who have been thinking about sending that text, or making that phone call, or extending that invitation in a damaged yet reparable relationship.  Do it--and do not wait.  

And if unforgiveness lives in your heart?  Please work on that as well.  I won't preach to you.  I know it's hard work.  But please know you're never in this alone.  

Please--if any good can come from this, along with what I am hoping are newfound relationships with my sister's children--please, allow me to be your example for the best.

Please Don't Ask Me How I'm Doing...

... Because I don't know how I'm doing.

Because I can't handle answering that question right now.

Because I know the many answers swimming around in my head, but I also know that few of you are prepared to hear them.

Last week, two months to the day after my sweet friend Angie died, my sister died.

Yep.

Those words--my sister died.  Just like that.  My sister died last week.  She's gone.  My sister is dead.

I can't say those words without a deep sob of anguish welling up from places so deep within myself I'm doubled over.

WHY?  It's not fair.

No, there's nothing you can do.  I don't know what to ask for.  Please don't hug me.  I don't think I can do meaningful hugs right now.  There is a pile of condolence cards on my kitchen table.  I can't bring myself to read them quite yet.  No, I don't really want to talk about it.  I don't think I can handle it, and I don't know how to talk about it.  I'm not capable of having this conversation right now.  No, I don't want you to pray over me, but what you do in the privacy of your own space is your business.  Really, I cannot handle any of this right now.  So please, if I say I don't want prayer, or I tell you I'm fine, please just take me at my word.  I've been sending Shawn to work.  I'm telling myself I lost her years ago and I'm at peace with this, that I've already grieved and mourned her loss long ago when our relationship ended.  But I don't know if that's really true.  It's a bald-faced lie and I know it.  I'm pissed off.  I lost any chance at ever having a relationship with my sister.  And I'm still grieving Angie.  This is a brand-new wound on top of an already still-fresh one.  The viewing is tonight; I'm going, but I don't think I can go in and see my sister--like that.  We're burying her tomorrow.  I can't even comprehend it.

But I'm fine.  I'm okay.  No, really.  

So please just don't ask me how I'm doing.