Undateable: Why Single Christian Guys Are All Dented Cans - Introduction

I love the miscellaneous sale section at Ralphs. Tucked between the dairy section and the packaged meats you can find nine dollar bottles of wine, congealed donuts, leftover Halloween decorations, six-day-old apple pies, Duck Dynasty costume castoffs, cartons of pedialyte, bruised apples, liver-spotted bananas, and Barbie bandaids.

Way, way in the back, hidden behind a few dubious boxes of laxative tea and 100 count bottles of aspirin, it sits.

Our friend, the dented can.

Back when I worked full-time at a book warehouse, I used to read a lot of books (more like skim, but who's judging). One of those books was a chick lit novel called The Big Love written by Sarah Dunn.

The twist in this particular novel is that the heroine was a lapsed evangelical Christian. And there was this one passage that stuck out to me, which I've excerpted at length below, that made me go Yes Yes I SAID YES:

Photo by labullets.blogspot.com

I should have known about Gil, of course. I should have known the way you know about a dented can. But this is the thing: everyone has been warned about dented cans, but surely not every dented can is bad, or they wouldn’t be allowed to sell them, right? Someone’s buying those dented cans. Someone’s taking them home and opening them up and examining the contents and then making a bet about whether or not the stuff inside is safe to eat. And let me tell you, when you’re twenty-five, and a virgin, and you refuse to date anybody but a Christian—and not just any Christian but a certain kind of Christian—your options are all dented cans. When Gil and I finally broke up, I took another look around the church basement, and I had the closest thing I’ve ever had to an actual vision. There sat Brian Berryman. Single. Thirty-two. An attorney. Crown prince of the church basement. So morally upright he didn’t believe in dating; he believed in praying. He’d been praying for a wife since he was sixteen. He’d drawn up a list of all the qualities he wanted her to possess, a list which he was continually revising, and then praying about, and then revising some more, and then informally circulating among the single women at the church. A woman of pure heart, the list would go. A gentle and quiet spirit. A submissive nature. Is this what you want in a husband? I heard a voice saying. Well, not an actual voice, but it was as clear as day. I realized that if I kept searching for husbands in church basements I was going to end up with a seriously dented can. [from The Big Love by Sarah Dunn, emphasis mine]

"So, what, Ms. Blogger, are you saying that all single Christian men are dented cans?"

Yes. Hell, I've dated a few of them.

No, but it sure feels like it sometimes, as if I'm walking by the sale section, scoping out the goods and thinking, "Oh please, Lord. Not that one."

When it comes to dating within Christian evangelical culture, it often feels as if you're screwed if you do, and screwed if you don't (or not screwed either way, now that I think about it).

That's the honesty part of this post--the hopelessness part. But this series (Yes! A series!) is not about hopelessness--it's about those qualities in single Christian guys that make them undateable.

I'm well aware that we are all dented cans. But perhaps a distinction can be made between the can of diced tomatoes sporting a few delightful and adorable indentations from being dropped on its head a few times and the can of sliced yellow peaches in a light syrup that gives you a fatal case of botulism.

Join us next time for a lighthearted take on:

Undateable: Why Single Christian Guys Are All Dented Cans - The Misogynist
Undateable: Why Single Christian Guys Are All Dented Cans - The Coward
Undateable: Why Single Christian Guys Are All Dented Cans - The Racist
Undateable: Why Single Christian Guys Are All Dented Cans - The Myth of Persistence 
Undateable: Why Single Christian Guys Are All Dented Cans - Entitlement

Dating the abuser who isn't

I dated someone who turned out to be emotionally abusive, much like the relationship I wrote about in this post. And so in the aftermath, I'm left wondering how it could happen again, particularly when this relationship seemed so safe and loving in the beginning.

I want to tread lightly here, as I am neither a therapist nor an expert on abuse of any kind. But after reading about Ray Rice (sports, physical abuse) and Mark Driscoll (church, spiritual abuse) and having several conversations with friends, I wanted to write about some of the dynamics of an emotionally abusive relationship that is initially--on the surface at least--not abusive.

But first, a caveat or observation: I think abusive dynamics can happen with someone you are not in a relationship with. They can happen with a friend, a pastor, a coworker, an ex. Also, this is a very limited perspective on abuse and applies only to emotional or psychological abuse, not physical or sexual abuse.

I'll add another note here to say that the tactics that this person used to harm me were initially used to cultivate attachment and build trust in the relationship. It was only when the method was "flipped" that the manipulation became apparent. [i.e. harsh criticism instead of generous praise, both put the abuser in a one-up position, one builds up, the other tears down, they both serve a purpose.]

I'm avoiding putting a moral spin on these tactics or trying to discern the motives of the abuser. I don't know what the motives of the abuser were, honestly, other than to re-establish or maintain control and to continue to abuse. I'm not sure I really care. He (meant generally) did not use these methods because they were good or bad. He used them because they work.

I'm interested in the mechanics of manipulation.

"Alfred" in these scenarios is the abuser.

Triangulation - "He loves you /  she hates you"

Triangulation is initially used to make you feel really good about yourself, as in, "John really likes you. He thinks you're great" or "Everyone thinks you're doing a great job at X." In particular, Alfred will likely cite the approval of those you want to think highly of you. He might call upon someone in authority, someone you respect or admire, or a peer group ("the cool kids") that seems just out of reach.

He might know or sense that because of your past, you tend to seek approval from those in authority and proceed to indirectly give you the approval you crave, "You're a success! Everyone loves you." This increases both your emotional attachment to and dependency on him and gives him just a little more leverage over how you feel about yourself.

Triangulation could also include talking about another person negatively in an "Us v. Them" sense to build rapport: "Stu is doing terribly. I heard he's going to fail the class." This helps build common ground and a shared sense of  "We are above Stu. We are above failure."

The flip side, of course, is when this "feedback" from other people becomes negative, often with the corollary that "I still think you're awesome" (I'm the only one that still "loves" you) and the manipulative twist of "Do what I want you to do and I'll help you fix this."

Example:

"Everyone else thinks you're an arrogant know-it-all, but I know better. If you only let me help you, I can change your image."

Alfred wants you to believe that HE is the only one who really gets you. Everyone else hates your guts.

I would be especially wary of this tactic if you tend to be a people-pleaser or if you are wounded in the area of belonging. Alfred can use your susceptibility and sensitivity to rejection, abandonment, or disapproval as emotional leverage, manipulating your past wounds to meet his own needs.

Idealization - "You're perfect" / "You're worthless"

This one can be tricky: a certain amount of idealization is the norm at the start of most romantic relationships. Even most employer-employee relationships have something of a honeymoon period.

However, the level of idealization that you experience from Alfred can be pretty intense. He might convince you that you are a unique source of happiness, nurture, and empathy for him. You understand him and make him feel better about his [pathetic] life. Never before has he felt so alive. So happy. So filled with a sense of purpose.

Never underestimate the power of praising someone else's comforting aura, example:

"I feel such peace in your presence." or "Spending time with you makes my day brighter."

On the surface, these statements don't appear manipulative, but there's another part to this equation.

It's probably important to mention here that Alfred is usually a sad sack, So, maybe we will refer to this half of the maneuver as Sad-Sacking:

Sad-Sacking - "You are the best thing in my life."

"No one understands me."
"I'm so unappreciated at work."
"Why is it always my fault when something goes wrong?"
"My ex-girlfriend cheated on me."
"I've been feeling really down lately. Nothing in life is going right."
"I would be successful by now if..."

BUT

"You understand me."
"You make me feel appreciated."
"You listen to me."
"You inspire me."
"You are the best thing in my life."

Oh dear. If a sad-sack says that last one, run, run for the hills, or he may sad-suck the life right out of you.

[Note: Sad-sacking can also happen in a group context. Alfred/Alfreda dominates the floor every week with his/her tales of woe, eliciting sympathy and "poor you" responses from the group members, particularly tugging the empathy strings of those with strong nurturing or savior tendencies.]

[Second note: Sad-sacks do not always come out as sad-sacks right away. They may seem relatively happy and productive. They may have strong care-taking skills. They may even buy you lunch before launching into their tale of unpaid bills and victimization. Everyone goes through hard times. Beware the man or woman who is always slogging through the muck, particularly when it never seems to get better and is always someone else's fault.]

To state the obvious, those who practice sad-sacking generally have a victim complex. His ex-girlfriend was a "bitch." His roommate is an asshole. He's under so much pressure at work that of course he makes mistakes. He hasn't booked a feature yet because his agent is an incompetent moron.

Here's the problem with Alfred and his victim mentality: Nothing he does is ever his fault--including hurting you. He always has an excuse and he's incapable of offering a sincere apology, see below.

Why do sad-sacking and idealization work?  They work because you are human. Giving and receiving empathy can feel amazing. It's one of the most emotionally intimate things you can experience with another person. I'll call this the Empathy Trap: 

You become emotionally bonded to the other person and start feeling responsible for their emotional well-being whether they're happy, sad, angry, anxious, or stressed out--after all, you have the power to make it all better.

I would be especially wary of this tactic if you are inexperienced with emotional intimacy, recovering from an abusive family system, or are just beginning to practice vulnerability in your close relationships after reading Brene Brown. An abuser will use this naiveté to emotionally reward you for being attentive, open, and empathic toward his emotional needs. You can easily forge an emotional bond that feels like love. Because whether or not his sad-sacking is manipulative, your empathy is real.

All the more devastating when idealization turns to devaluation, and he doesn't just take you off the pedestal, he smashes you and it to the ground, grinding the little bits that are left with the heel of his brand new high top sneakers. It's akin to being hit with a shame sledgehammer--a shame sledgehammer aimed directly at your deepest insecurities, vulnerabilities, and wounds.

You realize that he built you up only to tear you down when you disappointed, angered, or abandoned him.

Mirroring - "Now you're making me cry"

How is Alfred able to target your deepest insecurities, vulnerabilities, and wounds?

I feel like I need to make a distinction here between empathy and mirroring. Alfred is possibly incapable of genuine empathy. However, he is capable of reflecting your emotions back to you, and this can feel like empathy.

After all, when you cry, he cries. And you think, "Awww, what a sensitive guy! He's so comfortable and open with his emotions, unlike the stereotypical macho dude-bro."

You are correct. He is not the stereotypical man. But he is also not genuinely empathetic, because true empathy would involve seeing the Other as a separate, equal human being and not just as an extension of the Self.

Co-opting someone else's emotions is not empathy. If you find yourself comforting him for having hurt you, something might be off.

But the mirroring that Alfred gives you is powerful. He's already opened up about his struggles without shame (sad-sacking, emotional dumping, too-easy transparency), so opening up feels safe and natural. The grief, sadness, vulnerability, or pain you are expressing is real. And experiencing these emotions in the presence of another person can be deeply healing. This is what vulnerability does: it bonds us emotionally to other people. It's supposed to do that.

But instead of empathy, Alfred possesses uncanny emotional intuition, as mentioned in Triangulation and Idealization. He somehow knows instinctually what will make you feel good and what you will make you feel bad. He has to. This is how he creates the emotional attachment that he can use to manipulate you to meet his needs.

This explains the wildly insensitive things that he will say and do, sometimes to deliberately evoke a certain emotion in you (negative). Example:

"What? Why are upset? I know you're vegan, but I thought you might really enjoy this article with graphic slaughterhouse images about how animals don't have souls and deserve to suffer. Why are you mad? I'm just trying to start a conversation."

[Remember, he is always the victim and he can rationalize any action, no matter how hurtful.]

Unfortunately, this might be part of a cycle in which Alfred hurts you "unintentionally," bringing up painful emotions and triggering wounds from your past, then tearfully begs for your forgiveness, ironically bringing you closer together when you make up. It sounds sick because it is.

But if you get angry and refuse to forgive and forget, he gets angry. Alfred appropriates your anger as his own and projects the blame for it back onto you. You get emotional vertigo, as his mirroring throws you off-balance and puts you on the defensive (a plus for him).  Example:

"You totally overreacted. You never understood me at all." (Sad-Sacking, victim complex callback!)
"What happened to forgiveness?"
"You don't give a **** about my intentions!"
"I can't believe you would think I'm a ___."

Wait. Weren't you the one who was angry? Now he's angry? What the heck just happened?!! This is a level of emotional jiu-jitsu that few have mastered.

His anger is meant to distract you from the original cause--after all, how do you normally respond when someone gets angry at you? Answers might include shock, surprise, defensiveness, sadness, hurt, trying to figure out why they're angry and trying to fix it. All of these responses are far less empowering and direct than your original anger.

The underlying message: You are not allowed to be angry and you are definitely not allowed to stay angry or set real boundaries. Essentially, you do not exist for Alfred as a separate, equal human being. This is perhaps the root of his abusiveness, manipulation, and control.

Of course, anger in and of itself is not bad or wrong. The problem with the abuser's anger is that its goal is to control you. Beware any sense of entitlement in his anger, or these messages, whether direct or indirect:

"You have to forgive me." [Because God says so, because I apologized, because I need you to]
"Your boundaries are stupid and unnecessary."
"Your anger is invalid."

Apologies - "I'm sorry for causing you to hurt" 

Ah, the glories of syntax: "Me not hurt you, but you hurt. Me sorry." I seriously want to create a line of infuriatingly passive-aggressive "Sorry I'm Not Sorry" Hallmark cards:

I'm sorry you slipped on that banana peel and fell into my fist.
I was having a really bad day. Lots of stress at work.
You were PMSing and irrational.
In my defense, you were pressuring me to eat the banana in the first place. 
Can we just agree that we both made bad choices. 

P.S. You totally over-reacted. 

Alfred is really, really good at apologizing. Too good. It is a very useful and necessary tool, as the apology only has to sound sincere to work. He doesn't have to actually feel genuine remorse or have any intention of changing. Example:

"I know that where there is smoke there is fire. But I do not have a problem with women."
"I am working every day to become a better man."
"I'm sorry you feel that way. It was never my intention to hurt you."

How do you tell a sincere apology from an insincere apology?

Well, for one, how does the apology make you feel? Do you feel even more infuriated than before? This is a bad sign.

Does Alfred actually take responsibility for his words or actions, or does he have an excuse or rationalization?

Does he minimize your complaint or use the words "I was just" as in "I was just doing my job" or "I was just trying to start a dialogue" or "I was just having a bad year."

Instead of an apology, you might get a fruit bowl of colorful yet nonsensical excuses for his words or actions, the tactic of Denial. Example (translation in bold):

"I am not a misogynist."
I have no idea what that word means.

"I can't believe you would think I'm racist."
I'm turning the blame back on you for hurting me with your baseless accusations so I don't have to take responsibility for any racist statements I've made.

"I respect you."
I violated your boundaries but I'm hoping you'll let me back in anyway. 

"You pushed me into saying those things."
I have no idea why I said those things. I really don't remember that night at all.

"I still love you."
Despite everything you've put me through, I still want to control you and use you to meet my emotional needs. 

If none of these defenses or explanations make any sense, it's because they don't make any sense. Attempting to apply logic to denial, rationalization, and minimization is a fruitless endeavor. There is no apple nor pear to what the abuser says. He could say one thing today, then deny it completely tomorrow.

The Grand Slam of Emotional Abuse

"I'm sorry for causing you to hurt. I can't live without your forgiveness. I still love you as the amazing person that you are! I don't want to see you suffer, so that's why I'm using your fear of rejection, abandonment, and failure to coerce you into letting me back into your life. Don't you see that we should be friends so I can keep hurting you over and over again?"

What do you think? Are there other tactics of emotional abuse?

Resources:
Why Does He Do That? Inside the Minds of Angry and Controlling Men
Who's Pulling Your Strings?
The Path Forward
8 Ways to Spot Emotional Manipulation
Psychopath Free

Friendship & Grief: Holding the Story Only

I've always been perplexed by how effortless female friendships are supposed to be--as portrayed in movies, books and TV shows. Friendships were never that easy for me.

As a kid, having an incredibly fun, outgoing and winning twin sister didn't help matters. One time I invited a classmate over for a sleepover. We must have been around 9 or 10 years old. By the next day, the classmate and my sister were as thick as peas in a pod, chattering away as I trailed behind them, alone. I may or may not have been crying. Wow, this is a horrible story. Moving on.

Things certainly haven't always been as bleak in the friendship department. And after I moved to LA almost four years ago, I've seen and felt my close friendships deepen and grow.

Friendship is easily one of the best things about life.

I've found that there's an element of mystery to friendship. I'm not sure I can fully explain why I have the friends that I do. [Yeah, not completely buying the genetic similarity explanation, sorry.]

There are some people you meet and everything points to the fact that you should be bff's, but you're not. You have it all: shared interests, mutual friends, the same social group, shared beliefs, a similar sense of humor and appreciation for the finer points of medieval Norse, but yet there's that certain something that's missing.

As one friend explained to me once over tea in a trendy (is there any other kind) LA coffee shop:

"There are some people that you miss when they're gone. You feel it here."--holding her hand to her heart.

That's probably the most accurate definition of friendship I've ever heard. 

And that's the thing--you don't necessarily choose this feeling. You can have it for someone you've just met or someone you've known for 15 years. You can experience it after one conversation or 20. You can have it for someone who could be your personality twin or someone whose ways and means are as mysterious as the origin story for french toast.

To recap: Friendship. Awesome. Mystery. French toast.

All that to say, I'm currently experiencing something that feels a lot like grief.

More recently, friendship has felt a lot like the memoir class I took last year, a class in which each week, several people brought in their living, breathing, gasping-for-air stories.

And Samantha reads her story out loud. And the room falls completely silent in the presence of such naked, vital vulnerability.

And I'm sitting in my seat holding the story in my cupped hands--trying to--struggling so hard not to crush it. And the air is electric and thick with beauty, loss, grief. And I'm completely still as I hear about losing a child, becoming a mother, caring for aging grandparents.

It feels sacred. This story-cradling.

And I don't know how else to describe how friendship feels sometimes.

As if I'm holding my friend's story. Awed by her beauty. Crushed by her fragility. Desperately hopeful for her future and protective of her past.

There is pain in the tension of not yet.

I have these moments. I think everyone has these moments.

All I can do is hold the story. Without altering it to make it easier to take, or trying to "fix" it, or pretending that the painful parts don't exist, or going on as if everything's okay when it isn't.

Sometimes it's just not okay. 

Three Confessions and a Funeral

My Uncle Paul died on July 3, 2014 at the age of 91.

I got an email from my dad asking me to go to the memorial service.

First confession: I didn't want to go. If I'm honest, that was my first thought.

My second thought was this:

"You're selfish."

I showed up to the memorial service. I was late and wearing heels that inappropriately CLACK, CLACK'ed their way down the aisle.

[I can't really walk in heels--even comfortable, conservative size 8W heels purchased at Payless.]

Selfish. Selfish.

I sat in a pew in Sky Rose Chapel--high vaulted ceilings, stone floors, over-cranked AC--and listened to an account of my Uncle's life narrated in Chinese. My Uncle Paul had served as pastor of South Bay Chinese Christian Church for 33 years. He became a Christian in 1950 and moved from Taiwan to the United States in 1969.

I read the bulletin.

Printed there were these lyrics in Chinese and English:

What a friend we have in Jesus, all our sins and griefs to bear!
What a privilege to carry everything to God in prayer!
Oh, what peace we often forfeit, oh, what needless pain we bear,
All because we do not carry everything to God in prayer! 

Have we trials and temptations? Is there trouble anywhere?
We should never be discouraged--take it to the Lord in prayer.
Can we find a friend so faithful, who will all our sorrows share?
Jesus knows our every weakness; take it to the Lord in prayer. 

Second confession: Shoes.

I once "borrowed" my Uncle Paul's Nike sneakers when I had no comfortable shoes to wear home and "forgot" to return them.

Selfish.

But sitting in that freezing chapel, hearing and reading about my Uncle's life--and not only that, remembering the kind of man that he was--

Gentle. Incredibly gentle. Kind. Patient.

We weren't close, but I can remember him sending me off multiple times over the years after a visit or stay at his and Aunt Mona's house, always walking me outside to the driveway and praying to God for me in Chinese.

For my protection. For my blessing. For my safety.

A father's blessing. A father's gentleness. A father's forgiveness.

I cried. I cried because I'm me and I was at a funeral.

I cried because I had carried this burden of SELFISH for a very, very long time.

I cried because I had accepted this burden from someone that I loved (and it can be so hard to refuse burdens from those that you love).

I cried because in that moment I felt the gentleness and forgiveness of a God who does not condemn me. Who knows my every weakness and forgives me.

I cried because I felt like, "Hey, God wouldn't want me to carry this burden of SELFISH and I don't think my uncle would want me to either."

I cried because God is my father. And he is gentle with me.

Third confession: I'm still struggling to lay down this burden. And that's why I'm writing this.

Why is Church Cliquey? Part 3

A couple months ago I was praying and the story of Zacchaeus came to mind. So I found the story of Zacchaeus in Luke and read it. If you haven't read it, it's extremely short. It didn't particularly resonate with me, but I was like, cool, whatever. There's a short dude who is also a hated tax collector. He climbs a tree to see Jesus. Jesus singles him out and invites himself over. They party. Zacchaeus repents of his scummy tax-collecting ways.

The next day (or soon after), I went to church. It was a Sunday morning service and I found myself weaving in and out of the people in attendance. It was bright and sunny (this is Southern California). There were couples and families and children and babies and people I knew and people I didn't.

And I did something I don't think I've ever done before.

I took a backseat in my brain and just observed what was going on in there (do NOT try this at home, kids).

It wasn't pretty.

It was dark. Judgmental. Shallow. Vile. Ugly. The worst kind of petty envy and jealousy.

And in that moment I realized: I am Zacchaeus. I am the short, ugly (?), hated tax collector and I feel so much self-loathing that I put other people down internally in order to elevate myself.

But rather than feeling only shame I felt something else--I guess you could call it pity or even compassion:

I feel more uncomfortable and unsafe and not-at-home at church than I do almost anywhere else.

That's such a strange sentence to write. And I could, if I cared to, explore the history behind that sentence--the different experiences that have led me to both love and hate church.

But right now I'm more interested in this dynamic of feeling comfortable in the discomfort, at-home in the not-at-home, safety in exclusion.

That being loved--actually loved without condition--is excruciating for me.

That being at home--not a stranger, or a guest, or a foreigner--is unthinkably painful and more than I can bear.

My church recently did one of those research surveys, conducted by an external organization that does these kinds of things, to explore our strengths and weaknesses.

The survey found that there was a significant statistical "disappointment gap" between the sense of belonging desired by the people attending and the sense of belonging experienced. I did not fill out this survey. But I can relate. 

I long for acceptance and belonging--the unconditional kind of belonging that I think most people long for. However, I attend a church where this longing goes unmet and denied. 

Just to be clear, I am not blaming the church that I attend for unconsciously or consciously (doubtful) failing to accept me or meet my needs. I'm saying I feel more comfortable living in a space of ambivalence, and so I choose to attend a church where this ambivalence grows and thrives. 

If I'm really, truly honest, I would say I feel more comfortable living in a place of rejection than of love. 

That is so painful for me to write. 

Previous posts: Why is Church Cliquey? & Why is Church Cliquey? Part 2

Next post: "Breaking up with church"

Pain, Part 2

I wasn't quite telling the whole story in my last post about pain, entitled fittingly "Pain" (with a title like that, shockingly not one of my most popular posts). 

I wrote that the wound was infected and that was why I was still in capital "P" PAIN, pain that wouldn't go away, that didn't fade with time, that lingered in excruciating fashion.

I think there's some truth to that, but the larger truth is that I am still in a context and a situation that is not safe--that does not feel safe--in which I am constantly on alert.

I am still in the mix. And so I am still in the source of the pain.

I am afraid that what happened before will happen again--an instinctual, animal fear. I do not claim that my fear is logical, or rational, or necessary, that there is any way for me to know that it could happen again.

The fear just is. Much like the pain. 

So there it is. I'm not in a safe place--haven't been for months.

And speaking of safety, in particular emotional safety, it's something you only realize you had once you've lost it. I was safe; now I am not. The very definition of safety is that you are not thinking, "I am safe, I am safe, I am safe, I am safe, I am safe..." You are not thinking about it at all.

What I didn't expect after that initial "NO!" to what was not safe but rather violating, soul-battering, wounding--and this "No" felt good and right and true--was having to say "No" over and over again.

"I am safe, I am safe, I am safe, I am safe..."

"No" to having my boundaries violated and trampled. "No" to attempts at emotional manipulation. "No" to the endless cycle of brokenness and hurt. And "No" most of all to shame.

There is the thought at the back of mind that because I didn't leave immediately (for rational, adult reasons) I only brought upon myself everything that followed--that I brought all this pain on myself, basically. If only I had just left. 

Shame is such a huge temptation for me. And maybe that's why the fear has been so persistent. You would think that after all this time, I wouldn't be afraid that he would hurt me, again. But I am. 

You would think that after all this time, I would feel secure and safe. But I don't. 

Some part of me is extremely sorry that I am just that weak. That I can't overcome this fear of being emotionally brutalized by someone that I once trusted. That I'm walking around wounded and for the life of me don't have the means to protect myself or feel safe again.

But then maybe that's just the sane thing to do--move to safety as soon as possible. You're hurt, you're bleeding--get off the battlefield, remove yourself from the line of fire.

It's possible that it is impossible to heal while you are still flinching at every sudden noise and movement, when you are too much in fight or flight to even think about recovery. It's possible that fleeing to safety will mean that the wound can finally heal. 

And I'm extremely lucky to be able to do that. I have the means to leave. To get out. And I know that that is a privilege. 

No one deserves this, I remind myself. Not even me. 

Pain

[See a companion post from my friend on this same topic here.]

Last week I was in what you might call "serious emotional distress."

And I was watching a cheesy sci-fi drama called Believe (my apologies if you love this show). The Asian female character had been shot to raise the emotional stakes of the show while not actually harming any primary players, and was running a dangerous fever (they performed emergency kitchen-table surgery on her, but she couldn't go to the hospital because she was a fugitive-on-the-run and would go to prison for life, etc.).

So the leader of the supernatural gang kidnaps a doctor and brings him to her bedside. 

"She's not getting better because the wound is infected," says the kidnapped doctor. 

And at that moment, a lightbulb went off for me. 

Because I was in pain. And the pain wasn't getting any better. 

I was wounded. And the wound refused to heal. 

It refused to heal because it was infected. 

And furthermore, this was the wound. Suffering or hurting alone, in isolation, was the wound. I was in it. I am in it. This particular wound is multi-layered and deep, cutting all the way down to the bone. 

I'm no expert on medicine, emotional pain, or cheesy sci-fi dramas, but in my experience, emotional pain, while intense at first, usually gets better over time. It just doesn't hurt as much as it did when it happened. I cry. I feel better. I talk to a friend. More crying. Maybe some blogging thrown in for good measure. And the pain fades. 

This isn't about that kind of pain. This is about the kind of pain that just doesn't seem to get better. A foreign object enters the wound and the wound gets infected. 

Half the time I feel this force, this pain, stuck in my throat, choking me so that it's hard to breathe. 

How does an emotional wound become infected? 

Shame

Roughly 10 years ago I had an experience that left me hurting for what seemed like forever. I was "betrayed" by someone I trusted and the experience left me struggling to heal from wounds that went deeper in my history than I cared to remember or re-live. 

Even now it's difficult for me to articulate what happened, because on the surface it seems like no big deal. But it left me reeling emotionally, and at the time I didn't have the internal or external resources to deal with it. 

So I didn't. Deal with it. Time went on (as it does), and gradually I felt better, okay. Except I wasn't really okay. Somewhere along the way I decided that the way I felt was my fault and that I had used this pain to hurt other people (by not forgiving them, continuing to be hurt and angry, etc.).

I was wrong and I decided that I would never allow this to happen again. I would never again be so hurt that I hurt other people. 

Of course this meant shutting down vulnerability and keeping other people at a safe distance. 

It wasn't until recently when one of my facebook friends posted a quote by Brené Brown that I realized the connection in my mind between vulnerability and being terribly, gut-wrenchingly wounded. The greater the vulnerability, the greater the wound. The more intimate the relationship, the harder it is to recover.

It was a quote about the benefits of being vulnerable, and my mind went, "But what's missing is that the minute you open yourself up in vulnerability, you also open yourself up to be deeply hurt." 

Shame says, "Something is wrong with me. I hurt other people. I must stop myself from hurting other people." (See also, Frozen)

And so the wound doesn't really heal so much as get covered up with protective scar tissue. And getting wounded in the same place hurts like a $##@$%$%.

Isolation

Shame and isolation are closely connected. I felt shame over feeling shame (fun!). I couldn't kick the shame, the anger, or the hurt no matter how much I prayed, cried, journaled or tried to truly forgive.

The moment some of this shame started to lift I was actually crying to my dad about what had happened. And he said, "You can't make someone feel bad for feeling bad! You can't shame someone for feeling shame!"

And I was less alone. 

Shame says, "Don't let your pain and your grief touch other people. Protect them. Suffer alone."

Forgiveness

What was so frustrating about this entire ordeal was how much I tried--really tried--to do the right thing, namely forgive and move on. 

I read all the right verses about forgiveness. I prayed. I had the "I forgive you" conversation. I did everything "right." 

Because that's what Christians do. They forgive. 

But I now think that one of the worst things you can do is to forgive prematurely. 

Forgiveness is so often touted as the gateway to freedom and healing--forgive and be healed. But so often forgiveness functions as a kind of denial: 

You deny the depth of the hurt.

You deny the extent of the damage.

You deny the past hurts that make this present one hurt so bad.

You deny the process of healing that needs to take place before you can truly forgive.

Denial

I am a slow processor. It takes me an eternity to figure out what I am feeling and why. It's an agonizing process and most of the time I just feel like, "Wait. I'm crying again??" as one more layer of the wound rises into consciousness. 

Why didn't anyone tell me that practicing self-compassion makes you feel even worse? That acknowledging the truth of the wound is excruciating. That letting yourself get angry is scary and confusing. That setting boundaries doesn't mean that other people won't violate them, and in fact can serve as a trigger. That you can feel like &*$# and still not know why. That sometimes you ask for empathy and realize the other person is incapable of giving it. That being vulnerable and brave doesn't mean you won't have to do it again tomorrow and the day after that. That I still don't know how to make the pain go away. That I wonder all the time whether I'm crazy and this is just all in my head--that I'm being too sensitive or a drama queen. That asking for help doesn't mean you'll get what you really want or that you even know what you want or would be capable of articulating it if you knew what it was. That sharing your pain can make you feel even more alone and isolated. 

I wish I could say it's easier this time around, but I actually think it hurts a lot worse. 

As my friend mentioned, sometimes you find yourself telling the same story over and over and over again. It's because you haven't completely figured it out. You haven't gotten relief. The wound hasn't healed. 

Keep telling that story. Go deeper, if you have to. Find safe people who will listen. Don't stop.