What About Grace?

These three words have stuck with me.

I had just set clear-cut boundaries in a relationship. Someone I had been close to hurt me--intentionally or not, I have no idea. I set boundaries in order to protect myself, not punish him. And he responded with anger:

"What about grace?"

I remember how much he seemed to hate me, even as he uttered these words.

What I was doing was the opposite of grace: Not-Grace--condemnation, judgment, bitterness, unforgiveness (a sin for Christians).

By setting boundaries in a relationship, I was refusing to extend "grace." How often is grace invoked when a public Christian figure has an affair, sexually abuses children, uses shame and ostracism to control church members. How often is grace invoked by Christians in an--as far as I can tell--ungracious tone of voice.

Here, let me lecture you about what grace is, right before I bash you over the head with it, you sinner.

Grace as artillery. Forgiveness as a weapon.

What is grace, anyway?

I picture something beautiful. Something quiet, yet unrelenting.

In that moment, I didn't feel grace. I felt anger, hatred, and blame--if he hated me, if he abused me, it was my fault for not being graceful, or full of grace.

In this lopsided arrangement, grace is always for the perpetrator, never for the victim. It shames you for not being more forgiving. It reminds you that you too are an imperfect person in need of grace. It urges you to forgive, well before you are ready. It puts the burden on you to restore the perpetrator to wholeness.

So, what about grace?

Reflecting from a distance, Grace was setting boundaries. Grace was asking for help when those boundaries were violated. Grace was having the courage and the freedom to leave. Grace was feeling safe again. Grace was and is refusing to blame myself for the actions of another person.

Grace is not intimidation or threats. Grace is not a tool of manipulation or coercion. Grace is not an angry, 6'4'' man cursing at you, getting in your face, and demanding that you forgive him.

I crave the grace of small, tiny moments when I am allowed to grieve. When it is okay to be not okay. Where my reactions are not judged or rejected.

Grace. What about it.

Pain, Part 3: Dealing with Trauma

I'm driven to understand things. To dig deep and find answers (Blame it on the INTP. I certainly do).

I mostly do the opposite of shrugging my shoulders and going, "That's just the way it is."

Even when it comes to pain. Especially when it comes to pain.

Unfortunately for me, you can't analyze your way to healing. Not that I don't try.

Why is this not comforting

Pain doesn't have words. Pain just is.

After going through a traumatic experience (or sequence of traumatic experiences) last year, I've been struggling with how to deal with trauma. This leads to quite a few questions:

How do you heal from emotional trauma?
What do you do if the pain doesn't seem to get better or go away?
How do I deal with the layers of betrayal--not only by the person who originally hurt me, but by the surrounding social contexts that enabled the original betrayal or responded with indifference?
How important is it to understand the motivation and psychology behind the person who hurt me?
How do I process and integrate the positive experiences that I had with this person without simply experiencing more pain?
How do I balance processing trauma in the way it deserves while also moving on with my life and seeking out new relationships?
How do I protect myself from situations or people who are abusive while also not shutting down all possibility of intimacy or vulnerability?
How do I deal with people or situations that trigger irrational and intense fear because they remind me of the abuse?

And on it goes.

And while I think there is nothing wrong with asking a ton of questions (I live for questions. Occasionally I die for them to), I feel like this mountain of questioning also betrays something of a perfectionistic streak--

I find myself operating in a strange place of perfectionism--that inescapable drive to be perfect--even perfect at dealing with trauma.

I hover consistently between "Don't be a victim" and "Why do I still feel like this?" I struggle with thinking that perhaps I seek to memorialize my pain rather than to let it go. But I suppose it's a bit like trying to rip out a jagged edged weapon embedded deep in your flesh--you can't pull it out without also taking some blood and guts with you.

I struggle with thinking that there is a right and a wrong way to deal with trauma, and maybe I'm doing it wrong. I'm failing.

Then of course, there's the occasional odd flash of pride: "I'm dealing with it. I'm neither numbing out, nor engaging in self-destructive habits!" Yay me!

But I also struggle with either leaning into the pain, "living in the present" as they call it, or doing everything I can to distract myself.

And when I'm not perfect at dealing with trauma, shame is ready to pounce.

That's the weird thing about shame--that it tends to spiral outward in layers--

Layer upon layer upon layer upon layer upon layer:

The shame of the trauma itself.
The shame of being responsible for the trauma (abuse) or somehow responsible for not preventing it from happening. ("If only I had...", "I could have...", "Why didn't I...")
The shame of not doing trauma right. (What's wrong with me? I should be over this by now?)
The shame of perfectionism. (It's stupid to think that I can "perform" and be good enough at something like dealing with trauma.)
The shame of self-pity. (I must be feeling sorry for myself right now, because it still hurts.)
The shame of wanting support. (Why doesn't anyone care? I shouldn't expect them to. This is mine to deal with.)
The shame of wanting revenge. (I shouldn't want someone else to suffer like I did.)
The shame of not forgiving. (If I really forgave this person, I wouldn't still feel this way. It's wrong to not forgive.)

And on it goes.

At it's core, is it not some basic shame about being alive?

I've written so much about how pain is a sign that something is wrong. What if pain is also a sign that something is right--a sign of pulsing, breathing, sensing, feeling, painful, vulnerable, life?

I feel pain because I am alive. And I am healing. And I will heal. And I am more than the shame.