Picking Up the Peaces

I know it's been a while since I've posted. I've been thinking about all the buried feelings I have and trying to figure out how to dig them out. One night, I actually wrote this in my journal (I haven't been much of a journal-er): The mighty towers loom around me. The Redwood-thick walls protect me. I feel trapped. Every time I open the gate of the mighty fortress, a siege awaits me. I keep opening the gate and my wounds are multiplying. They start to heal and I open the gate again. The wounds are getting deeper. They start to heal so I open the gate again. The wounds become infected. I close the gate. I need time to recover and heal. I keep the gate closed. There's a gentle knock at the gate. I'm terrified to open it. The knock comes again. Dare I open it once again? I climb to the top of the wall and look down. It is The Physician. It is the Master Healer. It is the Savior. I know He wants to help me. I know He wants to heal ...

Consequences come in all shapes and sizes and from all different directions. One consequence that I'm dealing with now is from not following my "gut" over the years. I noticed that my son had ADHD-like behaviors and tendencies years ago. I always thought I should get him evaluated so he could have a diagnosis. My husband, on the other hand, seemed to be in denial. I always thought it was because my husband felt, "If my son has it, then I have it, so he can't have it." Why did I believe this? Because, over the years, I would mention a specific behavior, or self-control or focus issue that my son had, and my husband would say, "He doesn't have ADHD, I was just like that at his age," or, "He's just like other boys. I know because I had those same behaviors when I was that age." What was I supposed to conclude after years of these comments? He would also say things like, "I don't want him labeled and medicated." I trie...

It's been a long time since, but I used to have a voice. It's been silenced for so long that it's been a struggle to find it. I've been searching for it for a while now. Everyone has a voice. Sometimes, it gets buried among all the stresses and pressures of life. Sometimes, it gets taken away by those we love. Sometimes, we hide it in order to protect it or ourselves. Sadly, some people never find that voice again. Lately, I've been trying so hard to pull mine out from under the rubble of what remains of my shattered life. Among the rubble, I've found bits and pieces over the last few weeks. Some of the pieces are battered and bruised. Other pieces are ragged and thin, but I'm finding them. I'm pulling them out and mending them as best I can. Some of them are permanently damaged, but usable. Other pieces have been completely restored. Some of them are going to continue to require maintenance until they can maintain themselves. What is my voice? It...