There's been this piece of my story that I've wanted to share for quite some time now. It feels as though it needs writing, It needs telling and it needs to be visited.
Writing is a healing thing for me. I've heard it said that for some writers, sitting down and composing story, whether from their experience or their dreams, that it's an escape for them. However, I couldn't disagree more. To me, sitting down to write, even if its something that isn't rich with expression or full of deep meaning, is this natural thing. Rather than escaping, I feel as though I've come home.
When I think about this particular chapter in my life, I am filled with sorrow. Not shame, not disgust, but sorrow. I carry much regret about this season of my life, yet in some ways it feels as though it was something I was meant to go through. As violent and horrific and sad as it all was, somehow, it created this now tender woman. They are the pieces that I'm learning to both live with the consequences of and be grateful for at the same time.
To share this with the world, to write it here and have this permanent record of what happened then shouldn't be mistaken for me living in the past or dwelling on it. Believe me, this piece of my past is the last place I would ever want to live or dwell in again. Yet, I know the value of what it means to face the past when you armed with truth. So many of the things I faced all of those years ago, are things that I battle with still today.
What I have to share is sad and tragic and deep. It's not a "read" for everyone - and it wouldn't be kind to share all of the explicit details here either. But it's very much part of who I am today. This woman who loves to make wreaths and bake and plays in the rain with her son. This woman who fought to keep her marriage together and thinks a bit outside-the-box when it comes to Christianity and politics and relationships. There are reasons why all of us are the way that we are today. And this particular season of my life has so very much to do with that.
To preface, the year was 2005. I was at my heaviest weight, at almost 350 pounds. I was lonely. I felt super-Godly and super-spiritual as if I had arrived at some epic place in my faith as a believer in Jesus. And I had secrets. Very dark, sad secrets that not a single soul knew about.
I hope you will join me next week for some story-telling.....