Scar Tissue

As I sat praying this morning in my own little private time with God, I kept hearing this phrase repeated over and over deep down in my heart.  Scar tissue.  I knew what He was asking of me.  Yes, God was telling me that it was time.  Time to start writing, time to start sharing.  Time to peel back the layers of scar tissue on my heart.  I've already asked my folks permission--because in no way do I ever want to bring dishonor to my parents.  I love them both deeply.  They both gave their approval to share what I am about to say, I think they also felt it was time.  Because sometimes we are asked to reveal our past in order to grow into our future.  My past, present, and future have always been centered on God and my relationship with Him.  And it is now time to share just exactly what was going on in my home during my childhood.  I'm sure that most of my older relatives knew our little secret, but many did not, and many still do not know.  So, here goes, it's the beginning of my young life, viewed through my eyes and perspective--the scar tissue on my heart.

Something was wrong.  My home was not normal.  My mother cried a lot, my father drank a lot, and I was scared a lot.  Often hiding under the blankets cowering in my bed while the screaming, hitting and threatening carried on around me.  At a young age, I learned to keep out of the way and to keep my mouth shut.  I had not yet met God, I had never been inside of a church, therefore I did not have any means of protection, so that first layer of scar tissue began to built up deep inside.  Even then as a tiny little girl I remember thinking to myself that if were bigger, I'd hit back.  I think that's kind of funny now.  I am all of 5'4", and yet there is that fighting spirit still deep within me--yes, I'd still fight back, I am one tough little cookie.  Short, but tough.  I had to be tough, I had to.

When I was 5 or 6 years old my father was hospitalized.  I'm trying to go back in time to what exactly I thought was going on.  I was told by my mother that he was in the hospital and that he would be home soon.  In the meantime, my little sister and I stayed at my aunt's house.  I want to interject here just how much I grew to love my aunt.  The 2 weeks that I spent in her home were awesome.  That's really the best word for me to use to describe our visit there.  Awesome.  It was peaceful, fun, lots of laughing, and playing outside with my cousins.  There wasn't any screaming, yelling, hitting, drinking, and most of all, there wasn't any hiding.  I didn't want to go home, there was so much love and fun in that little house of theirs that I did not want to leave.

I did not learn of the diagnosis that my father received while in the hospital for those 2 weeks until many years later.  I do think, however, that my aunts and uncles knew.  At least I think they knew.  In my opinion, everyone should have been told.  My mother should also have told my sister and I.  That's what I think anyway.  Everyone should have known, maybe then they would have intervened a little.  Because even though my father and mother became Christians sometime during my 6th year of life, a lot of things did not change in my home.  But here is what did change--no more drinking, hitting, swearing, or yelling.  No more living in absolute terror.  However, here is what did not change--I still, throughout my entire childhood, lived with an unsettled feeling.  I never felt completely safe.  It seemed at every turn, my world was pulled out from beneath me.  I will share later on as to why I had those feelings as I delve into my later years.

Back to my father's diagnoses--he was diagnosed with manic depression, or better known as bipolar disorder.  He had had his first psychotic break at 30 years of age.  I thank God that my parents became Christians and that some aspects of my childhood changed.  I thank God that I was never sexually abused.  I thank God that when I was still so little He gave me a portion of scripture to hang on to--
I will fear no evil, for thou art with me.  Yes, I am unashamedly an optimist.  I have so much to be thankful for that this thankful heart of mine far overshadows the memories of my past.  And yet, I have had to spend a lifetime grappling with layer upon layer of scar tissue.  Had I been told of my father's illness as a child, I believe I would have been able to forgive him at a much younger age.  Yes, that forgiveness word has just popped up.  God has had to help me with much forgiveness.

As God leads me, I will write about each of those layers, how He has revealed them to me and healed me.  How He has shown me that all those many layers of scar tissue have made me who I am today.
But first, I just wanted to use the clinical term--bipolar disorder.  It is nothing to be ashamed of.  It is a chemical imbalance in the brain.  And, it can be controlled via medication.  Some, however, have made unwise choices--as in, not taking their meds.  Which in turn can lead to turmoil within a home.  Which is the case of my childhood home.  Living with a parent with a mental disorder was not easy.  Living with a parent who pretended it didn't exist wasn't easy.  And, as I said before, had I only known--how much different all of our lives could have been.

I hate secrecy.  I love truth and honesty.  I believe that the truth truly does set us free.  And as with any illness, we need to surround that person with love and understanding.  So, in sharing, I am hoping to bring about healing and restoration--between my entire family and anyone who suffers from this disorder.  I hope that you stick with me in the near future as I peel back layer after layer, a little bit at a time and that you learn along with me.  The first part of this peeling away of scar tissue is just saying it or in this case writing it out loud.  The secret, if there ever was one is now out.