An introduction; nothing too original

I've decided to thrust myself slightly deeper into this world of technology.  I figure, when my computer-illiterate mother-in-law (love you, Mama King) can figure out how to send an email from her smart phone before I can, it's time for me to stumble out of my comfy, low-tech zone.  Plus, hopefully this will serve as a good forum for me to work out the random thoughts that ricochet in my head between diaper changes, boo-boo kisses, laundry, cooking, cleaning, and figuring out how to score the latest free/cheap diaper deals.  (No, I haven't actually found free diapers yet, but I'm hoping someday I will.)

So, writing a blog.  From the mind of Chrystal.  I used to write poems in my teenage angst and I'd share them with my friends.  I often said they were a glimpse at the "mind of Chrystal."  I don't write poems much anymore - really not since taking a creative writing course at Northwest Nazarene in the spring of 2009 - but I do still have the urge/need to write.  It's so much easier than talking.  And while there's something nervously sickening about sharing what I write with other people, there's also something encouraging, affirming, and empowering in it, too.  Maybe I'll even be fortunate enough to help someone else.

A while back, a friend of my husband's posted a note on Facebook about being molested by a close family friend.  At first I was amazed that he shared what happened to him on a public forum.  He knew other people were going to read this, right?  Especially since I assume he's not intimately acquainted with everyone on his friends list.  I mean, he's my friend on Facebook, and I think all I knew about him prior to this note was that he went to high school with my husband.  Not only did he share about being molested and working with a counselor to help heal, he shared his emotions, honestly.  I specifically remember him admitting that he was surprised to find himself angry with his abuser, after so many years had passed.

After reading that note, I began thinking more and more honestly about my own experiences being sexually abused as a child.  I was surprised at how hurt I still was; I was 25 when I began re-examining this issue and the abuse had stopped about the time I was 9.  My wound was still very raw.  Not just sore like a fading bruise.  More like gaping wide-open, oozing infectious, putrid-smelling pus.  I was very angry at my abuser, and angry at people who knew about the abuse after-the-fact and did little to offer comfort or counsel.  (I know it's one of those "oh, crap! I have no idea what to do" situations, but still... you do/say SOMEthing, right?)  I began to talk to other people about this, more than I had ever done before.  I talked with my pastor.  I talked with my husband.  A LOT, Lord bless him.  I talked with my in-laws.  I tried talking with my family.  I think it was the first time in my life that I let myself fully feel all of the honest muddled-up emotions of this incredibly FUBAR situation.  I was angry, embarrassed, afraid, timid, indignant, and generally pissed off because I thought I had dealt with this as a teenager.  I didn't realize that writing my poetic teenage angst was about as effective as burying baby diapers under pig shit.  No matter how much you pile on top, it still stinks.  After a while, though, I worked through a lot of those emotions.  I even did some counseling with my God-sent OB/GYN, and I stopped seeing myself as an accomplice or a martyr (i.e., "Lord, please let me be the only one he's done this to... don't let him have hurt others, as well. Thank you for giving me this cross to bear, and may I bear it as well as You did Yours.  Amen."  I had a really messed-up view of God's role in all of this, as well.)  Instead, I see myself as a survivor.  That may not be very original or poetic, but it's the first thing I've been able to see myself as that's solely dependent on me; it's not relational, i.e. not seeing myself as a mother/wife/daughter/friend.  Even if all my loved ones are blown away in some crazy nuclear attack and I somehow manage to mutate through it, I'll still have a self-identification as a survivor.  I think if I was still seeing my OB/GYN/Counselor, he'd be pretty happy that I have a non-relational identification that I feel is important enough to say, "Hi, my name is Chrystal and I'm a survivor" instead of "I'm a couponer," "I'm a baker," "I'm a crochet-er" (all things I do as opposed to things I am.  Well, in my mind, anyway).

But I digress.  I've been trying to heal for a year and a half now, and I'm not there yet.  I'm still angry.  Really angry.  And I'm still trying to work through the forgive/forget/"love keeps no record of wrongs" confusion I've had since high school.  And the whole "God won't tempt you beyond what you can bear" confusion.  (Although we had a study on this section of the Bible in Sunday School last summer that helped quite a bit.  Trials vs. Temptations and all that.)

 So, all this to say I'm still trying to heal, and I'm hoping that by writing honestly about my experience, I can continue to work through this issue and move on emotionally.  I appreciate feedback, questions, etc. but am not looking to be coddled.  This isn't intended as a pity blog, but rather a way to gain empowerment, affirmation, and perspective.  If you care to read this, I welcome your comments.  If you disagree with something I say, feel free to tell me about it.  My posts will likely be as sporadic and jumbled as the voices bouncing around in my head, but will hopefully gain clarity along the way.  They probably won't all be as long as this one, either.  If you made it this far, thanks for reading.