A Moment With Shame

After last night's Heidicction Live, I want to take a moment and discuss shame.

In simple terms (which, let's face it are the only terms this girl thinks in), shame is feeling badly about WHO we ARE and guilt is feeling badly about WHAT we DO.

Shame does not come from God.

Of this, I testify.

Come and walk with me for a minute or two...

Through the Village of Wemmicks, as described by Max Lucado.

The Wemmick Village was full of wooden people going about their daily routines, as you do.

One young wooden boy, named Punichello, noticed that everyone had stickers on them.

Stars and dots.

Some had stars, while others had dots.

There wasn't a blending of the stickers, People.

How did the stickers get onto the Wemmicks, you ask?

Other Wemmicks put them there.

Punichello had also noticed one wooden person in particular. Her name was Lucia.

(I want to be Lucia when I grow up)

Somehow, Lucia didn't have any stickers.

At all.

Like, she was naked.

And happy.

Giddy, in fact.

(I knew there was something to never wearing clothes!!)

Any who, one day Punichello asked Lucia where her stickers were.

And by the way Punichello was covered in stickers of the dot kind.

Lucia told him that she doesn't have any because they simply don't stick to her.

Then, she suggested that her little friend go to the top of the hill and visit the Wood Carver.

So, let's all climb the hill to the Wood Carver for a moment.

After all, mountains are meant to be climbed.

Punichello opened the door (which I picture to be larger than life - meant for giants and such).

He became scared, as you do, and tried to hurry out... until he heard a voice.

I imagine a booming sound similar to James Earl Jones.

"Punichello (put your name in place here... JUST DO IT), I've been waiting for you."

Punichello responds, "You know my name?" (I imagine I'd ask the same thing)

"Of course I know your name. I made you," responds James Earl Jones A.K.A. the Wood Carver (and YOURS too)

Now, here's the back story on these pesky little stickers.

Stars represent that you are pretty much awesome-sauce - you can do tricks, your wood isn't dented or cut or scraped... you are a good-looking and well-like wooden person.

The dots, on the other hand, represent that people don't think much of you - you are talent-less, ugly, damaged, broken, and no one likes you. Not even a little bit. And you aren't too fond of your dang self either.

The Wood Carver responds with a bit of a James Earl Jones chuckle and says, "Lucia's stickers don't stick because she doesn't care what other people think. She only cares about what I think. So, when people put stickers on her (stars or dots), they just fall right off."

Punichello was pretty curious about this.

The Wood Carver suggested that Punichello visit often so that he would know how the Maker felt about him and care less about what other people felt about him.

Before Punichello left out the door (and, spoiler alert - a few stickers fell off of him), the Wood Carver mentioned, "I made you. And, I don't make mistakes."

Did you hear that? From the top of the hill, in the Wood Carver's shop... 

He made you. And He doesn't make mistakes.

Now, back to shame.

Shame is not a human emotion that any human should feel.

Guilt? Yes.

Guilt is a feeling we have when we DO something wrong.

It is the emotion that tells us we should be sorry, and not repeat it.

Shame is an emotion designated for feeling that WE are wrong.

That there is something wrong with US.

That feeling is not only unnecessary, it is a lie.

And, it doesn't come from the wood carver OR from James Earl Jones - pretty sure.

So, when we begin to feel shame - even a little spark - even enough to make a dot sticker stay on our bodies or our spirits -

We need to stop.

In the name of love.

We need to stop.

And tell the true story to ourselves.

We are enough.

We are worthy.

We have infinite value.

Because we are His.

And He doesn't make mistakes.

Tried in Fire

And I'm finding myself.

Not the same version of me that I have been for 32 years,

 but a stronger version. A wiser version...

Just a girl who has been tried in the fire, sometimes burned by it, often cracked by it -

Now filled in with gold.

Just a girl who finally, after doubting and hiding and numbing and running and questioning, is finding her worth...

And coming to the realization that she has always been... enough.

Yesterday was a post-stroke day.

Numbness and tingling in my face, forehead and down my left side.

Headache. Dizziness. Inability to focus or to remember what I am doing.

To my bed I went.

As I laid in my bed, in a dark and quiet room, I thought of that particular fire that God lovingly allowed me to endure.

It was, I believe now, just another way that He tried to get me to see that the path I was on would - if I didn't cross over quickly - destroy me.

I thought of this picture:

It was the first time my boys had come to see their paralyzed mama in the hospital.

It's about a week and a half out from the stroke.

It's in the dining room of the Neuro-Trauma Rehab Unit at IMC.

Randy, as he did every day, showered me, dressed me, and put my hair in a ponytail.

I was put into my wheelchair, covered with a my blanket and wheeled down to spend some time with my boys.

I was SO excited to see my kids!

They had lots of questions and wanted to talk all about school.

Randy played out in the hall with Colton, letting him race around the halls in wheelchairs... because Autism rocks!

Randy has told me that I was learning how to talk, how to form sentences, how to converse with people.

I was learning how to deal with all of the sensory issues of hearing, speaking, smelling, seeing, feeling.

I was broken, but on that night I was being filled with gold - the gold of my children's love.

Tonight, on Heidicction Wednesday I am going to talk a little about how I came to understand that I had an addiction.

God gave me lots of chances to see that I had a problem that I could not, alone, fix.

This stroke thing was a BIG one.

I still didn't see it.

So, let's talk tonight!

Step One

Honesty.

Admit that you, of yourself, are powerless to overcome your addictions and that your life has become unmanageable.

That right there is a pretty well-written sentence.

It sounds like a pretty good reason to seek help, right?

Your life has become unmanageable and such.

Addiction relieves more than just physical pain. It provides stimulation or numbs painful feelings or moods. It helps us avoid problems or feelings. It is our quick fix. Kind of like how BLT's were my quick fix when I was in junior high and would come home, cause a kitchen fire or two, and just bask in my BLT with grease dripping onto my home-sewn clothing... 

Addiction created lies and secrecy, hoping to excuse our behavior or blame others for judging us.

My addiction destroyed relationships and damaged others.

My life was unmanageable - like for reals - off the rails unmanageable.

Addictions are progressive and grow like a freaking morning glory bush in the front yard of the master gardener's home.

Pride and ego took over my life.

And I didn't even know it.

I can't wait to talk about pride.

I feel like there should be two letters at the end of my name, as if I walked across a stage wearing those yellow ropes to signify that I was so damn good at something that I get extra tassels to hang near my boobs that don't exist - 

Heidi Christensen, P.E.

P.E. = Pride Extraordinaress

Mmm hmmm.

Here's the thing:

I had NO clue that I was an addict.

I've discussed this,

I could identify people who were addicts for a living.

In fact, I considered making a career of pointing addicts out in lineups.

I was not only a Pride Extraordinaress, I was also Heidi Christensen, P.E., A.P.O.

A.P.O. = Addict Pointer Outer

And damn good at it, too.

The story of how I came to find out that I, in fact, must suck at being an Addict Pointer Outer because I missed the fact that I, in fact, am the Addict, is pretty pathetic.

First, my children's father - who I NEVER spoke to - sat down with me and NICELY said, 

"Heidi, do you think that you might have a problem?"

Because, let's all thank our lucky stars and such, my heart was completely shattered and in pieces that at this point are microscopic in size - I was able to hear what he was saying without being defensive or raging angry. I heard what he said. And, with tears rolling uncontrollably down my face - along with fake eye lashes (boy, am I glad there are no pictures from that day), I listened.

Then an hour later my brother, who I had pushed away like he was Diet Pepsi, came to my home.

He sat three feet from my face.

And said,

"Heidi. You are my sister and I love you. It's time to get help."

For the first time in our 41 years on this Earth together - because the twerp stole my first birthday - I agreed.

I nodded my head.

And for the first time, I said out loud these words: "I am an addict." 

The time had come for me when I was brought face to face with reality.

I could no longer hide my addiction by telling one more lie or by saying, "I got this."

The addiction had destroyed my life, and the lives of my loved ones - in particular my four warriors.

Being honest and vulnerable and raw and crazy forthcoming has been incredibly empowering for me.

I feel energized.

I feel worthy.

There are things that I tell - in particular my best friend (T) and my brother, Brandon - that they probably don't want to hear. But, I tell them anyways. 

And we carry on.

Tomorrow, I am going to talk about the imperativeness of dual treatment.

Messages

Since coming forward - out into the wide open land of the Judgement Zone - I have had so many messages from Loves that I don't even know very well.

And it makes my heart SO happy.

So many people have messaged me and told me that they watched my first Heidicction Live, that they have read my FB posts on addiction and treatment, and that they have read this blog and they are inspired to seek help themselves. 

For addictions and character weaknesses they didn't even know they had!

They now get to take their lives and write their brave new ending.

And I'll be rooting for their rise every step of their journey.

I have also read messages from Loves - who I know, and some who I don't - who talk about how there is no possible way that addicts love their children.

As I have watched every single episode of the show, Intervention, I have often thought that.

Ironic.

I watched the show Intervention about addicts, as an addict who had no clue I was an addict.

And I questioned these people and their inability to parent.

I questioned whether or not they loved their children.

Because if they did, they would NOT be an addict.

If they did, they would quit right this minute and be the parent their children deserved.

They would get help and be better right NOW.

Then, I realized I was one of them.

And, Loves, I can say one thing with absolute assurance.

I love my children.

More than life itself.

I love my children EVEN MORE THAN MY ADDICTION.

However, my addiction took over my choices.

It took over my time, my energy, my ability to choose.

It took over my agency.

My actions did not align with my feelings for my children.

It was my children, and their devastation and their sadness and their heartache and their love for their mama, who made me see that I am an addict and that I need help.

Not just for me, but for them.

One of the most important things for non-addicts to realize is that addiction is a thing.

Research it. Study it. Learn about it.

You might find out that you, yourself, are an addict.

I guarantee that you will realize that you, at the very least have family members, who are addicts.

There are resources for you, as well.

Be slow to judge and quick to love.

Most definitely set up boundaries.

But, love.

Chaos Inside My Head

In therapy on Wednesday, as we discussed my lack of feeling in the real sense of feeling - my shrink said that my mind must be so loud. 

Always running from feelings because I don't know what they are...

It's like a constant red siren in my brain, screaming "Stranger Danger!"

When I start to feel - anything - good or bad - high or low - heavy or light - that blaring siren goes off in my head and I run. Fast. Faster than I ran out of that building the day I heard the gun shot. Faster than I ran after things were forced upon me 9 years ago in the cement parking garage just a mile from my home. 

Fast. 

My instinct is to get the hell out of there.

Wherever there is.

Always in my head.

That's where it is.

And, I feel it.

I feel something.

I feel BAD. I feel HEAVY. I feel something that I know to be uncomfortable but it's a stranger to my 42 year old brain, still stuck at five or seven years old, when I stopped knowing what I was feeling.

Emotionally.

Mentally.

This is why the stroke, she says to me.

My brain could not do the hiding and the living. The truth and the lying. The feeling and not feeling any longer.

It had to turn off to save me.

But even the flick of that light switch wasn't enough to make me stop.

And feel.

"You're a little behind, Heidi," she says.

I know.

"But, we are here now. You are capable of learning now. To feel. To know what you feel. To know what to do with what you feel. To teach your boys all that you now know because you didn't know it then."

I know.

"What do you want, Heidi?"

I want my mind to be free from the sirens.

And so we continue.

We push forward.
What is the alternative?

Addiction.

We have a pretty good track record of that not working.

Running.

We all know that not everyone can get a participation award.

Hiding.

I've run out of spots.

And so we continue.

We push forward.

We let go.

We quiet the sirens.

I Don't Want To.

Come in close for this one.

Like, CLOSE.

Do away with all distractions - which is impossible and when my guided meditation tells me to do so, I roll my eyes and laugh out loud because that's not even a thing, People. 

Counseling was a shit-show of epic proportions yesterday.

And, when I say shit-show I mean shit literally hit the fan that was cycling back and forth at setting EXTRA HIGH because the AC was broken and then sprayed the said shit all over the neutral-colored, well decorated office and onto my tear-stained face as I sat on my shrink's neutral-colored, leather couch. It was that kind of shit show.

I have started Step 4 in the 12-step program and I don't want to.

I don't want to do it.

And, by not wanting to do it I mean I may or may not turn into a runner again - picture active shooter training runner, not 5K runner because I sucked at that kind of running. I didn't even get a darn participation ribbon because they were done handing them out by the time I crossed the imaginary finish line (it had already been taken down).

But I will.

I will continue to work on Step 4 because this is the part that is opening my issues WIDE OPEN.

One time, when I was about 10 years old, we were at the Fresno Zoo. By we, I am talking about my parents, brothers, aunt, and her two children - at the time they were like two years old and six months old. The six month old, Alyssa, was fussy. Per usual, she was handed to me - the 10 year old cousin. I took her and sat on a bench that was right next to the entrance AND exit of the zoo - a VERY busy zoo, mind you. Before I knew it, Alyssa laid back in my arm and lifted my shirt right up over my head. She was looking for a boob that dispensed milk. 

I could not even begin to tell you how many people saw me with my training bra and chia-pet hairdo. 

But, the feeling was a bad feeling.

It is that kind of WIDE OPEN that we are talking about.

My counselor and I got to the age of approximately 7 or 8 yesterday as part of Step 4 - which is "inventory" of all of our experiences that have created feelings.

The issue, here, in this shit show is that I have NEVER felt feelings.

Ever.

In the history of ever.

Ever.

I have felt "bad" or "good" or "okay."

But I never knew what those feelings were or how to deal with them or what they meant or what to do with them. Until now.

At 42 years old.

Just now am I starting to learn what mad or sad or scared or confused or whatever it might be is and what to do with it.

I am learning to not run from them - which I have done for 35 years.

I am learning that they are not bad.

They are okay.

And, they are okay to feel.

I was diagnosed with Cognitive Distortion yesterday.

We will begin to deal with that as well in weekly counseling.

Why is this important?

Because our thoughts, feelings and beliefs are actually the roots of our addictive behaviors. Our addictions are a symptom of other causes and conditions.

And I am an addict.

So, Step 4 - let's do this!!

Red Rover Red Rover - Leave Heidi Right Over There

If the answer on Jeopardy were:

The Worst Possible Part of Childhood Games

The question would be:
What is anything that requires team captains and choosing people one-by-one until the last person standing is always Heidi??

Thank you Alex Trebek, I'll take my cash and run with it.

If the answers were:

P.E.

Mutual activities.

Family reunion activities.

Neighborhood night games.

The question would be:

What is my worst nightmare to this day at 42 years old because I'm very certain I have PTSD on the real and I break out into a rash and cold sweats that then turn into hot sweats because that's the way it is right now and I run because I'm a runner when it comes to feeling feelings and I need a Diet Coke on the rocks STAT?!

Double or nothing!

Red Rover And Such is one of the experience headers on my "Elementary School" themed Step Four page.

And it's messy.

Picture this. And for clarification purposes, this is a true story:

Asher is about four months old. Anson is about one month old.

Jackson, Braxton, Kaydon and Colton and I are babysitting.

I am out in the front room, feeding Asher.

Colton is on the floor, playing as he does.

Jackson, Braxton AND Kaydon are in the boys' nursery changing Anson's diaper.

Yup, all three of my 6'3" boys to change a brand new baby's diaper.

Suddenly, I hear screaming - like there are 17 adolescent girls in the house all of a sudden who have just seen a spider and are frantically searching for their way out of the room that only has one exit - screaming.

Braxton comes RUNNING - no Usain Bolt sprinting - down the hallway YELLING:
"MOM!! You gotta go in there! It's REAL BAD!!!!"

I hand him Asher.

I make my way to the boys' nursery.

Jackson is on the floor, I kid you not, in the fetal position rocking back and forth.

Kaydon is holding Anson's legs in the air whilst on the changing table, dry heaving because the kid has a nissen and physically cannot throw up.

Anson is laying there looking around wondering where his prize is because he has successfully SPRAYED the wall with this infant green/orange/brown/milky poo.

It's every where, People.

Jackson is traumatized... praying to Gods I didn't even know existed.

Kaydon is horrified by the new artwork that is now a part of the neutral-colored walls.

 Colton is happily playing with Legos.

Braxton is now comfortably feeding Asher.

And I am joining Jackson on the floor, laughing.
Because this shit right here is the funniest thing I have ever witnessed.

It's messy like that, People.

You're welcome.

I despised games of any kind.

I knew that I would never be chosen.

I wasn't fast.

I wasn't pretty.

I was fat.

I was bad at all sports and all games.

I had no worth and no value to any of the people who were playing the game...

And therefore, I sucked at life. 

Literally sucked at life.

Even now, at work or at conferences or in church classes - whenever we are told to "break up into groups," I quickly high-tail it out of there and right out the door as if I am back in active shooter training and a gun has just been fired.

I'm a runner.

Still.

Forest Gump runner.

When I first attended "group," as I call it (it's technically called ARS, or 12-step), I didn't know what to expect.
Obviously.

And, I was scared.

I walked in and there was a small circle of chairs - maybe eight.

I chose one and sat down.

For the most part, we have never even filled in the eight chairs.

There was always one or two that were left empty.

This past week, though, we kept expanding the circle and adding more chairs until we just about circled the entire room.

People kept coming in and we kept right on expanding our circle, shaking hands and exchanging hugs as people continued to enter our circle.

I sat still as I watched, and participated, in this phenomenon.

It wasn't anything epic, or that anyone would write about in a journal - except Yours Truly.

I wept.

Tears running down my cheeks.

The Kleenex box was gently handed to me.

I continued to weep.

I was a PART of this circle.

I was one of them, and they were just like me.

No team captains.

No cliques.

No one choosing the best of the best or the prettiest of the pretty or the smartest of the smart or the most athletic of the athletes or the richest of the rich.

In fact, we wouldn't even know who met those criteria in our circle.

We just know each other by first name, and by definition: "Children of God."

In recovery.

 On a journey of hope.

Working every single minute of every single hour of every single day to go in the right direction.

All of us broken.

All of us tired.

All of us ready to hand it all over.

I realized in that moment, in that room, in that crazy-big circle, that I belong.

I belong to the greatest team there is: Team Recovery.

We all do!

I left feeling like our team won that night...