tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-45157959428441429922024-03-05T00:43:18.557-05:00Postabortion journey, walk with me...A story of hope and healing after abortion.InfiniteGracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04365787251323492813noreply@blogger.comBlogger131125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4515795942844142992.post-91623359176860522562015-01-22T11:22:00.000-05:002015-01-22T11:22:46.120-05:00Jesus Loves Me BrokenForgive me dear readers; it has been nearly eight months
since I have written…
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So, today felt like a good day to put virtual pen to virtual
paper.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As thousands begin the trek to
Washington, D.C. for the 42nd March for Life, I lament that I <span style="mso-no-proof: yes;">won't</span> be joining them, physically at
least.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mentally <span style="mso-no-proof: yes;">I'm</span> 95% there, saving the other 5% <span style="mso-no-proof: yes;">for</span>
my responsibilities here at home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<span style="mso-no-proof: yes;">I'm</span> not sure why I <span style="mso-no-proof: yes;">haven't</span> posted in such a long time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I <span style="mso-no-proof: yes;">haven't</span>
stopped writing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have pages and pages
and pages of real pen-to-paper writings from the last eight months, from my
whole life <span style="mso-no-proof: yes;">really</span>, but the last <span style="mso-no-proof: yes;">8</span> months my focus has been on the
"big" picture.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-no-proof: yes;">Not that my abortion is somehow not a large and
looming event in my life, but in hindsight, I don't think I recognized while on
this healing journey, the magnitude of all that surrounded that August morning
when I walked across that bridge.</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>All that led up to that day and everything that came after had become
too much and too dark.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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As I've written about before, for whatever reason, in my
last year or two of college I decided what I would and would not put up with anymore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I set my eyes on what I wanted, and I <span style="mso-no-proof: yes;">didn't</span> look back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-no-proof: yes;">And soon</span>
after, I met Prince Charming, and that was that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I put all the bad behind me, or within me,
deep down in some locked-up-tight place in my heart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I <span style="mso-no-proof: yes;">didn't</span>
realize that <span style="mso-no-proof: yes;">it's</span> impossible to
compartmentalize my heart, my mind, my memory, or my soul as I thought I
had.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In His timing, I began this
journey, and He chose to <span style="mso-no-proof: yes;">begin</span> it with
grace and Grace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<span style="mso-no-proof: yes;">But,</span> there was so much
more to heal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was so much more
that kept me hopeless. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was so much
more that I tried to ignore for far too long.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>With all that I have been through in my life, I had never really had any
success with any therapy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-no-proof: yes;">My parents sent me to a therapist or two in my tween
and teen years because I was so angry all the time, and not happy.</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a waste of time as I was too afraid to
talk about the things that were making me angry, and depressed, and hopeless,
and worthless.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I <span style="mso-no-proof: yes;">couldn't</span> talk about my parents and their shortcomings. I <span style="mso-no-proof: yes;">couldn't</span> <span style="mso-no-proof: yes;">talk</span>
about the promiscuity so I <span style="mso-no-proof: yes;">couldn't</span> talk
about the emotional and physical abuse that went along with it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I <span style="mso-no-proof: yes;">couldn't</span>
<span style="mso-no-proof: yes;">talk about the</span> vicious verbal and yes,
sometimes physical, fights that were happening at home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-no-proof: yes;">All of that
would mean annihilating the facade of our perfect little family, where everyone
was happy, where I got straight A's, where we were at Mass on Sunday, and our
little house on main street made a pretty picture even though we didn't have an
actual white picket fence.</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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I was directed to talk about what was wrong with me and only
me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, I never <span style="mso-no-proof: yes;">talked about the</span> things I needed, desperately wanted to talk <span style="mso-no-proof: yes;">about</span>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-no-proof: yes;">And I</span> never talked about the abortion because I
was told "<a href="http://www.postabortionwalk.blogspot.com/2011/07/story-of-my-abortion.html" target="_blank">we will never speak about</a>" it again.</div>
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I went away for my freshman year of college and without the
constant reinforcement of "put a smile on your face," I stopped <span style="mso-no-proof: yes;">smiling</span>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>In my 2nd semester, I tried to kill myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can still see the look on my Dad's face
when I got called into our dorm mother's room a few days later, completely
unaware that my parents had <span style="mso-no-proof: yes;">been called</span> <span style="mso-no-proof: yes;">in</span>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
look on his face was disappointment, embarrassment, and anger. What I needed
was understanding, support, and love. I had broken the code, and he <span style="mso-no-proof: yes;">wasn't</span> happy about it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was some conversation about whether I should
stay at school or not. I convinced them that I was okay to stay, and they drove
back home that same evening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I lasted
for about another three weeks and then packed up and came home, a complete and
total failure, but I <span style="mso-no-proof: yes;">wasn't</span> allowed to
talk about it. </div>
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I spent the next year working, figuring out where I was
going to return to college, and being reminded every day that I was a failure.
I ricocheted between unbridled determination to prove my parents wrong and <span style="mso-no-proof: yes;">seeking</span> out any form of punishment I could from
anyone willing to dole it out in droves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The boy I was "in love" with was emotionally and physically
abusive, but <span style="mso-no-proof: yes;">that's</span> what I thought I
deserved.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That was all I was good <span style="mso-no-proof: yes;">for</span>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A
short time later, another suicide attempt, the same look on my Dad's face, and
I signed myself in for an inpatient psychiatric stay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was there about <span style="mso-no-proof: yes;">3</span> weeks or so.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I never
talked about the abortion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I did begin
to <span style="mso-no-proof: yes;">talk</span> about some things, scratching the
surface of what had been my life up to that point.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I met a couple of other people my age facing
a lot of the same turmoil. My parents came for a family
session.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My Dad stormed out of the
room when the therapist began to hint at there being some problems with my
childhood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There would be no discussion
of their shortcomings at all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-no-proof: yes;">Two of my friends visited me as well and my
"boyfriend," who used the opportunity to convince me to allow him to
use my car while I was "away," and who also convinced me that if I
didn't give him what he needed right then and there that he would have no
choice but to look elsewhere while I was gone.</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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I think <span style="mso-no-proof: yes;">by the time</span> I
left the hospital I had realized that I was my own here, and I would have to
make my life what I wanted it to be – so I began making changes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-no-proof: yes;">And after</span>
a time, I found myself a fairytale that continues today and, God willing, will
until my last breath.</div>
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<span style="mso-no-proof: yes;">But,</span> and there's
always a but isn't there? <span style="mso-no-proof: yes;">But… the</span>
darkness would come over me again and again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I remained distracted by new life, real love, and then children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then, in His time, this journey began, and He
has been chipping away at me every day <span style="mso-no-proof: yes;">since</span>.
Sometimes I feel as though by the time <span style="mso-no-proof: yes;">I'm done</span>,
there will be nothing left.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have to
remind myself <span style="mso-no-proof: yes;">constantly</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>that there is a reason for this journey, there is a reason I am here, and that it is good that I exist. </div>
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It seemed to come to a point again when I had to make a
decision of how my life was going to be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I had been on retreat and through Project Rachel counseling and found
healing from my abortion, but there was so much more that needed to <span style="mso-no-proof: yes;">be healed</span>, but I <span style="mso-no-proof: yes;">didn't</span> know how to ask for help.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I had exhausted all of my resources it seemed and I still suffered, and
it <span style="mso-no-proof: yes;">was getting</span> worse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Finally, at the urging of my husband and the
Good Father, I resigned myself that I needed more help than what they could
provide.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I needed a lot more help.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, for the last <span style="mso-no-proof: yes;">9</span> months or so I've been in therapy – real therapy this time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have gone every week and talked about
things that I have never spoken about to anyone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have peeled back the layers of my life
revealing seeping, seething wounds that sucked the life out of me, that cause
me to stifle laughter, and resist joy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
am beginning to understand why I feel so unworthy of anything or anyone, or any
love at all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think I have progressed a
lot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Prince Charming thinks so.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Good Father lends his support and
encouragement and prayers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> I try to seek out time and space to heal instead of torture myself. </span>I am far from
perfect, or fixed, or completely healed and I have work to do to accept that I will never be those things and that "fixed" shouldn't be the goal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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Each week I sit and talk, and try to hold back the tears,
and surprise myself with the things that I speak about.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-no-proof: yes;">It's</span>
not just about the abortion; <span style="mso-no-proof: yes;">it's</span> about
everything. <span style="mso-no-proof: yes;">It's been</span> <span style="mso-no-proof: yes;">difficult</span>, exhausting, and embarrassing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-no-proof: yes;">But,</span>
the other 167 hours of my week, I find myself laughing, <span style="mso-no-proof: yes;">really</span> laughing, though I still try not to sometimes. Joy startles
me and peace <span style="mso-no-proof: yes;">feels</span> like a stranger
lurking behind me somewhere waiting for the right moment to tap me on the
shoulder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps I <span style="mso-no-proof: yes;">haven't</span> written for so long because there is
still shame in me for needing any the help at all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe I haven't written because I'm
embarrassed that my abortion is not the only thing that was/is wrong with me. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjWBGcGfTEtMXy0CPQnMlD11hhwEzwx53uFGiSusleAh4mv78C1Ou0oupvXLLzHjhHvgZA0IK8B5D4RdwmuQriXsmQvYTTq-PJX9xcaseUrnBgxQC5tiVvXn0n3lPcJqhQIMAFpW3N_RZW/s1600/woman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjWBGcGfTEtMXy0CPQnMlD11hhwEzwx53uFGiSusleAh4mv78C1Ou0oupvXLLzHjhHvgZA0IK8B5D4RdwmuQriXsmQvYTTq-PJX9xcaseUrnBgxQC5tiVvXn0n3lPcJqhQIMAFpW3N_RZW/s1600/woman.jpg" height="211" width="320" /></a>Days like today, however, are still difficult and always
will be at some level.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Following the
March for Life online for the work that I do is a challenge because of what I
read and see and hear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yesterday, a
graphic image of a torn apart aborted baby on my news feed just about made me
ill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I slammed my laptop shut and had a
good cry for a while.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But, I came
back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I said my prayers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I spoke to Grace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn't think about killing myself. I didn't
try to convince myself that I was worthless.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I didn't allow my mind to return to all the thoughts that it usually
does.</div>
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I opened up my blog and read my posts on the two marches
that I had attended.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I scanned over some
of my others posts and made the decision that gentleness is what my soul needs
some times, most times, and I am usually the last person to offer it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have been through an awful lot, and I have
succeeded more than I have failed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I'm
not fixed yet, and that's okay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jesus
loves me broken.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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The journey continues…</div>
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InfiniteGracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04365787251323492813noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4515795942844142992.post-8405207049184902152014-05-19T19:24:00.001-04:002014-05-19T19:35:54.554-04:00A Bridge Too CloseRecently, I had the chance to visit my hometown of
Pittsburgh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Though I’m not that far away
and get there pretty much as often as I want to, I always return with a twisted
mix of emotions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While I wade in
nostalgia most of the time and have great memories of the ‘Burgh – living a bit
away for a while has made it both difficult and easy to return home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I left Pittsburgh with starry eyes and a
heart bursting with new found, true love, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was 24 years old – so just 7 years after the
abortion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I look back over
this journey of mine, I realize, sometimes so painfully it’s hard to breathe, just what all took place in those 7 years before my knight in shining armor
showed up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d like to say I was well on
my way to turning my life around right before Prince Charming arrived, and in
some ways I was. I had put my foot down on most of the garbage that inhabited my
life until then.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I made promises to
myself that I would not allow anyone to hurt me ever again, not my body, and
not my heart. I had made resolutions that my life was going to be
different.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had a good job and my own
apartment and my first brand-new car.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In
a lot of ways, things, and I, were all good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>That is, except for the loss of Grace, whose name I knew, but whose life
I had no idea how to grieve for or if I even should or could.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Acknowledgment of her was stuffed down in my
soul somewhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had told Prince
Charming about her, well not really about “her,” but about the abortion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a short conversation and he made it
easy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was in the past and it didn’t
matter to him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What neither of us
realized is that it mattered to me and it would be decades before I realized
how much.<br />
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Anyway, when I do go back home, I make conscious efforts to
avoid certain places.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I avoid places
where a bad memory resides or some bad experience, the memory of which is torture enough so that I don’t need the physical reminders of it at
all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve talked a lot in these “pages”
about my lonely walk across the 6<sup>th</sup> Street (now the Roberto
Clemente) Bridge to the abortion clinic in downtown Pittsburgh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That bridge has come to have so much meaning
for me and I don’t yet have it all figured out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Is it a bridge between my two lives?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Is it a walk away from Grace? Is it a walk toward my destiny?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Does it bridge the gap between then and now,
a bridge too far?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is it just a bridge?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No matter what it is – it’s a bridge that I
haven’t walked across in over 20 years and one I turn my eyes from while passing
by whenever I’m in town.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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Adding to the bad memories of this bridge is the fact that
my mom and I both worked near each other in town while I was in college and we
would walk across the same bridge to go to lunch together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m not sure how many times we did that, but
it was a lot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t remember if I
thought about it then – I’m sure I had to at some point or other – when we
crossed over the hump in the middle of the span and the Fulton Building came
into full view… did she ever think about me going there for an abortion? Did she
ever think about it at all? Had she ever thought that she paid for her
grandchild to be snuffed out? Did she wonder if I was thinking about it?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Did she care?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I have no idea, and I never will, of what may or may not have gone
through her mind when we walked past that building together on our way to our many lunches.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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In a sense, the bridge came to be a symbol of everything
that happened and the utter loneliness of my long walk across it with Grace still
part of me and the lonely, painful walk back without her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
I had been thinking for a while that I wanted to return to
the bridge at some point, not sure of what I would do once I got there or what
it might mean for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This last trip
home I went back.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqlxoaO0MbbFG6aA2KfqXV_VLJD_sHSG2ZscjHjYSPdVfOPx0AAmhUpg-kbTdi-iZazV3joQLLN3AsYhlyhv3fmd-uRhn9YkLFq5sQAIBMoiNuFFdQnqEGyBlaHf18BT2VfyXxOBBI6cDx/s1600/IMG_5700.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqlxoaO0MbbFG6aA2KfqXV_VLJD_sHSG2ZscjHjYSPdVfOPx0AAmhUpg-kbTdi-iZazV3joQLLN3AsYhlyhv3fmd-uRhn9YkLFq5sQAIBMoiNuFFdQnqEGyBlaHf18BT2VfyXxOBBI6cDx/s1600/IMG_5700.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyGyh9ORH-i5ZlOdasrRkji3z6HMB0oxP16ziehNOFd1YJQ_KAxTKlPsVR4GPcAk1Jx5RlgsnpOOrLsSAh6hBxWylmz6y-puYn2n5c00ZSgpnDadcKZhSPpILhnlU69K-R-voVGgybdbbH/s1600/IMG_5706.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyGyh9ORH-i5ZlOdasrRkji3z6HMB0oxP16ziehNOFd1YJQ_KAxTKlPsVR4GPcAk1Jx5RlgsnpOOrLsSAh6hBxWylmz6y-puYn2n5c00ZSgpnDadcKZhSPpILhnlU69K-R-voVGgybdbbH/s1600/IMG_5706.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a>I parked my car on the north shore and started toward the
bridge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a beautiful, breezy
spring day with puffy white clouds and happy tourists around.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I started walking across and stopped in the middle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I started walking again, and stopped again a
few steps later to catch my breath which wasn’t lost due to exertion but for
everything else. </div>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I stood on the bridge
and looked at the Fulton Building.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
remembered the abortion clinic was on the 3<sup>rd</sup> floor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I leaned back against the yellow metal and
just was still for a while.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m afraid
of heights but I forced myself to the other side of the sidewalk where I could
see down to the river below if I stood on my tiptoes or peeked through the
spaces in the metal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The familiar
thoughts came to mind and I wondered if I had considered jumping 27 years
ago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wondered if anyone would have
cared.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wondered if my mom would have
fessed up and told my Dad that she knew the reason I had jumped.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>More things that I’ll never know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I took a deep breath and walked down the other side.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was always a panhandler on the bridge
then – he’s still there – in the same spot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I stopped at the end of the bridge for a while.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m not sure what I expected to do or
feel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I suppose maybe I just wanted to
walk across it not as a pregnant 17 year old scared out of her mind or back
across it as a 17 year old who just had her first experience with a
gynecologist – who just happened to perform an abortion along with it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wanted to walk across it as who I am today –
or who I fancy myself to be today.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
problem was, or is, that that simple walk across a bridge made me forget for a few moments who I
am today or who I think I am.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then I got
angry, or sad, or both, at how close I still stand to despair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I began to think maybe I have never been far
at all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I know that most of the thoughts I was having weren’t true,
but that didn’t make them hurt any less.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>As my usual <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">m.o.,</i> I took on
this challenge alone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hadn’t even told
my husband what I had planned on doing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>So, in a sense, it was my own fault that I was there alone, without
anyone to help me process what I was feeling or even just to hold my hand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I half dialed his number and hung up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I contemplated a call to the Good Father to ask him to pray with me at that moment, but decided against it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, I tried to say my own prayer.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I stood there looking up at the 3<sup>rd</sup> floor windows
of the building remembering that the procedure room had no windows at all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hadn’t decided before if I would go inside
the building.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After 27 years and a few
million dollar restorations, it hardly would be the same at all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But, in some sense it was hallowed
ground.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Grace was killed there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was the
closest I’d get to any real “burial” site for her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I felt like I owed it to her and to all the
others who died there.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The doorman smiled and said hello as he opened the over sized
doors to the lobby.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is a beautiful
building and the lobby is grand and added to my feeling so small.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sat down in a plush, pretty chair just
for a moment or two.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was afraid the
knot in my stomach and the lump in my throat wouldn’t be contained for much
more than that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, I got up and walked
back through the door as the smiling doorman wished me a good day.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin8HX_Rva7LwdYUHevHKCSxWzpl6d5ljDDcWN9XSRlORME5fEKt6BfPGRzfyqq7KPZt8833wuqKY38DZaQjxLlwDY3FICJkLctxBhgZAEZ9-Oy-xhSaNXqMuQdk16dYFayhhTT1JnroXwP/s1600/IMG_5712.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin8HX_Rva7LwdYUHevHKCSxWzpl6d5ljDDcWN9XSRlORME5fEKt6BfPGRzfyqq7KPZt8833wuqKY38DZaQjxLlwDY3FICJkLctxBhgZAEZ9-Oy-xhSaNXqMuQdk16dYFayhhTT1JnroXwP/s1600/IMG_5712.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a>I sat down on a bench outside the door in the warm sunshine
and waiting for my trembling legs to steady.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Right across the street there is a parking garage, and next to that
another parking garage. In fact, there are probably 5 or 6 parking garages on
the block.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought about why my Mom
hadn’t told me to park there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s right
across the street.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The rate that day
was $5.00 so 27 years ago it couldn’t have been much at all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But, yet, she told me to park across the bridge
in the Three Rivers Stadium Parking lot because it was free.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I almost laughed at the idea that she had
given me $300 in cash to pay for the abortion but no extra for anesthesia and
no extra for parking.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I stood up and turned back toward the way I’d come.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With each step, I tried to remind myself that
I wasn’t 17 anymore and that I wasn’t afraid anymore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tried to remember that I had a husband who
loved me and tried to forget all the ones who came before who hurt me with
words or hands.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tried to remember that
I have two little girls on this earth who need me and who hopefully will
someday know and love Grace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was
almost back to my car on the other side of the river when I couldn’t hold the
tears in any longer and they streamed down my face underneath my sunglasses, mascara
staining my cheeks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the safety of my
car, there was no holding anything in and I sat there for a while saying the
only prayer I could, “Jesus.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had a long drive home and a long time to think.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know that I’ve done a lot of healing these
last few years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know that I‘ve worked
through much.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know that I’m forgiven
for the abortion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know that I am a
child of God and that He means for me to be here on this earth whether I feel like
it or not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And even though I know all of
this, I don’t always feel the truth of any of it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> I still need reminders. </span>If
anything, the trek across the bridge cemented the fact that I still have
healing to do, things to work out, anger to deal with, room to grow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hadn’t returned from my sojourn a conqueror.
If anything, I returned quite the same as I was before it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But, I did realize that I need to find a way
to not be one step away from despair at any given moment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don't have to be stuck in the middle of a bridge between then and now, but I also don’t have to pick a side, do I?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
InfiniteGracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04365787251323492813noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4515795942844142992.post-81815521030401148122014-03-24T15:51:00.001-04:002014-03-24T15:51:55.246-04:00Finding My VoiceI've been writing this blog for <a href="http://www.postabortionwalk.blogspot.com/2011/06/introduction.html" target="_blank">almost three years now</a>. I did not set out with a plan of any kind when I began writing. It just seemed like it would be an okay place for me to talk about my story and all the rest and whoever read it, read it. I did think that if I could help just one person then I would have been a success. I'm not really worried about the success of this blog any more and haven't been for a while. My blog has become a place for me to talk about my abortion and everything else in my life that partially stems from that trauma and all that surrounds it. It has given me a place for my heart to speak when I can't manage to speak with those closest to me. My blog has given me a place where I feel like I am heard. I don't know if I'll ever speak publicly, non-anonymously, about my abortion, but I've done a lot of other things on this journey that I never thought I would do, so I won't say never. Until then, this blog has become my, "I Regret My Abortion" sign. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0Hm8-TxDKC_pbje6qKP5OmALAYq_COLSB9J_FLIGLI2LCaaPntypRmBOc2UAdNS98VVxe3AVJhZAOStXRPSxDUuMZUE8OBY9i_UT-9POYC9EuRAZvNx7AN3Kf4yM14lHomKUIQzhA7ecP/s1600/speak.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0Hm8-TxDKC_pbje6qKP5OmALAYq_COLSB9J_FLIGLI2LCaaPntypRmBOc2UAdNS98VVxe3AVJhZAOStXRPSxDUuMZUE8OBY9i_UT-9POYC9EuRAZvNx7AN3Kf4yM14lHomKUIQzhA7ecP/s1600/speak.jpg" height="271" width="320" /></a></div>
About a month or so ago a regular reader of my blog, Kim Ketola, contacted me about coming on her radio show for a live interview. Post abortive herself, Kim published her book, <a href="http://cradlemyheart.org/about/" target="_blank">Cradle My Heart, Finding God's Love After Abortion</a>, in 2012 and her <a href="http://cradlemyheart.org/radio/" target="_blank">radio show</a> offers a "safe space for you to connect with
others who are finding God’s love–especially after guilt and grief
related to abortion, addictions and other life-controlling issues." <br />
<br />
Knowing that I blog anonymously, Kim and I arranged for the interview via email and agreed on a pseudonym to use for the show. I didn't think a whole lot about saying yes to Kim's invitation, but I was quite anxious leading up to it. What if someone recognizes my voice? What if I'm really bad at it? I'm a writer, not a speaker! What if my Mom hears it? Adding to the anxiety was that Kim wanted me to talk about my abortion experience itself. I knew that it would be difficult as I've only told the story, out loud, a few times and it doesn't get any easier. Saying the words can send me right back there on that table, in that space and time, and render me utterly ignorant of all the grace, love, and peace that has reigned down on me since that day so long ago, yet so near in my heart and mind. <br />
<br />
I suppose the main reason I agreed to do the interview was that it would give me a chance to use my voice and not just my words and that, I thought, could be very powerful and perhaps just as beneficial for me as perhaps it might be for someone who may be listening. <br />
<br />
So last evening, my phone rang a few moments before the live show and then I had the chance to use my voice to tell my story. I think it went well and it helped immensely that Kim understood where I had been. Of course, time constraints make it difficult to share every single detail, but I hope what I did get the chance to say was enough. Upon that statement, a dear Priest, whom I cherish, would ask, "Enough for who?" I suppose my first thought would be enough for God, but I don't have to be enough for Him. I hope enough for someone who may have been listening, is still hurting from an abortion, and afraid to seek help. <br />
<br />
After the interview, my mind was swirling for a few hours. One of the callers who phoned in was quite passionate about my forgiving myself. Believe me, I know! But, it remains difficult. Maybe one day it won't be difficult. It's hard for me to picture a day when I'm completely at peace with my journey and all of its steps, but I know not to say never. <br />
<br />
If you are postabortive and you've been reading my blog or you just got here - please know that no matter how desperate and overwhelmingly dark my story gets at times, there is always, always, His mercy that is bigger than all of it. That truth is what keeps me going even on my darkest of days. I would be no where without it. I am nothing without it. <br />
<br />
Here's a link to my interview with Kim, if you'd like to listen... <a href="http://myfaithradio.com/2014/connecting-story-gods-story-abortion/" target="_blank">Connecting your story to God's story after abortion</a>. <br />
<br />InfiniteGracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04365787251323492813noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4515795942844142992.post-29153035449257664252014-03-19T10:51:00.002-04:002014-03-19T12:12:46.506-04:00One foot in front of the other...I haven’t been writing for a while, probably the longest
stretch of non-writing I’ve had in the last few years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I just haven’t been able to; just the simple
act of putting pen to paper or hands on the keyboard proved too much.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lent usually is a time when the words come
pouring out of me – but that’s not the case this year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This year
Lent seems to be what, hopefully, is the tail end of a depressive episode
unlike any other I’ve had in decades and damn close to being one of the
worst.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My biggest problem with depression
is that I have it at all, that I have that label and it’s written in my medical
history over and over again with a list of medications stopped and started to
try to manage the symptoms because there seems to be no cure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No amount of optimism, faith, trust, love,
hope, sunshine, or happy circumstances can crack the darkness of depression –
that is, until it does.
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I know I must sound like a broken record on this blog. I
sometimes go back to see what I've written in the past few years and I’m sad to
say that my topics don’t branch out all that much.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve been here before on this blog and in my
life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As much as I try to deny the
diagnosis and inevitable accompanying symptoms, depression haunts me. The symptoms
of depression exist within me on many levels and reveal themselves in varied
ways.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some of them can be managed with
medication, some respond to just the distraction of the daily routine, and
others I can just push away or aside if I’m able to focus on something,
anything good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The sunshine, a glance
from my husband, the dog, the laughter of my girls, the words of the Mass,
the Eucharist, or a great cup of coffee can sometimes offer a temporary reprieve. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This time, however, the symptoms ingratiated
themselves far down in the recesses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I feel this depression physically as though I
have a pile of bricks on my shoulders as I go about my day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> I feel my heart beating faster. I can't concentrate. I'm forgetful. </span>It feels like I’m choking but nobody notices
as the lump in my throat never subsides and the tears fall profusely
against my will.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have learned over the
years how to successfully hide the symptoms of depression and have gotten good
at functioning in spite of what I’m feeling and what is stirring about in my
mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The suicidal thoughts and grand
schemes remain and it takes an exhaustive effort sometimes to not pay attention
to them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Adding to all of this was an allergic reaction to a medicine
that I was taking for about a year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
seemed to just stop working one day and I had horrible itching and hives and
slight fever.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had to immediately stop
taking it – which is never a good idea with any antidepressant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The timing couldn’t be worse for a
medication change over and the subsequent waiting period for the new medication
to start working.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thank God, the new medication seems to have started working
ever so slightly, just in the last week.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I am starting to feel as though I can breathe again and I’m able to concentrate
a little better which may be debatable by the readers of this particular blog
post.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m far from 100%, but I’m at
least headed in that direction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have
to be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When the veil of depression descends, it touches every part
of one’s life; at least it does for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everything
just goes black.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I go through my days
like a robot already programmed with the required tasks to accomplish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There’s no joy, there’s no laughter, there’s
no happiness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everything that’s bad is magnified and the anger becomes angrier.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And when it’s really bad – there’s nothing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nothing is the scariest part.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
While I’m in the nothingness, my mind starts to rewind back
to every bad thing that’s ever happened to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It’s not just the abortion –it’s everything from start to finish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s everyone who’s ever hurt me and it’s me
convincing myself that I deserved it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
start to replay moments in my life over and over again, obsessing over the
details, trying to remember even more clearly what would better be forgotten.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The soundtrack of my mind accuses me of any
and everything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Before long I’m walking
around and even sleeping with a thousand thoughts, all of them bad, sucking the
very life out of me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everything in my
life is then viewed through these gray glasses where any glimmer of goodness is
darkened.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anything that’s remotely good,
my mind convinces me is actually bad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I am a horrible person. A complete whore. You aren’t fooling
anyone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’re a joke. God doesn’t even
know who you are. There is no God. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Things that are nuisances most of the time become overwhelming
and paralyzing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And pretty soon I’ve
descended so far down that even attempting to crawl out seems pointless so I don't even want to try.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Where would I start?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It doesn’t even matter anymore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ll just stay here.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Wouldn’t it just be better if I weren’t here? Wouldn’t it be
better if my husband didn’t have such a screwed up wife? Wouldn’t it
be better if someone else raised my children, someone who they would listen
to?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wouldn’t it be better if I just
ceased to exist somehow?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I just faded
into the background while their lives continued on?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe if I just disappeared now, before
things get any worse, then perhaps their memory of me would be better than the
reality.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For weeks I felt in my soul that this was true.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Even when I don’t admit it, even in the blackness, there
remains some small flicker of light which is just enough to make me reach out
for help, to ask for help in any convoluted way, so long as it brings the help
I need and the help I didn't even know I needed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve found hope in a few places to sustain me the
last few weeks and hopefully will continue until I’m on the other side of this
depressive episode.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Apparently, there
is nothing I can do to make my husband not want me and believe me… <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve tried. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have succeeded in making him not very happy,
but I can’t convince him to leave me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No matter how depressed and miserable and irritable
and mean I can be, he still likes me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No
matter how much I retreat physically and mentally – he’s still here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No matter how many times I remind him of my
past and how I’m damaged goods and I had an abortion – he’s still here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And even in the worst of this depression,
there remains a sacred space and time between a husband and wife where love is
all there is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are moments where
all of these feelings and depression and memories cease to exist and peace and joy
take their place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s chosen to love
me through it, again and again, whether I allow him to or not. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In my darkness and solitude I begin to convince myself that
my children would be better off without me. They don’t love me. They don’t listen
to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They don’t respect me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But, every so often, a smile comes across
their face that reminds me that I am irreplaceable in their lives no matter
what kind of day we’ve all had.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No
matter how long I sit on my bed and convince myself that I don’t even deserve
happy, healthy, beautiful children because I killed the first one, one of them inevitably
busts in the door and reminds me that my love and attention is what they seek
out above all others and there is nowhere else they will find it.They are oblivious to my horrible past and my present despicable behavior doesn't really matter to them either because there are far more pressing issues at hand like nails that need to be painted, snow that needs to be played in, or books that need to be read.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2Le4rqYy9TgZSnB0F4wQ08MJoSVzdd02RwSwbFnqgVT3sdLECOgha0pgSYQFZl-_1evWlEk9dLSqONL97SCHoaNOFOpovv22jTNUAcBU8oAdFIe7QpIcgOrkKy93HSDtczRufj_aucnPq/s1600/iam.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2Le4rqYy9TgZSnB0F4wQ08MJoSVzdd02RwSwbFnqgVT3sdLECOgha0pgSYQFZl-_1evWlEk9dLSqONL97SCHoaNOFOpovv22jTNUAcBU8oAdFIe7QpIcgOrkKy93HSDtczRufj_aucnPq/s1600/iam.png" height="256" width="320" /></a>Even in my darkness, I’m reminded that no matter how much I
yell at God and pout and lament every bad thing that has happened in my life,
there is good that remains.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No matter
how much I try to ignore Him and shove my Bible and all my spiritual reading
stacked on my nightstand into the drawer in a juvenile attempt to tell him to
@#$@ off, He remains… waiting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And when
I go to find him, He’s there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I
come limping back, crushed under the weight of this ridiculous mental state
that has no rhyme or reason that I understand, He’s there… waiting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just when I think He actually listened this
time when I shouted in my mind, “what’s the @#$#ing point? I don’t need you,” He
somehow reminds me that I do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes
it’s the lyrics of a song, sometimes it’s the beat of my own heart, sometimes
it’s the touch of his hand. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because of my abortion, because of my past, because of my
depression, because I am a wife, because I am a mother… I need him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And even just because, I am... I need
him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s the light that remains.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No matter how hard I try, my emotional state or station doesn’t
predict His existence in me. He’s here regardless.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I’m broken and crawling through the dust
or happy and laughing - there’s no criteria that needs to be met for needing
Him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I used to think that I had to be
perfect before coming to him, perfectly worthy to go to him – lately I’ve been
afraid that if I’m not broken I can’t go to him for I’ll have nothing for Him
to fix.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I often think of myself as the
woman about to be stoned, or the woman reaching out to touch the hem of His
garment – but I never really think past it and what happens to the woman after
she gets up and goes on her way?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
must have had a life after that moment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>What would her life have been like after touching, really touching,
Jesus?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9YZ3syV0LCxH7S9WnJntl0fpLJzTN8zbMbI98EQ0XKd-CafPebj0QlAnBUcUPQF4YOA6FjckLupwDkk175X0t7SAsijgnKJoQapkVy_RSbXbKO-DusyAC5EewsAn5RfTnGhyphenhyphend5bYALZ7-/s1600/woman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9YZ3syV0LCxH7S9WnJntl0fpLJzTN8zbMbI98EQ0XKd-CafPebj0QlAnBUcUPQF4YOA6FjckLupwDkk175X0t7SAsijgnKJoQapkVy_RSbXbKO-DusyAC5EewsAn5RfTnGhyphenhyphend5bYALZ7-/s1600/woman.jpg" height="211" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wonder if He would still take my hand and hold me when I’m
not broken in a myriad of shattered pieces?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Could I ever so slightly began to see myself through His eyes and allow
love to grow within and He would still be there for me for any reason… or none
at all?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Does He only pay attention when
I’m at my wit’s end and my life is in shambles?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is He still paying attention when I’m content
in the love of my family?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Does He only
listen when I pray out of desperation or does He ever listen when my ramblings put a smile on his face<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Would my husband? Would my children? Would Grace – whom I
came to know only after I was so broken that I had no choice but to face
her?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In all of my depression and self-pity and self-destruction I
think about how no one could possibly love me, or even like me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And there He is, in the middle of it all,
showing me that unconditional love exists in the very air I breathe every
day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I pray that as I take each step out of this episode of
darkness – that He’s there in the sunlight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
InfiniteGracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04365787251323492813noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4515795942844142992.post-35795107658438608552014-01-08T15:37:00.003-05:002014-01-08T15:39:51.819-05:00New Logo A Loving Embrace of the PostabortiveYesterday on my <a href="https://twitter.com/GraceAnne822" target="_blank">Twitter feed</a> I was happy to see that a new logo for the <a href="http://www.marchforlife.org/blog/march-for-lifes-new-logo" target="_blank">March for Life was unveiled</a>. Honestly, I held my breath for just a moment before taking a good look. I exhaled and smiled at what I saw...<br />
<br />
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Ta dah!<br />
<br />
I was even more happy after reading the symbolism behind the new logo from March for Life President, Jeanann Monahan. In part...<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<em>"You'll notice the new logo encompasses a mother and child. We march for moms and babies. Abortion not only snuffs out a life filled with potential, it harms a mother emotionally, psychologically and physically. We embrace every woman and child with hope for happier tomorrows."</em></blockquote>
Back in August of this year, I offered my 2 cents on <a href="http://postabortionwalk.blogspot.com/2013/08/how-to-win-prolife-fight.html" target="_blank">How to Win the ProLife Fight</a>, wherein I talked about how embracing the millions of women who are postabortive is the key to certain victory. I have my own little collection of horror stories from my limited experience in the ProLife arena, but it's enough to make me hash out seven ways to Sunday plus infinity whether I step out again in defense of life.<br />
<br />
About a year and a half into my healing I first went to witness outside an abortion clinic along with the Helpers of God's Precious Infants. I continue to do this when I'm able to up to this day. Two years ago I mustered up the courage to attend the <a href="http://www.postabortionwalk.blogspot.com/2012_01_01_archive.html" target="_blank">March for Life for the first time</a> and it was life changing. I was <a href="http://www.postabortionwalk.blogspot.com/2013/02/reflections-on-my-2nd-march-for-life.html" target="_blank">there again last year</a> and I plan on being there this year.<br />
<br />
The anxiety will continue to ramp up to the 22nd as I try to brace myself against any negativity, temptations to despair, and try to keep from falling head long into the fact that I had an abortion as I take up my spot among the hundreds of thousands of people in D.C. that day.<br />
<br />
I will be there, still quite anonymously, without a knowing hand to hold, when the panic creeps up into my throat as I walk that stupid block with all the wretched pictures and abortions on loop. However, this year, I'm hoping and happy that I'll be able to refocus my gaze on the new March for Life logo depicting mother AND child and feel as though I belong there. I hope that it continues to make me feel like it did when I first saw it, that I am now represented. I hope too that all of the people at the March for Life remember the mothers so horrifically hurt by abortion along with the babies lost to abortion every time they see both beautifully portrayed... together, wrapped in each arms. To be able to hold our babies in our arms, I would guess, is the thing most postabortive women yearn for in this life, but won't have until the next one. Until then, we carry our children in our hearts, minds, and souls.<br />
<br />
The trending campaign for the March for Life is #WhyWeMarch. Last year <a href="http://www.postabortionwalk.blogspot.com/2013/01/tomorrow-is-for-grace-anne.html" target="_blank">the day before the March I wrote</a>, <br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<em>Tomorrow is the March for Life in Washington, D.C. and I'll be there among the crowds, just one person, one woman. Even in the thousands and thousands of people, I will feel alone at times, a desperate loneliness. But then, I remind myself that I'm not alone, that I'm never alone because He is with me and Grace Anne is with me. She's part of me forever. </em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>The nerves are increasing because tomorrow is a day when both of my "lives" intersect for a while and I delicately tip toe through despair, joy, hope, sadness, guilt, anger, intense self scrutiny, meek attempts at prayer, and polite conversation. Come, Holy Spirit, please... and don't ever, ever leave. </em><br />
<em></em><br />
<strong><em>So, tomorrow I walk for Grace Anne and for me. I also walk thanks to my husband because from the moment he came into my life, he changed it forever, for good. I walk for my girls so that they never, ever have to go through what I went through.</em></strong> </blockquote>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/fcUeidRGTJY" width="420"></iframe><br /></div>
<br />
Thank you, Jeanne Monahan, and the March for Life, for reaching out a loving hand to touch the heart of the postabortive, for reaching out a loving hand to me. <br />
<br />InfiniteGracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04365787251323492813noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4515795942844142992.post-19085666808830603232013-12-20T22:30:00.001-05:002013-12-21T07:57:40.106-05:00Through the Eyes of GraceIn some ways I've completely underestimated the effect the Christmas season can have on me. Perhaps that's not totally true. Perhaps, this year, this "far" along in my journey a more likely story is that the drama has quelled a bit that it's not so much that Christmas snuck up on me, but that there isn't that much to sneak up? The tug of melancholy or grief isn't much of a surprise. Maybe I'm starting to live my life in some integrated way, acknowledging Grace more regularly as part of my life now, a real part, that doesn't need drama and histrionics to come about. Healing the wounds of the abortion itself has seemed to allow Grace to be part of me, minus most of the pain. Honestly, sometimes the histrionics still win out - albeit for shorter times and at longer intervals in between. <br />
<br />
Recently, a challenge was put to me for this Christmas - to think about what I'd like to give Grace for a Christmas present. Seems manageable. After the tumbleweed thinking of, "I could have given you life..." is stamped down, I can think of some other things that I'll hold in my heart for a while. However, the bigger challenge was to think about and pray about and ask Grace what she might give me for Christmas this year.<br />
<br />
Come on, really? As I clench my fists, stamp my feet, and my bottom lip starts to stick out.<br />
<br />
I began to contemplate the idea for a moment and then just as quickly began pushing it aside thinking that I won't have to deal with the idea until I actually sit down and clear my mind (yeah, right) and pray with big words, grand contemplation, and perfect meditation.<br />
<br />
I should really know better by now. <br />
<br />
In the midst of a hum drum task of my vocation as wife and mother of which I'll spare you the details, Grace took the initiative to tell me what she wanted to give me this Christmas. Turns out she has been paying close attention lately. <br />
<br />
"This Christmas, I want you to see yourself as I see you, as Daddy sees you, as all of the people who love you see you, and most of all - how He sees you." <br />
<br />
In internet lingo.... Oh. My. God. Literally.<br />
<br />
I stopped for a moment, almost out of breath, and tried to listen intently. <br />
<br />
"And I want you to be the person we all see and quit hiding behind who you think you are."<br />
<br />
As I sat on the bed and the tears began to fall it was as if I felt her hand that was just on mine, softly depart and then I was left alone with her gift, maybe one of the most thoughtful and love-filled gifts I have ever received - that is if I accept it. <br />
<br />
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In a few moments, the normal, familiar thought patterns returned perniciously. Yeah right, see you as they see you - they all see you as just what you are... unworthy, ugly, frumpy, tired, old, stupid, wasted life, wasted career, wasted degree, fat, fat, fat, out of shape, bad mother, worse wife, age spots, wrinkles, used up whore, damaged goods, fooling everyone with your "good Catholic woman" act, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, and blah. And that's on a normal day, not even a bad day. And she wants me to turn that around? She wants me to see myself as worthy of love not only from her, but from everyone? <br />
<br />
Therein lies the problem with what Grace desires to give me. As Flannery O'Connor puts it, "All human nature vigorously resists grace because grace changes us and the change is painful." <br />
<br />
Amen, Ms. O'Connor. <br />
<br />
So now I am resisting grace and Grace, but what would happen if I accepted grace and Grace? Let them both in and see myself through the eyes of both and each? Grace wants to change me. She wants me to change myself and I'm not sure I can deal with more pain, the pain I know is going to come, at least temporarily, with that kind of change. I'm not 100% convinced of what's on the other side of that pain or change and I am fully aware that I'm never going to be 100% sure of it until it happens, until I make it happen.<br />
<br />
It's so, almost impossibly, difficult for me to think about myself in ways other than what I'm so accustomed to at this point. But, at the same time, my choice to view myself in the ways that I do allows me to continue to do all of the things that keep me trapped in this unhappy place where I won't even allow myself to be in a photograph with my kids because I'm afraid then there will be photographic proof and long standing evidence of how truly horrible I was. Every once in a while, when I have a good day, and a good hair day, I allow myself to feel good for a short time. I notice the sparkle in my eyes or I allow myself to feel good about something I did during the day, but it soon fades or becomes overshadowed by the negative. I can stand in front of the mirror every day, putting in my contacts and applying my make up and never really see myself at all. I never really look.<br />
<br />
I asked someone how they get the motivation to stop the negative self talk and find a way to look in the mirror and say something positive, see something positive. Part of their answer was to "make it up if you have to." <br />
<br />
So, I started a made up list, that started to morph into a real list. I'm not sure if this is how Grace see me, or how my husband sees me, or the people that love me see me, and I have no idea if this how He sees me, but it's a start.<br />
<br />
I am intelligent.<br />
I am funny.<br />
I have a great sense of humor.<br />
I think quickly on my feet.<br />
I'm good at any job I take on.<br />
I learn things quickly.<br />
I am fiercely loyal.<br />
I am protective of the people I love.<br />
I am a pretty good writer.<br />
I am a pretty good singer.<br />
I am pretty good at a lot of things actually, jack of all trades.<br />
I am a great cook.<br />
I have pretty eyes.<br />
I like my freckles. <br />
I have a cute nose.<br />
I have near perfect pitch.<br />
My husband loves me no matter what.<br />
My kids love me no matter what.<br />
I'm a great friend.<br />
I like all of the scars that I have. <br />
I love to learn.<br />
I love to read.<br />
<br />
Repeat as necessary. <br />
<br />
I'm already starting to feel guilty that I won't be able to unwrap this gift from Grace on Christmas morning. I'm so, so afraid of the change I know will come with its acceptance and I'm even more afraid of what will happen if I don't.InfiniteGracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04365787251323492813noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4515795942844142992.post-30187259076736248972013-11-18T09:53:00.000-05:002013-11-18T11:17:16.165-05:00The Progress of PainIt always surprises me, although it really shouldn't, the depth of the pain that women still feel years after having had an abortion, even years after a Rachel's Vineyard retreat where so much healing takes place as the Mercy of God pours down in buckets. <br />
<br />
When I hear post abortive women express such pain, I always want to reach out and say it will be okay, this too shall pass, it will get better. For some, this is very true. For others, myself included, the process takes longer, is more convoluted, and painstakingly slow. Everyone's journey to healing is as individual as the person taking the steps. <br />
<br />
Sometimes and oftentimes, the healing journey can be very far from okay. I have come to believe that the answer exists in those not-okay times becoming recognizable, anticipated if possible, and then, with grace, manageable. I think it's also important to have someone or somewhere to turn when those times show themselves. I am still working on that part. I am much more inclined to come here to write about it. I still find it extremely difficult to just outright tell someone close to me that, hey, I'm not doing okay at the moment and I need a bit of help. I suppose too that I don't reach out because the fear remains that I will disappointment those who care about me and who want to see me happy. <br />
<br />
In the wee hours of the night last night - one of those not-okay times washed over me like waves and I struggled to keep my mind above the proverbial water. Something triggered some memories of my abortion and since it was late at night, with everyone asleep and I was alone in the dark with only my thoughts, the memory began to take over. I was stuck on the memory of the sheer pain of my abortion. I spoke in the <a href="http://postabortionwalk.blogspot.com/2011/07/story-of-my-abortion.html" target="_blank">story of my abortion</a> how in 1987, there was no anesthesia offered for an abortion procedure at all. Perhaps you could purchase some - but that was not an option for me. I also wrote about how my abortion procedure was my first ever experience with any kind of gynecological exam or procedure of any kind. I had no idea what I was walking into.<br />
<br />
The memory that I dwelt upon last night for hours, in and out of fitful sleep and nightmares, was the pain involved with a torture device known as a cervical clamp. To make sure I wasn't crazy - I Googled, "cervical clamp pain," and sure enough thousands of hits appeared on the pain associated with this tool of the trade. Surprisingly, most of the first hits were women recounting stories of having had IUD's placed or other intrauterine birth control devices and the pain they endured from the clamping of the cervix necessary to do so. No anesthesia is given for that procedure either.<br />
<br />
I decided to just allow my mind to go there and let whatever thoughts float in and out and I made a promise to myself that I would not respond or react, but just allow the memory to come and then, hopefully, go.<br />
<br />
I'm not sure if the abortion procedure is akin to the attitude of health care workers towards an overdose victim whose stomach they now have to pump. There have been lots of stories of how they make sure the stomach pumping process is not at all pleasant to make the patient never want to contemplate even trying to do that again. Maybe the doctor who performed my abortion had the same mentality - make it hurt so as to discourage a repeat customer?<br />
<br />
A cervical clamp is a wretched device. Cold, metal, with teeth and it does exactly what its name implies - it clamps the cervix open - which means it stays in place for the entire procedure - and any woman will tell you that the pain is almost unbearable. The memory of that pain is what kept washing over me last night - the intensity of it, the shock of it, the violence of it, and the shame of it. I remember oh so vividly laying on that table, not knowing what to expect at all and then the sheer force of that clamp on a part of my body I didn't even know existed. I remembered the tears spilling down the sides of my face and being told several times to be still and to "relax." I remember beginning to shiver uncontrollably from the pain and thinking that it was never going to end. <br />
<br />
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The memory of that pain can cause me to just about jump out of my skin even at the loving touch of my husband. I hate the idea of that fact with every fiber of my being. It's a confusing and complicated memory and one that I'm finding difficult to heal. <br />
<br />
I am several years overdue for my annual GYN exam - and I keep putting it off longer and longer - and these kind of memories are the reason. I've had to have a cervical clamp several other times for other procedures and even though the bedside manner was completely different and the reasons completely different - that memory of that first pain remains and it's mentally and physically excruciating. What's more is that I'm afraid to tell the person doing the procedure of my past and why I'm just about jumping off the table the minute any procedure starts - even something as simple as annual exam and pap smear where it's all over in a matter of minutes. I'm not sure how they will react. Will they understand my anxiety and proceed with care, or will they not care at all? <br />
<br />
I'm not sure why I chose to write about any of this today, maybe just to get it out there and out of me. Maybe just to share the reality of what those who have had an abortion go through. Perhaps just to let other post abortive women who may read this know that it's okay to not be okay sometimes. <br />
<br />
I'm not sure what time I actually drifted off to a restful sleep last night - but I remember one of the last thoughts I had before I did and that was that I am not the sum of my abortion and all of the pain that came with it - the physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual pain. I was reminded this past weekend of the words of Blessed PJP II, "... we are the sum of the Father's love for us." I pray that today and every day I remember more and more that these painful memories do not make me or break me.<br />
<br />InfiniteGracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04365787251323492813noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4515795942844142992.post-24844697991881022152013-11-08T16:22:00.002-05:002013-11-08T16:47:45.542-05:007 Quick Takes <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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7 Quick Takes - Hosted at <a href="http://www.conversiondiary.com/">www.conversiondiary.com</a></h2>
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I apologize that I have been horrible at blogging lately, I've been horrible at writing lately. I feel as though I've been horrible at most things lately. Which, of course, isn't entirely true. My children are fed and clothed. Hubby is fed and clothed. Dog is fed. It's been a struggle lately coming to terms with the choices I've made in my life the last decade or so. I work part time because I always felt that my number one priority is being a wife and mother. I'm not so sure anymore. I want it to be, but I can't help but feel run down with the day to day. I have other interests and volunteer activities that keep me busy and engaged in adult conversation, but the problem is that then I often feel as if everything in my life is gets maybe 10% of my attention and nothing gets 100% or even close. I find myself doubting ever making the decision to not work full time the past 12 years or so. I think about where I could be in a career, how I should have gotten my master's degree, and how much money I could have made so my husband wouldn't feel all the financial pressure. Would have, could have, should have. <br />
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<a href="http://www.blogger.com/null" name="qt2"></a><strong><a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=4515795942844142992#qt2" style="color: black; text-decoration: none;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">--- 2 ---</span></a></strong></div>
I have begun seeing a spiritual director and it's been a great process thus far. I won't share most of what happens within that context because I'd like to keep that space a bit private, but I will share one of my "homework" assignments that I was given last month - that I completely failed to do. Well maybe fail isn't the correct word - outright refused to try is a better description. I think it's something that a lot of people struggle with, however, especially people with pain in their past or decisions they regret, or standards they feel they will never measure up to - so yeah, that's just about everybody. My assignment was to look in the mirror each day and say to myself, "Self, I am loved and I am beautiful." I wouldn't even attempt it. Why? Because I don't feel loved and I feel even less beautiful. I just kind of ignored the whole idea until my next meeting with my director and we talked about why I can't do this. The discussion led to a lot of thoughts that I'm dealing with now as far as why don't I feel loved and beautiful? Do I even want to feel loved and beautiful? Do I really want any of it? Now, my new assignment is to, if I can, just look at my eyes in the mirror. Just look myself in the eyes, ignore all the rest of me (thank goodness), and concentrate on my "windows to the soul" and try again. I'm kind of scared. Who am I kidding? I'm terrified. <br />
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<a href="http://www.blogger.com/null" name="qt3"></a><strong><a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=4515795942844142992#qt3" style="color: black; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: white;">--- 3 ---</span></a></strong></div>
I haven't been writing on my blog recently and have hardly taken pen to paper, but I do appreciate all of the comments and emails I have received from people who have said that my blog has helped them, or touched them in some way or that they too have had an abortion and appreciate my honesty and what I have to say. It's always better when I don't feel alone in this. I'll try to do better this month for those people who have asked me to please keep posting. You are all in my prayers - even the whack-a-do's whose comments I don't publish - you know who you are. <br />
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<a href="http://www.blogger.com/null" name="qt4"></a><strong><a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=4515795942844142992#qt4" style="color: black; text-decoration: none;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">--- 4 ---</span></a></strong></div>
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I've been absolutely dumbfounded at the Catholic "blogosphere" the past few months. Sometimes it's hard to even tell if we are all on the same team. I'm astounded by the derision that exists and the meanness and harshness with which everyone defends their opinion about absolutely everything. I get it, I am hell bent on some of my own opinions on some matters. But, I don't get the extremeness of opinions in our Church. And the same topics come up in my Twitter feed every day after day. Aren't we supposed to all be part of the mystical body of Christ? Christ must be suffering from severe body dsymorphia right now. I don't know if I should love Pope Francis or <a href="http://mundabor.wordpress.com/2013/11/06/a-tango-loving-mystic/" target="_blank">hate him</a>. I don't know if I should sneer at crying babies in church or offer a helping hand. I don't know if <a href="http://www.catholicbandita.com/father-z-rants-against-face-to-face-confession/" target="_blank">I'm a heretic because I prefer face-to-face confession</a>. Should I demand that my <a href="http://americamagazine.org/issue/lead-us-not-clericalism" target="_blank">Priests be pretentious and untouchable or the huggable, warm and fuzzy variety</a>? I wonder if I'm a bad Catholic because I don't <a href="http://ezinearticles.com/?Ten-Great-Reasons-to-Homeschool-Your-Child&id=1505795" target="_blank">homeschool my kids</a>. Should I feel superior now that I receive communion on the tongue (even if it took me months to work up to it and I still get so nervous about it?) Should I listen to <a href="http://www.churchmilitant.tv/index.php" target="_blank">Michael Voris</a> or <a href="http://www.patheos.com/blogs/markshea/" target="_blank">Mark Shea</a>? Ugh! Can't we all just get along? Maybe that's why I haven't been writing lately - I'm afraid I'm going to get attacked by my own kind in a place where I should feel the most safe and secure. I feel bad because I fear I'm not strong enough to withstand any criticism. I applaud those of you who are, but could you all get together and come up with 7 Quick Takes about the Church we can all agree on? Thanks.<br />
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<a href="http://www.blogger.com/null" name="qt5"></a><strong><a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=4515795942844142992#qt5" style="color: black; text-decoration: none;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">--- 5 ---</span></a></strong></div>
I recently finished a fantastic and extremely helpful book that someone recommend to me. Dawn Eden's, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/My-Peace-Give-You-Healing/dp/1594712905/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1383941753&sr=8-1&keywords=Dawn+eden" target="_blank">My Peace I Give You</a>, is an excellent read. Ms. Eden offers ways to find help and healing with the lives of the Saints. Although I did not suffer from childhood sexual abuse as Ms. Eden did, everything that she speaks about in the book would be extremely helpful for anyone who has suffered from abuse or trauma in any way. I found myself reading and re-reading paragraphs and chapters as I thought about some of the things that have happened in my life. Having had an abortion is definitely a sort of abuse, and having one at the age of 17 would seem to make it even more so. Ms. Eden gave me a lot to think about regarding forgiveness and also about living and reacting from a place of woundedness versus from a healthy place. I'm not quite there yet. Sometimes I doubt I ever will be, but Ms. Eden has offered me hope in some areas where I didn't have any before. She's given me some new things to consider and a way to deal with some things that keep coming up all the time.<br />
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<a href="http://www.blogger.com/null" name="qt6"></a><strong><a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=4515795942844142992#qt6" style="color: black; text-decoration: none;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">--- 6 ---</span></a></strong></div>
And now for something completely different... the other day in the car, my eldest asked me, "Mommy's what's a condom?" Now, this is not the first time she's asked such a direct question and I'm glad that she feels she can ask me - but, holy cow, can we have these discussions while not driving the car? Geez. Anyway, I asked her where she heard the term... at recess, of course! Her friends refused to tell her what it meant. I explained it to her in the best way I could and she found it to be completely disgusting. At present, she finds all of these discoveries essentially disgusting which is fine by me at the moment and for the next ten years. I am grateful to have these discussions though, as my mom, to this day, has not uttered the word s-e-x in my presence more than twice that I can remember. If I would have asked her what a condom was - I shudder to think what her response would have been. So, a little pat on my back for one small success as a parent - my kid is, obviously, not afraid to talk to me about all things sexual. Let's just pace ourselves, shall we?<br />
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<a href="http://www.blogger.com/null" name="qt7"></a><strong><a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=4515795942844142992#qt7" style="color: black; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: white;">--- 7 ---</span></a></strong> </div>
So, the theme this month on Facebook is to spend each day posting what you are thankful for. I didn't take on the challenge. Not that I'm not thankful - I just hate doing what someone tells me I have to do. But, I'll take this last quick take to concentrate on what I am grateful for even if I don't see those things that are right in front of my nose every day. I'm thankful for my life and for waking up every day healthy and warm with a loving husband by my side and a devoted canine who is just so damn happy to see my eyes open each morning. Never underestimate the power of a wagging tail. This can not be taken lightly in my case because of the suicidal ideation that I often suffer from - waking up each day and realizing what a gift it is to be alive is huge for me. I'm thankful for my children, all three of them, for when they drive me crazy and for when they don't. I'm thankful for my home and all the things in it because, though I constantly complain about the things I don't have, the things I do have are ridiculously excessive. I'm thankful for this journey and for where every step has led, the good, the bad, the ugly, and the sublime. I'm thankful for my beautiful Church and the sacraments and for each time that I am privileged enough to partake in the Eucharist and feel Him enter my body and soul and heart so completely and so overwhelmingly that it brings me to tears just about every time. I'm thankful for all of the people in my life who have helped me along the way and who have held my hand. I must admit I'm afraid that once I'm "healthy" or "fixed" from all of this that you will all disappear because I won't need you anymore. I'm thankful for eyes that can see - and hopefully I'll use my sight to look in the mirror soon and realize that I'm worthy of something... anything, and hopefully one day, love.<br />
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For more Quick Takes, visit <a href="http://www.conversiondiary.com/">Conversion Diary!</a></div>
InfiniteGracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04365787251323492813noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4515795942844142992.post-57088893239952878352013-10-24T11:44:00.002-04:002013-10-24T18:22:58.099-04:00Not even my mother? I haven't written anything for quite a while, actually not since the anniversary of my abortion on August 22nd. I just haven't felt like it and for me, I have to feel like it, otherwise whatever comes out seems forced or contrived. Over the last week I've been jotting a few notes down here and there, starting to shove that writer's block out of the way little by little. But, today, after this, I'm not even going to try to sound like a good writer. This is about the heart and the pain and the woundedness and loss that comes with having had an abortion.<br />
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A few months ago I wrote about how to win the prolife fight. I felt pretty good about what I wrote and a few outlets had even picked up my little opinion piece. I started to feel again like maybe I am doing some good work here. <br />
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Then stuff like this happens. Today, I scrolled down my Facebook feed and came across the video, "An Interview with an Unborn Child." Okay, I'll watch it. The first graphic was okay and not the blood and gore that so often accompanies these types of things. I hit play. I watched it all the way through one time and felt my neck start to flush and the lump in my throat begin to form.<br />
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I watched it a second time and started to talk back to the video. I watched it a third time, angrier by the moment, trying to write down some notes, blinking back the tumbling tears that refused to stop falling. <br />
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This video, my dear friends, can destroy a person. It can destroy me. And before you go on and on about how people need to hear the truth and blah blah blah... allow me to just give you my, albeit one sided, perspective. This video presumes a hell of a lot of things - all of which are wrong in my case and I'm guessing for millions of other postabortive moms. <br />
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First, watch and then I'll tell you why.<br />
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Let me tell you something, not a day has gone by since August 22, 1987 when I have not thought of my daughter. Not. One. Day. And that's not a cliche'. That's truth. </div>
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I have heard her screams over and over and over and over and over again in my mind and heart and soul for 26 years. When I seem to forget the screams, I will force myself to remember them. Her greatest pain is my greatest pain. The assumption in this video is that <em><strong>not even</strong></em> the unborn baby's mother knows his pain. Wrong. Wrong even for the woman who celebrates her abortion as her right and claims relief when it's over.<br />
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I know who Grace is.<br />
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I know her.<br />
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I love her. <br />
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Grace experiences my love every single day.<br />
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Death is the only kiss this "unborn baby" claims to have known or will know. <br />
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I kiss Grace with every thought, with every prayer, with every tear, with every breath of mine.<br />
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Yes, she was torn from my womb and I never held her or saw her, but she remains with me because I am her mother.<br />
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Even before I spoke the word abortion out loud in the first step toward healing decades after my abortion, I knew her. I loved her. I have spent the last years learning that this love for my daughter is real. I have learned how to love her and not have it destroy me. I have learned that my love for her and her love for me surpasses our circumstances. <br />
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This is the kind of prolife propaganda that assumes that every woman who walks into an abortion clinic is doing so of her own free will, with a premeditated plan, exercising her legal right to have an abortion. This kind of prolife crap is what reopens the wounds of abortion for women who have tried to heal in every way possible and still remain weak no matter how tough they seem. <br />
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I walked into an abortion clinic that August morning, at the age of 17, because my mother told me to and I had no choice. I was a child carrying a child.<br />
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I get it. I know what the prolife side is after with this kind of message. I know I'm supposed to consider myself part of the "choir" and they aren't really talking to me when they put this stuff out and pass it around Facebook and everyone chimes in with their comments about how freakin awesome it is. Everything I've ranted about above, I know in my heart.<br />
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Even for the woman who walked into the abortion clinic and walked out relieved and claims to this day that it is the best thing she ever did - she knows somewhere in her heart that she is a mother and she does love her child, but no where in this video or countless others is that mentioned. There is no mercy here. There is no forgiveness here. There is no hope here.<br />
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For the tender conscience that has spent years piecing together hope and faithfully grasping for just an inkling of mercy or an ocean of it, this video is capable of making it all evaporate with some clever wording and haunting background music. <br />
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Why? Because you never fully heal from abortion, not this side of heaven, and this kind of video can be like a stake through the heart. I just keep saying it over and over in my mind. I know her. I love her. I know her. I love her. I know her. I love her.<br />
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And what keeps me alive is the fact that I know that she knows me and she loves me.<br />
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InfiniteGracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04365787251323492813noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4515795942844142992.post-62672663296814496812013-08-21T20:05:00.001-04:002013-08-22T06:25:17.573-04:00Of Scars & ThoughtsOn this anniversary-eve of my abortion, I'm trying to redirect my most negative thoughts. I'm trying to think of the way my life has changed over the last few years, since I've begun talking about my abortion, since seeking help and healing and mercy, since acknowledging my Grace Anne in a real way. There are many things I am grateful for since taking the first step on this journey, but I don't often reflect on the positive things. Maybe the medication is starting to work a bit, as I've found myself today ticking off a list in my head of very positive things.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp5aOulDmlximYYyTGAyI9D4Yz_81QkPZIbyk1IjuUxFP5K57w24YjtJk2CWTwzSW38txO3lxCVmjNBm7XIQ3uzqVzYYAKDsW4SmKfNqz86f8aGl7-VJ6PmGYetTK1Q6GIh4LSMczeluQ7/s1600/beautiful-love-quote-quotes-love-scars-Favim.com-336476.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp5aOulDmlximYYyTGAyI9D4Yz_81QkPZIbyk1IjuUxFP5K57w24YjtJk2CWTwzSW38txO3lxCVmjNBm7XIQ3uzqVzYYAKDsW4SmKfNqz86f8aGl7-VJ6PmGYetTK1Q6GIh4LSMczeluQ7/s320/beautiful-love-quote-quotes-love-scars-Favim.com-336476.jpg" width="320" /></a>I've mentioned before that I'm grateful for the invisible scars that remain from my abortion experience, even though I don't always tap into that gratitude. About a year ago I had surgery for some skin cancer and ironically I have a not too pretty scar right above my heart. Because of the irregular shape and size of the incision, the scar is quite ragged, but I've taken a liking to it. It's become a tangible reminder to me of the stitched up scars on my heart beneath. I have scars from two Cesarean sections from having my two girls, I've come to think of this one above my heart as Grace's scar since I never gave birth to her. Scars can be a reminder that our past is real, or so they say, and I'm grateful that Grace has become real to me and I wouldn't change anything that's happened in the last few years. This ugly scar that is in plain sight for all to see has become a reminder that my wounds don't change how anyone feels about me. The wound heals, the pain subsides, but it still itches sometimes. It will here forever, it's just part of me, but it's not all that I am. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2gXCW00_VJiDTUmG4CeDal2nkiMl078tJTmf1QfMLN_J6Sy5UfBwpr_P3DZyWogv9Hp9F2ePa7TjZnglKwAqKluLYzMJADUBQP_fjT4d3ZLH2b86EcKA4GX745BOAxcngUL20Z2ZADc0X/s1600/date.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="109" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2gXCW00_VJiDTUmG4CeDal2nkiMl078tJTmf1QfMLN_J6Sy5UfBwpr_P3DZyWogv9Hp9F2ePa7TjZnglKwAqKluLYzMJADUBQP_fjT4d3ZLH2b86EcKA4GX745BOAxcngUL20Z2ZADc0X/s200/date.jpg" width="200" /></a>After I first spoke the word abortion out loud to the Good Father who then wrote down the number for Rachel's Vineyard and gave it to me, my life was forever changed. I began this journey that continues today and will forever, which is okay because I've learned that the journey won't end this side of Heaven. I've also learned a lot that makes the journey bearable down here.<br />
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My faith has blossomed on this journey in countless ways on this post-abortion walk. I've rediscovered my Church in so many, ridiculously beautiful ways. I've learned more in the last three years than I ever did in years and years of CCD classes. I've read and read and read some more, anything I could get my hands on. I've read the Bible - not cover to cover, but I'm not afraid to open it anymore and I actually understand some of it. I try to read the daily readings every day. I've learned to really pray the rosary. I've learned to pray, period. I don't think I'm very good at it, but rumor has it, Jesus doesn't care. I've learned how to love God with all my heart, all my soul, and all my mind - and how that doesn't mean I love my husband or children any less. I've learned to love most of my neighbors and have compassion for people I hadn't before. I've learned so much about our beautiful Mass and what it all means and symbolizes. The Eucharist has become so very much a part of my life and those few seconds after each communion are some of the most joyous moments in my life - just to be with Him and in Him and Him in me. I've studied and learned the truths of our faith and I'm all in with every single one of them. What a relief to know what is true and what is not. I've learned what thoughts I have and "voices" I hear are of God and which aren't. I've learned to stop the thoughts that aren't of God and I'm getting better and better at it. I've learned that the fear after a sweat-inducing nightmare can be quelled with a quiet Hail Mary said over and over until I fall back asleep. I've learned that memories are just that, memories and the only power they have over me is the power I give them. I've learned that I am never, ever, alone. I've learned that Jesus really does love me and He really does listen to me and He really cares about what I have to say. I've learned that I was created in His image out of His love for me. I've learned that I can speak to Mary about all of my fears about being a good wife and mother and she hears me and comes to my assistance. I've learned that most people who I tell that I've had an abortion react with love and kindness and understanding.<br />
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This is just a bit of what I've learned and discovered on my journey so far. I kind of can't wait to see what else I learn and discover, and I'm fully aware that I can't learn or grow if I'm too depressed to even get out of bed. So, I continue to be a work in progress, but for now I seem to be progressing in a positive direction - even now - on this night.<br />
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So, tomorrow I will mark the anniversary of my abortion by spending my day as God willed my life to be, as a wife and mother, as a daughter, sister, and friend. Then, hopefully tomorrow evening I'll be able to go to adoration and sit with Him for a while.<br />
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Thank you, Grace, for leading me to all of these places along the way and meeting me there. Thank you Jesus for the scars I bear from wounds that haven't killed me, but have made me stronger and brought me closer and closer to You. <br />
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<br />InfiniteGracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04365787251323492813noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4515795942844142992.post-71329647604804191272013-08-14T09:18:00.001-04:002013-08-14T10:23:41.139-04:00It's All GraceTruly overwhelmed by the response I have received regarding my last <a href="http://<iframe width="420" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/_d8OrxkTGM4?rel=0" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>" target="_blank">post</a>. I've been thinking a lot over the last 24 hours about my journey and wondering what may lie ahead. Lead me, Lord...<br />
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Today I am grateful for my wounds, for without them I wouldn't be who I am, even if most of the time I have not an inkling of who that is. There is no denying that there are parts of my life that never existed until I took the first step of this journey, steps into grace and with Grace. <br />
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<span class="arial14">"God, who foresaw your tribulation, has specially armed you to go through it, <br />not without pain but without stain." ~ C.S. Lewis</span></blockquote>
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InfiniteGracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04365787251323492813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4515795942844142992.post-63963525103568470172013-08-12T08:47:00.002-04:002013-08-13T15:44:14.131-04:00How to Win the Prolife FightI normally stay far away from the political areas of the prolife "fight." The main reason being that the most effective weapon I have in my arsenal is the fact that I am a postabortive woman, but this weapon I can not bring to bear outside of this keyboard. So, I choose to fight the good fight with the story of my journey, prayerful and hopeful that my story helps someone, somewhere, at some time. I also tend to stay out of it because I'm not always sure who my enemy is, the prochoicer or the prolifer.<br />
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That being said, I have entered a bit into the prolife movement since beginning my journey. My attendance is regarded as just another prolife Christian and usually no one knows the real reason I'm present. I attend a prolife mass often and take part in a silent, prayerful witness outside of an abortion clinic. I've attended the March for Life the last two years. And, although I'm not carrying a sign that reads, "<a href="http://www.silentnomoreawareness.org/" target="_blank">I regret my abortion</a>," my Father in Heaven sees me and knows the intention of my heart. I am hopeful that my physical presence, as just one of many others, is enough to help to someday turn the tide.<br />
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When I take part in any public prolife events with my secret harbored in my heart and mind, I brace myself for any kind of words or rhetoric that would cause me pain, or worse, doubt, or even worse yet, despair. My concerns are rarely, if ever, unfounded. I look around and try to imagine that there are women and men around me who harbor the same secret since, statistically speaking, there just have to be. I've seen the prolife signs and graphics that state the safest place for a baby should be in their mother's womb. Well, I think that the safest place for a postabortive person would be at a prolife event. Sadly, this is not the case.<br />
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I've written before about the use of graphic abortion signs and how <a href="http://postabortionwalk.blogspot.com/2013/01/7-quick-takes-on-being-postabortive.html" target="_blank">I feel about them</a>, but sadly, some in this fight will argue their effectiveness until they are blue in the face. They can keep arguing about it, I think they are wrong, but I can't stop them. They're still wrong.<br />
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If you've read my blog before you know that I'm a Lord of the Rings fan. If you are familiar with the story, in the final installment of the trilogy, the good guys are in their last ditch effort to save all of mankind and the odds are not good. Aragon needs to find the numbers to win the war, and where he goes to find them is not a popular decision. Aragon himself is horrified at the thought of even asking these "murderers" to fight along side him. He must go to summon the Army of the Dead, he must face the evil he believes them to be, evil, murderous, traitorous men who are bound in limbo because of their actions. Aragon promises them release from their debt if they choose to fight with him.<br />
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The army agrees and the epic war is suddenly over when the ships carrying them dock and dead men pour out like a crashing waves against the bad guys, destroying all in their path. <br />
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Redemption is a powerful motivator.<br />
<br />
That's how I see the postabortive people in this world being the key to the prolife "fight." 55 million abortions in the United States in the past 40 years - 55 million babies translates to 55 million possible foot soldiers in the prolife fight. 55 million. Even though the prochoice crowd has been chanting for 40 years about how abortion is a choice and a right - those who have chosen to exercise that right mostly remain in the shadows or in secret. Few stand up and shout from the rooftops how fantastic is is that they chose abortion, fewer still stand up and shout how they regret their choice. <br />
<br />
Why? Because the prolife fight can be one of the most scary and dangerous places for a postabortive person. Whether you are public about the fact that you had an abortion and bearing a sign that says so or holding it secret in your heart, when standing in a sea of hundreds of thousands of prolife people, there remains a fear that the same, smiley, happy Jesus-loving people will unleash their wrath upon you. A wrath that sometimes simmers just below the surface. <br />
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I'm not saying that every person at the March for Life or any event is capable of rendering harm to a postabortive person, nor has the desire to do so. But, I can say that just about every one of my prolife experiences in the last couple of years has had moments that have triggered the fight or flight endorphins in my brain. The first year I attended the March for Life, there was a gentlemen chaparoning our group, a member of the Knights of Columbus no less. As we were walking he struck up a conversation with some folks behind me and began a very vocal condemnation of women who have abortions with the typical, "they should just say no to sex, keep their legs shut!" His conversation lasted for a good 15 minutes with all of his opinions spouting about women who have an abortions. Granted, he had no idea that a postabortive woman was walking right in front of him. But, what if he had known? What if he hadn't known, but he acted as if he was surrounded by post abortive women anyway? What if at the rally before the March - he heard compassionate words regarding postabortive and those words sunk into his heart and soul? <br />
<br />
What if every speech, at every pro life rally or event, began with mention of the postabortive and their pain and struggle and more importantly about the mercy of God? When I do hear the postabortive mentioned at events - it's sadly an afterthought, as in "and... we can't forget about the women who have had abortions." I think the postabortive should be the first mentioned. What the man behind me at that first march wasn't aware of was millions of abortions happen as a result of coercion by parents, boyfriends, husbands, lovers, or friends. Millions more occur out of fear and anxiety over hopeless prenatal diagnoses given by doctors. Millions of abortions happen because the woman feels she has no choice at all. And yes, millions of abortions happen because a pregnant women decides to exercise her right to have her pregnancy terminated, but that woman too deserves sympathy because she has bought into the lie and is a victim of the Culture of Death. People like that man behind me need to be told these facts, over and over and over again.<br />
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All of the postabortive, regardless of the circumstances that led them to having an abortion, all of us deserve love, compassion, and mercy which we receive in abundance from God. Who we need it from also is the prolife movement. What would we be capable of then? What if every flyer and every poster and every email blast for a prolife event invited first and foremost, the postabortive. Invite us to come in secret or with our Silent No More signs. Either way, assure us that the words spoken will be words of love and mercy. Assure us that you will do everything in your power to make sure we are not harmed by word or deed.<br />
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The comment below is one I received on my blog post <a href="http://www.postabortionwalk.blogspot.com/2011/07/story-of-my-abortion.html" target="_blank">The Story of My Abortion</a>:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"You. Make. Me. Sick. I sincerely hope you die a death as horrible as your unborn baby did. Good riddance."</blockquote>
I wonder how my events the above "prolifer" attends during a year? I wonder how many other postabortive women she's said the same words to? I've received a lot of comments on my blog since I began writing it - this is one that I can quote word for word. It's the comment the Devil whispers in my ear when I board the bus to the March for Life. It's the comment he whispers to me when I sit down to write this blog. Thanks be to God for the strength to shake the words off and continue on, but there are days when I'm unable to shake those words off and they play in my ears like a sinful, sweet melody.<br />
<br />
There has been talk recently about how to engage the prochoicers instead of <a href="http://www.lifenews.com/2013/08/11/hey-pro-lifers-to-change-hearts-and-minds-on-abortion-quit-preaching-to-the-choir/?utm_content=bufferafe23&utm_source=buffer&utm_medium=twitter&utm_campaign=Buffer" target="_blank">preaching to the choir</a>. My suggestion to the prolife movers and shakers - there's another choir you are ignoring. Engage the postabortive. Engage us with love, and compassion, and mercy free from any semblance of judgment regardless of why we had an abortion, whether we had an abortion <a href="http://www.postabortionwalk.blogspot.com/2013/08/26-years.html" target="_blank">26 years ago</a> or yesterday. Be at the ready, with open, loving arms, to embrace us with the knowledge that there is no judgment here.<br />
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How could the main stream media resist if the March for Life numbers swelled from hundreds of thousands to millions? The prolife movement is self-defeating. You are either ignoring or alienating your toughest, largest, and what could be your most passionate, ally.<br />
<br />
Make it the mission of every prolife event to be, first and foremost, an ocean of mercy towards those most harmed by abortion, the women who have them. What an army it would be - 55 million strong with all of the children lost interceding with and for their mothers.<br />
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Then maybe there is a chance for victory.<br />
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You. Make. Me. Sick.<br />
I sincerely hope you die a death <br />
As horrible as your unborn baby did.<br />
Good riddance. - See more at: http://www.postabortionwalk.blogspot.com/2011/07/story-of-my-abortion.html#sthash.muPw0eRv.dpuf</div>
InfiniteGracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04365787251323492813noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4515795942844142992.post-29742884381843846292013-08-07T19:59:00.002-04:002013-08-08T06:41:00.887-04:0026 yearsI've been kind of obsessing over numbers lately, numbers of years since I've been with my husband (19), the number of years since becoming a Mom (11), the number of years I've lived away from the town I grew up in (18), and now the shadow of the most looming number is creeping nearer and nearer. Two weeks from now will mark the 26th year since my abortion.<br />
<br />
26 years.<br />
<br />
Seems like forever and yesterday at the same time. When I began this journey, I had to sit down quite a few times and piece together a timeline to clear up the fogginess that 20 years of repression can cause. Over the past several months, we've been doing some reorganizing at home and I've been coming across lots of memorabilia and keepsakes. I found a box of all of my datebooks and calendars that I had kept. I found my wall calendar from senior year of high school - one of those school year ones that start with August. Right there in black and white on my calendar on August 22, was "<a href="http://postabortionwalk.blogspot.com/2011/07/story-of-my-abortion.html" target="_blank">AWS</a>," in cute, bubble letters no less. Allegheny Women's Services.<br />
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I didn't need the calendar to tell me that, but it was nice to have my memory confirmed as correct. With grieving, I'm told, it's healthy to have a day to memorialize someone that you lost. A day to mark the occasion and then move on with your life I suppose. The last couple of years I've tried by placing flowers at my retreat sight and on the memorial to the unborn at my church. This year I'm not sure what I'll do. I don't think I've really learned how to grieve at all. I've never lost anyone close to me, my parents are alive and the only grandmother I really knew died when I was about 12 and it didn't really affect me much. I don't have any experience with death or grief.<br />
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Lack of experience isn't the only thing that holds me back from grieving - I think that if I grieve for Grace that she's somehow going to be gone. I ignored her for so long - I don't want that to happen. If I grieve for her then I think I'll feel that she's gone and I'm trying to bank on the words of Blessed JPII that "<a href="http://postabortionwalk.blogspot.com/2011/06/blessed-pjp-ii-speaks-to-women-who-have.html" target="_blank">nothing is definitively lost</a>." It doesn't feel right to grieve for her, when I talk to her sometimes.<br />
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Perhaps then, when August 22 rolls around each year, I'm not grieving for Grace at all. Maybe I'm grieving for the loss of so many other things, things I've talked about on this blog of mine. The loss of innocence. The loss of dignity. The loss of self worth. I grieve for what the abortion left behind in me. Fear of men. Fear of doctors. Fear of life. I grieve for the life I think I should have had instead of the interrupted one I got.<br />
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The life I have now is pretty well blessed and I know that, but there is a part of me that's just, well... me, I guess. I have talked about my struggle with depression a bit. I've laid so much of my life out here on this blog, but it's difficult to talk about having a diagnosis of depression. It's like an admission of defeat, of failure. I've struggled with antidepressants for 20 years now. How I need them. How I hate them. Depression is a tricky, tricky thing. It makes you feel horrible in ways very few people can understand and usually those closest to you have no idea what you are going through and how the simplist of ideas can become so twisted in your mind. Sometimes nothing at all is easy. <br />
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I tried to be medication free for a while and within just a few months of everything having time to be out of my system, the depression returned, with a vengeance. I really thought I could do it on my own. I choke on the words, but it seems that there is little I can do on my own at all. After my abortion, I continued with my senior year of high school and left for college. By the second semester of my freshman year, I had attempted suicide twice. One not-so-serious attempt, and one pretty damn serious. I had a third suicide attempt when I was 20 and soon after I voluntarily went for an inpatient hospital stay. Through all three of those attempts and treatment, not once did I talk about the abortion. Sometimes I wonder if I had been treated properly back then, maybe I wouldn't be where I am now. I'll never know.<br />
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Suicidal ideation can be a very scary thing and it's something that you can't really talk about to anyone. It's hard to talk about it without someone immediately thinking you need to be admitted to a hospital STAT. That fear makes it impossible to confide in anyone. It's possible to be depressed to the point of thinking of suicide and still function - I'm living proof. But, it would be nice if I could talk about it. For me, it's part of who I am. I just most often think that I am completely replaceable in this life and that the people I care most about would be better off without me. Maybe those feelings will change, but I've had them all of my life it seems. A feeling that I will never be good enough. I will never be valuable enough.<br />
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So, what I'm dealing with are two very huge secrets in my life. The fact that I have depression and probably always will and the fact that I had an abortion. Two taboo subjects. Two things that affect my life every day that my feet hit the floor. It's exhausting sometimes to lead this double life of mine. No matter how depressed I may be, no matter if it's the 26th anniversary of my abortion, I still have to get up, make breakfast, do some laundry, and go on with the day. I can't wallow in it physically, so I wallow in it in my mind. I wallow in it emotionally. I wallow in it spiritually. But, I wear a mask for much of my life. Sometimes, I wish I could take it off. <br />
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It's for all of these reasons that I've decided to try a new medication. Unfortunately, antidepressants take time to work. I'm trying to be patient. After a week, the constant lump in my throat seems to have subsided. I feel a little, I guess it could be labeled as "better," but I'm not sure what better feels like. I feel a little numb, but I may be mistaking normal for numb. I'm going to try to give it a month or so and see.<br />
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I just wasn't any match for the depression that tears me part from the inside. The medication won't teach me how to grieve. It won't tell me what to do this August 22nd. The medication won't give me back all the years I feel I've been cheated out of. But, maybe it will help me to focus on something else. Hopefully, it will help me to not wallow so much. Hopefully, it will help to make these two halves of me whole.<br />
<br />InfiniteGracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04365787251323492813noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4515795942844142992.post-37211000046708071672013-07-15T15:29:00.003-04:002013-07-15T15:30:38.598-04:00A Hand to Hold & Hope<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I was working on a few things today and I came across this photo. It's a statue called, "<a href="http://www.hopemonument.com/" target="_blank">Hope</a>." The first time I saw a photo of this statue was in a flyer for a "<a href="http://lancastergardenofhope.com/" target="_blank">Garden of Hope</a>" that is not too far from where I live. It's a memorial for babies lost to abortion or miscarriage, for all babies lost before their birth. I've wanted to try to visit it a few times, but I'm not sure how public it would be and I'm sure I would sit in my car waiting for there to be no one around before I even attempted to enter the place.<br />
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I just love the sculpture though - it's so tear-jerkingly beautiful. Usually when I try to clear my head a bit and really pray... I picture myself walking along a pathway somewhere beautiful & serene, in nature somewhere, always by a lake or ocean for some reason... and there He is, waiting for me. Waiting... for me. Of all people! When I'm able to actually get to that place in my mind, it's glorious. I don't think I've ever imagined holding His hand - but that seems completely doable, right? Why wouldn't Jesus hold your hand if you asked, or just took his hand in your own? In the statue, it looks as though He took her hand though - either way, could you just imagine that? I don't know if I would even have to say anything after that - the hand holding might be more than enough. But hopefully I would talk. And I do try to talk with Him, in prayer and I try to listen, of course. I'm not always successful. Usually I fail miserably. <br />
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She looks like she's holding a necklace and maybe showing it to him - I'm not sure. I guess I'll have to look closely if I ever get to see the sculpture in real life. Most importantly is the fact that He is holding in his arm, on his lap, an infant. I can't really concentrate too much on that part of the sculpture, it's too difficult. Even now. But even a cursory glance tells me it's beautiful and fills me with hope. <br />
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The anniversary of my abortion is approaching soon... August 22. It will be 26 years since my abortion.<br />
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I haven't thought too much about how I may mark the day, if I do at all. Perhaps just going to Him in my mind will be enough. On my Rachel's Vineyard retreat and in counseling I've learned that grieving for the child you lost to abortion is okay to do - but I'm not sure I've ever really figured out how to do that. It's still difficult for me to say her name out loud. <br />
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Also in my rounds on the internet today, I watched a video about the latest prolife events in Texas, et al. I was shocked by some of the footage in a video when it showed an actual abortion being performed and a little, tiny, 12 week old hand being picked out of some blood and fluid. I've seen most of the graphic pictures of abortions - but this one today was different. I paused the video and just stared at the image of that little tiny hand.<br />
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I hope one day to hold Grace's little tiny hand in mine. InfiniteGracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04365787251323492813noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4515795942844142992.post-16453862900658445232013-07-06T09:08:00.003-04:002013-07-06T09:08:36.800-04:00I'm Nothing if Not PredictableI started writing this blog 3 years ago, in June of 2011, about one year after my first Rachel's Vineyard retreat. Coincidence? Probably not. I am a creature of habit even though I fancy myself spontaneous and unpredictable. I'm still trying to figure out if the fact that I have major depressive episodes that are cyclical in nature - if the depression fell into step with my own personal time clock or if my personal time clock has been set to the meter of my depressive episodes. One thing is for certain - there is a definite ebb and flow to what I'm feeling or going through at any particular time.<br />
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I can go along for a while, feeling pretty good and on an even keel and then, seemingly out of nowhere, everything is out of focus and I'm grasping at nothing, let alone a straw. We've had a busy two months in my "real" life, well this blog is my real life too, perhaps I should say my "offline" life. We've had major life changes, health scares, and general upheaval. It feels as though my life looks like when you peek through a kaleidoscope. It can be very pretty, but you don't know where to look, it's all disjointed and fractured, but there is beauty in the mess. My problem is not always seeing past the mess. I tend to look at the all the fragments and feel frustrated at the lack of order and then I chuck the whole kaleidoscope as completely not worth it. <br />
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In real life, when I don't have one thing to focus on, when too many things are pulling me in too many directions, I can't deal with it. I opt for nothing and retreat, predictably, quietly into my own head and begin not to care about any of it, whether it's pretty or not. That's kind of where I am now. I'm retreating. The good thing about predictability is I know what comes next if I don't stop it. Not that that realization is enough to stop it sometimes, but I'm aware of it. <br />
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With all that life has handed us lately, both good and bad, I'm completely and utterly overwhelmed and second guessing every decision I've made in the last 12 years or so. <br />
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What would be laughable if it weren't so damn sad is the fact that I know what I must focus on to make my life okay again. The trouble lies in trying to find that focus and have it be part of my real life, my offline life and my online life, just part of me, always.<br />
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When I go back and re-read some of my posts - especially those soon after my retreats when I'm basking in His mercy, love, and light - I wonder why I ever leave those spaces in time. I suppose life gets in the way. I suppose I haven't truly surrendered all to Him. I have a weak faith or a timid one. It's easy for me to write on this blog and gush about the love from Him that I allow myself to feel, but ask me about it in real life or ask me to actually speak about it, I'm mute. The last 4 years of my life I've learned more about my faith and what I believe and my Church than ever before, but get me in a room of people and I won't say a word about it. Just the other evening I was out for some dinner and cocktails and the gossip inevitably begins. One woman starts talking about so-and-so (who of course is not at the dinner to defend herself) and how this person is all "gung ho with her prolife crap..." I sat there in silence, not agreeing, but not speaking up either. I didn't way a word. What a coward. So, I return home and start to question if I really believe anything I say I believe. How can I if I'm too afraid to talk about it or even mention it. It was much easier to be outspoken about what I believed when what I believed didn't need defending. <br />
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I think sometimes I'm afraid to even talk to myself about it. I'm afraid to talk to my husband about it. I feel guilty admitting sometimes that I have such trouble focusing and I need some help and the first help I need to get is His. When do I do well with life? When I make time for Him. And usually that involves some smells and bells for me because trying to focus in my own mind is a losing battle. But it's still difficult for me to just say that I need some time to pray and then go to adoration or wherever is conducive for me to do that. Maybe because I'm not even sure what I do would be considered prayer at all. It would be even worse and more guilt inducing to say, "honey, I need some time to go sit in a chapel and, oh I don't know, sit there and do nothing because I don't know how to pray, I think." When everyone I know is so busy with this and that and the other thing it sounds shallow to just sit and do nothing in a chapel somewhere because I believe that He is really there. I only feel justified in doing those things when I'm at the end of my rope for whatever reason - so I begin to wonder if I'm creating the frayed rope to begin with. <br />
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Well, I've stopped and started this blog post ten times over. I'm not even sure what I'm writing about, if anything. I'm not sure what I need right now. And if I did know, I'm not sure I'd ask for it. Kind of goes back to the "fine" answer whenever anyone asks how you are doing. When you most definitely aren't fine and you just want someone to recognize it without your having to admit it and hug you, hold your hand, dry your tears. I'm not sure if I'm just looking for trouble. I'm not sure if I'm making trouble just to have a reason to run away. I'm not sure if I'm just being dramatic because things begin to feel good and I can't handle good anymore. It's been so long since good or happy has been part of my repertoire that I don't know what to do with it when I have it, let alone feel it. </div>
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I'm not sure how much of all of this is being post abortive or just being me in general. I'm not sure how much of it is just general malaise or something more that I'm not willing to admit defeat over. My heart is just aching lately, a dull, physical ache. I'm overwhelmed and quite tearful and not the kind of tearful over the Hallmark commercial on TV. The only thing worse than crying and the deep, dull, ache that I sometimes or always feel, is trying to hide that I feel it at all. The energy it takes to choke it all down where no one knows it's there doesn't leave much for life in general. </div>
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I hate that everything I just typed would make a perfect anti-depressant commercial, just pick one. I hate the 20 seconds of side effects that are listed at the end of the commercials.</div>
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I hate that I am this way. I hate that all the healing and growing and work I've done in the last four years isn't enough. I wonder if anything will be enough.InfiniteGracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04365787251323492813noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4515795942844142992.post-77079290470736739052013-05-30T21:36:00.001-04:002013-05-30T21:36:20.961-04:00I'm a sinner! Who are you? Are you a sinner too?Whew. It has not been a fun few weeks let me tell you. But, I’m still here.
I still feel kind of wobbly and uncertain, but I’m still here. I do feel, thanks be to
God, a lot better now than I did just a few weeks ago. I’m sleeping a bit
better. No nightmares for the last week. I've started walking and I've walked 6 times in the last 2 weeks! I still think about suicide, but it's not as oppressive as it was. I've enjoyed some good days with my family. I'm trying not to spend as much time in my room, alone. And I spent one, glorious night with an entire bottle of wine and forgot about everything for a while. That was fun. The morning after, not so much, but fun while it lasted. Everything in moderation, as they say.<br />
<br />
I knew Mother's Day could go in any of many directions and it went in a bad one for a while. I ended up hightailing out of my home and away from my family because I just couldn't fake it until bed time that day, not for another second. I drove to the nearby retreat center where I attended both of my Rachel's Vineyard's retreats. I sat for a while. Then some other people showed up so I got back in my car and headed to another retreat center that isn't too far and there is a beautiful, peaceful, sacred little chapel and I found myself alone there for a few hours. The wind was whipping up outside and the sound of it coming through the old building in the dimness of the chapel with its stone walls and high ceiling made it feel like Heaven, or somewhere closer to Him. I sat there for a good long while arguing with myself and God. I had to make a decision that day to live or die and if I was going to live, well then I had to figure out a way to do just that.<br />
<br />
I'm not naive enough to say that this will be the last time I sink down into a pit of depression. Especially now that I've kind of sworn off any medication, it's inevitable that it will happen again and again. I hope I remember whatever it was that started to bring me out of it because something always brings me out of it. I've spoken about always just having the tiniest bit of something inside that keeps me alive. Hopefully, with each time I'll remember sooner and sooner to tap into that tiny part of me where, obviously, He dwells, and remember why I'm here.<br />
<br />
It was kind of the perfect storm leading up to Mother's Day. I was following the Gosnell trial with voracity and then all of the other <a href="http://www.liveaction.org/inhuman/videos/" target="_blank">under cover videos that Live Action was putting out there</a>. I prayed outside the abortion clinic the Saturday before Mother's Day. I was thinking that I was fighting the good fight, but all of the coverage that I was consuming all day long was eating away at me in ways I don't think I recognized clearly. I even <a href="http://www.postabortionwalk.blogspot.com/2013/04/what-difference-does-it-make.html" target="_blank">posted about Gosnell</a> and how everyone was so up in arms about his particular brand of abortion and how it was no different than the abortion that I had. Which, following the logic, makes me no different than Gosnell himself when it comes down to brass tacks.<br />
<br />
Reading and watching and analyzing all of the condemnation of Gosnell by everyone on blogs, on social media, and on the news once the story took off - I think I began to believe all of the same about myself. Why? Because some of it was true! Gosnell performed however many abortions - I had an abortion. In my mind it was the same thing. It's still the same thing. It started to become that every time I read his name or heard it said I would crumple in on myself a bit more. The whispers would begin... see, you did that too. Your baby was ripped limb from limb and put in a jar. You're no better than he is. Stabbed in the back of the neck or sucked through a cannula - it's all the same thing.<br />
<br />
A bit of a repreieve came when the verdict came in guilty as charged on so many counts. And just as quickly, the discussion turned to saving Gosnell from the death penalty. The argument began to surface about mercy for Gosnell. Whoa - wait just a damn minute... mercy? For him?<br />
<br />
Yes. Mercy for Gosnell. Mercy for me. Mercy for us all.<br />
<br />
When Abby Johnson first came onto the scene, I had similar feelings towards her. Wait just a damn minute.... we're going to give her a pass because she suddenly figured out what she was doing was wrong? How's that fair? I didn’t want to like her. I wanted to hate her, condemn her. I was
guilty of thinking that she didn’t deserve anything good. Abby was the counselor who spoke to me before I
had my abortion. Abby was the woman holding my hand as I lay on that table with
silent tears falling down my cheeks. Abby was the woman who gave me three
months worth of “the Pill” as I walked out the door of that clinic. Abby was all the girls and
women afterwards that I tried to befriend and align myself with in the hopes of
coping with what I had done. <a href="http://www.abbyjohnson.org/tell-me-what-do-i-deserve/" target="_blank">So, now Abby Johnson gets mercy?</a><br />
<br />
Yes. Mercy for Abby Johnson. Mercy for me. Mercy for us all. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4xSeZi34RkhHPU1CQmcQHIjbdUINCYYB5dWSU0UrGseoGlW1mXAekeh5cVRiVoLeoNdNmlz1nxo0FmtAoNc6qhb1b___Rli228v35bQACLwohjp2CAVEFrjM7OFEuME5DsSyS27hda5gO/s1600/Jesus-x-Maria-Madalena.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4xSeZi34RkhHPU1CQmcQHIjbdUINCYYB5dWSU0UrGseoGlW1mXAekeh5cVRiVoLeoNdNmlz1nxo0FmtAoNc6qhb1b___Rli228v35bQACLwohjp2CAVEFrjM7OFEuME5DsSyS27hda5gO/s320/Jesus-x-Maria-Madalena.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
So, let's take the whole abortion argument out of it altogether. What about just a your run-of-the-mill sinner? What do they deserve? What if I never had an abortion? What if my biggest sin was premarital sex and some vulgar language? Tell me then what would I deserve? What we all deserve, quite frankly – hell.
But, thanks be to God – there is abundant mercy and infinite grace to be had.
Too often I forget that part. Too often do I minimize the abundance of His mercy. All too often do I become consumed with my own little pity party when instead I should be on my knees 24/7
thanking Him for sparing me from the loss of Heaven. In all of my narcissistic self loathing I forget that He loves me. <br />
<br />
Thank God - for He has placed in the tiniest recesses of my tortured and scarred heart a tiny place where only He dwells. Where from he reminds me that He loved me into being and everything that I have is because of Him in spite of myself. And that is what I must cling to for
dear life, with slippery fingers and the Devil himself stomping up and down on
my knuckles trying to get me to just… let … go.<br />
<br />
He loves me.<br />
<br />
He loves Kermit Gosnell. He loves Abby Johnson. We are all the same sinners and we all can be awash in mercy and forgiveness and love whenever we ask for it. Sometimes, I forget to ask. Or, sometimes I ask, but I don't listen to the answer or wait for a response. Hopefully the next time I feel a backslide coming on, I'll run a little faster to Him. Maybe I'll meet him halfway. Maybe someday, I'll never leave His side.
InfiniteGracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04365787251323492813noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4515795942844142992.post-68320974062523470462013-05-10T16:44:00.002-04:002013-05-10T16:44:32.884-04:00Faith in the Heart<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEx9oEMCxMl_ETZbJHHCdg7nUjYrqMweee4JQDraatQoSNSqjejZkBe61lK8sh7KHYVoesQkLmemRbvbthYSGQBzt7w6zkGHRcW_v437s0wLTjiWLyjqoHoMus0RPpFh2tNzLuy_evtVN7/s1600/faith-seeing-light-with-your-heart.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEx9oEMCxMl_ETZbJHHCdg7nUjYrqMweee4JQDraatQoSNSqjejZkBe61lK8sh7KHYVoesQkLmemRbvbthYSGQBzt7w6zkGHRcW_v437s0wLTjiWLyjqoHoMus0RPpFh2tNzLuy_evtVN7/s320/faith-seeing-light-with-your-heart.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />O Christ Jesus,<br /> when all is darkness<br /> and we feel our weakness and helplessness,<br /> give us the sense of Your presence,<br /> Your love, and Your strength.<br /> Help us to have perfect trust<br /> in Your protecting love<br /> and strengthening power,<br /> so that nothing may frighten or worry us,<br /> for, living close to You,<br /> we shall see Your hand,<br /> Your purpose, Your will through all things.<br /><br /> By Saint Ignatius of Loyola </div>
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Mother's Day has now seemed to have morphed into Mother's Day "Weekend." I guess it's mostly the retail industry trying to drag holidays out as long as possible toward the bottom line. I've taken to drag it out prior to the actual day it seems but for my own selfish reasons. Last year I did the same so I guess I can categorize Mother's Day as an absolute trigger for me. </div>
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As I visit the two posts, <a href="http://www.postabortionwalk.blogspot.com/2012/05/stepping-outside-of-my-head.html" target="_blank">here</a> & <a href="http://www.postabortionwalk.blogspot.com/2012/05/grace-to-forgive.html" target="_blank">here</a>, that I had written last Mother's Day - not much has changed. I'm still feeling stuck and without direction. I'm fighting the urge to create a graph on which I can plot out certain keywords and themes and blabber. It's a good thing I don't have too much free time with which to prove my failures.</div>
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A big difference between last year and this year's Mother's Day - pharmaceuticals. In fact, it was shortly after Mother's Day last year that I had increased my antidepressant to a higher dose. This year, it's all me. I don't even have any wine in the house. Last Mother's Day was a good day, I seemed to be okay for the most part without a backslide into despair. This Mother's Day, or at least this weekend, at its beginning, is not looking as okay.</div>
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I'm tired physically and emotionally. I physically ache with headaches and a backache that recently started out of nowhere. All of this could be chalked up to the yet more weight that I've put on. I'm heavier now than I have ever, ever been in my entire life, and that includes two pregnancies. I'm a petite person so all of this weight is taking its toll. Without any antidepressants or antianxiety drugs, the only pill I do have to take is a cholesterol lowering medication and I haven't been taking it. I'm afraid of what I'm waiting for to happen if that makes sense. Slowly committing suicide with elevated cholesterol and sweets? I think it's more a case of just not caring at all. It's also a way to isolate myself even further if that's possible. More weight means less activity, less wanting to do anything at all, less sex as I try to convince my husband that there is no way he's remotely attracted to me in this state, less engaging in anything at home for lack of energy. I'm wondering if this is rock bottom with no further down to go?</div>
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Which brings me to my little graphic at the top of this post - a tiny flicker of faith. There's got to be one inside of me somewhere because I'm still here and it's not just about being too much of a coward to slit my wrists, it's something more. As the tears roll down my cheeks as I type, with the pain now physical, I'm still here. I'm still blogging for Christ's sake. With the little pixie in the other room, happy and content with her crayons and a juice box and with 80 pounds of fur at my feet, is this all there is? If I was suddenly not here - how would this picture change? </div>
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Please Lord, give me something. Show me something. Please let me feel something good. Send me a list of what you think I'm doing right. Please show me in some way that my pathetic little life is important and significant in some ridiculous way. Please Lord, let me feel you near me. Allow me to see that something I do is worthwhile. Please show me that taking all of this on has a purpose or meaning. Please let the darkness lift or give me the strength to leave it so I can see what's smack in front of my face. Please take away my stubborn pride and self absorption and give me something else instead. Please, I beg you, help me keep getting out of bed to do something. </div>
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And Grace, if you're listening, help me figure this out and if I can't figure it out, help me to find some peace in the mess.</div>
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InfiniteGracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04365787251323492813noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4515795942844142992.post-65030954115385960922013-05-07T11:09:00.002-04:002013-05-07T12:11:48.508-04:00And just who does God mean for me to be exactly?April 29th marked the Feast Day of St. Catherine of Siena and, accordingly, Facebook and Twitter were abuzz with quotes from this sainted lady. Probably the most popular was this one:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“Be who God meant you to be and you will set the world on fire.” </blockquote>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqiCRXK5SpaQ-c8fp0755AJ-vIigxBShM498NiIoVKjJMbg91s_KC9wUzXyEq7ZXTeLG5c_mF_LuRDEQ6NWQlS7EJsKjfF6xbmJa1gDUmTAmBjefy9_8P-qn5q-cT5ZwAW7b8S74pzn8F0/s1600/stcath43.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqiCRXK5SpaQ-c8fp0755AJ-vIigxBShM498NiIoVKjJMbg91s_KC9wUzXyEq7ZXTeLG5c_mF_LuRDEQ6NWQlS7EJsKjfF6xbmJa1gDUmTAmBjefy9_8P-qn5q-cT5ZwAW7b8S74pzn8F0/s1600/stcath43.jpg" /></a>I'm a lover of quotes and this gem from St. Cat is part of my little collection of words of wisdom. What I like about quotes and snippets is that you can always revisit them for new meaning and insight. I don't feel I ever quite arrive at a quote or depart from it the same time, every time.<br />
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“Be who God meant you to be and you will set the world on fire.” </blockquote>
These words became a sort of "ear worm" for the rest of that Monday and for a few days after. I finally packed them away again when I became rather frustrated and distraught over the fact that I had no idea who God means for me to be. I mean, yes, most of the intentions of my life are quite obvious, wife, mother, sister, daughter, aunt, friend... Though sometimes, even these easy to spot descriptions are hard for me to imagine being part of God's plan for me. I don't think God planned for me to become so frustrated with my kids that thoughts of duct taping them to the wall cross my mind. Thus I began my steps down into the big "D's" from this one little quote... doubt, depression, despair, disillusionment, and ultimately hovering just inches apart from despair. Aside from the monikers listed above, who am I supposed to be?<br />
<br />
I've struggled with these ideas often in the past couple of years, frustrated over my journey of healing, but yet still hiding this big secret from most aspects of my life. I could talk for hours about the mercy and forgiveness I have found since facing my past head on, but outside of this blog, I don't really talk about it. I haven't used my new found powers for any real good. I've been asking myself for a while now, what next? I don't have an answer yet. I've tried asking the same of God. I've no answer yet. When I'm frustrated and the depression is winning, I often start to lament ever starting this journey in the first place. Wasn't I so much better off before when abortion wasn't part of my life in this way? Wasn't I happier? Wasn't I fun to be around? The fact is I don't know for sure because I don't remember that person very well. This has become who I am, but I fear the scale has tipped too far in the other direction. Now I'm all abortion and nothing else, aren't I?<br />
<br />
So back to setting the world on fire.<br />
<br />
Who does God mean for me to be? Is this all there is? Full time wife and mother, part time employee? I have no career or grand accomplishments to boast about. I haven't written the great American novel. I haven't done a whole heck of a lot actually in the last ten years or so. Instead of moving toward some thing bigger, better, I've been in a kind of holding pattern just managing the day to day while it seems everyone else's life has some kind of inertia quality that I haven't attained. I'm not sure I ever wanted that, however. Yes, I have a college degree, experience, a nice applicable resume, but really all I wanted to do and still want to do is be at home and take care of my husband and kids. There is not a lot of support for that idea. It's also in conflict with what I must do, which is work at least part time to make ends meet. I'm not sure I've ever really found peace with the facts of my life such as they have been. <br />
<br />
But, what else does God mean for me to be? I'm wondering if I'm grieving, in some way, the "old" me. The me before this journey. I'm wondering if I'm lamenting who I could be if I didn't have this big secret. I think I grieve for the person I would have become had I not had an abortion at all. I constantly question and doubt all of my choices and wonder if I've made a huge mistake in not pursuing a career and money and sent my kids to daycare so I cold work full time. Everyone else does it. Then, I become frustrated because I have an image in my mind of what I'm supposed to be and I'm too weak and scared to be so. I'm frustrated because maybe I'm over thinking all of this and I <em>already am</em> who God means me to be - and boy am I boring. How am I supposed to set the world on fire this way?<br />
<br />
Perhaps now is not the best time to hash this out as I'm still fighting the depression and the constant lump in my throat and the tears the seem to be constantly at the ready. I know I'm not the first or only human who has asked these questions, but I feel awfully alone in spite of that knowledge. Depression is a very lonely and desolate place and you wind up breaking your own heart every minute of the day when you can see the swath of glorious light just beyond your reach or step, and even though no one and no thing is holding you down in the dark, you remain. I stay here. I'm a functioning depressive. I can cook and clean and care for my children. I can even make it look as though there is not a thing wrong with me all the while mulling over a dramatic demise. I'm pretty sure this is not who God means for me to be. Maybe all I am meant to be is a wife and mother, but this darkness that surrounds me can't be part of that plan.<br />
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<br />InfiniteGracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04365787251323492813noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4515795942844142992.post-8086125663940377162013-04-26T08:29:00.001-04:002013-04-26T09:52:34.108-04:007 Quick Takes Friday<div style="text-align: center;">
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<a href="http://www.blogger.com/null" name="qt1"></a><b>--- 1 ---</b></div>
Fridays for me mean the day off from work. This can be a good thing or a bad thing and sometimes both - fluctuating by the hour. The original idea, since I work part time, was to have Fridays as a catch up day for housework, grocery shopping, meal planning, etc. That lasted about one Friday. There is way too much household stuff to catch up on in one day while the kids are in school, let alone grocery shopping, meal planning, ironing, whatever. More often I've taken the "screw it" attitude and use Fridays as a catch up day for just me with grand intentions of reading, writing, going to Mass, taking a pottery class, blah blah blah. More often that not - those grand intentions are screwed too. Before I know it, the bus is pulling up and I've got next to nothing to show for my day off. But, darn it, there will be 7 quick takes today!<br />
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<a href="http://www.blogger.com/null" name="qt2"></a><b>--- 2 ---</b></div>
Speaking of hours alone on Fridays (or the hours of school time at a fine Catholic school where my kids spend their time 180 days a year), are my kids the only ones who are magically transformed by asphalt driveways? Here's the thing, my kids get on the bus in the morning and are transformed into polite, caring, empathetic, attentive, respectful, lovely children. When they return home, the opposite happens, the minute their precious little Mary Jane clad feet hit the asphalt of the driveway they are transformed into disrespectful, crabby, pantry raiding, smart mouthed little monsters. Okay, maybe the little one isn't too bad because her cuteness factor can usually override any bad behavior which is usually fleeting. The other one? Oh my goodness. I was in no way prepared for the wrath of a tween. I've tried to be understand. I've tried to be overly loving. I've tried to be patient. I've tried to be kind. I've tried to ignore it. I've tried not to engage the monster. Ive tried engaging the monster. I am failing - miserably. I'm convinced this child either hates me or the curse my mother hatched on me ("I hope you have one just like you!") is coming true ten fold. I've entertained the idea that Satan himself is using her to torment me. I'm at a complete loss. My husband and I both are. She is a screaming, rage filled, possibly hormone wracked, alien impostor of my once sweet little blue eyed beauty and I am her prime punching bag. What's most frustrating is that she saves up all of this ugliness for me, for us. If I video taped her for 20 minutes at home and showed it to her teachers or anyone outside of this home they would never believe it is the same child. So, if she's capable of being one child during the school day - why is she not capable of being that same person, heck I'd be happy with a 1/4 of that person, at home? It is honestly making me question God's decision to make me a mother. I'm questioning never sending her to daycare. I'm questioning everything. No answer for those questions today.<br />
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At times of frustration I like to think back to when I was pregnant with the above mentioned tween-monster, and how exciting it was and how fascinating it was to be pregnant at all. After some infertility scares and issues and finally getting pregnant on our own was a miracle. I remember the first time I felt her move inside me, those first little butterflies - wow. And all the rest of it - even the dramatic delivery and NICU swat team's appearance - all of it was so fantastic. People say you forget all of it with time. I don't think I ever will, with either of those pregnancies. I was so enraptured by what my body was doing. It was beyond my comprehension, yet happening right inside of me. When this picture of Pope Francis starting circling this week - it so touched my heart. His tenderness and love jump right out of the picture and her hand on his hand, her smile, the husbands' expression - it's all absolutely perfect. What a perfect and powerful expression of the Church's teaching on human life. Just wow. They have to name that baby Francis or Francesca, they just have to!<br />
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I could go on and on about Papa Francis. I'm just so in love with him for so many reasons. Granted my love affair is solely based on social media images and videos and transcripts of his homilies, but I guess that's all it takes sometimes. I remember when he first came out on the balcony and he just stood there for the longest time just gazing out over the people and he wasn't smiling. My eldest asked, "why doesn't he look happy?" I didn't have an answer, I think I said maybe he's just contemplating what he's been asked to do and how he's going to do it. Well, whatever conclusion he came to on that balcony - it's working - at least for me it is. Since then we've seen him smile so many times and he just radiates peace and joy while at the same time carrying himself with a quiet confidence that I guess comes from having the Truth on your side. Everyday I look forward to my Twitter feed to find out what Papa Francis did while I was sleeping. The little girl in this video expresses my feelings toward him perfectly - though if were to break through Vatican security the outcome may be a bit different. I want to know what the note said!<br />
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<a href="http://www.blogger.com/null" name="qt5"></a><b>--- 5 ---</b></div>
The little girl in the video is how I feel on the inside sometimes, her enthusiasm, her ambition, her no holds barred I'm going after what I want attitude. Okay, maybe her parents bribed her with gelato, but still, she has no fear! She just runs towards her goal and succeeds! Then after mission accomplished, turns around and goes back to her place in the crowd. What would this world be like if we were all that unafraid? What would I be like? I've spent a long, long time cowering in the shadows for so long I'm not sure how to break free. That's a lie, I know how, I just don't. Part of the reason is I have struggled for the better part of my life with chronic and sometimes crippling depression. I don't talk about it much on my blog because I'm ashamed of it, embarrassed by it. It's humiliating to have something wrong with you that you can't fix and it's not something that is easily seen or easily understood. My husband doesn't even fully understand it and he knows me better than anyone. I recently stopped taking any antidepressant and antianxiety medications - about two months ago - which means, scientifically, that all of the chemicals are out of my system. And oh what a roller coaster ride it's been. I've done this before as I have been off and on medications for years. I cycle downward, go get some medication, feel better for a while, then start to feel like a zombie, then go off, then go back on. This time I'm determined to not go back on them at all. There's got to be some way to get through this life without my head in a fog. There has got to be some happy medium between despair and zombie. I haven't found it yet. At first I was happy for real tears being shed, now I'm crying at the drop of a hat. At first I was grateful for restful REM sleep, now it's hard to get out of bed and stay out of it. I'm not sure how much longer this experiment will last. The scariest symptom of my particular brand of depression is suicidal ideation, also not easily understood. It's not easy to talk about without people thinking you need to be 302'd immediately. Just because I won't commit suicide for a 100 reasons, doesn't mean I don't think about it, sometimes constantly, and that constant rumination can wear a person down and it's wearing me down. Sometimes it's a fleeting thought, sometimes it's hours or a whole day of "what if's." The commercials are true - depression does hurt - but all those side effects they rattle off - they hurt even more. It's one hell of a catch-22. A day off like today is a good example. Not going to be solved in 7 quick takes, so I ask for any prayers willing to be said. <br />
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<a href="http://www.blogger.com/null" name="qt6"></a><b>--- 6 ---</b></div>
There is something that can be done that has been scientifically proven to increase serotonin in the brain - exercise! Do I do it? Nope! Why? Because I'm depressed which causes me to be unmotivated and not care. Typically, stopping antidepressants leads to a slight weight loss of the weight you gain when you start an antidepressant - that has not happened this time around. I think my sluggishness and lack of doing much besides lay in bed is a contributing factor. I want to be outside pulling weeds. I want to take my dog for a walk. I want to play with the kids outside in the sunshine. I want to go for a hike on the weekends. I want to. I want to. I want to. I can't. I don't. It's a vicious cycle. Perhaps I'm afraid of what happens if I take one step. The endorphins might kick in and that means I'll take another step and before I know it I'm tramping all over my depression like a cute little Irish step dancer. I think I may be getting close to that point, I'm not sure. I know I feel horrible emotionally and physically. I know my health is going to suffer soon if it's not already. To know all of this and to do something about it is not an easy step for me. I used to be in great physical shape. I used to be at the gym every day (before kids of course). I used to know my way around a weight room and craved the high that came from hitting my target heart rate. There remains a flicker of that somewhere deep down inside.<br />
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<a href="http://www.blogger.com/null" name="qt7"></a><b>--- 7 ---</b></div>
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So I've spent the better part of these quick takes in the negative for the most part - I've been trying to find some positives to cling to. I'm not very good at positives currently. I used to be quite an optimist -I'm not sure I have that in me anymore. Maybe if I throw some out here they will stick. My positives for today are: I have a fantastic husband who is handsome, committed, dedicated, hard working, funny, attentive, sensitive, and kind and not to mention at 40 years old - smoking hot. I'm sure it's a sin when I look around at other husbands and beam with pride over my "trophy husband" but I'm sorry, he's freakin hot and he just gets better with age. It's patently unfair. We also have a rock solid marriage which is often times the one thing I can cling to through all the crap. It is sometimes the only thing I'm 100% sure about. Despite my children wreaking havoc when they are home with me, my kids are smart, funny, beautiful, cute, and caring little human beings. I constantly feel like a failure as a parent, but I guess if they are doing okay out of my sight then I'm not failing totally. I have a nice, comfortable home. Sure there are stains on the carpet, our landscaping is lacking, there are fingerprints on every wall, and our décor is mostly crayons and glitter, but I'm lucky to have it. I have a wonderful furry companion of the Golden Retriever variety who absolutely, unabashedly worships me. Sometimes I feel she was sent to me to keep me alive sometimes. We don't have a lot of money and we are about to soon have a lot less, but we have everything we need and for that I'm grateful. </div>
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For more Quick Takes, visit <a href="http://www.conversiondiary.com/">Conversion Diary!</a></div>
InfiniteGracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04365787251323492813noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4515795942844142992.post-8395891656671521152013-04-17T16:24:00.001-04:002013-04-18T06:10:14.810-04:00What Difference Does it Make?I've been following the Gosnell coverage on Twitter and around the Catholic Blogosphere tepidly. I am trying to exercise some caution for my tender soul as any foray too deep into the details has a strong likelihood of disaster. I skim over the day's coverage, say a quick prayer, and then try to move on. I follow the story with the hope that I'll start to see some kind of turn around in the abortion "debate." How could somebody read the Grand Jury report and not completely change their thinking if they claim to be prochoice? But that may be the reason nobody who is prochoice is reading it - for fear of what may happen. Kind of makes the safe, legal, and rare argument null and void when you see what looks to be a very viable baby, a human being, with a hole in their neck just big enough for scissors to fit through in order to snip their tiny spinal cord.<br />
<br />
I don't usually enter into the debate battleground because I'm not strong enough to defend my position without using the biggest weapon in my arsenal - the fact that I had an abortion. Until I'm ready to engage with everything I've got, I think it's better for me to battle in ways that preserve my sanity - as fleeting as it may seem at times. <br />
<br />
Today I came across a tweet by <a href="http://www.liveaction.org/" target="_blank">Live Action</a>, that I followed to <a href="http://www.americanthinker.com/blog/2013/04/gosnells_house_of_horrors_what_difference_does_it_make.html" target="_blank">The American Thinker</a> and an article entitled, <em>Gosnell's 'House of Horrors'? What difference does it make?</em> by Lauren Kathryn McCall. <strong>[emphasis mine.]</strong><br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: times new roman,times; padding-bottom: 2px;"><span style="font-size: small;">The words uttered by a certain <span class="IL_AD" id="IL_AD4">secretary</span> of state emeritus keep coming to mind as I read the accounts of Kermit Gosnell's services in Philadelphia. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: times new roman,times;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: times new roman,times; padding-bottom: 2px;"><span style="font-size: small;">Filthy equipment, underage and unqualified staff, bodies of children in orange juice containers, animals <span class="IL_AD" id="IL_AD2">running</span> loose. One would think that is the greater scandal here.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: times new roman,times;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: times new roman,times;"><span style="font-size: small;"><strong>I have an anaphylactic response to the premise of the outrage here. What difference does it make?</strong></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: times new roman,times;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: times new roman,times;"><span style="font-size: small;">The clinic I went to 30 years ago was immaculate. The furniture was comfortable. It was staffed by registered nurses and board-certified physicians. There were warm smiles, cold utensils, and a professionally produced follow-up instruction sheet to accompany you out <span class="IL_AD" id="IL_AD1">the door</span>. My baby was early first trimester, tiny in size. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: times new roman,times;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: times new roman,times;"><span style="font-size: small;">And I am sure that my experience is exactly the same as those of the clients of Gosnell's clinic. <strong>The effect of destroying our own children and the consequent damage to our souls and society does not discriminate when it comes to hygiene, credential, or zip code.</strong> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: times new roman,times;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: times new roman,times;"><span style="font-size: small;">Or size of the baby.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: times new roman,times;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: times new roman,times;"><span style="font-size: small;">One step out the door, and I am quite sure I would not have noticed -- or cared -- if the place was filthy or ill-staffed. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: times new roman,times;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: times new roman,times;"><span style="font-size: small;">The memory of paying a stranger to murder my own child, pretending to return to a normal life, and then subsisting in a society of unfathomable contradiction and hypocrisy toward the unborn trumps any outrage about filth or licensure for me. What difference does it make?</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: times new roman,times;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: times new roman,times;"><span style="font-size: small;">Almost thirty years ago to the day, <strong>I am exhausted from the pretense, denial, and fakery that is the post-abortive life.</strong> Good God, if it were any different, I would question if I am still human! Stories abound about the addiction, suicidal tendencies, and promiscuity that follow abortion. Perhaps, though, the greater population of women are like me. We returned to our careers, raised our families, and have tried daily to hide the consequences of misery and <span class="IL_AD" id="IL_AD3">disorder</span> that abortion has wrought in our lives. <strong>Each day its shameful reality compounds to a degree that we struggle to comprehend</strong>.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: times new roman,times;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: times new roman,times;"><span style="font-size: small;">As for the effects on society and our future generations, I can only shudder. So I retreat to the aforementioned pretense and denial. I wait for the headlines and feigned outrage to disappear. They always do. <strong>Reconciliation with my God, counseling, and spiritual support only mitigate the horror and pain I live with each day.</strong> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: times new roman,times;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: times new roman,times;"><span style="font-size: small;">So the fact that the place was filthy and the staff was unlicensed doesn't make a bit of difference to me. Not a damn bit of difference at all.</span></span></blockquote>
"Ditto" doesn't express my endorsement of Ms. McCall's sentiments very effectively, but it was my first response. Gosnell and the atrocities he has committed stir up rage within me and sadness and a certain knowledge that only those who have had an abortion truly understand. That knowledge is what leads me from the outrage to the realization that abortion is always an atrocity. A postabortive woman stands on the edge a great precipice of spurning Gosnell and condemning he and his minions to the very depths of hell for what they have done and condemning ourselves at the same time. We all fall together. What Gosnell has done - scandalous, atrocious and just plain evil - is really, not one damn bit different than the abortion I had. The abortion I paid for. The abortion I lay on the table for. The abortion I drove home from, the memory of which I stuffed into the dark corners of my mind and heart for decades. My abortion was just as gruesome. The instruments may have been cleaner (were they?) The floors may have been scrubbed till the wax shone (were they?) It doesn't matter - my daughter was killed and deposited into a glass jar (piece by tiny piece most likely). I don't know what happened to my daughter after I left the room. Where did that jar go? I'll never know. I have to find solace in the fact that her soul went to Heaven that moment and she never knew what the tearing of her tiny body felt like or how cold the jar was.<br />
<br />
But, the truth remains, I don't know. I'll never know what happened to Grace's body after I left. Where do all the bodies go from all the safe and legal abortion clinics? I'm sure that is something that no prochoicer ever wants the answer to. Maybe if we investigated where all the bodies go - 12 weeks or 32 - people would start to see that's its all the same. Pristine procedure rooms and sterile instruments are just as bloodied by abortion. It doesn't much matter if they started out clean or not. Gosnell's evil is horrifying but it's no anomaly. For every one Gosnell that is caught, I have no doubt dozens more are hurriedly cleaning up their own house of horrors before the feds show up, maybe a bit more hastily at the current moment. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsR4_GDUOT_X0afZOYeIp3Cv57wItYrqeQlkOIzg5HgeS3oWtxl-8cdUi80RMsYLSnYBU_2wzb4pZdNDq1e49gxNe603bJj3zGaWobSDkPZH7imUHxsluzYCioW6kSaKD0eb41SuIV4Igk/s1600/life_12weeks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsR4_GDUOT_X0afZOYeIp3Cv57wItYrqeQlkOIzg5HgeS3oWtxl-8cdUi80RMsYLSnYBU_2wzb4pZdNDq1e49gxNe603bJj3zGaWobSDkPZH7imUHxsluzYCioW6kSaKD0eb41SuIV4Igk/s320/life_12weeks.jpg" width="320" /></a>Abortion is abortion is abortion. 17 year old girl, 30 year old married mom of 3, rape victim, welfare recipient, or Main Line resident who believes the lie that their maybe trisomy 13 baby will ruin their life. Abortion is abortion is abortion. It kills a life and ruins those left to live their now "unencumbered" life.<br />
<br />
So maybe my outrage over Gosnell is misplaced because my outrage is really about there being none to speak of when I walked in and out of the abortion clinic. I drove home and continued on with my life. I'm outraged over the severed baby feet in Gosnell's clinic and the snipped spines and I'm just as outraged over Grace's short life ending in a glass jar. That's the reality of abortion - no matter where the babies end up, no matter if they are whole or in parts, the reality is they are dead. So, you are right Ms. McCall, there's not a damn bit of difference at all. <br />
<br />
Domine Iesu Christe, Fili Dei, miserere mei, peccatricis.<br />
<br />
<br />InfiniteGracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04365787251323492813noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4515795942844142992.post-23739625732641938132013-04-14T14:42:00.002-04:002013-04-14T14:50:27.427-04:00Your mercies in disguise?Cause what if Your blessings come through raindrops<br />
What if Your healing comes through tears<br />
What if a thousand sleepless nights are what it takes to know You're near<br />
What if trials of this life are Your mercies in disguise?<br />
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What if my greatest disappointments,<br />Or the aching of this life,<br />Is the revealing of a greater thirst this world can't satisfy.<br />What if trials of this life,<br />The rain, the storms, the hardest nights<br />Are your mercies in disguise?</div>
InfiniteGracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04365787251323492813noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4515795942844142992.post-68765785747832323742013-04-14T08:21:00.002-04:002013-04-14T08:21:59.966-04:00Come, Holy Spirit.<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Heavenly
Father, I know I am close to despair. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0kXdqnOUoozez9pXcj6a-10-WemYAonCopyr4KWB4HeXm4zseY1qLgHj6HzJaaGTsALTJJLhyphenhyphenok34S4jnTA8_ewB0lT8MJgX64kNSVv8m0iSbk1yIn-lVTTKkXql1rkrizk5kdtEzlNaO/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0kXdqnOUoozez9pXcj6a-10-WemYAonCopyr4KWB4HeXm4zseY1qLgHj6HzJaaGTsALTJJLhyphenhyphenok34S4jnTA8_ewB0lT8MJgX64kNSVv8m0iSbk1yIn-lVTTKkXql1rkrizk5kdtEzlNaO/s400/photo.JPG" width="298" /></a><span style="font-size: x-small;">I feel so tempted to give
up, to withdraw from life and religion and let the world simply
carry me along.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br />
Everything seems so meaningless and nothing appeals to my better
instincts.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br />
Help me to remember that Jesus gave meaning to everything in the
world.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br />
Let me bank on that fact and get over this time of despair,<br />
to really believe in the depths of my being that there is a
reason for living.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br />
Show me the reason for my life and tell me what I must do.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br />
Bring home to me that I am never alone, but that You are with me
even in the depths of despair. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Remind me that no matter what I
may endure now,<br />
an unending joy awaits me in the future if I but cling tightly to
You
and your Son Jesus in the unity of the Spirit. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Amen.</span></span>InfiniteGracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04365787251323492813noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4515795942844142992.post-36324381485627308432013-04-04T16:19:00.000-04:002013-04-05T11:29:10.483-04:00I'm good! How are you?<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Nothing I do makes me feel forgiven. Feelings run my entire existence often, so
why can’t I feel forgiveness? Would I know it if I felt it? Would it make a difference if I felt it? What would it even look like on me? I think I’m afraid to try it on. At this point, I’m not even sure if feeling forgiveness
is the problem. I’m not sure what the problem
is. Is there even a problem or am I just
a problem?<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I know that I am forgiven.
If I didn’t know it, I mean really know it down to the core of my very being;
I fear I’d be dead already. It’s my belief
in the mercy of God that keeps me alive, literally. I take comfort in the people that take care to
remind me of that mercy over and over and over again. I run to my Church for the tangible reminders
of that mercy. The reminders that God is real, that Jesus is real, that all of this is not in vain. Suicide is probably the only sin I consider
bigger than abortion. I already killed
once, if I kill again, I’m out for sure and I won’t be around to redeem
myself. I don’t know where I’d be and
that’s a scary enough thought to keep me alive.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMUEd7sb27Lu9Z3mHi2gmXYdres5c5rJYP32VuM6V-yzLnn4N10heR0-_YLAIlfAlJn55l9pOuvjs72vwnxVyKY_loZZdSXeuF7oZgU7oLsNCjMate6kpyhGvvgaa4TrgdPXB-BRDbumog/s1600/imagesCA5R1QXL.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMUEd7sb27Lu9Z3mHi2gmXYdres5c5rJYP32VuM6V-yzLnn4N10heR0-_YLAIlfAlJn55l9pOuvjs72vwnxVyKY_loZZdSXeuF7oZgU7oLsNCjMate6kpyhGvvgaa4TrgdPXB-BRDbumog/s1600/imagesCA5R1QXL.jpg" /></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I’ve been reading a lot lately about sin and lies we believe
about sin and how to God, all sins are the same and all equally forgiven because
of the Son. I’m frustrated because no
matter how much work I do – I just don’t feel like a good person. I’m not
happy. It’s not even about the abortion
any more, it’s all of me, and it’s my whole wretched life that at times feels
as though it’s rushing past and others it seems as though time has stood
still. You would think knowing one is
forgiven for a sin as horrible as abortion would be cause for joy, but there is
no joy here or at least I don’t feel any. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">My hang up with sin is my own doing. I go along for a while doing things I think a
good Catholic woman should do and would do.
Aren’t I just awesomely Catholic? I volunteer at school and church
whenever I can. I pray and pray and pray
for priests and nuns and the Pope and whoever else is keeping this boat
afloat. I send my kids to Catholic
school. I try to defend my Church to
those who knock her. I make sure we’re
at Mass each week. I go to adoration. I try to learn as much as I can about my
faith. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">But, you know what? None of this matters a whole hell of a
lot when deep down I still feel like that 17 year old girl, used and abused,
taunted, tormented, downtrodden, self-esteem depleted, objectified, and only
good for one thing – girl. Oh who
happens to get pregnant and then gets an abortion. Then, does she turn her life around and
strike out anew? Nope, she gets worse
and sleeps around more and allows herself to be used and thrown away like
garbage. But, just like the woman today,
she fakes it. She gets good grades,
keeps a pretty house, smiles when she’s supposed to, but it’s a ruse. I’m starting to wonder if that part ever wasn’t
a ruse, if it ever won’t be.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">It always, always, goes back to that. Those feelings surrounding that girl then
color my life in the present. I can’t
enjoy my life when I used to sleep around.
I can’t laugh with my children when I killed my first one. I can’t enjoy
love making with my hubby with all that I did before with God knows who. I am not lovable. I am not intelligent. I am
not destined for greatness, or even goodness. I’m not kidding anyone. I am
nothing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">And there I stay, down in the muck of it, depleted of all
energy or want to claw my way out of it – again. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">A character in one of my favorite films is asked at one
point what she fears, to which she responds, “A cage. To stay behind
bars until use and old age accept them and all chance of valor has gone beyond
recall or desire.” I fear that’s
where I am now, in a cage of my own making.
I’m not locked in, I choose to stay and I fear I’ll never have the want
or courage to leave. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> <br />But, I start to think about that girl of my past and what
was it that turned things around. What happened
that made me desire to graduate from college, get a job, my own apartment, my
own car, be on my own? A little while
before I met my husband, I finally got rid of an extremely abusive jerk and
shut the door on that nonsense. What was
it that kept me from ever going the drinking and drug route? There had to be some
flicker of ambition or self-reliance that spoke up and said enough is enough.</span></div>
</div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVeTkj3r-GSGdrZ614ifKZI2h9xNiCp4TQpQwySUnAqA5M5St3vTPEVUNvOeVfH6QvaiYcR3-XBPvkK_IBC2lq0cQg6Y4Qso7UDYMcZg7Gdk7PjRr4VD7By-7T-RsbetRoxbyhnemMNaN4/s1600/Bird-Cage-21.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVeTkj3r-GSGdrZ614ifKZI2h9xNiCp4TQpQwySUnAqA5M5St3vTPEVUNvOeVfH6QvaiYcR3-XBPvkK_IBC2lq0cQg6Y4Qso7UDYMcZg7Gdk7PjRr4VD7By-7T-RsbetRoxbyhnemMNaN4/s200/Bird-Cage-21.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I could use that flicker now. It’s not like I can’t picture what life could
be like, but it’s as if the fear of the clouds gathering again keep me from
even trying happiness out for a while.
Why bother, it won’t last. Why
laugh, when they’ll soon be reason to cry.
I lack the ambition or want to go back and forth choosing instead the muck
and the mire because it’s comfortable and predictable and nothing is required
of me if I stay in it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I stay a caged bird, but one who doesn’t sing, who doesn't talk, who says barely a word because I'm supposed to be okay.<o:p> </o:p></span>InfiniteGracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04365787251323492813noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4515795942844142992.post-65967186698693947652013-03-22T11:15:00.000-04:002013-03-22T11:15:53.990-04:00Will the Light ReturnTurning over every rock
<br />
Shedding light on every crack<br />
Peeling back the seeped through dressing
<br />
So He can heal and put it back
<br />
<br />
Just when I think there’s nothing else<br />
When there’s no recess unexplored<br />
The other he comes searching<br />
Because he knows there’s so, so much more
<br />
<br />
What will be left of me when this examination is through<br />
Or won’t it ever end
<br />
The pain of steely instruments
<br />
That forever tear apart and never mend
<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF2liGqn1JxlsKf30qD2it5_xzu2uF_wzaw0MAPB8Bo3kyADTINdamnHxuifAERifcSW66wOx_98Cvm73ZzyY1ckhMtt7cri72PvT5KEKAkpevdmI0esQvbFfOda9A_QdMuwcrhk7N8bJ7/s1600/3949506365_773773f0ec_z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF2liGqn1JxlsKf30qD2it5_xzu2uF_wzaw0MAPB8Bo3kyADTINdamnHxuifAERifcSW66wOx_98Cvm73ZzyY1ckhMtt7cri72PvT5KEKAkpevdmI0esQvbFfOda9A_QdMuwcrhk7N8bJ7/s320/3949506365_773773f0ec_z.jpg" /></a>Just when I’ve touched some joy
<br />
Another imagined crisis to get through
<br />
Imagined or real, I never can tell
<br />
Does it even matter if life feels more like hell<br />
<br />
All of these blessings that cover me
<br />
These little souls who claim need of me
<br />
Will I ever feel worthy enough
<br />
To become what He planned for me
<br />
<br />
How I ache for Your love, and his, and theirs
<br />
How I long for wholeness and frivolous cares
<br />
Will my light ever return to remain undimmed
<br />
Or is my reality to remain stuck in this sin
<br />
<br />
Please Lord I beg you or pray you
<br />
Or However it’s done
<br />
Let me feel you beside me
<br />
On every step 'till You will it be done
InfiniteGracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04365787251323492813noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4515795942844142992.post-61169244523048398272013-03-14T23:31:00.000-04:002013-03-14T23:33:20.519-04:00Bring it here...Tonight I ventured to adoration. I had attempted to go last week but good intentions were thwarted by unruly children and my subsequent bad attitude. Tonight, however, I felt that familiar tug and felt it was a good time. Now, I know why. I've just loved all the excitement about our new Holy Father, Papa Francis, and I stayed up way too late last night reading everything I could about him and have loved it all. Little did I know that so very soon his elevation would have such an impact on little 'ol me. Somewhere yesterday I came across a quote and didn't note where I had found it. I couldn't find it again until today, though I remembered a few words from it, most notably, mercy. I found it today on Patheos blogger Dawn Eden's site, <a href="http://www.patheos.com/blogs/feastofeden/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Feast of Eden</a>. Her post was titled, "<a href="http://www.patheos.com/blogs/feastofeden/2013/03/francis-our-new-pope-of-divine-mercy/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Francis: Our new Pope of Divine Mercy</a>." The words of then Cardinal Bergoglio, now our already-beloved Papa Francis, that struck me early yesterday were these,<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"We cannot understand this dynamic of encounter which brings forth wonder
and adherence if it has not been triggered–forgive me the use of this
word–by mercy. Only someone who has encountered mercy, who has been
caressed by the tenderness of mercy, is happy and comfortable with the
Lord" </blockquote>
I shared this quote with a Good Father dear to my heart upon this journey to which he, in no big surprise lobbed the thought back to me with, "Ok. Sounds good. Now what does it mean for you?" Hmmmm... what does it mean for me? I decided to take the question along to Him in the quiet, peaceful chapel of adoration where He was waiting for me.<br />
<br />
Usually on my way to adoration, my mind is flooded with all manner of things, my current struggles, my worries, anxieties, questions, and hopefully some thanksgiving on my part. My <a href="http://www.postabortionwalk.blogspot.com/2013/01/7-quick-takes-on-being-postabortive.html" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">last visit to adoration</a> was a tough one, after which I seemed to cry for hours and I remember clearly sitting on my bed in a puddle of tears and tissues and sputtering out to my husband how I just wanted this to be over, I just want to be rid of it, I just want to be okay, when will I be okay, what do I do with this now? <br />
<br />
Tonight I received an answer to that question. After settling down in His presence and struggling to just clear my mind a bit, I prayed, "Come Holy Spirit..." Mere moments later, I heard His reply. "Bring it here..." I know that sounds crazy and maybe it's not His voice, but I like to believe it is and... <a href="http://www.postabortionwalk.blogspot.com/2011/07/look-at-me.html" target="_blank">I've heard it before</a>. But this time He said, "Bring it <i>here</i>... and leave it here."<br />
<br />
Well that makes all the sense in the world doesn't it? Haven't I done that already? Wait - <a href="http://postabortionwalk.blogspot.com/2012/07/forgiveness-and-love-at-foot-of-cross.html" target="_blank">yes, I have and it works</a>. My problem, I believe, has been the belief that I shouldn't ever have to come back.<br />
<br />
For a long time now, probably since after my first Rachel's Vineyard retreat I've struggled with this double life of mine. This life of post-abortiveness and then the rest of me - never the two shall meet. But they do meet, they are so ingrained with each other never to be separated again, not that they ever were save for my pushing that part of me deep down in the recesses of my heart, mind, and soul. But now, it's here. I will lead this double life until I'm ready to go public with my story in whatever way,
if ever. At present, that decision would affect too many people, so it just
can't be done. Even so, my abortion is part of me. Grace is part of me. The pain is part of me. The memories are part of me. I've spent a lot of time trying to figure out how to live with it and not allow it to consume my life. I've succeeded in small ways to some extent for I'm still here, but I've failed much bigger. I think I've talked myself into thinking that until I'm okay with it all, then I don't deserve anything else... until I've solved it all, until I've fixed it all. I don't know how to do <i>this</i>. I know how to do miserable and sad and torn up and shut down. I don't know how to do peacefulness, acceptance, love of self, gratitude for pain and suffering. I want to put down my cross. I don't know how to drag it along and be happy about it. <br />
<br />
What if I don't have to be one or the other? What if I can be quintessentially both/and and be okay at the same time? Let's face it, none of us are ever going to be truly okay until we are reunited with Him in paradise no matter how much we may look all put together down here. What if, just <i>if</i> all this time, He has been making me just comfortable enough with the caress of His mercy to make it okay for me to come here in His presence and bring all the bad with me, allow a visit with the pain and hurt just as anyone who grieves for a lost loved one is allowed? What if He has been showing me all along that this chapel, in His presence, or any chapel or any Church, is <i>the</i> place to bring it? Maybe I don't have to carry it all around with me all the time because I feel I deserve that yoke around my neck. When I feel the burden getting too heavy or interfering with the blessed life He gave me in spite of myself, I could return to Him again and put it down! Maybe sometimes I'll need help letting it go, but <i>here </i>I'm sure to get the help I need if I ask for it. Surely, the one who suffered and died for me can handle my box of burdens no matter how many times I lug it in. <br />
<br />
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As the tears started to fall in light of this idea and wondering if it could be that easy... the doubts crept in. It won't work. You can't do it anywhere else - why is this place any different? But I know myself well enough to understand that the encounter of adoration or Mass or a retreat or whatever sacred space is what I need for this to maybe happen and I'll need it to happen again, and again, and again. Because I'll never be rid of any of this and I don't want to be rid of all of it. The crippling despair, the sorrow that keeps me from engaging in my life, the pain that stifles the joy, yes that I could be rid of, but maybe now if I know I have a place to put it, or bring it, then my life will be the better for it.<br />
<br />
Until I am ultimately "okay" - wouldn't or couldn't this be the next best thing? I don't have to be miserable all the time and heavy with guilt and shame to make myself worthy enough for Him. I can't conjure up enough miserableness to make myself worthy - it's impossible. So maybe I could stop trying. It's not working so far I know that much. My life has been waiting for me. My husband and children have been waiting for me. Could I come here to Him in my little familiar chapel, or Mass, or any chapel or any Mass where he is, and have my soaked through dressing removed and His healing balm reapplied? I could then get my brand new dressing and return to the life He gave me strengthened and unburdened and feel that living my life is an okay thing to do, the right thing to do. I could return to love my husband and family and go on with whatever things I'm supposed to be doing with joy and peace. And when the clouds begin to gather, and I know they will, perhaps it won't be so stormy knowing there is a port to return to where solace and grace and healing is found? Instead of running away when things get rocky as I usually do, like I did last week avoiding adoration altogether... instead of running from Him, I need to run straight to Him. Run home where he will be waiting as he always does as he always has at every moment of my life.<br />
<br />
As I sat a while and thought about what this whole plan may do for my life and would it be enough to sustain me through the dark times, I began to wonder how I got to this point and why now? I began to think that He has been spending a lot of time making me comfortable with Him as He has lavished His mercy upon me. On my journey I have discovered things about my faith and sought out all I can. A few years ago I didn't even know what adoration was! Now it's become a much needed part of my life. I'm sure He's been at it for longer than I began to notice, but when we first moved into this house and joined our current parish, shortly after our Pastor installed a memorial to the unborn right in front of our church. Oh how I mentally cursed him out for that. I remember my then 4 year old asking when leaving Mass, "what is that for Mommy?" Oh his ears had to be ringing good that day. But, that memorial has become a touchstone for me. Soon after that the Good Father who was crucial to the start of this journey arrived and He made sure I felt comfortable enough to seek him out for help. My children attend the parish school where I am around a lot and therefore surrounded by Him constantly. I've sought out my own Catholic education and formation and have tried to fill in the cracks of my catechesis. I've volunteered and been involved and my parish has become my second home and ultimately the Church has become my home wherever I may be.<br />
<br />
He has placed people in my life along this journey who have proven trustworthy and loving and have brought His love and compassion to me in a very real way. I have more than a few Good Priests who know me by name and who I've shared at least a bit of my story with. He knew that a Good Priest would be the only man that I would be able to trust enough given my past - a Good Priest who would make me feel safe and cared for - for all the right reasons and want nothing from me. Please God that no matter where I go, these Good Fathers are to be found. I've been anxious a bit around those who know my story because I'm always thinking that they are frustrated with me because I'm not okay yet - but I don't think that's true now. He knows me through and through and knows that there are times when I need to talk about this <i>again</i>, that I need to cry, I need to ask for prayers, so He has placed people in my life who I can ask those things of. And He has given me a place to go, a million times if necessary, to visit with my Father and Mother, and then return to my life and live it. <br />
<br />
Before I left adoration tonight, I pulled out a <a href="http://postabortionwalk.blogspot.com/2011/06/i-thirst-for-you.html" target="_blank">favorite prayer of mine</a> that a Good Sister shared with me early on in my journey. These words were never more true for me.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"And I want you to know that whenever you invite Me, I do come – always,
without fail. Silent and unseen I come, but with infinite power and
love, and bringing the many gifts of My Spirit. I come with My mercy,
with My desire to forgive and heal you, and with a love for you beyond
your comprehension – a love every bit as great as the love I have
received from the Father ("As much as the Father has loved me, I have
loved you…" (Jn. 15:10) I come - longing to console you and give you
strength, to lift you up and bind all your wounds. I bring you My light,
to dispel your darkness and all your doubts. I come with My power, that
I might carry you and all your burdens; with My grace, to touch your
heart and transform your life; and My peace I give to still your soul." <i> <a href="http://www.mcpriests.com/03_I_thirst_PrayerEN.htm" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Imprimatur, Mons. G. Sergio De la Cerda Z., Vicar General, Tijuana, B. C. México.</a></i></blockquote>
Okay Lord. I hope you meant what you said. Until next time...InfiniteGracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04365787251323492813noreply@blogger.com2