I've decided to turn this lens into a blog so I've written this intro after the later posts but hopefully it will all run somewhat together.

This is a brief introduction. Hopefully, it will help you understand what I'm doing here.

I was born on Christmas Day in 1959 to an Army mess cook and a german country girl. My parents met while my dad was stationed in Germany. I think my mom saw my dad as a way to get to America, where there was lots more excitement than what was in store for her as the youngest daughter of poor country folk who had suffered through the Nazi takeover of West Germany. My dad, young and insecure, was enthralled by this foreign beauty with spunk to spare. They married quickly and my dad was transferred back to the states with 2 babies in tow.

Once in America, my mother found freedom and lots of male attention. My dad's inferiority complex and jealousy made him abusive and controlling. Both my parents abused alcohol. My mom used it to allow her to act out a sexual addiction that covered a fear of abandonment. My dad needed to dull an ever-present ache in his heart from an unment need to feel loved and capable. Neither of them knew how to give love, hence the nurture that I needed as a child was never given. I can't remember my mother ever saying to me that she loved me.

I remember one day when she was roughly brushing tangles out of my hair, I asked her if she loved me. I must have been about 7 or 8 years old. She just kept brushing and said, "Of course I do. Why would you ask such a thing?" Another day, after the divorce, she came home from a long day at work. I had done all my chores and made sure my siblings had theirs done, and when she walked in the door, she said, "What would I do without you kids?" Those two comments are locked into my memory as being as close as she came to telling us that she loved us.

But even in those two comments, I can now see how she made me into the mother, the caretaker, the nurturer. When I asked her if she loved me, I was met with riducule, not reassurance. I got reassurance and value when I added value to her life, not because I was intrinsically valuable. A child has a profound need to feel secure because to be abandoned could mean death. I found comfort and security in knowing that I had something she needed, therefore she could not abandon me. Years later (decades later for goodness sake!), I can finally see that I was set up to be a caretaker. That somehow, if someone needed me they couldn't also abandon me. I felt abandoned when my dad was sent to Viet Nam. He told us that he'd be back, but while he was gone, my mother filed for divorce and when he returned, he was no longer welcome in our home. My mother refused to let him see us, infusing the three of us, me, my sister, and younger brother, with poisonous feelings and thoughts that feuled my feeling of confusion and worthlessness. After all, why did I miss such a "monster" and why would I want to be held by such a "loser"? Maybe I was a monster, too. Maybe I was spawn of a loser, making me a loser, too.

Of course, I didn't think those thought as a young child, less than six years old, but now that I'm grown, I know I must have felt them.

I didn't realize I was a codependent until a year ago. I'm not living with an alcoholic and that's the definition of a codependent, right? Nope. A codependent is someone who bases their thoughts, actions, and decisions on how someone else will respond. They are in the habit of controlling, often without realizing it. I first found out I was codependent when I was in a group therapy session for my depression. Someone was talking and began to cry. I grabbed a tissue off the coffee table and handed it to her. When she was done, my therapist looked me straight in the eye and asked, "Why did you do that?"
"She was crying and getting tears all over that pretty blouse," I said. My therapist nodded and said, "Did you see what happened? She stopped crying. You interrupted her process. What did you want the others to think when you did that?" I hung my head and answered rather sheepishly, "That I was a nice person. That I was caring. I'd want someone to do that for me." "You are now officially in therapy for caretaking. She could have easily reached those tissues if she wanted them. You were trying to control what others thought of you by proving you were "caring". Do you see that?" I did. I wanted the others to think what a nice, helpful person I was. I went home and saw where I do that all over the place. With my husband, my kids, my friends. So this site will address some of those practices and hopefully, share some of the light.

I had to stop and think today about why I only like to do housework when no one else is home. Could it be that I think I'm making people around me feel guilty for not working, so I protect them from feeling that way? I realized the other night while my DH was doing the dishes (a very rare occurence!) that I felt guilty that he was doing some dishes. I kept thinking that he was thinking, "Why isn't she in here doing these dishes? This is her job, not mine. She's in there plinking away on that computer and I'm in here doing her job. What a lazy blob!" Now, I can assure you with a reasonable amount of confidence that he was not thinking anything like that. But, boy, did I have a fantasy going on in my head!

I been realizing lately that it's OK to have wants and needs. They are valid and don't make me a selfish person (I can't think of being called anything worse!). It's OK to ask to ask to have my needs met. And sometimes they'll go unmet. The hard part is figuring out what to do with the pain when that happens. But I'm seeing that I am valuable enough to have them met. Having unmet needs doesn't mean I don't count or that I'm somehow deficient and therefore not worthy of having them met. So then where do I go? To the one who always wants to meet my needs: God.

The pain of choosing new behaviors instead of my old, codependent behaviors was much stronger than I anticipated. Feelings of guilt and shame are quite strong and overpowering at times. When I choose to stand up for myself instead of "going with the flow" or "walking on eggshells", a tornado of guilt threatens to knock me over! I have to conciously tell myself that it's OK to have wants and needs and it's OK to express those wants and needs. And one of my needs is to feel OK if I choose not to caretake. Wow, I never realized how much of myself I lose when I give out of compulsion rather than love. The process is a real eye-opener.

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I'll tell ya, codependency is a sneaky animal. I didn't realize how much of my self worth is tied up in what other people think! I've realized that I've spent a lot of my life rescuing and caretaking other people so I'll feel valuable. Once I stopped doing that, I feel very strange. Like I have to earn my worth somehow. I keep thinking I need to get another job (I already have 3!) or clean more or bake or something, otherwise people will think I'm a slob or lazy or something, and I am sooooo not that. But the feeling percolates up from somewhere deep within. I'm sure it is an ancient feeling, one I developed at a very young age. If I do enough chores or get better grades than everyone else, Mom will love me and not hate me. My step dad won't beat me if I clean everything up real good. What a load of crock I swallowed. But it's hooked me good.

So what do I do when the guilt and shame feelings come for standing up for myself? The first thing I've learned is that these feelings are normal and not an indication of my self-worth. Just because I feel guilty doesn't mean I am guilty or have done anything wrong that should bring "righteous guilt". Asking my husband to do the dishes once a week does not mean I am a slobby pig lady. I am not laying on the sofa, slathering velveeta on my tongue, and barking orders at him while he is trying to pay bills. No. I have been working all day at my other 3 jobs, cooking meals, relating with our son (the last one left at home), keeping up with the house, and he has been reading or locked away in the basement for the last 8 hours. He can help out a little! So why do I feel guilty?

Something deep within me says I have to stay busy, be productive, and overwork myself or someone will think I am lazy! Now, who could that be? My husband has never called me lazy. My kids have never even intimated that they think I'm lazy. Could it be an old tape that gets replayed in my head, long after I moved away from home, long after I stopped listening to mom and Ron? Who is it in there? It's me. I am self-condemning, self-incriminating. There's even a law against making someone do that on the stand in court, for crying out loud. It's called the fifth amendment. Maybe I'll start pleading the fifth amendment with myself. No more self-incrimination. Only self-mercy and self-acceptance. That sounds so much better.

My mom has always been verbally abusive with me, even now that I'm in my late 40's, she still tells me what a big mouth I have and tries to shame me into accepting her. It's pretty pitiful. She recently hung up on me on Thanksgiving when I tried to wish her a happy holiday. All I said was, "Hello, Mother," and click. The phone went dead. I called back and another click. I called a third time (did I mention I was codependent?), and she said, "Why are you doing this? What do you want?" I simply said I wanted to wish her a happy Thanksgiving and she replied with, "Thank you very much!" and click. You'd have to hear it to know that the tone was not, "Oh, what a nice daughter. You are so thoughtful!" But rather, "I couldn't be further from having a happy thanksgiving if it was being served with my last rites!" So I haven't talked to her since.
Now my codependent self would have called again a few days later, send a card or note, or at least called on Christmas (May I have another serving of shame and condemnation, please?). But I resisted. So here it is, February. Her birthday was February 21. Do I send a gift or card or what? I decided to go ahead and send a gift. She is, after all, my mother. Once she's gone, I won't send anything else. But this time, I did not send her a gift so she would stop being mad at me. I send a gift because I wanted to. I love her and wanted her to know that I was thinking of her on her birthday. Quite different from my manipulative past. This time I did something because I wanted to, not because I'm supposed to. What do you think? Codependent or healthy?

Wow. I never realized how hard it was for me to ask for what I want/need. I recently had to ask for what I wanted and the incredible anxiety that welled up in me was a dead giveaway that something was not right. My biggest fear has always been that someone might think I was selfish. Why? Why do I have a fear of that? Could it be that when I was growing up, asking for what I wanted was usually met with disappointment, shame, or worse, actual physical abuse, like being hit or slapped. Asking for what I want rarely got me what I wanted. But now, I do it for a different reason. I can't rely on getting what I want from another person. But I do know that just asking for it allows me to be known, and by being known, I honor the real me. Hiding reinforces that the real me is not worth being known. That I somehow must protect others from the real me because she is, after all, selfish and greedy - NOT! So I asked for what I wanted. It's different than ordering something in a restaurant or asking someone to pass the salt. It is revealing something that someone else might need to give of themselves in order for me to receive. Does that make sense? It was hard, but I trusted that the Lord was placing before me a test that I had previously failed. A test that I would have to take again and again in order to find healing from the pain and cure the disease of codependence.

It's strange to find out that the way I've related all my life is dysfunctional. I've always thought that if I was valuable, you know, helpful and caring, that I would be worth being in relationship with. And while being helpful and caring is wonderful, if it is the way I get value, it is unhealthy. I have learned that my value comes from God alone, not how much I have to offer someone else. Advise, doing something for someone that they can do themselves, and "rescuing" them from their own poor choices have always been second nature to me. Now I'm learning that these behaviors are keeping me trapped in a false prison of my own making. They don't allow me to be the real person God created me to be because they keep me locked in a pattern of elevating myself above another, thus ensuring that my superiority would shine through and "prove" my worth. What a crock! It's time I allowed the people around me to rise to the full stature of who God created them to be, to stand on their own two feet without me holding them up (as if they really need me to!), and realize their potential and ability to save themselves. They don't need me; I actually get in the way of what God wants to do in their life by my seemingly altruistic rescuing. I'm not doing them any favors. I'm not doing me any favors. And I'm certainly not doing God any favors. But the next question is: Who am I if I'm not their rescuer?

Yesterday someone called me irresponsible. Now, I've been called many things, but irresponsible is not usually one of them. If anything, a codependent is hyper-responsible, right? Always running in and rescuing or covering for someone else's irresponsibility. So this guy calls me irresponsible because I said I might do a certain thing, then when I decided not to, he gets bent out of shape and says a few choice things about my reputation being tarnished in his eyes. It bugged me for about... 5 seconds. Then I just thought, Oh, you poor baby. You didn't get your way so you're dishing out a bowlful of shame to cover for your anxiety over not being in control. Waaa! Should I call the Waa-mbulance? Then I thought, wow, am I glad I didn't do the thing I was thinking of doing with this guy because he's reacting quite strongly to another person's choice. THANK YOU, GOD, for protecting me from getting involved in this guy's project.

So, the way I see it, my being "irresponsible" was actually me standing up for myself and not doing something just because I said I might, even if someone gets bent out of shape over it. And I'm not beating myself up just because everyone in the world doesn't think I'm hot stuff. That feels pretty good.

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I've been reading "How to Stop The Pain" by Richards (see the Amazon reading list below). I'm realizing that the way I judge people is exactly how I judge myself. My mean, critical judge sits on her bench in my head and is continually pronouncing me "Guilty!" I'm going to fire her and get a judge who knows how to keep her mouth shut. The Holy Spirit is a much better judge, in my opinion. Once I stop judging others, I can stop judging myself. Whew!

Ugh. What a lousy couple of days. I had a friend point out something I did wrong in front of some other friends and it sent me into a tailspin. I felt mortified. I could barely make it out of there before I started crying. It reminded me of the time my mom started chewing me out for making change in her cash drawer when I was helping her tend bar. She started acting like I didn't know what I was doing and that I somehow messed up the entire day's cash. Several people were sitting at the bar as she chewed my butt out. The tears just started welling up in my eyes even as I tried to smile and act like it didn't hurt. That's what it felt like earlier this week. It shouldn't have hurt; it was just a simple criticism of something I was doing, but yikes, it hit a nerve. I wanted to never come back. Where the heck did that come from? I spent the next day two hours crying, then the next day in bed, completely certain that I was worthless. The words, "What am I doing here? No one loves me, no one in the whole world really loves me" kept repeating through my brain like one of those lame recordings at the airport: "Please do not leave your luggage unattended.." I couldn't stop it. The feelings of worthlessness and hopelessness followed for more than 24-hours. Then a friend sent an email that said he was praying for me. He prayed that God would show His love for me by sending a message through a book, or His Word, or a friend. The incident happened on 8/18/08. My friend sent his email prayer on the morning of 8/20/08. Now scroll down and look at the comments section of this lens. Note the dates on two out of the three comments that have ever been left on this lens. Two people, whom I've never met or spoken with, left encouraging comments for me. Two! on the same day - 8/20/08. The same day my friend asked God to send encouragement to me. Wow. Who's your Daddy?? Who loves ya, baby?

It was Sunday morning and I was sitting in the car, waiting for the rest of my family to get in so we could go to church. As my husband gets in the car, I notice he is wearing the exact same shorts he has worn to church the last three Sundays in a row, only now, there is a big stain on one pocket, a black slash of something across the front of one leg, and some sort of crusty-looking food on the front of the other leg. It was obvious to me: these shorts have not been washed in at least a month. YUCK!

Now, my husband is like many, not big on grooming. For many years, I told him things like: "You need to get a haircut." "Oh, your toenails are so gross!" "When was the last time you cut your fingernails? They are longer than mine." "That shirt is wrinkled. Are you sure you want to wear it?" "There is a ketchup stain on that tie." But recently, I have come to understand that my husband is NOT ME! He is his own person, capable of making an appointment for a haircut, ironing a shirt (or at least asking me to iron it), clipping his own nails, and noticing his image in a mirror. I have also tried to internalize that how he looks does not affect my self-worth. OMG! No way! That one does not sink in. Yes, of course, I think, the way he looks tells the world whether or not he has a wife who cares about him. Right? Many wives of less-than-GQ men would agree. Yes, we wives are responsible for the presentability and socially-acceptable appearance of our husbands. But what if it hurts me to do that? I mean, when I point out that there is a nasty grease stain on his shorts, I feel very parental. I feel like I have to dress him, like he was 4 years old and would wear his socks and underwear into the shower if I let him. I'm embarassed to be seen with him in his wrinkled, dirty clothes, with his snaggle toenails curling out from his ragged flip-flops. But why? Why does what he look like affect how I feel? Is that the disease? Is it just wanting the man I love to look presentable in public, or is it codependence?

I had to bring it up. Something about not saying anything at all bugged me. I felt like I was stifling myself. So I said, "When you wear clothes that are dirty, I feel icky (I couldn't name the feeling because I didn't know what it was at the time). I think it's because I want to feel attracted to you, but when your grooming is lacking, I feel repulsed." Then I felt like crap. I felt like I was shaming him for his sub-standard standards. I felt parental. Like I was the Mom and he was the immature child with dirt on his face. Ugh. I couldn't win. The voices in my head started in on their debate. One said, "You have a right to say what you like and don't like." The other said, "But he is a separate person. He can dress that way if he wants to. You don't have the right to tell him what is right and what is wrong!" Then the first voice chimed, "But if you don't tell him that it bugs you, how will he ever know?" Other voice, "But if you keep pointing out his childish lack of self-care, you're just enabling!" On and on it went! I mentioned some of these thoughts out loud, then I said, "I hate this disease. I hate it!"

My precious 15-year old son, after hearing some of my verbal volleyball, said, "Is it really a disease?" I said, "yes, it really is. There is a set of symptoms that take on a mind of their own in my head. It stems from my abusive, shaming childhood, and now it's nearly impossible to not hear them when they flare up." And I realize that the disease is the part of me that feels parental. Yes, I would like to have a sharp-dressed man, like ZZ Top sings about. But I don't. I have a man who is less than natty. But I am the one who makes him into the child. I go back to the days when I was 6, 7, or 8 years old and I had to parent my brother and sister. My husband's behavior triggers my premature parent! I'm still not sure what is healthy at this point. I don't want him to continue to wear icky dirty wrinkled clothes or let his hair or nails grow disgustingly long, but if I do, wouldn't he then have to deal with the social ramifications? Wouldn't he have to suffer with the lack of party invitations? The pass-over when it comes time for a promotion to a more visible position? But who tells him that no one is inviting us over because he looks like a slob? Who tells him that the boss wants someone more presentable for the customer relations position? Me? If not me, who?