A Survivor of Abuse: My First Round of Counseling and a Few Years of Peace

I didn't know who to trust with this new pile of garbage I'd been forced to remember. Fortunately my parents knew of a semi-retired counselor in their church. Mom gave them a call and he agreed to see me, to see if we'd be a good fit.

I saw him on a semi-weekly basis for a few months. The first thing he told me was he believed me. I was honestly shocked. It had never occurred to me that someone wouldn't believe. I was telling the truth. I WAS TELLING THE TRUTH!!! While it was reassuring to know he believed me, it made me wonder if anyone around me didn't. 

Those first few months were not easy. I had a handful of memories return that were awful when they came, but the really hard part were the constant panic attacks. I hadn't really known much about panic attacks until my oldest started going through them. My attacks were different than hers, so at first I didn't recognize them for what they really were. I thought they were a form of "muscle memory", as if I was some how going through moments of my abuse from the past.

When the doctor told me they were simply panic attacks I made them stop. I know that sounds weird and probably not real, but looking back at it I think it was a way of "stuffing" that abused and frightened part of myself back down into the recesses of my mind. I put a lock back on that door and it would be years before it opened back up.

One of the things the doctor had me do was write a letter to my abuser, telling him what his actions had done to me over the years. No one should ever have to write a letter like that. Still, it felt good to finally put the thoughts down on paper. It was nice to say in writing exactly what I'd been thinking. I hated this man. I loved this man. I wanted him to be happy and despised him for using me in such a way that I would believe in my core I would never deserve to be happy. How do you put those feelings and more into mere words? And was I a bad person for wanting him to hurt?

Another day the doctor asked me to sit in my chair while he placed another chair right in front of me and imagine my abuser was sitting there. All of a sudden that chair was way too close. Did he have to be so close, even if it was only in my mind? I was supposed to talk to my abuser, to tell him what I wanted to say right to his imagined face. I went from the gut. I spoke as if he really was in front of me. It was terrifying, obviously worse than writing the letter. My doctor would occasionally prompt me by saying, "Tell him how you're feeling right now" or asking "What did that one action cause to happen in your life?"

Then I was asked to do the impossible. I was asked to sit in his chair and speak in his voice. While I hated every moment of it - never did I want to understand this man - it was a good thing. Not because I gained empathy for the man, but because trying to see things from that side of the situation helped me to understand on some level that no matter what I did or didn't do to or for my abuser, he was never going to be happy. He would never be satisfied. All of this really was his problem, not mine.

Too bad it didn't mean I would or could suddenly forgive and forget. I did gain a measure of peace for a few years. Little did I know what was brewing under the surface, frantically trying to scrape its way out from that locked door. I would get indications of it here and there, like sudden dizzy spells that in the past would mean a panic attack was trying to come on or a sudden vision of his face hovering over mine as he yelled and yelled at me. Like the moment I realized I didn't have to give in to those panic attacks, I would simply deny it all from happening, in essence putting a cork in a volcano.

In a few years time that volcano began showing signs it was ready to erupt.

Weird Dreams

The women in my family are vivid dreamers, and oh baby can those dreams get weird. I tend to go through dream spurts where I have tons that are unforgettable, but then I have a famine period when I don't recall having any or I simply can't remember what they were about. The last one I had a few nights ago is a doozy. So of course I decided to share it with all those who are bored enough to read through it!

I dreamed my oldest quit the school where she works as a lunch lady, so my former boss T (who just retired) made me come back. I was in charge of the pizzas. The only problem was the central kitchen had no more pizzas. So for several days the ladies had been forced to call in pizza orders to a pizza place (like a combination of Big Daddy's and Papa Johns). One coworker told me I was in charge of calling in. I did, and the lady on the other line had no idea what I was asking for and promptly hung up. I tried to call back, but someone was already on the other end of the line. She said someone had called the animal hospital from our number. I said I didn't call her. She also hung up.

I tried calling the pizza place again (starting to get nervous because it's getting closer to lunch time) but couldn't call out because T and K (manager and asst mngr) kept getting on the line. I go to coworker and tell her I can't get through to the pizza place. What to do? She said, "Keep trying!"

So I go to T's office only to find out they are the ones calling the animal hospital because another coworker's dog needs to see a doctor immediately! I don't even know if that particular coworker has a dog! They won't listen to me, so I decide to take matters into my own hands and walk downstairs to the freezer. I want to see if they have any chicken so I can make chicken salad sandwiches. That'll show them.

Keep in mind there is no downstairs at the actual school kitchen, and the moment I leave the kitchen and start down the stairs I'm back at my parents' previous home (where I grew up). At the bottom of the stairs I have to turn on a light because there's a ghost and it doesn't like me very much.

In a previous dream I'd had many weeks ago the central kitchen was also out of diced chicken. In this dream I remembered that little fact and became concerned that not only would I not be able to order in pizzas, but there wouldn't be chicken for sandwiches. Sure enough, no chicken. Now what?

I walk back upstairs where now the upper level of my parents' home is not just the school kitchen, but is also combined with JC Penney. I tried to find T to let her know we're not going to get the pizzas in time when I notice a woman trying to stuff a purse down her right sleeve. I was furious! I marched right over and demanded she put it back! The woman tried to get away, but I wouldn't let her past me. We literally started a not so fun game of tag when I decided to ignore the "Don't get in the way of a customer who is stealing from us" policy and grabbed the woman's arm, lifted up her sleeve, and removed the purse.

"Were you intending to pay for this?" I asked with full sarcasm dripping disdainfully from my lips. She stammered and stuttered and I dragged her over to T to tell her what happened. As I'm explaining I see out of the corner of my eye the woman patting herself down in different areas. "Did you try to hide other things?!" "Why no, of course not," she said with a full southern twang and a guilty look. I reached over to her other arm and put my hand up her sleeve. I don't remember what I pulled out, but by that time security came and I turned her over, disgusted. I looked at T and said angrily, "I have to pee!"

We're not done yet!

I head down a hall and suddenly I'm in an office building that's also connected to LDS Hospital. I figure, "It's a hospital. There's gotta be a bathroom somewhere." But all I can find are men's rooms. That's it. Only men can go potty in this building! I find a diaperless baby on the way - who has to poop - and I am even more desperate to find the Ladies Room. The more I look the more frantic I become! Anyone who has ever held a baby with do diaper will understand!

Suddenly T steps out of an elevator and claims she has to pee as well. This isn't shocking. At work she always had to use the bathroom. "I can't find a women's restroom," I cry out in frustration. "There are only men's rooms!"

We're in a hallway right next to a men's room, and one door over is a theater auditorium. On the other side I can see another hallway and I think, "If the men's room is on this side, then the women's room HAS to be on the other side!" But the ushers at the door won't let me through because I didn't buy a ticket and don't trust I'm not going to sit and watch the show (with my diaperless baby). T says she knows a secret way around. Believe it or not, we found a women's bathroom!

I take the baby in and wait for it to poop while T uses the toilet. When she's done I hand her the baby to clean up so I can take my turn. Only the toilet has disappeared! And when I turn around to ask about it T and the baby have vanished as well. I don't know what to do. Then I remember, it's a hospital. There's a maternity ward. There HAS to be a women's bathroom there!!! 

I make my way to the lower levels where I BEG the security guard to let me in so I can use the bathroom. He says okay, but apparently the bathrooms in the maternity ward are very well protected. "When you go through the door make a left, then a right, then another right..." and proceeds to tell me all the directions in the maze they created to keep out unwanted bathroom users. I go through the door, follow his directions, right down to the mysterious five holes in a wall at the end of the maze. I was told to pick the hole that said "pull". I place in my hand, grab a lever, and pull it so hard it stretches all the way out of the hole. A secret door opens up! As I run through the door a man slips through with me. We're heading to the same area. Except this is the maternity ward so no men's bathroom for him! We keep pace with one another until at last I see the placard above the door that will finally end my torture. Except it doesn't. Because it says MEN.

That's when I woke up

I am a Mormon from Utah, NOT a Utah Mormon

I am Utah born and bred. Forty plus years of living here have been ingrained into my bones. Take me away from my precious mountains and I am beyond lost. I am a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, which is pretty common here as it is the home base of this particular religion. And I absolutely hate the term "Utah Mormon".

It's used by members and nonmembers alike, but most of the time the term appears to be insulting. I don't want this to be a negative post, but I would like those out there to know how much it hurts to be lumped into a perception that does not stem from understanding where our particular bunch came from.

Are we a peculiar lot? You bet! Do people outside of our state have a preconceived notion of what it must be like to live here? No doubt! Is it a culture shock to actually be in the midst of us? Of course! I can't even begin to imagine what it's like to come here, whether you are or are not a member of our church, and spend some quality time with us. For some we are a loving lot, for others we come across as having a better-than-thou attitude.

My hope in writing today is to give people out there a small glimpse into why we are the way we are. Maybe, if I'm very lucky, you might see something of yourself in us.

To do this we need to do a speedy quick history lesson. Joseph Smith saw God the Father and Jesus Christ. He was directed to form a church. Missionaries were sent out. New members flocked from around the area and as far away as England. The people were repeatedly mobbed, harassed, and chased from their homes. Some were murdered. Their lands were coveted and stolen from them. Time and again they lived in such fear and destitution that many members left this new church in the hopes of finding some form of peace.

Joseph and a few other leaders were then murdered, and their people were forced to flee once more. This time, instead of trying to find a place close by, as they had before, the members were led far to the west. The journey was harrowing. There were tragedies and triumphs along the way. Many of the men were asked to join the army, leaving their women and children to make the trek alone. While getting to the Salt Lake Valley was their goal, it was a far from ideal place. The valley was pretty barren. They had to start all over again, and this time with next to nothing and little energy to do it. Most families were forced to live in dugouts until enough time passed and enough resources were gathered to build humble homes.

Families may not have remained in the valley itself. There were so many who were asked to go into areas with even harsher conditions up and down the territory and try to make a life. They began to build a temple when horrible news came: rumors were spreading to the US government that those Mormons were building an army against them. It was completely unfounded, but once more the members were afraid. This fear was now so much a part of who they were. Was there a place far enough away from hatred that would allow them to live without fear? These members had lost so much already.

Were these people perfect? Not even a little. Yes they had been through some horrendous things, were continuing to go through so much more. God had asked them to endure an awful lot, but I know He was with them every terrifying step of the way. Even here they made a whole lot of mistakes, ones which carry scars to this day in our hearts.

Let's fast forward to this time, keeping in mind the mindset of our pioneer ancestors has greatly influenced how their descendants have turned out and how we think. There is this niggling idea in the back of our minds that what has happened all those years ago might happen again. Their fear is still our fear. If you don't think the things your ancestors have endured have anything to do with your own way of thinking in the here and now, you're fooling yourself. Just take a look at someone who had a slave as an ancestor (I'm talking slaves of all kinds - African, Irish, Russian, etc. Slavery is an unfortunate mark of every history), and ask if that individual is not influenced by what their ancestor endured. Just as there are traits passed along from generation to generation (like musical abilities, writers, athletes), fear and tragedy can be passed along as well.

So for years and years our odd collection of people lived in a whole lot of fear from those who were not members of our church. It's a familiar worldwide story, I'm sorry to say. Ours was not the first to go through things like this. Having it happen here in America, where we were supposed to be free of such things, was certainly a drastic first. Keeping to ourselves became a protection, even as we tried so hard to live the tenets of our religion. Like any other religion we have individuals who are amazing at living what we are taught, and those who struggle with the basics.

We are not a perfect people. We struggle with doing things as Christ would: we judge, we sin, we're sometimes lazy, we say things that can hurt without realizing it, we fall short of expectations, etc. It's called being human. We are every bit as human as those who live outside of our state and our beliefs. Some are prideful, some so humble they may never believe they can make it back to live with our Heavenly Father. Some give everything they have, while others struggle to let go of the most basic things. Some are rude and arrogant, while others are loving and selfless. Some don't want to serve, while others volunteer for everything. Don't we all know people like this, no matter what beliefs they may hold? Are we not all like this at times? I know I am.

In the last twenty years or so I've seen a great shift in the words of our prophets that I believe is especially geared toward the members here in Utah. Instead of being taught to only date members of our church, to keep our members the closest as our friends, to look out for our fellow members first, we are now being encouraged to look outside of ourselves. It's a shift that has been necessarily slow. No change comes super easy, and changing the outlook of a religion-based state will come with difficulties. Yet now I believe those who are not members of our church outnumber those who are, or at least those who are active.

With our most recent prophet, President Russel Nelson, change is happening fast. So many of us are super excited, but there is still a presence of resistance that pervades, especially in the older generations. I am reminded of the Israelites Moses brought out of Egypt, who struggled so much to let go of their old traditions and had to wander through the wilderness for forty years. What good did that do? It allowed a newer generation to grow up - one that was prepared to accomplish a new work. I have witnessed it here in my own ward (local congregation). Boundaries were realigned among our neighborhoods that created a whole new ward. Most of those who grumbled about the change were the much older generation, because it wasn't what they were used to. Then changes began within the Church of Jesus Christ itself, and the grumbling intensified. However, I look at the younger generations and they are so ready for things to change! They are the ones who are making the strides us oldies-but-goodies simply can't...or won't.

We are learning, I promise!

All I am asking is for you to be cautious when you talk about those "Utah Mormons". Just as any other person in any state, any country, and any city, we are the way we are for a reason. Try to understand us. Be gentle. We're attempting to make it back to heaven in our own imperfect ways too.

A Survivor of Abuse: Triggers

It's easier to look back now and and see the "signs" that abuse must have been a part of my past. Until those memories began to return I never would have guessed so many odd behaviors I couldn't explain were trying to tell me something.

I have two instances in my life that, knowing what I know now, should have been huge indicators. At the times I simply explained it away as being an empath - having an ability to feel what others feel.

The first time was in high school. I was taking a family education class (you know, the one where you get the fake baby, only we had plants...much quieter) and we had come to the section on child abuse. I sat through 45 minutes of pictures on how children had been inflicted with injuries by people who were supposed to love and take care of them. I saw pictures of water burns, cigarette burns, broken limbs, and other things I've blocked out. This was just day one.

By the time class was done I was so upset I spent the rest of the day in my room, hiding. I wouldn't even come out for dinner. My family knew what had upset me, but none of us knew why I was so upset. It must be my tender heart, we all said.

The next day I couldn't make myself go to the class. I was a straight A student who never missed school unless I was really sick. That was the first time in high school I purposely didn't go. I made my way across the street to our church's seminary building where instead of hearing about the evils forced on little children I was able to hear about the Savior and His love for us.

Skip forward many years. I now had three children. My boys were 2 and 4. One evening I received an email from someone close to me. It was one of those pass along emails we would get and then forward to those on our email lists (before social media). It was the story of a little 3 year old boy who was lured away from his mom by two others boys at a local store, and basically tortured then killed.

By the time I was done reading the horrific things that were done to this little one I was sobbing. I prayed and prayed the email wasn't true, but an Internet search proved it did happen several years before. In my mind the little boy would take on the face of my two boys and I could not make it go away.

The entire next day I tried my best to be normal, but then I would begin the uncontrollable sobbing again. My sweet husband called in the late morning and I tried to explain what had upset me but like the time in high school he couldn't understand why I was so upset. As I was supposed to be a part of an activity that night with some of our local teenagers, he willingly gave me a priesthood blessing. It immediately helped calm my mind, and I realize now the veil was placed back over my memories so I would not remember. It wasn't time yet.

While typing all of this out I have had one more memory come. I remember as a teenager reading a book called, "Secrets" written by Blaine M. Yorgason and Sunny Oaks. It was a novel involving all types of abuse coming out into the open. I hated that book, but I still have it. It felt wrong to get rid of it. I don't recall much of what was in it; another form of repression on my part. Maybe one day I'll feel strong enough to read it again.

After that email both my husband and I knew I couldn't handle anything that had to do with the abuse of children. I had to stop watching the news. Many of our favorite television shows were switched off if abuse was a topic. I knew this was a trigger for me, I just didn't fully understand why.

Life is Like... Cheering for Everyone's Team

My younger son, B, loves sports. Being born into a family who isn't overly involved in sports has come as a grave disappointment to him, but we're all learning to cope. I simply prefer to cope with a hand full of chocolate.

In seventh grade B decided to try wrestling. I have no idea what that must have been like as an actual participant, but as a parent it was excruciating. I have never wanted to jump up from a bleacher, run down to the floor, and pull the hair of some unsuspecting fellow athlete in my entire life! All so he would just leave my son alone!

Fortunately I was able to temper those natural mama-bear instincts. Even more fortunately B decided against continuing on for another year. Instead we tried basketball.

From the parental point of view, basketball was a refreshing change. I didn't have to watch as my son was contorted into unnatural positions and was able to keep my inner beast under control. The only problem with basketball is B hadn't been playing it since he was in the womb. While other young men whose fathers had coached them since the dawn of time dribbled the ball up and down the court with the ease of the NBA, my son was learning how to play with others. It's easy to keep the ball from being stolen when no one else is there to steal it.

Basketball lasted a little more than a year before he decided it was fun when with friends, but it definitely wasn't something he wanted to continue. His latest venture is track. There are two different types of runners in track: sprinters and long distance. The first year he joined B decided to be a sprinter.

Being a sprinter entails running your absolute hardest in the shortest time possible. For me to understand the desire to make this happen I imagine a group of people being chased by a mountain lion, but if I make it to the goal first I won't get eaten. Just don't ask me why the mountain lion no longer hungers for me once I've crossed the finish line.

Sprinting wasn't B's absolute favorite, especially on the shorter races. The longer races seemed to be a better fit (like once or twice around the track). He did well, but suffered from shin splints.

During the summer one friend talked him into trying cross country running. He enjoyed it enough to decide on abandoning the sprinters and joining the long distance runners in track this year (and yes, there IS a difference between cross country and track). This is where we get in to the best part of our post.

There is a mentally handicapped young man on the team this year. He wanted to join the same team as his big brother, a senior this year. The young man obviously can't run the long distances, but that hasn't stopped him from running. His event is the 100 meter dash.

The team has had about 5 track meets this year, and in every single one I have seen something that makes my heart absolutely sing. Our sweetheart of a young man stands ready at the starting line, grinning from ear to ear in anticipation of running another successful race. The official raises his hand while the other runners get into position, and then BANG! the gun goes off.

Lanes two through eight are quickly emptied as the other runners have crossed the finish line in mere seconds, while our young man pumps his legs as fast as they will allow. Along the way are each of his other teammates who are clapping and cheering him on every step of the way. Interspersed we see members of the other teams who begin to do the same. They pump their fists in the air, cheer at the top of their lungs, clap their hands to give encouragement. And the farther down the lane he goes, the louder they get, until a massive yell of triumph comes from the lungs of every person there. Parents and students alike from three different schools all come together to cheer for and encourage one young man.

It's pretty awesome.

Sometimes life is like finding a moment to cheer for every one's team. We tend to get separated into various groups whether at school, at work, at home, at church, whatever. Groups can easily get competitive, and if we're not careful, competitive can turn ugly. But every once in a while there's someone who is able to erase boundaries, make us look a little deeper within, and remember we're all on the same course in life, whether we realize it or not in the daily grind of living.

A Survivor of Abuse: Remembering

Years ago there was a commercial for a fast food restaurant that supposedly had such a good deal a person was willing to break open an adorable piggy bank just to get that food. There was a moment when the little piggy was hiding in a closet and the shadow of it's owner would come through the wooden slats, a hammer in hand, ready to destroy the precious little being in order to obtain some sort of wealth inside.

I hated that commercial.

Why did I hate that commercial?

As I look back over my life there have been obvious clues that there was something deep within the recesses of my mind I was so afraid of letting out. Of course it's so much easier to look back and see the pattern unfolding, than to try and make sense of it as it's happening.

About five years ago I was coming to a crossroads. Things were simply not right with me. Though my depression was a bit more under control, I felt more attacked mentally, emotionally and spiritually than ever before. I knew I need help, but not the usual doctor/counselor/therapist/medication sort of help. Everything in my mind kept screaming at me that I was nothing. Yet this didn't make sense because all I had been taught in church said I was of so much value.

A few months previous my parents had been introduced to energy work. This wasn't my own first experience with it as I had been using it to get rid of many of my allergies through NAET. What my mom and dad had found, however, was a whole different line of energy work. My mom had offered more than once to introduce me to Sue, and had offered to pay for my first visit as well. One afternoon I was so desperate for the inner voices to go away I finally called my mom and asked her to make me an appointment.

It was awesome. It was difficult. I felt like a little child in her hands, something delicate and afraid and hopeful and trusting. Near the end of our second session she was deeply concerned that I had so many doubts of being worthy of happiness. She could sense that deep down I absolutely did not believe I deserved a happy life. In another session she stopped me once and said, "What happened when you were three?" I thought this particularly odd because only two years before my NAET doctor had asked me the same thing when realizing there was something that happened to me at the age of three that was keeping me from healing. 

"We moved to a new house," I told her. 

"Did you ever suffer any abuse?" she asked.

I answered with full confidence, "No." She sat there and stared at me, a subtle notion of I'm so sorry for what you're about to go through on her face.

Two different people asking me the same thing. What happened when I was three? I had no memory of anything bad happening. We had moved to a new house close to where I live now. We were there until I was about eight and we moved again. My best friend lived across the street, and my older brother's best friend lived two houses down (I always thought of him as my boyfriend).

One night as I had been pondering on so much I was in bed and a thought came out of absolutely nowhere. "I wonder if the reason I can't lay on my back is because he was so heavy." I've never been able to lay down on my back. I would get dizzy and disoriented and unable to breathe. I always thought it had to do with a nerve in my back that would somehow pinch. Not anymore.

I began to sob, gut wrenching, soul crushing sobs. I was afraid of waking up my husband so I went into our living room. I sat on the floor in front of our couch and pressed my face into the cushion to muffle the crying. 

I had to be making this up.

No way could this be real.

How could I have forgotten?????

After an hour I went to Facebook and not so subtly asked if it was possible to have forgotten something so horrible for so many years. The answers were a resounding YES! Many brave women came forward and told me they too had repressed those memories. I was grateful for their courage, but I hated the truth forced on me.

Still I didn't believe. The next morning was Sunday. The moment I saw my bishop and my husband I asked for a priesthood blessing. We went into the bishop's office where he asked what was going on. I told them, so afraid to look my spouse in the eyes. What if he didn't believe me? 

They placed their hands on my head and gave me a blessing from my Heavenly Father. I immediately felt peace, and was told in no uncertain terms that it was real, and it was time to start healing.

I have no doubt there is a time for everything, and in that moment I knew my body and my mind were ready to begin dealing with the horrors forced on me when I was too weak to fight back. That was when I realized why I hated that fast food commercial so much. For too long I was the little piggy bank, hiding in the closet, terrified of the shadow outside the door just waiting to take my wealth.

Life is Like...Sorting Socks

Have you ever had to sort socks? Have you ever had to sort socks for more than one person?

There are six people living in my little home. Six pair of feet to cover for seven days a week, especially in the winter months. In one week we can manage to dirty forty-two pair of socks. That's eighty-four individual socks. The individual number is important. I'll even tell you why.

I sat on my bed this morning with a laundry basket FULL of socks. They were mostly white socks, but a few colors were mixed in. I'm always grateful for the colors, they make matching socks so much easier.

Imagine this basket full of at least eighty-four individual socks (I say 'at least' because inevitably some have walked off leaving behind many that don't get to have a match). Some are for big feet, some are for slightly smaller feet. Some have the brand name printed along the toes, while others have darker shades along the heels. There are socks that will go up high on the leg, and those that love to snuggle your ankles. We have the special Daddy's socks, which are different from the boys', which are different from the girls', which are different from Mom's socks.

All in all, there are a whole lot of socks.

As I sorted these various feet coverings I began to wax philosophical (tends to happen when I've been in my head for too long), and it occurred to me that life really is like going through a basket chock full of socks.

All socks start their journey by coming out of a package. They are pristine. The whites are as white as they will ever be. Colors are vibrant. Patterns are clear. Even the threads are undamaged and identical socks can be doubled up with any that look just like it. We are much the same way.

Until, of course, the inevitable happens and someone puts their feet into the socks. Some are worn on the right foot, some on the left. Some are worn outside without shoes on, while others are constantly covered. At times these socks will go to scout camp, where I am convinced the dirt in these boy-concentrated places has a special bond that mixes so completely with the socks that it never, ever, EVER comes out, no matter what magical incantations I might employ to make said socks look clean. Then there are those times the socks are not turned right side out before they are washed (no matter how many times I tell them to please please please turn them right side out before putting them in their laundry hampers!), meaning the dirt, which sticks more to the outside then the inside, often remains on the outside. I do not understand the logic of this, seeing as how all the stinky from the inside of the sock is washed out even if the sock itself hasn't been turned inside out.

After months and months of being worn, and washed, and worn, and washed, and...you get the idea...socks start to look less than pristine. In our house they begin to get those annoying little balls that get bigger and bigger until you actually sit down to tear them off. Of course these annoying little balls are bits of your sock slowly fraying, thinning them out until you can actually see parts of your skin. Hopefully those parts of skin are beautiful, rather than dry and crackly.

Eventually even the most beloved sock gets holes in them. Back in the "good old days" people used to darn their socks. No, that doesn't mean they would shake their fists at it and say, "Darn you!" It means they would take thread and painstakingly attempt to fix those holes. We don't do that any more, for which I am grateful. I think my family would decide going sockless to be a beautiful thing if I made them wear the ones I attempted to darn.

If you're anything like my husband getting rid of something that has a few holes in it is tossing out the most comfortable item of clothing in the world. Those are always, in his own words, "MY FAVORITE!!!" Silly boy. Still, every sock eventually comes to the point where it has to go away. Sometimes because it is worn out, others times because gremlins crept into the laundry basket and stole unmatched pairs, and no matter how long you keep a hold of those single-but-unable-to-mingle items, the gremlins refuse to grow a conscience and return their matches. Then comes the day you finally get rid of the singles, only to do a more thorough cleaning of your room and find the match behind your dresser. You'd think by now I'd have learned to look there first.

Over time sorting similar socks even becomes difficult, because I try my best to sort socks into similar pair of dirtiness. I think I might OCD.

Believe it or not, life is often like this. Um, not like me having OCD, but like being a sock.

We are all born into this world coming from the same package - that is, heaven. Some of us look so much alike we could be interchangeable (though I don't recommend proving it!). We are vibrant, unmarked, clear, and whole.

Then life starts. We are placed into different families and circumstances that stretch us in different ways. We are taken through various experiences that make us more individual than we were at birth. Some of those experiences are pretty stinky, some leave marks we can't seem to get rid of, while others others allow us to live good, long lives filled with amazing memories. At times we believe our perfect match has been stolen, but then realize we were meant for another pairing. We may begin life with many friends with which we can be interchangeable, then over time we recognize there are only a few we really want to match with.

Some individuals wear out fast, but are fixed along the way, helping them to last longer. Others feel they are past fixing, or refuse to be fixed. The best people are those who have worn out their lives making the lives of others a bit more comfortable, who will be missed horribly when they are called home to their Maker.

Bet you can't wait until I come up with another thing life is like ;)