I made a few posts last week that although true, upset some. It didn't fit their social media narratives. My mom says I shouldn't loop them all together but after the conversation we had yesterday, I think I'm going to do just that. And do you know what? I'm not catering to people who only check in when they see something on social media or who talk about me behind my back as they chitter-chatter like squirrels up in trees. 

I graciously keep allowing them back into my life and it isn't good for me. They run on obedience, control, and conformity, all the while portraying us on Social Media as if we are magically getting along. There are things that I grew up in that my sisters weren't privy to and I'm not going to indulge in all the gritty things, but if my saying I think I have OCD and I haven't been handling them all well in the past, is the catalyst for the non-empathetic crap that was spewed yesterday, then okay. Noted. 

Let's segway. 

I met with the NOCD therapist on Saturday, convinced I needed to, but after our conversation, her opinion was that I did not have OCD. She knew what questions to ask, and I only experience these traumatic hypervigilant moments with my mom and sisters.

Let me also add, that two August's ago, was the moment that my relationship with them completey broke down. I've made several attempts to reconcile and it is this annoying thing that repeats every few months and their empathy levels are nonexistent, because no amount of apologizing or stroking egos is going to change their minds about that moment in time. 

And learning that I had the stroke has made it inconvenient for THEM. I guess I missed the part that suggested we could pick and choose when we wanted our health to go kapooey. My bad! I’ll make sure to let God know next time. It’s just all so ridiculous. They don't care about the why. I've offered to have sit-downs with pastors, therapists, mediators—of their choosing—to hash out the hurt, but it's a no. 

The Lord wants me to segway again, here, because I've kept a record of their wrongs and he doesn't. Praise the Lord, right?  My flesh wants justice and He needs me to stop. What happened, what didn't, what was said, and what wasn't, doesn't matter. I've apologized for my part and I've sought reconciliation. I threw it all in yesterday and was mocked. So, I guess that's it, then. Best wishes. 

The beautiful thing about yesterday was how I managed myself. I was calm, kind, and confident. I showed grace—well—up until the moment my mom said condescendingly, "I'll keep praying for you," as a final effort to guilt me for going against her wishes. I told her to keep her prayers. I know how this sounds, but I don't need curses disguised as prayers. 

The Holy Spirit is like, "Girl. Your audience gets it. Tell them the most important part of this whirlwind, not the ugliness."

The most important part is that I woke up early on Sunday morning, thinking about the conversation with the NOCD therapist and the issues I've had with my family of origin. 

I usually get on up and write when I'm troubled. I opened my OneNote app and began writing, discovering more about myself. Like, how I felt more lost than ever, even after all the therapy and specialist appointments and how I don't trust myself-I mean, how can I after this last year?

 I want to know why things happen. I've always been so inquisitive when it comes to understanding things, even as a child. And I would write to better grasp the concepts I so desperately needed to control. Ah. Control and certainty; the absence of fear and discomfort. Rationalizing is easier than accepting that some things are just the way they are. No rhyme, no reason, no explanation, worthy. 

I wrote that, "my heart is broken and it tends to center around thoughts I've not allowed to openly name," and it centers around familial relationships that have ended. That is where the grief sits. 

And it's generational. It's not just the last bits of my birth family, no. It’s earlier than that and it just carries on into the next generation and the next and the next and I stopped carrying it. I set it down. 

Four years ago, I publicly said, I’m not drinking anymore and there was a problem because I spoke about it out loud and I used our generational stories of alcohol abuse to name it. So, I took it down. 

And I keep speaking up and being told to sit down by my family of origin. They are private and I respect that, but I will not stop speaking about the items that ail me and what I have learned. It is a part of my story. 

Both sides of my family are rife with substance abuse. It is the truth. Ask any policeman who’s been around the last fifty years in Kershaw County and they’ll know who my grandpa was. This is all information that is out there. He was a drunk. Mama’s Daddy died because of drinking. Drinking is that thing that runs through us. Daddy had substance abuse problems. It is all there. Just because you don’t like the truth, doesn’t mean it isn't true. You can't change the past no matter how many times you wish you could, and boy do I? Every choice leads to a consequence and I have made them over and over and over again, but who I am today, is not who I was. Praise God. I know that who my parents were then is not who they are now. My daddy got saved before his death. Forgiveness is a truly wonderful gift, but it doesn't always happen. My family will not forgive me for writing about my experiences, and I've not even wrote about the bad stuff yet. Well, I've not shared it publicly yet. Pieces, yes, but not the whole. There's a meme floating around that says, " Your family likes that you write until you begin writing." And that's okay. They don't have to like what I write. I don't like what they text, so I just don't read them. 

When I took a step outside of our familial norm is the moment our relationship began to disintegrate. My heart is broken, and I can't go back to "playing a role" in our dysfunction. It is why we bump heads and why I find myself outside often. 

It is me. I am their problem. But it isn't OCD. It's grief. And up until yesterday morning, I had been blaming myself, believing that I was the problem because I was bad or crazy or something, but that simply is not the case. I've outgrown our dysfunctional family system. 

My parents were not happy together. There were moments that were nice, but it was not a happy, healthy household. Oh, it looked like it. My mom made sure she kept all the ugly locked away. I don't fault her for that. I don't fault her for staying in that marriage either. I used to, but the past is the past. You can't change it and that's what she says to me regularly when I want to talk about it. 

I'm going to be disowned today. I know this, but I must share my story, and I'll just go on being the one who "left them" or "walked away" or "plays the victim" or "opted out" or whatever the going phrase is for daughters who have had enough. 

Two themes were spoken into my heart during that early morning writing sesh. They were Immaturity and Knowledge. Sunday morning, I testified about the knowledge part but after yesterday I understood the other part. 

The Lord led me to Mark 6, and at the time I didn't understand. All the other verses were on anointing and knowledge, but this one was about familial relationships. I read it Sunday morning and took an odd comfort in it, but relegated it to the hmmm, interesting but not relevant for today-pile. 

Mark 6 speaks of Jesus' rejection in his hometown and verse 4 says, "But Jesus said to them, 'A prophet is not without honor except in his own country, among his own relatives, and in his own house.'" It goes on to say, He could do no mighty work there, except laying his hands on a few sick people and healing them. (the sick people) I'm no scholar, but verse 5 seems to allude to how he was able to heal the ones who wanted him to. Is that a fair assumption?  

What's the saying? You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make him drink? I love my family. I love most of our memories. I wish we could stay in relationship.I truly, earnestly do. But I cannot keep walking backwards worried about whether they are coming with me or not. My feet are on the ground. Solid ground. The Lord put a calling on my life and it is time for me to go. I'm honestly not mad at how that conversation went yesterday. It finally hit it home for me and I'm free to do as God leads. 

God saw it on Sunday and prepared me for the fallout on Monday. And I already knew. I just hadn't accepted it yet.

Now, I'm not saying you shouldn't try to reconcile with your family. You should. You should make every effort to and I have done that. I'm not going to engage in those pesky texts anymore, nor am I taking their calls during working hours, or will I unblock them on social media, because they use social media to harass and fuel their anger. 

Space is needed sometimes. I've let them all know that I'm here when they are ready, but I will not be bullied. They can keep right on chattering up in those trees. As for me, I'm gonna get on with the calling and not engage in any more detours. 

I know who I am and what I am about and those that are in real relationship with me, they know it too. I'm no longer a slave to fear. I am a child of God. Hamashiah.