 |
| My family before me |
I recently asked myself the question: "Why do I write?" In a time when we are so bombarded by information, scores of both inspirational and confusing messages, muddled quotes etc., should I still be adding to the mire of thoughts, opinions, and reflections "out there" with yet another "blog"? The answer to the first question was answered quite simply: Because I enjoy doing it. I have finally come to accept that it is a God given ability/talent, and in practising and honing this skill, I am not being self-indulgent. If done for His glory and in line with the priorities of each day.
So I continue, apprehensively, with this "backward glance". It has helped me gain fresh perspective and I trust that by grace, it may also be edifying to those who choose to read it.
BECOMING A GIRL
.. "My thoughts are not your thoughts, and my ways are not your ways," declares the LORD... (Isaiah 55:8)
I was a surprise. From what I could gather, the nest was full, my father’s salary was stretched taught to provide for a family of five, and the addition of another "dependent" was not timely. Yet there I was. A little alarm in my mother’s abdomen, duly diagnosed as an infection by the family doctor. (Up to this day an oft-repeated family joke...). But the infection grew and became me. And in the early hours of a high summer morning, I was born, wailing out my arrival to the world.
Growing up, I developed a theory that my parents were unnerved by my arrival, and what was more, expected me to be boy. Therefore, perhaps unwittingly, they raised me as one. I have no recollection of frilly party dresses or pony tails and plaits. I was dressed mostly in shorts and T's, straight lined Twiggy-style dresses, or sturdy pants and jerseys. Hair was kept short for less fuss. In a way I think it suited me that way, since I preferred the limbs of a tree or the large dovecote in the back garden; to doll’s houses and miniature tea-sets. I had those too, but I just felt more free and daring in my self-proclaimed role of tom-boy.
BECOMING A GIRL
.. "My thoughts are not your thoughts, and my ways are not your ways," declares the LORD... (Isaiah 55:8)
I was a surprise. From what I could gather, the nest was full, my father’s salary was stretched taught to provide for a family of five, and the addition of another "dependent" was not timely. Yet there I was. A little alarm in my mother’s abdomen, duly diagnosed as an infection by the family doctor. (Up to this day an oft-repeated family joke...). But the infection grew and became me. And in the early hours of a high summer morning, I was born, wailing out my arrival to the world.
Growing up, I developed a theory that my parents were unnerved by my arrival, and what was more, expected me to be boy. Therefore, perhaps unwittingly, they raised me as one. I have no recollection of frilly party dresses or pony tails and plaits. I was dressed mostly in shorts and T's, straight lined Twiggy-style dresses, or sturdy pants and jerseys. Hair was kept short for less fuss. In a way I think it suited me that way, since I preferred the limbs of a tree or the large dovecote in the back garden; to doll’s houses and miniature tea-sets. I had those too, but I just felt more free and daring in my self-proclaimed role of tom-boy.
He was a hard-working, strict and practical man. But then there was this undeniable sense of fun, which would always surprise and delight us. I found a faded photograph of him standing at attention, clutching a pink beach umbrella, dressed in khaki shorts, socks and sandals, and a grandpa vest. Playing the clown. From the same shoe box I drew a snapshot of our dad peering out from behind a giant Pink Panther, with smoke from a "braai" fire swirling about their heads...
"Mamma" let me while away the hours in our old Jacaranda tree, in the turtle dove's aviary, or in the "parkie" bordering our property - submerged in a book. She would turn a blind eye to the torch under the blankets when I was supposed to be sleeping. Secretly brought me a plate of food when I'd been sent to my room without supper for some or other mischief. Braved the narrow steps to the top level of a double decker bus, so that I could have a wondrous wide-angled view of the suburban life below. We'd do "people watching" at the bus stop in town, and she never spoke an unkind word about any of our "subjects" of scrutiny.
Ever so often, even my brothers let me into their alluring masculine world. I felt safe in this rough and tumble environment. At home in the thrill of motorcycle rides and loud soccer matches. Or content at just being allowed to hover on the fringes of their "manly pursuits".
 |
| Lees-lees... |
It was a time when children played in the streets, roamed, explored. Finding adventure, rather than needing to be entertained.
As with many pubescents, “confusion” describes most of my teen years. Shifting between wanting to be accepted, and at the same time wanting to be left alone. It suited me to think of myself as an outsider. Hovering slightly above the rest, aloof and unaffected by those around me. Secretly I knew, and I suspect my mother did to, that I was not cool and detached. I was shy and awkward, insecure, blotchy-faced, overweight and unattractive (in my eyes).
Eating disorders followed, and shortly before becoming totally anorexic, my desperate parents took me to a psychiatrist. I remember lying on a drab corduroy couch, with the drone of a man's voice luring me to a wide white beach through the process of hypnosis. And consequently, to my early childhood. I resisted with every fibre of my being. I would not be lured to a dreamy shore. Oblivion felt threatening and did not want to lose control. So, as with so many other things over the years, I faked it. He seemed to be fooled, or also pretended to be.
I still have a distinct distrust of psychiatry, psychology, secular therapy and counselling. Perhaps unfairly so, but I have yet to meet someone who walks totally free of his or her disorders, addictions or mental disturbances as a result of clinical treatment alone. Only Jesus can completely heal mind, body and soul, and I am close witness to such healing, to my growing amazement, each day.
How can one fallible human ever plumb the depth of another? Attempt to analyse and categorise "deviations from the norm. And then brand or conform, depending on the diagnoses. Each human embryo which receives the breath of life from God has a "oneness", which is unlike any other who ever lived, or is still destined to be born. He alone knows every nuance, each minuscule cell of my being. Who has ever been able to contain or understand the "likeness" of God? Diverse and unfathomable as the stars in a vast night sky and the teeming life of an ocean deep.
I wasted so much time and energy trying to understand myself. And realised only much later, how unhealthy too much introspection can be. Recently I read an analogy that sums it up quite well. It likened the growth of a Christian to a carrot. If it is constantly “dug up” to inspect how it is doing, it can never flourish.
My brush with “therapy” made me feel abnormal, freakish and inadequate. It felt like I was being watched, especially my eating patterns. So I ate. And as my appetite grew again, so did I. Soon I discovered a way to cheat again. I watched my mother relax as I emptied my plate, not sneaking it to the dog under the table and not feigning a sore stomach as an excuse not to eat.
At the time I did not even know that a dangerous condition such as bulimia nervosa existed – an eating disorder affecting the nervous system. It is nine times more likely to occur in women than men. Even though it is less life-threatening than anorexia nervosa, the occurrence of bulimia is higher. It leads to potassium loss, with depressive symptoms that are often severe and carry to a high risk of suicide...
I only knew that I had to find a way to stay thin – acceptable and loved. So the inevitable followed. I found various ways of “purging” myself of the food I felt forced to eat. For a while, I felt rather impressed by my own cunning. I ate all I wanted, but found a way to keep my weight controlled at the same time. My parents left me alone and I relished the attention I received, clad in tight jeans and skinny tops.
My new-found confidence and boldness gave it away. I was found out. I felt hurt by the anger and disappointment, especially from my father. I remember him coming into my bedroom and admonishing me for wasting the food that he worked for each day. I felt double-cheated. Not only was the ugliness of my habit exposed, it felt as if my father cared more about the “waste” than about my well-being. I realise in hind-sight that he was dealing with what he could – the practical aspect of the situation. He never knew how to access the strange and unpredictable workings of his youngest daughter’s heart. I was often reprimanded with the phrase: “Doe tog gewoon!” (Just act normal!).
My parents came from a generation of victims. They fled post World War II Europe, and the depression and economic decline that followed. They were the survivors, allowing themselves few luxuries, especially indulgence in emotions and self analysis. They must have faced so many challenges, together and individually. Family life was spartan, yet secure. They did what each parent sets out to do – their best, flawed and limited as it may have been.
Over the years that followed I shifted between eating “normally” to not eating at all to binging and purging (bulimia). It stayed with me to a lesser degree as I reached my twenties and thirties, but was always reverted to as a “way out” when I felt guilty about what I’d eaten.
I was one of the “lucky” ones. A Higher Hand stayed my debilitating habit from getting out of hand. Guilt and self-loathing would haunt me when I reverted to these old ways, but I did not know the way out. The lie that I would be loved and wanted less if I gained weight, had lived with me for so long, that I did not recognise it for what it was.
As with many pubescents, “confusion” describes most of my teen years. Shifting between wanting to be accepted, and at the same time wanting to be left alone. It suited me to think of myself as an outsider. Hovering slightly above the rest, aloof and unaffected by those around me. Secretly I knew, and I suspect my mother did to, that I was not cool and detached. I was shy and awkward, insecure, blotchy-faced, overweight and unattractive (in my eyes).
Eating disorders followed, and shortly before becoming totally anorexic, my desperate parents took me to a psychiatrist. I remember lying on a drab corduroy couch, with the drone of a man's voice luring me to a wide white beach through the process of hypnosis. And consequently, to my early childhood. I resisted with every fibre of my being. I would not be lured to a dreamy shore. Oblivion felt threatening and did not want to lose control. So, as with so many other things over the years, I faked it. He seemed to be fooled, or also pretended to be.
I still have a distinct distrust of psychiatry, psychology, secular therapy and counselling. Perhaps unfairly so, but I have yet to meet someone who walks totally free of his or her disorders, addictions or mental disturbances as a result of clinical treatment alone. Only Jesus can completely heal mind, body and soul, and I am close witness to such healing, to my growing amazement, each day.
How can one fallible human ever plumb the depth of another? Attempt to analyse and categorise "deviations from the norm. And then brand or conform, depending on the diagnoses. Each human embryo which receives the breath of life from God has a "oneness", which is unlike any other who ever lived, or is still destined to be born. He alone knows every nuance, each minuscule cell of my being. Who has ever been able to contain or understand the "likeness" of God? Diverse and unfathomable as the stars in a vast night sky and the teeming life of an ocean deep.
 |
| De sandbak |
My brush with “therapy” made me feel abnormal, freakish and inadequate. It felt like I was being watched, especially my eating patterns. So I ate. And as my appetite grew again, so did I. Soon I discovered a way to cheat again. I watched my mother relax as I emptied my plate, not sneaking it to the dog under the table and not feigning a sore stomach as an excuse not to eat.
At the time I did not even know that a dangerous condition such as bulimia nervosa existed – an eating disorder affecting the nervous system. It is nine times more likely to occur in women than men. Even though it is less life-threatening than anorexia nervosa, the occurrence of bulimia is higher. It leads to potassium loss, with depressive symptoms that are often severe and carry to a high risk of suicide...
I only knew that I had to find a way to stay thin – acceptable and loved. So the inevitable followed. I found various ways of “purging” myself of the food I felt forced to eat. For a while, I felt rather impressed by my own cunning. I ate all I wanted, but found a way to keep my weight controlled at the same time. My parents left me alone and I relished the attention I received, clad in tight jeans and skinny tops.
My new-found confidence and boldness gave it away. I was found out. I felt hurt by the anger and disappointment, especially from my father. I remember him coming into my bedroom and admonishing me for wasting the food that he worked for each day. I felt double-cheated. Not only was the ugliness of my habit exposed, it felt as if my father cared more about the “waste” than about my well-being. I realise in hind-sight that he was dealing with what he could – the practical aspect of the situation. He never knew how to access the strange and unpredictable workings of his youngest daughter’s heart. I was often reprimanded with the phrase: “Doe tog gewoon!” (Just act normal!).
 |
| Family Kooi + "infeksie" |
Over the years that followed I shifted between eating “normally” to not eating at all to binging and purging (bulimia). It stayed with me to a lesser degree as I reached my twenties and thirties, but was always reverted to as a “way out” when I felt guilty about what I’d eaten.
I was one of the “lucky” ones. A Higher Hand stayed my debilitating habit from getting out of hand. Guilt and self-loathing would haunt me when I reverted to these old ways, but I did not know the way out. The lie that I would be loved and wanted less if I gained weight, had lived with me for so long, that I did not recognise it for what it was.
Coming to the understanding of who I am in Christ as His holy and beloved, my body a temple for his Spirit, and every inch of my being adored by Him, finally set me free from the lie I was living. Writing this down has not been that easy. I pray that it would perhaps serve as a warning to mothers and daughters or those who feel valueless. But above all, as a confirmation of our intrinsic worth in Jesus Christ, through the unequalled price payed at the cross.
No comments:
Post a Comment