Made in His Image: Part One: Where It All Began

By Diane Wiedemann

My first therapist told me I needed a witness, and here this date, 25 September 2022, the Lord spoke unto me that He was, in fact, the first witness to my story, and as He then witnessed my story back unto me. He then did compel me to write first for the healing of myself and then for the healing of others so they, in turn, can witness to others the power and healing contained within God-therapy that was first given unto me and is now available for all who have need, which means you, for that's how much He loves all of us to His glory.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Covenant Books, Inc.
• Release date: Dec 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9798888514184

Book preview

Table of Contents

Title

Copyright

Endorsements

Preface

Introduction

Chapter 1: Chaos

Chapter 2: In the Beginning

Chapter 3: And Then Everything Changed

Chapter 4: When Change Occurred

Chapter 5: Knowledge Revealed

Chapter 6: A New Language

Chapter 7: What's Next?

Chapter 8: Anger Unveiled

Chapter 9: Awareness

Chapter 10: Everything Is Questioned

Chapter 11: An Object Being Transformed

Chapter 12: He Made a Way

Chapter 13: The Lord Prepares Me

Chapter 14: Preparation Continues Through New Reflection

Chapter 15: When Help Comes

Chapter 16: My Despair Continues

Chapter 17: My War Continued

Chapter 18: Truth Made Known

Chapter 19: Awakening Is Painful

References

About the Author

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Made in His Image

Part One: Where It All Began

Diane Wiedemann

ISBN 979-8-88851-417-7 (Paperback)

ISBN 979-8-89112-616-9 (Hardcover)

ISBN 979-8-88851-418-4 (Digital)

Copyright © 2023 Diane Wiedemann

All rights reserved

First Edition

All biblical references are from the King James Bible, published 1966.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Covenant Books

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Murrells Inlet, SC 29576

www.covenantbooks.com

I will instruct thee and teach thee in the way which thou shalt go: I will guide thee with Mine eye. (Psalm 32:8)

This Bible verse reflects to me the lengths that the Father will go to to attend to the details of my every need, such that to write a book as He commanded of me was to fulfill my calling in this life for His glory and for the healing of those in need.

The Lord God hath given me the tongue of the learned, that I should know how to speak a word in season to him that is weary: he wakeneth morning by morning, he wakeneth mine ear to hear as the learned. (Isaiah 50:4)

I have received and participated in God-therapy, and now you can too.

Color codes in the book:

Red—issues of concern

Blue—spiritual healing

Green—growth

Brown—contemplation

Highlighted in yellow—the therapist's questions to me from reading what I wrote

Endorsements

One Sunday, my wife, Amanda, and I visited a friend's church, where we saw Diane for the first time. She spent the whole church service staring at the floor. We, on the way to our car after the service, prayed that the Lord would send her to people who could help her. The next time we saw Diane was at a community support group, about five or so years later, where my wife and I volunteer as resource people. Diane, again, spent the meeting staring at the floor. During the meeting we were introduced as pastors of a local church. Diane came over to us after the meeting and asked, while still looking down, Can I come to your church? We told her yes she could, that she would be welcome. Thus began a two year, four month, and three week journey (as Diane puts it). Much of the private meeting times after church or at scheduled appointment times (up to 5-10 hours/week) was spent unraveling, as she describes in this book, the teachings of certain Bible perspectives and events from her childhood, some which carried over into adulthood.

Diane, as a widow, was not only a professional occupational therapist, but also a mother, who completed the raising of six children by herself, inspiring them to be self-sufficient and well-educated no matter what their challenges. She has, as a result, several children who have distinguished themselves in academia with graduate degrees, or are currently doing so. There were times during the process of sorting out spiritual matters, when Diane would become agitated or even triggered by things I said in the sermon. We would regularly meet for a couple of hours after each church service where she would comment on things in the message. One of those things, which was particularly vexing to her, was when I said in a sermon, As Christians we are not victims anymore. Diane's response was to explain to me how upset that made her and the difficulty she had in understanding it because she felt victimized by the way she was taught the Bible in her youth. This very subject actually became a foundation through which Amanda and I could help her.

Diane's journey in counseling had begun many years before she met us, so I certainly would not want to make it look as though we were the only ones who had spoken into her life. Some of the people with whom she had experienced counseling had been, from what we could observe, quite helpful, while others, not so much. Nevertheless, by the grace of God, we continued to love her, walk with her, and be a resource to her. After a considerable time with Diane, I became inspired to pray a prayer with her that I have carried with me in my calendar year after year, with great results. We prayed that prayer with Diane. The following weeks and months showed rapid positive results. She grew and grew and grew, for which to this day, we continue to praise God. We continue to cherish her as the fine, exceptional individual she is. This book, which is the result of a copious journal of her journey will, I believe, be a blessing to anyone who reads it whether they be someone who needs recovery, be professional counselors, or be clergy.

R. E. Fuller, Founder and Senior Pastor of Sojourners' Fellowship Churches

Diane wrote her story while she lived it, bearing witness to her search for truth and wholeness. She faced the grim reality of her past and the uncertainties of her future with great strength of mind and courage, knowing she must forge ahead to find peace and healing. Her search was facilitated by her conversations with God, documented in her book, and by His grace.

Those of us who face similar journeys will profit from reading this gospel according to Diane.

The Rev. Marion Rectenwald +

Diane, the author, and I traveled the road toward health and wholeness together, for nearly a decade. I listened to many journal entries; both she and I experienced transformation in this exchange and conversation. I recommend reading this compilation of her entries, and journeying with her. May you find inspiration and hope in her story, and may you discover transformation in your own life as well.

Sister Elizabeth Mills, a monastic in the Episcopal Church

Preface

(Written 5 August 2012)

This is my story, but I didn't write it; God did, by my hand, for I knew not the language and words to my own story, and as He revealed unto me I wrote, never knowing what I was going to write or how it was going to go or even what it meant or how I was to be effected by it.

The story of my life was even a shock unto me as I learned it, and it never failed to bring untold anguish, never-ending sleepless nights, unbearable pain, torment, tears, never-ending tears and the distress of unspoken anger and rage—that showed up as painful moments of awareness and lightbulb moments of revelation.

There is nothing about me that was not abused, not a single aspect that I could ever think of.

One must understand that I was so…so very shut down that the depth and breadth of my own story overwhelmed and scared me to the extent that my therapist told me once that I couldn't stand to be in my own skin, and she was right. God knows how I tried to run and leave it behind, but that didn't work. I had come to a place in my life where I had to deal with what it meant to be me, and this is my story…

Many may not understand what is written, and that is okay. If what is revealed brings help and healing unto you then that is exactly as it should be.

God gave me the gift of knowledge and caring October 2009. I never wrote this way until I started therapy, and from the very beginning, my desire to be heard—that which was never spoken—begged, pleaded, and escaped from me at all the right times and came out as one sees it here.

This book is dedicated with the Lord's blessing to all those who are like me—an adult with a story to tell, that which has never been heard because it has never mattered until now—that your secrets come out.

This dedication belongs first and foremost to the unheard and untold stories of my brothers and sisters and then all people like us.

With heartfelt love and gratitude, I honor the desires of a person who invests their life to learn the art of therapy so that people like me can benefit.

They will say it is their honor to go on your journey with you—never knowing what they are getting into and one learns that it is true.

For my first therapist—my mother figure, my friend—I wish to bestow God's highest honor: that of love, as God is love, and you gave unto me, along with life, to a most treasured and cherished individual who learned her craft well.

To my second therapist: To a therapist I had to learn to call my therapist that evolved from a bur on a donkey to a therapist who learned that no matter if she has heard it before, she hasn't heard it all, as everyone's story is a first edition in the moment of revelation.

Introduction

(Written 21 April 2019)

For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, saith the Lord, thoughts of peace, and not of evil, to give you an expected end.

—Jeremiah 29:11

Once the Lord had placed upon my heart that the story of my life was to be written into a book, He then gave unto me the words that followed as you see them. In the relationship I share with my Father and He with me, it is my desire that if my story can help even one person, then it was all worth it. This is a story about the little girl lost whom God saved from obscurity, from herself and even from death.

This is a story about how God went to therapy with me from that first moment of urgent need and has been with me through it all. As I poured out my heart, my hurts, my anguish, my sorrow, and my pain, He and the therapists heard it all. Though, and more importantly, I heard it all and have stayed in mournful grief for the losses I have endured, for most of it. At the same time, I learned about the meaning and purpose of my life as God intended. Through the use of a dictionary, certain books, shows, movies, people, animals, places, songs, words, phrases, and experiences, God directed my path through it all for my good, for that's how much He loves me.

In the Bible, there are many stories about the shepherd and his sheep, and I have always felt myself and believed myself to be the one lost sheep referred to in Matthew 18: 12–14.

The challenge to God—if You truly loved me, You will come and find me—while hoping that He would, thinking that He won't because He's got more to worry about that's far more important than me, and praying that He might, but He doesn't have to because I'm not worthy enough to be found, and He doesn't have to love me if He doesn't want to.

This is a story about how Love found me in my darkest hour and truly brought me back to life.

This is also a story about my relationship with Him, the God of us all.

I—who had no voice, no hope, no desire, no wants, and many needs too numerous to count and who desired death even more than life, who had asked God for help all of her life through tears, begging, pleading, her anger, and her rage—wanted to know the answer to one simple question: if I am to live, then show me a life worth living because I don't know how to live. (I was angry and hurt, so very hurt). And just like that, I had spoken my innermost secret at the time. After all, at age forty-seven when I began therapy, I should know how to live, right? Only, I didn't, and no one knew it, least of all me. I was tormented by my own thoughts and couldn't figure out a way to get away from myself.

In a desperate cry for help within days of my husband's death, I began on a journey of healing with the Lord's help. He had agreed with my request, and together, we went to therapy.

This is the story of our journey together as one inseparable from the other, even in my anger and rage. This is the story of my life as the one sheep gone astray trying desperately to find her way home to her Father. He, who was there all along; I had shut Him out and put Him in a box in the only way I could handle Him, because I was angry at my Father, so very angry. After all, He had let me get hurt, so very hurt, and did nothing about it. He didn't stop anything from happening the way it did.

In my mind, as a child, God was a liar, because He said He would never leave me nor forsake me, but He did because I couldn't find Him anywhere, no matter where I searched, how often I looked, nor for how long. Time had no meaning to me and everything was forever.

And yet here I was a phone call away from death, six children who needed me and absolutely no idea of how to live, where to go from here or why I should even want to.

God heard me in my tears, my fear and my anguish, and in one moment in time, I begged yet again for life while desiring to die, and He came.

The most important verse in the Bible at this time was that which is written in John 11:35. Jesus wept. And when I knew He came, because I felt Him and His presence, He wept for me and with me, and I knew that whatever lay ahead for me I was not alone.

In the story you are about to read lays many revelations, epiphanies, clarifications, understandings, wisdom, insights, and challenges that will leave you speechless, breathless, with awe and wonder, about how the Father of us all could bring such good from that which man meant for evil.

Everything written is dated, numbered, prayed about, anointed and brings solution and resolution where none was thought possible. And the miracles unfold one by one, as the little girl lost comes with her Father kicking and screaming, with stubbornness and obstinance to this moment now.

Love plucked me from obscurity, from self-exile, from pain, anguish and sorrow, deep grief, and remorse for what could have been unto life to give me hope and a future as written in Jeremiah 29:11.

He did it through His Word, the essence of Himself, when one remembers that He is the Way, the Truth, and the Life, and lastly, through removing His veil of protection from around me regarding those things I needed to know the truth of for my healing.

Many parts are not necessarily complimentary of certain people, places, experiences, or thoughts, but I was abused, and bad things happened over a very long period of time.

As the Lord would have it, each part tells its own story and often has a beginning, a middle, and an end, which can stand both alone in its subject matter or as a continuing component of the total story.

Many stories are invariably filled with horror, anguish, pain and sorrow, rage, injustice, anger, and even insanity; I daresay, my insanity. At the same time, there are many stories that are revealing of the light, love, and hope the Father gave unto me, especially when I didn't feel I could go on, neither in therapy nor life as I lived it even now.

Every person referred to in the book was provided a pseudonym to protect their identity. It is not my desire that they be judged by you as reader based upon my experience with them.

Many have told me to take credit for my part in the writing of my journal and all the revelation therein; and I have never known how, for my life is not my own, it never has been. To God be the glory, for I am nothing without Him. At the same time, a pastor told me, in 2018, that Mary carried Jesus.

So yes, I wrote my journal that is the substance of this book now written, and as we are in relationship with one another, I was the vessel through which God chose to teach others about God-therapy as I have been witness to and the recipient of.

May you find the strength of the Lord within its pages to bring an end to your suffering, light to your darkness, love to your brokenness, peace to your mind, and joy unimaginable as you embark on this journey of healing. As you read, you will feel many feelings and emotions you may have never felt before, ranging from sadness to happiness, from anger and rage, to love and feeling the peace that surpasses all understanding that only comes from the Father. Alas, you may feel all these things and anything in between, for all is possible.

It is my desire that as you go on my journey of healing with me, that you will realize that you may be going on your own journey of needed healing at the same time with understanding, because I say to you most assuredly that all the words written belong to you as well, and those that apply to you in the moment of your reading them will seem to come alive of their own accord as the Holy Spirit brings the gift(s) of their blessing to you as spoken of in Isaiah 55: 8–11 for your need.

There is no mistake that can be made, nor come from sharing and giving unto others what was given unto me over this long length of time in meeting me at a time of great need and having my most dire need being met as only the Lord can do, in bringing the chaos of my life into order, such that I may thrive and not just survive.

And He wants this for you too. What first belonged to me now belongs to you dear reader, and then to all of us, as God-therapy happened to me as is written and contained within the pages of this book. May you too find health, healing, happiness and hope, cause for celebration, and make room for grief and sorrow, for they too have their say. I did come to the place where I stopped trying to rid myself of my darkness, as if I could get better if it would just leave me alone. Instead, my darkness that needed first exposure to the Light was then given the time and space it needed to be transformed by the Light for my good, during my long length of time in therapy.

The darkness is still there in terms of memory, but its power and strength to change me into or ability to cause me to do that which I do not desire for myself as spoken of in Romans 7:15–20 is gone now.

I was born and raised in abuse never knowing there was and is another way.

My life changed forever when my husband died. My life changed when I realized I still had children to raise. My life changed when I asked for help while desiring death just the same, and my life changed when I asked God to go with me to therapy, and He came.

David wrote 150 psalms, and in my mind and in this day and age, I told God that I wanted to write one too, asking God, why does David get to write them all, why can't I?

A TV show I watched one time had a story titled The 151 Psalm; therefore, this is Psalm 152—my prayer for you dear reader (written 1 October 2013):

Psalm 152

What is it Father, that Thou must wrench our stories from us for healing to happen…

That pain, anguish, sadness and soul bearing despair must be brought out of us for it has lain in hiding for so long that this is the only way

Oh, Father, must it all be a lament of the soul for freedom. I can feel it to be yes, for I have been there, we all have, and still are.

Never do I stop crying in grief and mournful sorrow of how it's been for me, and it is not wrong, for in bringing the dark to light I can feel love, healing, and even happiness trying to take hold

In the end, it must be, and it is only Your will for us that makes this journey worth the effort for all who have need.

Give us strength, Father, for Thou knows we have not our own.

And whilst upon my knees and in supplication, I beseech that You see in us, hear in us, feel in us, know in us that we are broken people; needing to be held, loved, nurtured back to life and without the strength of You in us; we are but dust without form, substance and reason for living…for the only story we know is our own; the only life; ours, which is broken beyond repair, save the seed of Hope planted in groups such as ours.

The strength, support, love, and kindness of us, drawing strength from each other with You as our guide, allows for nothing more than miracles to take place.

May we all come to the place where You are and know that we are wanted. That attachment to You comes with No strings. That unconditional love is real, that the scars of our battles will fade from memory for no longer do we have to fight to live.

Oh, Father! We have all been through so much and our very own lives overwhelm us more than we can stand.

I implore You to hear us in our tears, and bring rest, peace of mind and desire to live a fulfilling life in spite of our circumstance…

Knowing that we need You to show us the way so we can follow and learn the way home.

Through the medium of this book now written, the little girl lost found her voice, as the lack of language and word is exactly what I was being given back, a piece at a time. And in uttermost revelation, it did not stop me during the all of this time of healing and learning, for it was not my Father's desire that it would.

Chapter 1

Chaos

Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour.

—1 Peter 5:8

And this did happen to me.

5 May 2019

This story begins at the beginning—of therapy, that is, and in therapy, I began at the beginning of my memory, and my memory was filled with chaos.

The dictionary defines chaos as (3) a state of utter confusion or disorder (Merriam-Webster, 2007), as the definition most commiserate with my circumstances.

Along with the word chaos is another word that plays a major role in how this story is told, and that word is alexithymia. (I originally thought I saw the word with a dys in it, as in alexi-dys-thymia, but found out long, long after the fact that it did not. Though this was not diagnosed until my third year in therapy, it had been in play my entire life, from the beginning of my life, unbeknownst to me. This is key to understanding how what is written first revealed itself to mind, how I wrote it down and then, ultimately, how God took my chaos, took into consideration my alexithymia, and then started to unravel, correct, repair, and bring understanding and clarity to whatever I needed most at the moment. He stepped into my mess right where I was at and spoke unto me the words of Isaiah 41:13: For I the Lord thy God will hold thy right hand, saying unto thee, Fear not; I will help thee.

For this clarity to be yours as reader, a working definition is in order.

Alexithymia is a personality characteristic in which the individual is unable to identify and describe their emotions. The main feature of alexithymia is an emotional unawareness, lack of social attachment, and poor interpersonal relating. Furthermore, those suffering from alexithymia have difficulty recognizing and understanding the emotions of others (Dr. Schwartz's Weblog by Allan Schwartz, 2020). Later definitions I came across included a struggle to know the difference between emotions and bodily sensations and an externally oriented style of thinking, both of which were also true of me as far as I could tell. In my own words and before I knew the definition, I don't feel heard unless I can find the words to describe my confusion to you that you will understand, and that was and is the constant struggle I faced. I don't have the words, and I can't feel the words that will explain/express my emotions, to you or myself, and in my struggle when I do speak, and am called out on it/questioned, I take it as I said the wrong thing at the wrong time, stupid me. I should not have spoken. It has always been very difficult for me to engage with others, often being misunderstood when I did, thus it being better if I did not speak, and so I didn't. I didn't know I existed—my words didn't mean anything to me or anyone else.

And being unable to express my emotions or understand others' emotions through words, meant that I remained silent. I was even told I had selective mutism (later in therapy, 2017). In reality, my struggle summed up was one of hopelessness. The impact of this condition has even played a role in the writing of this book which compels me to tell you the reader to let the grammar/language errors stand, as they reflect the severity of my alexithymia as a component of my story; in a sense, I need you to understand my struggle more than I am able to explain to you. Ultimately, and with God in charge, though the alexithymia and chaos were working in tandem throughout my story told; as my journey continued; the chaos became less, and my lack of language and word improved, something to keep in mind as you read, all the way to the end.

What you are about to read starts first one way, takes many tangents, and then goes another for such is the picture of my chaos; thus, to be able to understand and see God-therapy unfolding, I will point out to you as the reader the places where I see or recognize that God was there. Before my first session, God was already way ahead of me and had already stepped in; even before I knew/realized I was having it. The it in this case refers to my declaration that I was having God-therapy and proclaiming over and over, that I love the way God works. I had my first journal entry written before I even stepped foot in the therapist's door. And it was written on the paper and with the pencil He chose for me. And this is how my story began; for this is how my story looked to me then 7 April 2010.

7 April 2010

I had to tell the therapist my story from the beginning; though she said I didn't have to, I said, Yes, I do! because that's what God told me to do, and it was the only way that everything and anything I was fixing to say was going to make sense to me.

In my mind were these words unspoken, It's my story, let me tell it the way I need to. To stop me before I have even begun would send me packing never to return. Please don't do that to me, I begged in quiet solicitude.

Then she said, Okay, and it was then that my journey began. Make a timeline, she requested, and though I said okay, I didn't complete until much later because I had never thought about my life on a timeline before that request, and it seemed a very hard thing to do.

My husband had just died, 20 March 2010, and today was day one of therapy. I did not read the eulogy I had written that first day, but I did tell her I had been abused all my life. My husband had just died. I had six children and had never told anyone my story.

In the beginning, I actually numbered the pages I was writing never realizing the road I was on. I could barely function. I had a job to not lose and children to finish raising in my aloneness. All I could manage was to put one foot in front of the other and pray, while I cried in deep anguish for what began to spill out of me. I was slow moving, quiet, and in deep, deep thought wondering what was going to happen to me, to us now, knowing I had to keep it together for them, my children. I had written across the top the word Counseling on page one and the words My Emotional Journal 4-7-10, asking emphatically, Why? Why? Why? Why!

I filled up the width of this page with this word. In addition, the Lord had told me what paper to buy and what pencils to use to write my journal. Why? Because, I have moderate to severe carpal tunnel syndrome, and the Lord wanted to protect me as I carried out this work though I didn't remember that at the time. I just did what He asked, and as of the writing of this manuscript, I have not suffered because of His care for me before I even began.

There are four words that are written in songs, poems, in requests of those who care, and in the words of Jesus when He states, Come ye who are heavy laden and I will give you rest, as spoken of in Matthew 11: 28–30. It is an invitation to come as you are; and herein are the four words and the request of my heart.

What you are about to read is my story exactly as it came out of me with all of its parts: those that make sense and those that don't, a recognition of the chaos, confusion, heartache, pain, and anguish of what it means and meant for me to come to the Lord exactly as I am, as that is what I did.

Once you, as reader, actually read my story which takes place in the first few chapters of the book, you will then clearly recognize and understand the healing process of God-therapy unfolding, in what follows, all the way to the end of my story, all the way to the end of the book.

How I presented to therapy: I was very silent in therapy anywhere from the first ten to twenty minutes of the session, as I could not speak, and I was unable to look at my therapist at all. I struggled with word finding problems all the time, I was always not speaking, or opening and closing my mouth with some frequency with no sound coming out, in trying to make an effort to speak, with great effort, and still being unable, but especially when I felt ashamed, scared, and was hurting or in pain regarding what I was going to speak about, which was all the time and on every topic. The Lord determined my need each session the entire time I was in therapy. I always read what the Lord brought to my mind each time I came. Whatever I was to speak about was always written before each session, or forming in my mind, to be written after session in preparation for the next session, depending upon the need at the time, as that was the only way I could participate in therapy. Though near the end I could open up a little more and engage in a little more dialogue as long as it was related to what I had written as read or it was about what I considered a safe topic such as talking about my job or my kids.

And now, my story begins.

For so long I hated you, mostly because I never understood why I and we were being hurt. I never saw you and it was creepy always lurking around the corner and me/us never knowing when, my fear was beyond words. I still remember all the nightmares whether awake or asleep.

Never could I escape—even in my sleep—because terror and fear were always there. My life was scary all the time. I remember hundreds of times when even the nights became more fearful than the days. Always sleeping with one eye open, never resting. Crying in whimpers so no one could/would hear. Sobbing in my pillow when I couldn't take it anymore—only it never ended. My days and nights ran together. There were many days when I was sure I was going to die. Witches, black and white circles—mostly black-good vs. evil inside of me—fighting with the darkness winning so many times and me trying to find solace in my pure white heart only it was never there.

I struggled endlessly wondering whether I was good or bad, thinking sometimes I could/was good only I couldn't be sure, as there was always blackness/darkness, and I couldn't see without my glasses. I felt so vulnerable especially at night. Always watching. Praying for sleep that would never come.

If I was quiet, if I was good, if I didn't need anything, then maybe I could/would be okay, but it never seemed to matter, though I wanted it to/needed it to. I tried to hide for a while—so many times, thinking I could rest and never really being able to. She or he might find me or my hiding place(s), and then I couldn't hide anymore.

I could walk quiet like a mouse, and I was proud of this because my handicap (I have mild cerebral palsy) made me have to work at it.

Make myself small, hide in small spaces, don't talk—you won't get hurt. If I see her, I won't look at her, then maybe I'll be okay. It never really mattered. Read and be quiet then maybe I won't get hurt. Pick on someone else—a few times—I thought, though I didn't really want that for them, but maybe they could take it better than me for now.

My heart ached constantly. I just knew it was going to explode, and I could/would die, and it would be over. Sometimes I wanted to be with Jesus/God, and other times I wanted to stay because I couldn't leave them /the others behind. We all needed each other.

There's so much I don't know, some stuff I can't remember, but I'd like too so I can deal with it. I hate the not knowing, voids as vast as the ocean.

No birthday parties, no Christmas, can't have friends; they might find out. Why did we have to be hurt? I never knew or understood.

Being choked today; maybe I'll pass out, but instead, this happened again and again. Begging for my life, pleading and crying, seeing once that I was being choked while my mom watched and how terrifying that was—a realization that evil was in the room. I knew it would happen again because she wouldn't make it stop.

In that moment, I knew she allowed it to happen. I could not escape, and I was terrified. At least if I died, I wouldn't have to suffer anymore.

But I wanted to live because of my brothers and sisters as all we had was each other.

One time, when someone tried to stop him, it wasn't possible because he was so strong and she, the one trying to help me, disappeared. I thought about him when he was doing this and remember thinking, what did I ever do to you? But he wasn't there (always had a vacant look in his eyes). I'm alone in this fight with no one to help me. Sometimes, I think I passed out, but I don't know for how long. Sometimes I would try/will myself to pass out sooner, then maybe he will quit and I can live. Always doubting and never knowing. God's my best friend. There's so much more to write about, but I'm stopping for now—for tomorrow's another day.

14 April 2010

I cry so easily, and it comes so quickly as just a mere thought can/will make it happen. I know this is more good for me than not, but it seems so hard—maybe because my pain has been only mine for so long. No one would believe all I had been through because sometimes I still can't believe it happened, and for no reason that I could ever understand. Why did my young life have to feel so wasted? Why couldn't my parents talk to me/to us? My mom never spoke, and when she did, it was to make a comment about the show on TV. My dad would tell me not to look out the tops of my glasses repeatedly, but I had too to see. I was hurt when I felt they were making fun of me because I couldn't help it. One time I think my mom stuck up for me, but it didn't seem like she meant it.

He tried to burn me today. He took my right hand and tried to place it on a burner that was on high. Just seeing the bright red and feeling the heat, terrified me. I remember crying hysterically and begging him not to and even asking why. He never said anything. It was a real struggle because he was so strong. He tried for what seemed like forever, and I didn't know if I had the strength because I was so tired from fighting for my life. I begged God to give me strength I didn't have but needed. My mom was in the next room, and never once came when I called. I dared to call twice, knowing she wouldn't come, but hoping that she would. Finally, he gave up. Thank You, God.

I had a nightmare about being outside in the darkness, in a yard with a gazebo with lots of trees in the yard. People lurking in the shadows, staring at and watching me. I've had this dream hundreds of times. I was always afraid and hoped I wouldn't be seen or found. Another nightmare: Sometimes the circles and the spinning came back in the daylight, which was even more terrifying than the nighttime because it was so real and I always knew that it was only in my mind, so why won't it quit and leave me alone.

Sometimes, I would draw pictures, but always the same one. Three hills, the left one with trees and the middle one with three bunnies. The left one had a lake by it. The right one had flowers. Everyone was looking at the sunset with birds flying past. I drew this when I could, trying to perfect it, always thinking I have to finish before something happens. I'll stop for now because I need to rest.

Drew my first bunny picture in therapy to show what I was talking about (4-27-10).

My therapist requested that I complete a timeline of what I know, what I remember (completed 5-11-10).

21 April 2010

This was a hard week, definitely weird in a lot of ways. Thank-you notes for death-not written. Why? (referring to death of husband). Is that even a thing? Stayed in hotel away from kids one night to get a break. Realized in therapy that maybe I'll make it through.

(Often what was happening in the present now was written in between my writing of the past, so I used a different font or color for current)

I was tucked in bed, by him, so tight that I couldn't move, could scarcely breathe and couldn't turn and hide. There were a few times when he caught me that he made sure I was tucked in tight and would walk away, with me thinking I would die now. This ritual was particularly fearful for me as I thought my heart would explode and it happened so many times, yet I never knew when. (I feel hurt still as I write this.) Sometimes there was the added bonus—torture of being smothered as well with a pillow, and I had to keep calm to be able to work my arms out from under the covers to fight off the pillow, and the death that was sure to come. I remember crying fearfully and how that would make it worse, and how I had to fight the panic rising inside. Once or twice I saw her watching, and that knowledge always increased the fear to an intensity I could not bear. Sometimes he would tuck me in this way and then try to choke me instead, and if it wasn't happening right he would change back to trying to smother me.

I tried never to go to bed when anyone was around, as instead I would hide under my bed, on my tummy next to the wall so they wouldn't, might not, couldn't find me. If they go away or forget about me, maybe I'll be okay. He hit my arm repeatedly with a metal meat tenderizer, it had sharp points on it and I couldn't stop him because then he would hurt that body part too, or I may antagonize him and then get hit more.

I almost drowned today in the bathtub, with his help. This happened more than once (but today while writing this I feel angry).

Someone swung me around by my hair (it was long) in a circle, but I can't be sure by who.

My mother hit me in the mouth with a hairbrush, made me bite my sister and she me.

I cut myself with a knife trying to eat an apple in the bathroom. My fingers on both hands were shut in the window—God that hurt, out of the blue and for no reason—I cried and wondered why.

This is very painful, but to put in writing means someone else knows now—what a relief. Goodbye for now.

27 April 2010

I drew the bunny picture this day: orange gives one hope, maybe a future. The bunnies are Mom, Dad, and Diane being a family (wishful thinking), more like God, Jesus and Diane. A picture I drew many times while growing up. My mom broke both my legs today (age two) said I fell out of a highchair, later admitted (2003) it was because I wouldn't eat meat. He tried to tape me up in a box or put me in the suitcase, and I screamed and cried hysterically, and my sister tried to stop him—even putting herself in the black suitcase to show that it could be done—assuring me that she would be okay. You don't have to, I thought to myself. I want to be angry, but it's more profound sadness and utter disbelief that this was even happening at all. (Thoughts at night.) If your mom is upset because she's the only bad guy taking all the heat, I can see why you'd be upset. If your dad says, take me off the pedestal later (in life) and not when first put there…guilt can do that (me, when thinking about Dad). You run, hide, and can't go to your kid's mom's funeral because guilt won't allow. Shame on you because we loved you anyway (referring to Dad).

What does one think about after feeling drained? The boy who bullied me over and over with nobody around to stop him. It was the first time I realized how weak I was and how defenseless I felt. I was three, maybe four years old. I had a handicap and, I don't know if I'm strong enough.

Long-term consequence: My parents didn't tell me anything so now I cope alone and sometimes what I see/feel is new to me and when I tell this to them (my kids), it's hard for them to believe. God brought me here (where I lived at this time), and yet I feel so defenseless and a little helpless. I cried all night, sobbing.

Dear God, when will she come out—please be okay—referring to my sister in the box. My sister lost her hearing/ear today—infection so big and painful. She was languishing in agony with no one helping her. Why? I hate you, Grandma, when I was wondering why nothing had been done to help my sister, because she was there and witnessed. My parents were also in the room, but you knew they wouldn't do anything.

Therapist asking how did I learn to read. I learned to read by going to the library on Saturdays. I read SRAs at school, and I also read about dragons and I read Dick and Jane. We were ostracized at school for religious reasons I didn't understand. Made to sit in the bleachers at Christmastime. I cried in the dark up in the bleachers every year.

Age 0–4 years: The dog won't eat my food, and I hate it. I hate okra. Sitting for hours pleading for help, praying, that never comes.

Somebody touched the air-conditioner knob. Dad belted us today, lined us up and whipped us until someone confessed. No one ever knew who did it, and so we would silent talk with our eyes and agree for someone to take the blame. Years later, I learned how that could happen.

My dad whipped my brother at twelve or younger for so long and hard that his bottom was every color bruise except peach. It was purple/green. He screamed for over an hour. We watched helpless and no one stopped him. (I learned as an adult that it may have been because he either stole a candy bar, did not mow the grass, or both.)

He's my dad watching in the dark again. I can feel him. I can't see, and I'm sneaking dry gelatin so as not to be caught, and to have something to eat, but I'm scared.

This house is dark and creepy.

Bright spot: had a watermelon seed spitting contest, the whole family across the table, because we were told we could.

Saw brother pull the baby through the bars of the crib by its head, in trying to help him to stop crying. Mom stuck us/them with diaper pins to see us cry/scream.

Got stuck in the top of a tree for so long. I never climbed again. I got scared, getting toward sunset, and nobody looked for me—nobody cares.

My dad's a coward and has been running ever since. God, please allow him to forgive himself. Allow him knowledge of forgiveness. I love him and I miss him. If we put two and two together or hated each other enough because we were told to, then the truth would never be known. One time I told my sister that I hated her (I was twenty-six when I said this) because my mother told me too, and that I didn't want to do it anymore. I told her I'm sorry—what about the rest of us? I wondered, did they hate her too? Did we hate each other? Without knowing why? The man I trusted the most in the world betrayed me—the man who cared for me was guilty too! How utterly profound is my pain. I'm writing in the dark, but by the light of the moon shining through the window I can see and note my despair. He's not been the grandpa my kids need and deserve because maybe he can't deal with what he had done. If you live far enough away, you don't have to. If your kids put you on a pedestal…

Things I still remember randomly written that had impact:

3 May 2010

Scary to go in the basement: I'd rather not remember, too scary to go there—we raised ourselves. Stepmom tried to bond with me two times, and I was unable to reciprocate because I was so very angry. Found out when in high school that we may have received money for birthday gifts from her parents and my dad's parents/aunt, but we never received it because one day I saw a stack of cards in a drawer that we never received and that money had been in. I tried to write our grandparents to tell them how bad it was, but they told my dad, and I got in trouble. Had my first haircut at fifteen, and when asked what I wanted, I never spoke, had no voice because had never made choice. This was very traumatizing for me. I didn't know that at the time, but to this day, I remember it was a Saturday, July 15, 1978, at 11:00 a.m. Dad told us to call her mom, still have trouble with that. I never called her mom. I never called her anything. (Random thought: Don't miss husband the way people think I should/would, I want to though, more on that later.)

Big sister locked in silo/concrete closet. Children are to be seen and not heard. I put you here and I'll take you out, said by dad many times.

One time I saw my dad on the roof of the house shooting a gun. I thought he was trying to shoot at us to kill us and simply missed. My raggedy old bear disappeared when my mom came to see us. I never knew what happened to it, but during my time in therapy I asked family members if anyone knew and one member confirmed my mom's actions. Dad tried to read Bible to all of us, including stepchildren, but they didn't like it, and we were afraid not to, but after their reaction, he stopped altogether. We walked very long distances to go to the store and to carry the groceries home with my dad. It was very hot; we were very thirsty, and nobody spoke.

Once my dad married my stepmom, they stayed in the bedroom behind a locked door and we could no longer have the dad that made us feel safe. The tears, rage, and anger welled up inside and stayed with nowhere to go. Beating on the door to see Dad did nothing. He never responded, and sometimes she would come out and tell us to go away/stop, but mostly, neither responded as if we weren't there and begging to see our dad didn't matter. Her kids were favored over us. She had two and my dad had seven. Our feelings were hurt repeatedly as they received better treatment than we did. We could never forget that we were a stepfamily. We were locked outside without food and water daily. The pantry and refrigerator were locked. My two younger brothers drinking toilet water and sent to bed early on an everyday basis for no reason.

I cut up my wedding dress (my mom made my dress) into tiny pieces in a fit of rage in 2003 that lasted four hours. I only stopped because my hands were in pain and were going to bleed and were swollen from the effort it took to cut up the dress. I cried for so long and hard the whole time. I also had moments of stoicism about because I didn't care. I never wanted my girls to have evil on their body from a mom I hated and a grandma that was never there for my kids. To me: cutting up the dress meant being free. I only have two emotions: anger and sadness.

Fun things I remember in my growing up years once we moved from up north to down south; before and after my parents divorced, Dad raised us alone and when he remarried. The time our grandparents and aunt came to see us, and we visited Mt. Rushmore, the Badlands, and went to Wild Bill Hickock's restaurant to eat, Sunday dinner. I went to two different camps for crippled children, my dad's parents coming to see us one time after my dad married my stepmom, the trip to California one time in 1980, introduction to pizza and Mexican food, saw first movie, the shows us kids put on a few times, and the carnival we put on once to raise money for March of Dimes, $16. Don't know if they ever received. Went roller skating on Friday nights for 50 cents or maybe a quarter, sometimes. I really tried to learn, but I couldn't do it. Dad went to open house at school one time when I was in sixth grade. My stepmom let me join Campfire Girls because her daughter was already in it (we were same age). I liked it and learned a lot. That lasted a couple of years.

11 May 2010

Timeline finally completed.

Filled with seven facts from birth to when I got married written as what happened between ages zero to four years, then five to ten: all abuse noted so far in therapy, years eleven to thirteen: neglect continues when with Dad though away from mom, dad had to work and we raised ourselves thirteen to eighteen, I was hit by a car at seventeen in March that year, and I had a walking cast that was too big for me and I had to walk on a broken leg to and from school carrying books for six weeks with no pain pills: I didn't even know that was a thing. The cast rubbed a raw spot behind knee that became infected and smelling with pus. Very, very painful. I cried all the time going to and coming home from school, it was also hot, and I was sweating and with crutches to manage with books which made it worse. No rides anywhere and no offers either. I didn't get to pick my own prom dress, my stepmom did. I was home schooled end of ninth grade after I had hamstring release surgery, with no explanation. I did not understand. Eighteen to nineteen years, college years, getting married—all in little snippets, then my timeline was completed, per her request.

18 May 2010

I can't believe I said that. What was this revelation: that up until today (in therapy), Canada was a decent memory with some fear thrown in. After I told my therapist my experience in Canada, she said to me that in her opinion, based on what I said, this experience was an opportunity for death for me by neglect as I was left alone at a very young age as a handicapped child who could not swim to go down a river in an inner tube. Canada was a place I went with my oldest brother and sister and my mom. We were supposed to go inner tubing down a branch of the Mississippi River, only I couldn't swim and was left alone in an inner tube fighting to get out of the tube and the water hoping that the Mississippi river wouldn't take me away. I didn't realize until just now (in therapy) the magnitude of what I just said and how profound the consequences. Maybe I had a life jacket and took it off. If I did I can't remember. I came home from therapy and cried.

I used to cry at my job about my stepmom, telling myself I don't want to be like her, praying for a red heart and not a black one. Years and years later, I apologized for everything because I had hated her, but don't know that it really matters.

When one realizes the bigness—it's a wonder I'm not more messed up. So huge—I/we (my siblings) can't handle it.

Told coworkers not interested in things when they joke and tease. I am easily offended and may say something, but not all. I'm the comeback girl. I get excited about the simplest of things. It's kind of funny, keeps me young, but still I resent it and wish I was more brave and daring; not so controlled and yet I am spontaneous.

Sister called, urgent, don't talk to anyone until you talk to me. Grandma is moving. One of grandma's brothers was coming to visit asking about my oldest sister according to her. When grandma then saw my sister at my brother's house, she asked, What is she doing here? I didn't know she was going to be here. Don't tell the truth. Lie about your mother. (It seemed that Grandma was afraid that my sister would say things bad about her daughter [our mom] to Grandma's brother.) My sister called and called and called until she got a hold of me. Please, God, let the truth be known so we can all be free. I cry while I write this. My grandma told my sister to lie, and she (my sister) feels like she was locked in the silo again because she told me so. Very scared. A so-called Christian person (Grandma) asked her to lie. He came for her. Grandma's brother came for my sister, and nothing was said. My sister told me to read a book titled Satan's Dirty Little Secrets (Foss, 2004).

3 June 2010

Dearest little one:

I can't even look in a mirror to the depths of my soul and see the miracle there. I can't face what I see, feel, and the guilt, sorrow, overwhelming pain and sadness that I know is there.

What happened to us still seems so unreal. We can ask forever why and know that we will never be answered. Pain is a word we know well. Agony, defeat, and sadness. I didn't know until now, I didn't understand until now what you've been going through, and the worst part is that I contributed to your agony. So often people want someone to grow old with them. My soul need not detach itself because I didn't learn, didn't see and didn't hear all the times you begged to be heard by the one who should love you the most next to God Himself. I am here and you are here, and yet you got left behind. I grew up on the outside and little Diane stayed small and scared on the inside. She carries with her all the pain, the agony and the sorrow of my life much like Christ suffered the sins of Man. I'm certain more was heaped on each and every time my heart was broken and the memories came. You accepted them graciously because what else could you do/can you do?

I'm certain now that every time you nudged