Speaking Your Truth

One of the bravest things I’ve ever done was to sit down with my abusers and confront them with the truth. Of what it was like for me. What it made me feel like. What it had done to me.

Confrontation does not come easily to me. Speaking what is on my mind can take a lot of effort. I’m too nice. Too kind. Nice to the point of taking abuse and misuse and somehow believing it an act of service. A sacrifice god was calling me to make. As if my life, needs, wants, and dreams didn’t matter and were selfish to dwell on.

It wasn’t until I was in my 20s, and had physically left the situation, that I realized just how toxic it was. How harmful to my being. That what had gone down was wrong. So very, very wrong.

how the church normalizes abuse

The church taught me that being nice and serving others was more important than allowing myself to be safe. It left me alone to deal with responsibilities that no child should have to deal with. It created a community of belonging that was, in fact, isolating. While it painted the picture of a loving and safe place, it created zero space for victims to be aware that what was happening was not normal. That they could and should speak up.

It was a silent community, where belonging was purchased with silence. Always be nice. Keep serving. Don’t make waves. As long as the church coddles abusers and hushes the victims, it will remain a toxic place. One that isn’t safe for victims and, for those who do speak up, that confrontation can be re-traumatizing.

When I began to wake up to the truth that my life matters. That the things my soul had always longed for were, indeed, good things. That it wasn’t my job to take care of those who had wronged me. It was like straining against the cocoon, working with all my might to tear open a tiny hole and begin to slip out. Unsure of what was outside that cocoon, yet knowing I could no longer stay inside. Hope began to fill my tiny bruised wings. I had never flown before. Been told all my life it was dangerous. Yet there I was. Tiny little broken thing, that knew it would die if it did not fly. Slowly but surely I began to find the words to wrap around the pain and slowly pull it to the surface. Let the light fall on it fully.

Abuse and trauma

Oh, to grasp the breadth of your pain and suffering! To even start to acknowledge the truth of abuse and trauma is a frightening thing. If this is where you are at, dear one, stay strong and carry on. Stay with the process. The only way out is through. You cannot bypass grief. Steady on. You will find the path through.

One thing about abuse and trauma is that it muddles the brain. We get stuck in toxic places. Not because we want to be there, but because we don’t know how to move on. This is not our fault. The younger we are when we experience any form of trauma, the more likely it is that we will come to believe that toxic places are normal and must be survived. If we have had no one to tell or show us otherwise, we believe that it’s our fault and maybe it will stop if we try harder. To be kind. To be perfect. Or whatever else is required. Our response to pretty much everything in life becomes skewed. And we have no real idea how to make it stop.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the night I sat down and spoke my truth. I was still a tiny broken thing, that knew it would die if it did not fly. A bundle of nerves. I had thought long and hard about what I would say. Talked and wept for hours with my husband, who gave me a solid shoulder to lean on and the strength I did not have alone. What I did not realize, is that confrontation can be re-traumatizing.

when confrontation is re-traumatizing

I honestly don’t remember too many details of that night. The confrontation was re-traumatizing in many ways and I know I have blocked much of it out. Some of the details are fuzzy but I know I gathered my courage and spoke my truth. I didn’t back down. Didn’t change my story to make them feel good. Didn’t take my words back and replace them with a nicer narrative. I stuck with the truth for the first time in my life.

It. Was. Not. Well. Received.

Don’t ever change the truth of your narrative to make someone else feel better.

In fact, it wasn’t received at all. It hit a wall and was re-formed into nasty little darts that were thrown back at me. But I stuck with the truth.

Don’t ever change the truth of your narrative to make someone else feel better. Looking back I’m pretty darn proud of that younger version of myself. I may not have had the perfect words to use. And I definitely blocked some of it from my memory. But, dang! I told the truth!

Never should on yourself

To be honest, I’m wrestling with several current-day issues. Wondering when confrontation is a good thing and when it’s just someone else’s hope for reconciliation. I spoke my truth once, and it wasn’t magical. It hurt. The response sucked. I spoke the truth about abuse and a lot of people were angry with me. And while it feels good to have been so brave and daring, so truth-telling, the only thing it did was make my wings a little stronger. It did absolutely nothing for the relationship.

So I am letting myself off the hook when it comes to confrontation. I’m giving myself permission to not have to explain everything. While I am committed to truth-telling, I am also committed to caring for myself. And that can be a delicate thing to balance. If and when I need to speak up, for me, I will do that. But I will not should on myself. I will not sit down and speak my brave and beautiful truth just because someone else thinks I should. If I want it for me, I will. But I am wise enough now to know that sometimes confrontation can be re-traumatizing.

It’s taken me decades to learn to trust my judgment. To honor the divine wisdom that was there all along but had just been smothered by the toxic system I found myself in. That ancient wisdom is slowly filling in the gaps where toxic structures once stood. Her voice can be trusted. And she will never should on me. When I follow her voice, I know it is towards freedom.


Click on the button above to send me an email and I will let you know when new posts are up! If you or someone you love is in the closet, or if you are struggling with your own guttural grief and need someone to talk to, email me. I may not have time to answer you but I will read it and hold you in my heart.

Find me on Instagram @maritajmiller and Facebook Beyond The Cocoon.

On Becoming a Healthy Black Sheep

I’ve been thinking a lot about what it means to be a Black Sheep, and how we might embrace it and become healthy black sheep. Historically this idiom, used to describe a member of a group or family that is different from everyone else, has had negative connotations. The wool from black sheep could not be dyed, so black sheep had little financial value to the owners. Additionally, in 18th and 19th century England, a black sheep was believed to have the mark of the Devil. In the Evangelical circles I grew up in, a black sheep was typically one who was not only different, but had strayed far from God and the one true path.


After my Grandpa died, and I began to process my grief, the idiom felt like a good description of me and my place in the family. I embraced the term in the memoir post I wrote after his death.


Historically, being a Black sheep has been a negative thing. Today I’m redeeming the term and embracing it. I am seeking out ways to be a whole and healthy black sheep. Let me explain.

grandpa’s house


I’ve been missing my grandpa a lot lately. Perhaps it was brought on by the pack of old notes and letters my aunt sent me, that she found in his desk after he passed. Seems he saved any and everything I ever sent him over the years. From my first clumsy attempts to master writing, to a card I sent him a few years back. He saw and savored my attempts at communication. And he cherished them.


Now he is gone. His last place of abode was just auctioned off. He lived in many homes during his one-hundred years on this earth. I grew up hearing stories of his life on this or that farm. But before I was born, he and Grandma settled into a sprawling brick house on Cherry Ridge Road. It was the only home that was ever Grandpa’s House to me.


Oh, the nooks and crannies of that place! I remember his old study before they remodeled and modernized parts of the house. It was a small room, sandwiched between the bathroom and the kitchen. There wasn’t much more than a sofa, desk, and books. So many books! I remember the room felt small and dark but there was always a lamp to shed its glow on the shelves of books and the stacks of pen and paper on his desk.

so many memories


Just down the hall was a spare bedroom where we slept when we visited. I remember waking up one crisp morning in October when I was 5 years old. Walking down the hall to find Grandpa coming out of his study, glowing with happiness, to tell my brothers and me that we had a new baby brother. I had been hoping and praying daily for a sister and part of my heart dropped in the pain of disappointment. But grandpa’s love of life was contagious and my disappointment did not last long.


The basement was my favorite place. Rooms inside of rooms. Old treasures from years gone by. A stuffed owl from one of the farms. A painting my dad made during high school. The fruit cellar with jars of canned fruit. My cousins would make a game out of seeing who could find the oldest jar.


There was always a garden in the back yard and a grape arbor where we would pick sour juice grapes and suck on the sweet center. Grandpa had an old shed built into the side of the hill and it was easy to climb onto the roof. More than one summer evening was spent on that roof with my cousins, under a star-studded sky.


Years later, they knocked down some walls and built an addition. Grandpa’s study was expanded, with a large window overlooking the hills and lush countryside. The walls were still lined with shelves of books but the place had become much brighter. Filled with light.

becoming the black sheep


The change in their house coincided with a change in me. I grew up, moved away, traveled the world. Started a family of my own. Had thoughts and questions of my own. Gathered the courage to start thinking outside of the box I had been raised in. As the house changed, I found myself changing. My own walls were being knocked down and expanded to let in more light. The old didn’t fit anymore. When I returned, I felt like a stranger.


It’s strange to write about my grandpa, who represented The Patriarchy in every way possible, as one who never made me feel like a stranger. I can’t quite explain how in all of my deconstruction, he has been somewhat separate from the ideals he represented to me. He gifted me a space of belonging, even when I chose a path he would not have approved of.


He gave me his presence and his open arms. Always. He kept telling me stories. Inviting my babies to sit in his lap even when they were almost as big as he was.

Longings of a black sheep


I wish I could walk through that house one more time. By myself. To see the light catch the dust floating in the air, hovering over his desk and shelves of books. Walk down that hallway, hear the echo of his footsteps. Pull a green plastic cup from the cupboard for a drink of water, and remember how he always teased me about having to put my nose in the glass whenever I drank. I’d sink into his hickory rocker and know he was holding me still. Even if he didn’t understand the path I was on, he recognized the essence of who I was and offered me a place of belonging.


Families are made stronger by processing grief and joy together. But I’ve felt like I’ve been on the outside for so long now. I’ll be honest. Grandpa’s death was my biggest COVID loss. He didn’t die from the virus, but because of it, I couldn’t grieve with the family. I couldn’t show up for all the things a family does when one it loves passes on. The blessing of remembering together. Eating together. Crying together. Apart from the graveside service, which was outdoors on a chilly January day, I stayed away.


And that hurt. A lot. As a family, we had all been taught to choose life. To honor and protect it. To me, that meant wearing a mask, distancing and avoiding crowds. But to the family who gathered to celebrate and grieve, it meant the opposite. So, this black sheep just felt even more shut out. The way they chose to live life, made me feel as if mine didn’t matter.

black sheep and trauma


Yet another aspect of not being able to show up has to do with past trauma. For years, even after becoming aware that what happened to me was trauma, that it was wrong and was not my fault, I still showed up. I put myself in situations where I was constantly reminded of that trauma. I was the nice person. The good little girl. I acted as if nothing had happened.


The thing about trauma, however, is that it doesn’t heal and go away on its own. It will make itself known, come out in ways that are ugly and messy. For me, it made itself known in my physical body. Aches and pains that grew in intensity, especially when I was in certain situations.


When the time is right, the body has a way of letting you know it’s time. Enough is enough.

Pain is often a sign that something has to change.

Mark Nepo

I am quick to grab pain relievers instead of listening to the message behind the pain. Tylenol. Wine. TV. Food. Friends. Not that these are bad things in and of themselves but they can distract from our pain so we can keep going on with our lives. Yet pain does not distract us from living; it shows us what needs to change so we can live better. Pain is there to give us a clue of what needs to be done. What needs to heal. What we need to change.

boundaries


So I set some boundaries and began to protect myself. It’s ugly and messy and beautiful all at once. It’s powerful and freeing, but it is also lonely.

And it’s complicated. It means I can’t yet show up in some places I would like to. My need to self-protect means that I control my narrative for the first time and yet, I lose my ability to control the narrative at all in certain situations. It means that some people I love, who had nothing to do with my trauma, are being told a narrative that makes me look ugly and vindictive. And I’m struggling to let that go. Being a healthy black sheep means learning what narratives to let go of so you can shape the only one that really matters.


Becoming a healthy black sheep is imperative when there has been mental illness, personality disorders, or addiction woven into the trauma. Others looking on may not understand the drastic measures you are taking, further reinforcing your identity as a black sheep and shaping their narrative of you.

the fear of the storytellers

A healthy black sheep knows there are stories being told about her that are based not on truth, but on the fear of those telling the stories. She lets them go so she can hold on to her truth. That different can be beautiful. That true value comes from the heart, not the color of the wool.

The beautiful thing about being a black sheep is that you cannot be owned in the way that white sheep are owned. Your body cannot be a machine for profit. Selling your wool has no value because it cannot be dyed.

This is where I am slowly learning to embrace my identity as a black sheep. One that is different from the larger group it came from. Whose value does not come from wool that can be dyed. One who is un-dyable. Marked, not by the devil, but by all the colors of life and light. Who picks up all the colors of the rainbow in a dance towards wholeness.


Click on the button above to send me an email and I will let you know when new posts are up! If you or someone you love is in the closet, or if you are struggling with your own guttural grief and need someone to talk to, email me. I may not have time to answer you but I will read it and hold you in my heart.

Find me on Instagram @maritajmiller and Facebook Beyond The Cocoon.