I'm graduating. I knew it was always a problem in the coming, but I had not anticipated the degree of backlash that I am to face at the present. Four years in the coming, and now it comes. I forgot, somewhere in the middle, about the gravity of this issue, and I saw it as no more than another day. Ordinarily, it would not be a big deal at all. Ordinarily, one's parents would come to the city of study, meet with the graduand, exchange pleasantries, throw a couple hats, take some photographs, and proceed to move on with their lives. But I have always been aware that I do not belong in the ordinary.
It's not unusual to have divorced parents. It's certainly not unusual for situations between the divorced couple to be tense or awkward. This is not the issue. The deadly equation is one where divorce meets continual pain and mental disorder under threat of suicide. I only wish that I am dramatising. The scars of years of violence, tears, pain, and abuse between my parents are all too fresh for me, so that I no longer see them as being able to partake in the same events or indeed exist at the same time in any given point of my life. Indeed, the amount of lies and deception that I am made to use in interactions between them (don't tell your father this! don't tell your mother that!) has exhausted and grieved me to the point that I am extremely tense at times when I need to contact one party about the other. My individual relationships with my mother and father has taken on this pressure, and I have only learned how to manage them better in recent years.
Over the years I agonised at the prospect of either of my parents not being there at my graduation, and soon I accepted that this was to be so. At present, I'm not sure whether this is going to turn out well or not, but I'm adopting a 'come what may' attitude. And prayer. Lots of prayer.
I've always known that university and seeing me graduate is one of my father's greatest dreams. The very fact that he himself never had the opportunity to is one of the greatest regrets of his life, and in this way, I am not averse to the idea of him living vicariously through me. Year after year has been robbed of him since I was 14, when we no longer lived under the same roof, and I wanted one thing for him. Something that is of actual importance and memory for the two of us, apart from brief meetings of some hours over the course of every few weeks. I know and knew that this was important for my mother as well, but the chance that this might provoke intense emotional turmoil for her and also the fact that in my mind, they cannot co-exist, I did believe that this was a hard decision to make but one that I had to.
By the mercy of God I actually ended up having a conversation with my mother during my Christmas break, where we spoke quite frankly of the obstacles in the way, and it appeared to me that we had made a definitive decision as to the graduation. She was not going to come, and I thought of alternative means for her to 'take part' (there will be, apparently, a live broadcast of it on the internet). It was a pity, but in the face of the circumstances, that was the choice that we made.
It was such a relief to me. Finally, after dwelling on this for four years. After all that fear and wondering. It was sorted. Somehow.
I knew that it wasn't going to be some fanciful affair. That's not my father's style. I never imagined some sort of grand display of joy and affection. Our relationship's degenerated from that long ago. It wasn't going to be fairytales and rainbows with my father. But I did enjoy the idea of spending some time with my father. Perhaps it may further our relationship a bit more.
About a week ago, I received a phone call that I was not able to pick up. I thought that it was my mother, so I called her, whereupon I heard the familiar tone of grievous sadness and depression in her voice. She asked me whether I had called because of what she had written on her blog. I had absolutely no idea what she was referring to, but before I could ask, she had already hung up the phone.
It took me several hours before I could access her blog. When I read it, it was as if I was struck in the face. It was a tirade directed straight at me, speaking of my cruelty and rejection of my mother, about how I am abandoning her at my graduation. This was to continue in email form for the whole of last week, writing about my lack of love for her, about how I never welcomed her presence at any of my birthday parties, how I choose my friends over her.
I was sapped of any strength to reply. I tried the best that I could, explaining to her that it wasn't for the lack of love that I did what I did, and I tried my best to explain that we had already discussed this in December. What she had thought to be signs of rejection (i.e. not 'formally' inviting her to my graduation) may have just been the fact that I thought that this was sorted and therefore never made any advances to the contrary. How was I to choose between my parents? I could never really choose to love one over the other. For me, it was seen as a balance. She had been invited with all my heart, to virtually every performance, every thing of great importance to me in highschool when formalities were still of great great meaning to me. I had put my heart and soul into everything that I did then, especially dramatic performances where there were times that I had written or directed the plays. Singing performances as well are still memories that I hold on to with such fervency. It's still a pride and joy to me. And although there were times where I would be so happy to know that my mother was there to support me, I would often be so heartbroken by the complete lack of response or support at some events where she attended. Some of my most important events, she was not even there due to the fact that she was going through an episode or we were arguing in some way. This is of deep regret to me, and I'm not blaming her, since it wasn't anybody's fault really. The pain, however, endures.
It was a balance, that my father could come to something that he might care more about than I, that he could finally attend some 'event' in itself is meaningful to me. By now, I care little about academic formalities and events, and I prize personal growth, especially spiritual growth more than these. I'd rather be a better person in Christ than be lauded with ceremony. I've simply forgotten to place myself in my mother's shoes with regards to this. I forgot that deep down, my mother cares about ceremony. Where do I split? What do I listen to? Concern for my mother or concern for myself? My living has not taught me to find balance between the two. It's either all or nothing. All of her and nothing of me, or the other way around. Self-preservation.
All at once, my grievances, experiences, and pain over all the years came flooding back. Yesterday was critical to me. I was so gripped in agony that I could barely think, or hear from other people, let alone pray. I was slumped at my desk because I could not lift myself up from it, and my head was clenched in tension as if it would indeed explode. I just could not receive God's love for me. Or anybody else's, for that matter. I knew I was pushing it away in my pain. I rejected it all.
My pastor's prayer and prophecy kept coming back to me: God knows about the fact that you've not had a good relationship with your dad, and you've had to be strong for yourself. God wants to tell you that He's there for you as the Father, you can lean on Him. You just need to lean back.
But I couldn't.
I was fighting it. I was scared, and I was doubtful. Years and years of protecting myself from the pain of living with someone with Borderline Personality Disorder finally hit boiling point where a problem within me was made known: I am having great difficulty with receiving love.
Day after day during this week it's been difficult to reach that place of peace in my heart, where I am so overwhelmed by God's love for me, the meaning of Jesus' sacrifice for me that I just can't deny it. I've not been letting God in, and I lost my way. I just didn't know how to. So I kept crying out. There were moments of great clarity, where I was so filled with God's Spirit and love. And then I'd recede into chaos.
Yesterday was chaos.
I found rest after last night. Matters had been somewhat resolved. My mother is coming. Along with my aunt and uncle. Deep down, I know that God is sorting this out for me, but I'm still sticking my head into the pain, rooting around in it, hoping for some compassion for something that I really just need to receive God's healing for. I'm scared of their time here being worse than what this week has been: more shouting at me for making the wrong decision, more nit-picking and making me feel worthless, more of manipulating me to do that which I truly do not want to. I'm scared that I'll lose more of myself in the throes of other people's demands. I want to go to my relatives and say: This is what I've experienced. This is how I feel! Listen to me. Why won't you understand?
But I've got to let it go.
I slept last night, having prayed beforehand and reaching some peace within my heart. I awoke today with a phone call from my mother, with a much calmer and restored tone, which subsequently has resolved some tension in my heart. I'm very grateful for this, but my heart still urged me to pray.
As I prayed, I was finally able to let go and let God's love into my heart. I was amazed by it. I really truly felt His tenderness and kindness towards me. He urged me to read of the story of the Prodigal Son in the Bible, and I teared up again, but in joy. He restored me, and just as I was ending my time of prayer, I received a vision.
I saw this beautiful pink peony tinged with indigo to one side. It came at me, flowering before the vision vanished. The vision took my breath away, and at once I knew in my heart that it was from God. I sensed that it was an answering to something that I've prayed long and hard about: God, show me how you see me, please, because I can barely understand or 'see' myself right now. I care to know how you see me, God.
The irony is, I've never really liked peonies that much. I thought that they were a bit garish, a bit too much, and thus a bit ugly. But as if all at once, I immediately thought it was beautiful. I guess I could see all those qualities as being a part of me. But I'm just overwhelmed at the fact that God thinks that I'm beautiful, lively, and strong.
I researched the Peony on wikipedia, and I thought that this was rather apt:
"Once planted the Peony likes to be left alone and punishes those who try to move it by not flowering again for several years. Once established, however, it produces splendid blooms each year for decades (Taken from The Language of Flowers, edited by Sheila Pickles, 1990)"
God sees me, just as I am, without embellishment, and He wants to see the best in me.
I'm amazed by that.
In Christ,
Christina.
