HARK, Harold the Angel Sings

Suddenly a great company of the heavenly host appeared with the angel, praising God, and saying, ‘Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace to those on whom his favor rests’.”

                                                            Luke 2: 13-14

Christmas is almost here.  I have gone through the motions of buying and wrapping gifts, decorating my house, playing Christmas music, all to no avail.  The hole that has pierced my body and soul these past few months remains.  I should be joyful, but I cry.  I am so frustrated at the fact that I have not been able to move beyond the events in my family that seem so long ago.

I’ve been completely transparent with my psychiatrist especially.  I am Casper the Ghost.  I cry, I question, I admit that I’m near giving up.  He is steady and kind and has helped explain what is happening.

The grief I feel over first my brother (my assailant) and then my father linked with the disintegration of the rest of my family is not grief at all, at least not in the common sense.  That was a huge relief to me.  I’ve had so much self-loathing and anger aimed both at my family and myself (mainly because I haven’t grieved).  I’ve internalized it.  Made it a part of my being.  For someone who disrespects herself as much as me, this was a perfect opportunity to slam some more bricks of blame on my back.

So, I’ve walked around like I ghoul, the Ghost of Christmas past.  Going through the motions but enjoying nothing.  I needed something to fix me.  A pill, a treatment, someone with magic words that would wipe away decades of self-deprecation.

Back to my psychiatrist.  I told him how hopeless and painful I felt.  I told him I didn’t think I could carry this weight of self-hatred, envy, and blame anymore.  His answer was simple, but something I hadn’t thought of before.  He suggested that I wasn’t grieving in the usual sense, but that the events of the fall had stirred up memories, painful memories and sent my PTSD into overdrive.

Now, I think anyone who had read a little of my writings knows that I like answers.  I want concrete solutions.  Heck, our art clinician wanted us to draw circles on one of our art projects and I had to buy a compass before I could do it.  I’m a perfectionist and things need to fit into neat little boxes.

This situation is way beyond me.  Nothing fits into a box and I’m not sure why things happened, never mind how to fix them.  It may sound strange, though, but having a rational explanation of what is most likely happening to me is a comfort, a huge comfort.  I still ache, I still don’t know how to fix all the physical and psychological issues I’m facing, but I have guides along the way.

I’m looking at the verse I picked for this entry.  There is nothing specific there, just that God is in heaven and his favor rests upon us.  I’ve had trouble feeling this for a while.  It’s why my entries have been more psychological and less spiritual.  This verse also reminds me of a happy memory from my childhood. 

In church we learned many carols, and actually as I grew older, we sang them in school as well.  I tend to twist wordings of familiar things, especially when I’m bored.  To me, DBT is not Dialectical Behavioral Therapy but Diabolical Behavioral Therapy.  Doing this kept me out of trouble on many occasions.  WELL, I can’t tell you how many times I’ve sung Hark the Herald Angels Sing.  After awhile the words stop having meaning!  To me, the song became Hark, Harold the Angel Sings.  I can see Harold.  He’s a boy’s boy.  Ripped knees on his jeans, wings a little tilted and a gap-toothed smile.  He’s loved by God.  He’s worthy to be an angel of God.  That gives me a little hope.

Harold is my secret (well not so secret now) representation of what my relationship with God could be like.  I just need to admit I’m not perfect.  I need to open up to God like I do my psychiatrist.  God already knows about the hole in my body.  He sees my skinned knees and my tear-streaked face.  He knows I am still that little child inside with a grown up outside flailing about trying to help her. 

I’m going to hurt for a while.  I have so much injustice and hurt that needs to be put to bed, put in God’s arms while I wail “this just wasn’t fair”  “Why was I hurt”  “Why do I still hurt”  I may not get those answers this side of heaven, but to have any peace I at least need to cry out and admit to what happened to me and those I love.  I need to trust that God is aware and that His plans are greater than mine and certainly inscrutable.

That just leaves me and my own family.  I will hug them and enjoy them and even sing Christmas carols with them.  To the little ones I will tell the story of Harold the Angel and how he shows us just how encompassing God’s love is for us.

Merry Christmas!