When you care to send the very best?

Has the digital age brought about the demise of greeting cards? Is it really that gauche or antiquated or wasteful or silly to spend a few minutes to pick out a card, sign it, and mail it? Or are we back to the "save a tree, save the earth" rhetoric? What if I buy a card made of recycled paper, designed by the blind, with proceeds going to starving children in South America? Is it okay then? Regardless, I love getting cards, picking out cards, making cards. I even participate in helping make cards for the shut-ins in nursing homes and hospices and assisted living facilities here in our little town; when I started and wanted to know what kind of card to make, the organizer told me, "Make it a visit in an envelope." Those folks cherish their cards, read and reread them, and hang them in their rooms. If I was a shut-in, that'd be me.

You see, we grew up sending and receiving greeting cards to mark special occasions and  express thanks, sympathy, congratulations. Our parents never forgot a birthday, anniversary, or Christmas, many times tucking cash or even checks in those cards. We raised our kids to write thank you notes for Christmas and birthday gifts before the wrapping paper even made it to the trash bin. As our kids grew older, we sent birthday cards, notes, and yes, we were now the ones to tuck cash and checks (and later, gift cards and iTunes cards) into the envelopes; gifts were always accompanied by a personalized card, neatly tucked under the ribbon, and at family gatherings everyone would sit and listen to the gift recipient reading each and every card before opening the gift. Prior to big holidays (Christmas, Mother's Day, and Father's Day), I would make a list of folks for whom we had to buy cards; we would spend lots of time in the greeting card aisles finding cards with just the right sentiment for each member of the family at Christmas, buying cards far in advance of everyone's birthdays so we would have them on hand and get them in the mail on time.

Yesterday was my husband's birthday--his 55th, as a matter of fact. Last month we celebrated our anniversary, Father's Day, and my birthday. Guess how many cards we received for all of these occasions, not counting the ones from each other and from our church? Yeah, not many. And yes, we adore the phone calls, the videos, and the live video chats--we would not trade those for the world! But there is just something about checking the mail and seeing a colored, hand addressed envelope with your name on it, and even better are those precious handmade, handwritten cards and notes from children and grandchildren. When we do receive them, they are proudly displayed in a prominent location for days, many times getting moved to the laundry room to hang with the grandkids' artwork. And the VERY special ones? We wrap them up and put them in the keepsake box.

Our parents loved receiving cards; when we called to wish them Merry Christmas or Happy whatever-day, they would thank us for the card, and comment on how pretty or heartfelt the card was, and it warmed my heart. My dad especially loved cards, and he would proudly display each and every one on the TV in the living room, picking them up several times and re-reading them; he would wait expectantly for a card from each of his children, then grandchildren, at those special occasions.  And if one of his children did not send a card, he was crestfallen. After my dad died, I found a huge box on the top shelf of their spare closet; in it was every single greeting card my dad had received from his wife, children, and grandchildren. I cried as I looked through the box and spied cards I had sent over the years, and, realizing how much they meant to him, I was so glad I spent so much time selecting each and every one. After Alex's mom died, he retrieved boxes upon boxes filled with thousands, yes thousands, of cards and letters and postcards, some in English and some in Spanish. After almost two years of poring over each and every one, he has finally succeeded in sorting them out, sending only a fraction of them off to various family members.

All of our parents died in the last three years; maybe it is the newness of not receiving that familiar card with that instantly recognizable scrawl that makes it so disappointing when the mailbox is empty. This past Christmas was especially difficult, as it was the first one without our parents; both Alex and I could not even bring ourselves to celebrate our birthdays and anniversary last year--they just seemed hollow without the well wishes of our parents.  Maybe as time goes on, we won't miss those cards so much. Maybe we will get used to FaceBook posts and video chats as the new means of heralding another special occasion. Admittedly, I have my own box of memories, and although I'm a tad more selective in what I have saved over the years--not saving every card like Dad--there are a still a substantial amount of cards and notes from children, grandchildren, and of course from the love of my life. And I am not alone; Alex has a military duffel full of letters I wrote him during his long deployment during Desert Storm--every single letter I wrote. As we get older though, we are adding fewer and fewer keepsakes to my memory box because we just are not receiving as many tangible, physical things; videos and phone calls and FaceBook posts cannot be placed in a box or slipped into a photo album. Hmmm....perhaps I will start just printing them off so as to not have decades not represented by memories and cards.

I know, the pragmatists out there will shake their fingers at me and tell me to live in the present. "You're making lots of memories," they'd shout, and the majority of those memories are intangible; cards are only paper and ink after all. Nevertheless, the romantic in me retorts there is just something about a box of things--buttons, stacks of cards tied with ribbon, old report cards, scout badges, even baby teeth--things you can touch and feel and read and laugh and cry over. After all, when we go on to that great beyond, and our children and grandchildren find our keepsakes and cards and letters we've gathered over the decades,  how they will react? Will they cry? Laugh? Put everything in their own memory boxes?

Hopefully, just hopefully, each of them will know and see and feel how much they were loved. How much they ARE loved.

Frustrated

Me and David, 1959

Being the guardian of my brother is hands down the most frustrating, exasperating job I have ever had; although I know more now than I knew three years ago when he moved in with us, I feel completely inadequate to handle life as we now know it. I cannot even really explain what our life is like 24/7, because no one would believe it. I thought I had seen it all, that the trials and surprises and difficulties were over, that we (Alex and I) could finally get on with our retirement, and enjoy our lives and each other. If you follow this blog, you know the story; if you don't know, well, here's the Readers' Digest Version: Crazy mother, depression, estranged siblings, false charges, lawsuit, caregiving of and then deaths of all parents, culminating in caregiving of mentally handicapped older brother. In four years. And we figured we could handle the last one. We cannot. It is a Herculean effort that has me on my knees and in my Bible on good days, and in tears and not sleeping the rest of the days. I have felt my psyche and my soul slipping away as I try in vain to tackle this insurmountable task of caring for my brother in our home, while still trying to retain some sense of normalcy as a wife, a mom, a nana, and a sister. Instead, all those other roles are subjugated to the role of caregiver. A caregiver who does not have any hope of conforming her brother to her ideas of how to act in her home, or to understand the rules of proper adult social behavior. I was not trained for this, my husband was not trained for this, and we are at an impasse. Each day is a new horror, a new realization that no matter what we say or do or demonstrate, it is all lost on my brother. It is as if we are speaking a foreign language to someone who cannot hear, or trying to adapt a wild thing from another culture to live in our home and comply with social mores that he will never comprehend.  Like some crazy, mutated version of Jungle Book.

And it is not merely the diminished mental capacity or behavioral issues we must face--he is also scarred (and still scared!) by the abuse he suffered at the hands of his (and my) biological mother. I, at least, can work it out through prayer and counseling and reason, but he is imprisoned in a world of torture and abuse that to him, never ended. So the behaviors, the coping mechanisms he learned as a toddler--lying, hiding things, obsessive compulsiveness, inability to cry, anxiety, cussing and yelling at inanimate objects, insomnia--these behaviors continue, and grow more embedded in his personality year after year, until they are habitual and automatic. And unchangeable. We see it in full display when we ask simple questions and he shifts his eyes and makes up a story, and will stick with that story regardless of reality staring him in the face. We have tried, God we have TRIED, to help him see we are not my mother, we are not going to punish him; we have tried millions of times to teach him the value of truth, and the safety there is in knowing and sharing truth. And, most of all, we have  spent countless, exhausting, emotional hours upon hours impressing upon him how much we love him and care for him and have his best interest at heart. All to no avail. I am so lost, so defeated, so darn, yes, frustrated in my inability to reach him. My failure to prove I love him, to have him see and feel and experience our love. And yes, of course, the selfish human desire (no, need) to be appreciated for what we are doing, that is always there, lurking in the background, demanding attention for our efforts. Mostly, though, I am frustrated in the loneliness I feel, the sheer overwhelming frustration in not being able to explain why I feel this way to outsiders, and I am angry  at my dead parents for not having prepared us better for this task. We are not psychologists or social workers or therapists or mental health professionals; we have no degrees or training or even an online course in special education and special needs challenges. We are merely a married couple with grown kids and a desire to help and to love and to take care of our family. It is not enough. Yes, through Christ I can do all things, but the method I use to accomplish those things may not be the method I thought we would use. 

And you know what makes it so infuriatingly harder? Two things--folks telling us what great people we are for caring for our brother despite his challenges, and folks who only have to interface with David for short periods of time telling us what a joy he is, how blessed we are to take care of him, and how lucky he is to have us as his family. Yeah, both those viewpoints only serve to make us feel even more trapped and more inadequate than before, and when we try to explain, to provide anecdotes and vignettes of what our days are like now, we get one of two looks: the "deer in the headlight" or the "shocked yet benevolent" look. Alex and I could relate a zillion examples and reasons why our situation is so untenable, yet when we tell folks the stories, they either sound inane and silly (even funny), or so outlandish as to not even closely resemble the truth. So how do we communicate the exhaustion, the stress, the utter monotony of living with an adult who ignores common rules and social values, has no personal space, or sense of right or wrong? An adult who cannot really clean himself or take care of brushing his teeth or wipe his butt or remember to wash his hands? A 68-year old man who talks to himself and feeds himself and dresses himself but who becomes catatonic when asked a simple question or has to go through the TSA checkpoint at an airport? A man who merely says what he thinks you want to hear because he just repeats phrases and responses he has learned from his parents for the past 50 plus years? An adult living with us in our home who truly lives in his own world where his rules and his beliefs are paramount, who moves things around or throws things out or sneaks down in the middle of the night to binge on whatever food he can find? An adult who will perseverate on a hangnail or an imaginary injury for days, but who cannot or will not or just plain doesn't understand the need to let us know he has been peeing blood for two weeks and probably has a severe infection? The daily litanies we repeat are obeyed (sort of)--brush your teeth, wash your hands, here are your pills, chew your food, tell us what is hurting--but they will never be learned. Then there are the safety issues--picking up snakes (thank God it was not venomous), eating food from the trash, walking across the street without looking, carrying too many things down steps, picking up broken glass, walking backwards up stone steps. We are always on our toes, trying to prevent the next emergency. Most of all--David is 24/7, no breaks, no quick trips to the store without him, no date nights, no 30 minute walks while I leave him at home. Every minute, every day, 365 days a year. 

Yes, we love him. Yes, we will take care of him always. Yes, we know he is made in the image of God and that God has a purpose for him as well. He is my brother. We promised we would care for him. We know God has a plan for us. We just want to know where it all fits together. So, we asked. We prayed. We waited. And asked and prayed some more. For God to close doors and open others. Friends prayed. Family prayed. 

God answered prayers, as He always does. In His time. And I am trying my hardest to trust His answer, and to not become frustrated.

Black and White

Black and white. "Here it is...in black and white." A phrase that can mean several things... an obvious answer,  or something reliable and credible, or seeing things only in absolute terms. Sadly, what is happening in our country right now (again) is none of those things. On the surface, it appears to be about black versus white, black lives vs white lives, black injustice vs white privilege, black subjugation vs white dominance. In reality, though, events this week are not that easily explained. Or understood. Or solved. For the past 8 days, I have been on the brink of tears, feeling them well up inside me and my heart aching until my eyes are near brimming before I take a deep breath and pray and push them back down. Because if I was to give in to the feeling, let the tears fall, there would be no end to them, and the hopelessness of the situation would drown me. So I pray some more, read articles, watch news videos, and skim posts on social media to get a sense of the battle we face. An age old battle, since the beginning of creation, with eternal consequences. 

Black and white. Sin. Evil. Light. Darkness. In its most basic, age old form: hatred of a group of humans because they are different. Genocides. Gendercides. Ethnic cleansing. Apartheid. Racism. Any time one human presumes superiority over another human, we have evil.  In its most basic form. So much hate, Lord, so much injustice, so much pain. Cities under siege, people hating each other, taking sides, destroying lives and property and futures. Social media sites exploding with videos, live feeds, posts, debates, photos, news updates, and so much self-serving, hate-filled rhetoric and ugliness. The implicit made explicit. I read posts, try to answer, to reason, to express my heart, but I, too, am lost as to how to make sense of it all, and it shows. In my struggle to find the right words, to try to speak calm and love and peace, inevitably I only succeed in irritating someone or being misunderstood and am subjected to retorts and accusations that, I am ashamed to say, I sometimes answer in a less than loving manner. My daughters are distraught and want answers to why this is happening, and for once, I fail as a mom--I have no answers, no reasons, no prescription for fixing this, no trite explanations for why people are doing what they are doing. There is no simple answer. Yes, sin is the root cause of all evil and sadness and suffering in this world. But identifying that sin is the answer and the cause of it all does not make any of it magically go away. 

Black and white. And in some feeble attempt to make sense of it all, to do something, some elements of music industry organized a collective action, Blackout Tuesday, to protest racism and police brutality. The action, organized in response to recent killings of unarmed black men, is taking place today, June 2, 2020--my 65th birthday. Not only are businesses taking part encouraged to abstain from releasing music and other business operations--now social media users are posting blank, black squares in lieu of cover and profile photos. But, like other groupthink efforts, folks seem to just be following blindly in an effort to be viewed as sympathetic and supportive of racial injustice; even I considered, for a nanosecond, joining this non-movement. Because it is only cosmetic, and does not solve anything. It neither promotes love nor heals the hate, the rift we have--it reduces the underlying disease to a slogan, a saying, a hashtag, without offering a cure or even a bandaid. 

Black and white. So what do we do? What do I do? What is my purpose in this? To reflect Christ, yes. To love his image bearers--all of them. To show the way, to see peace, to show the light of the gospel. But when? How? How can we rebuild? How do we heal?  How do we make sense of it all? And when, God? When will we all be reconciled not just to You, but to our fellow man? How long must we tear each other apart? Where is your purpose in all of this suffering and hatred? Separated from each other, and separated from You. 

Black and white. We don't heal by hurting others. We don't rebuild by tearing down. We don't reconcile by hating others. We don't heal by disrespecting others. We don't heal by focusing only on differences, but by realizing that, despite differences, we are all image bearers of our Creator. For this, for this, Jesus died...to reconcile a helpless, hopeless people to God and to each other. For God is neither black nor white, or red or brown or yellow; God is not a color. God is LOVE. Infinitesimal love for every single one of His creations. And while we are not God, we are made in HIS image, and should reflect HIS love, HIS beauty, HIS grace. God is love, and He is light. Light defeats darkness--even in a world full of darkness, all one needs to do is shine one small light to dispel some of the darkness.

Therefore be imitators of God, as beloved children. And walk in love, as Christ loved us and gave himself up for us, a fragrant offering and sacrifice to God. (Ephesians 5:1-2)

There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither slave[g] nor free, there is no male and female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus. (Galatians 3:28)

Caught up in the madness

To mask or not to mask...that is the question. Well, one of the questions, anyway, and the way someone answers gets that person pegged as silly or thoughtless, fearful or realistic, overreacting or callous. Where someone stands right now on whether everything should open, or the genesis of the coronavirus, or the role of government during a crisis--these are all litmus tests for how we view each other right now. Conspiracy theories abound more now than ever before, primarily because the world is so connected, and information, especially MISinformation, goes viral (pardon the pun) in milliseconds. And, being human, folks latch onto any explanation whether it makes sense or not because, well, we need to blame someone or something for this, don't we? So we are divided into camps, the Stay At Homes pitted against the Reopen It Alls, with little to no respect, or even empathy, for why the other "side" thinks the way they do. And so we rant and vent on social media, splattering posts with emojis and ALL CAPS to make sure everyone knows where we stand. We judge people we see in public as on our side or not on our side simply based on whether they wear a mask, and we shake our heads or roll our eyes. The line has been drawn.

Three months ago, most media platforms (in the US, at least) were inundated with posts, memes, and shared news blasts concerning presidential politics and likely candidates for this November's election. Then, COVID-19 took over the world, and all media platforms with it. Sure, there is the occasional surge about media blips, but they are quickly drowned out by the uproar over the decisions being made at federal, state, and local levels to not only beat the virus, but to prevent economic collapse (while still preserving their elected positions, of course). Everyone, it seems, is caught up in the madness.  

Including me. 

And I have to stop and think and remind myself I am a Christian, (seriously, sometimes I have a response formed in my head, or even typed out, and I see that smack on the forehead "what was I thinking?" emoji in my mind). C'mon, I am to emulate Christ, not the world. My go to resource for encouragement and validation is the Bible, not FaceBook.  I should commit these two verses to memory, and tape copies of them to my laptop: “Let us not pass judgment on one another any longer, but rather decide never to put a stumbling block or hindrance in the way of a brother”? (Romans 14:13) and “Be careful, however, that your freedom does not become a stumbling block to the weak.”  (1 Corinthians 8:9)

Alas, humility and self-sacrifice does not come naturally to me, or human beings in general. So I get caught up in the madness of being tossed about, torn between selfish desires and love for my neighbor. I want to go to the gym, get back to church, make plans for vacations, hear that my daughter and family can get a flight out of India, get my brother back to his routine, and be able to find the good brand of toilet paper. Anger, fear, confusion, depression, sadness--being a Christian does not eliminate these emotions. But, being a Christian DOES mean we have an explanation for it all. God is sovereign, God is good, and God is using all things for His purposes for those that believe in him. 

Yes, I am in this world, but not of this world--but too often there is a dichotomy  between who I am and who I present. I am supposed to be salt, and light. Sometimes I may not reflect that, sometimes I am less than patient, less than humble, and less than accepting. And for that, I beg forgiveness. 

Lord help me live this every day:  

Do nothing from selfish ambition or conceit, but in humility count others more significant than yourselves. (Phil 2:2-3)

Without rain, gardens cannot grow

Today as I was doing my morning walk around my gardens, and marveling at the green and the growth and the beauty of it all, I was struck by how the recent rain and uncharacteristically cooler weather have caused things to practically shoot up overnight. And I was overwhelmed with the beauty of God's creation, and his unfathomable purpose and methods, and I wished out loud that I would stay here forever and never leave, so I could absorb this beauty and this wonder. I felt His presence around me, as if He was holding me in his arms and carrying me around the yard, pointing out a new shoot here, a budding plant there, a tiny warbler singing above me. It brought me to tears. And to a realization that we require not just sunshine and balmy weather to grow and to appreciate and be thankful for our blessings from God. We also need times of rest and refreshment, like the cooler days and the seemingly incessant rain, to help us grow, and reach up to heaven.

The past four years, not just the past 8 weeks, have humbled me and taught me so much about myself, about life, and about God. Through startlingly brilliant and glorious times of joy, as well as through dark periods of seemingly unending grief and pain, interspersed with grey moments of uncertainty, God has brought me, carrying me, holding me, cradling me, and teaching me to look up to Him, always, to trust Him, and to be refreshed. Like the gardens outside, I need rest and rain to grow, and not just refreshment from sources I seek out, but refreshment from above. Take my gardens--I can fertilize them with compost, water them with sprinklers daily, and pull weeds and thin the seedlings to optimize growth. Sunny days make them grow, and bloom, and thrive; cloudy days and rain, though, provide much needed nourishment and rest.

“For as the rain and the snow come down from heaven,

And do not return there without watering the earth

And making it bear and sprout,

And furnishing seed to the sower and bread to the eater;

So will My word be which goes forth from My mouth;

It will not return to Me empty,

Without accomplishing what I desire,

And without succeeding in the matter for which I sent it.

(Isaiah 55:10-11)

ILL EQUIPPED

If I have learned anything over the past five years, it is that I may like the IDEA of being a caregiver, but I am not equipped for it. And it drives me crazy, because I am accustomed to being given a task or assigned a role, adapting to it, and then excelling in record time. School, military, new jobs, knitting and crocheting, learning languages--piece of cake. Raised two beautiful, independent, conscientious women, and was a foster mom to several teenage girls. Handled all that life could throw at me, and thought I was pretty well equipped to handle anything else. Until now.

Going into year three as a caregiver for my mentally handicapped brother, I am painfully aware how ill-equipped. I'm a full-time caregiver, housekeeper, guardian, nurse, accountant, counselor, therapist, cheerleader, disciplinarian, and social services caseworker. And now with truly essential services (like school, doctors, respite care) shut down, it is a 24/7 responsibility that I share with my husband (who at times seems to be better equipped for this duty than me). We have taken on something we thought we understood, but we really had no earthly idea how complex this would be. No, we assumed it would be like raising our kids, like taking care of a small child. Or perhaps similar to  supervising an adult who was maybe a little confused. It is NOT anything like either of those scenarios. Not one bit. 

First of all, we were 40 years younger when we were parents, and though it was a learning process, we muddled through at first, gradually getting more adept at parenting, and finally, hopefully, we graduated to being parents of grown children. That was the goal, the objective, the target, the entire time our children were with us, through all the stages. We knew it was going to end, and that we would be successful. Not the case with someone who is intellectually and/or developmentally delayed. Growth and learning and moving on to the next stage just don't happen in this world. Sure, we have and see small incremental changes, but every day is the same. Every. Single. Day. 

Second, caring for elderly parents, while difficult emotionally as well as physically at times, presents different challenges. Challenges that are well-documented and expected and planned for, with lots of support out there. Everyone has parents, and everyone has people in their lives who grow old, more feeble, and need assistance. Eldercare is not anything new anymore. There are countless options and alternatives available to family members caring for aging relatives, and more importantly, a HUGE support network, whether through formal channels like healthcare and social services or church, or via informal venues such as friends and social media. Caring for a relative with "special needs" has very little of that support network. Information and resources are few and far between, and navigating whatever system exists to help families cope with challenges requires the sleuth capabilities of a seasoned private investigator. Terminology is ambiguous, and so frustratingly stigmatized. Despite all our advances with technology, travel, healthcare, mental health support, and social programs, our world continues to trivialize, mis-label, marginalize and be embarrassed by this population of individuals who, through no fault or doing of their own, were born into a world they will never understand. Along with their family members. 

Sure, some communities have programs that help, and there is an army of dedicated, selfless direct support staff who deal with folks like my brother every day, and truly excel at it, and love what they do. Believe me, I am in constant awe of these folks. They are heroes and angels and have amazing super powers. But they need funding. State-run benefits do exist but they don't come anywhere NEAR to meeting the actual need, and there is no federal program at all, not that I have found or seen. My parents took care of my brother for 65 years, moving from state to state to chase funded, barely adequate state programs. Affordable respite care, group homes, and in-home care are practically nonexistent, difficult to find, and clients are on lists for decades before a spot opens up, and to qualify, you have to prove eligibility. In our case, I had to find something that "proved" my brother's "condition" existed before his 21st birthday. Really? My parents were dead, and I had to find something that proved he wasn't faking or I wasn't lying. Like I would really make this up to get on a list for care he wouldn't receive in at least 10 years. (I did find a single page of a school psychiatrist report from 1962--luckily, they accepted that). The only other option is private pay, but again, there are not enough suitable facilities where he can reside with folks like him, so many families resort to placing their relatives in assisted living facilities or nursing homes. If they have money, they pay for a nice one. If they don't, they hope for the best and apply for Medicaid assistance.

I've lived long enough to watch our world go from institutionalizing people like my brother in state facilities, to trying to educate them separately, to attempting to normalize them into society. None of these have worked--they were merely smoke and mirrors to try to hide him away, and at the same time, not admit that something has to be done to help families, and these individuals, deal with the very unique challenges and issues that face them every single minute of every single day.  So again, I repeat, I am ill-equipped to deal with the cards we've been dealt.

But I will do the best I can, soldier on, and just get used to the fact this is something I will never excel at, never adapt to and never understand. Except with God's grace, that is.

As a nation, no, as a world, we have got to do better. We are all God's children, we are ALL created in His image, and we ALL deserve the same chance to achieve our purpose in life.

Now may the God of peace who brought again from the dead our Lord Jesus, the great shepherd of the sheep, by the blood of the eternal covenant, equip you with everything good that you may do his will, working in us[a] that which is pleasing in his sight, through Jesus Christ, to whom be glory forever and ever. Amen. (Hebrews 13:20-21)

Cutting Ties...and this time I mean it (?)

Right now, with all the hubbub over the coronavirus, the focus is on health and cleaning and preventing sickness. What better time, then, to clean all the dirt and cobwebs out of my emotional closet?

Yeah, yeah. I realize I have talked about this before, cutting ties with people who are harmful to my emotional and spiritual well-being. But, when it comes to my family, that is, the one I was born into, I have spent my entire adult life trying to cut ties with three of them--my mom and my two living sisters. And what I have learned is that saying you are cutting ties, and actually doing it are two completely different processes; carrying it out is not easy, or even guaranteed to stick.  Especially because I am, and always have been, the scapegoat, the eager to please person, the one trying to earn their love and their approval. I have always listened to their rants, apologized for things I didn't do or say, struggled to keep the communication channels open, sent cards and letters and gifts that were never reciprocated. After every toxic episode, every hurtful event, I have second guessed everything I said and did, playing the drama over and over again in my head until I am convinced it is ME who is crazy, ME who misconstrues things, ME who is manipulative, ME who is toxic.  And when I get to that point, like I am right now, all I want to do is cry and curl up in the fetal position and go to bed and never get up again.  Of course, that is not an option, and is not even close to a healthy response. 

Everyone has their own opinion and their own ideas on how to deal with this, and the solutions are all over the spectrum, from "forgive and forget" to "tell them to *&!% off," to "pray for them" to "explain it to your sisters," to "have limited contact." None of these work. At all. Or ever will. The level of manipulation they have, and still are, creating is impossible for me to explain to a normal, rational person. Solutions others give me are rational solutions, meant for rational people, not for toxic, narcissistic people with severe personality disorders. Regardless of what I say, what I do, nothing gets through to them; it's as if I am speaking Japanese, or trying to explain the theory of relativity to a two-year old, or teach a cow how to run on two legs. And I am frustrated and sad and angry and disappointed, mostly all aimed at myself. 

Sure, I have read the Psalms and I know I am covered by God's grace, and I know all of this will end and I will spend eternity in heaven by Jesus' side. And I know He is the judge, and He has a purpose for everything, and that nothing surprises Him. However, that does not stop me feeling like a very weak Christian right now, because I cannot find peace in this situation, there is no scripture that can tell me how to deal with this, no prayer to make it all go away. And the only way I can make this bearable, make it so I can move on with my life, is by cutting ties completely. 

I have tried in the past, and have failed. And I will more than likely fail again, and get sucked into their drama and their lies again. Like forgiveness, cutting ties is a lifelong process.