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Reasons for Self-Hatred

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“Many unhealthy behaviors begin as necessary coping mechanisms.”

I hear various versions of this sentiment repeatedly from therapists and psychologists. What may be a harmful habit today, they say, served us well in a previous season of life. I get how this applies to people-pleasing, secret-keeping, anger-stuffing, and high-performing. I’m less sure how it applies to self-hatred which, at first, sounds universally useless to me.

But maybe it did begin somewhere useful. Maybe my self-hatred sprouted when I couldn’t stop big feelings during infancy and toddlerhood, feelings that overwhelmed both me and the people around me. Flooded with emotion and its unwieldy side effects, what could I do but show my disagreement with the outburst by hating myself?

I buried self-hatred under the more acceptable coping behaviors of performing and pleasing. But whenever I couldn’t perform and please—when I showed up in the world in a way I didn’t like—self-hatred jumped out of the trunk to take the steering wheel.

There were more scenarios than I realized, as self-hatred tried every position in the car, from back-seat driver to navigation system, snack hoarder to complainer. Further exploration reveals at least a dozen ways self-hatred has served me:

  • It keeps me small, and being small keeps me from being seen, because being seen is risky.
  • It beats “them” to it. If I can make myself feel bad sooner and more than you can make me feel bad, I’m not vulnerable to you.
  • An excuse to be sad. When I don’t know why I feel depressed, loathing myself makes it seem legitimate … OR maybe I’m sad because I hate myself. Either way, it’s a handy excuse.
  • A layer of protection between you and my pain, and between myself and my pain. During the years of parenting my preschool daughters, hating that I was exhausted, angry, and shut down seemed easier than admitting I felt lonely, empty, scared, and inadequate.
  • A way to belong. When my mom got frustrated with herself, she often said, “I’m such an idiot.” I could fit in at home by thinking and speaking poorly of myself. And the church taught me not to toot my own horn. Apparently it’s not spiritually sound to think well of myself (leave that to God, I guess?), so self-hatred is also a way to fit in spiritually.
  • Keeps me from being perceived as naive as Pollyanna.
  • Protects me from trying to do things I’ll fail at.
  • A way of responding to failure—it spares me the time and energy of taking responsibility. (ouch)
  • A shortcut. It’s faster to process, “I did that because I’m bad,” than it is to process, “I did that because I’m human and humans get depleted and defeated sometimes, and what is depleting or defeating me right now?”
  • A form of power. When I had infants, I “couldn’t” be angry with them. In order to feel some control (power) over my anger, I directed it toward myself.
  • A way to remain in “relationship” with the unwanted parts of myself, even though the relationship is toxic.
  • It proves my loyalty to certain ideals. It allows me to act outside of my standards without confusing myself or anyone else by condoning the behavior. So self-hatred proves I have morals (even if I don’t live them out).

This all sounds so ridiculous.

And familiar.

All of a sudden, it sounds like a lazy way out, but it makes so much sense, and I feel sad, but grateful that I can see it, and profoundly grateful that other options are available to me. I don’t need to dislike myself to belong with people, and certainly not to belong with God. So maybe I can give it a break.

Go ahead, sit down and make your own list. It might be time to break up with one of your coping mechanisms.

Brain Be Quiet, Let The Heart Speak

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Brain Be Quiet, Let The Heart Speak

Reflections – week 7a

Welcome to week seven of reflections inspired by my current small groups. Together with some of my favorite women, I’m exploring these books: Father’s House: The Path That Leads Home, and The Whole Language: The Power of Extravagant Tenderness. I’ll be referencing material from Session Seven for two weeks (7a and 7b). And then Session Eight will conclude this series.
I’m finding joy here, and I’m pleased you’re with me on this journey.

Mostly I have believed that my head should rule my heart. Doesn’t information come to me via my head? Then what I know will inform my feelings and impulses, my way of being in the world. There’s just a tiny little problem. This trickle-down effect hasn’t happened. When I first noticed, I figured it must be a matter of management—I need to take a strong hand. My heart may or may not agree with what’s in my head, but my God-given will allows me to choose how I behave in the world, based on what I know to be true. Except this never worked either. So how the hell does my software work?

Karen McAdams, in this week’s Father’s House video, says, “If there’s a battle between your head and your heart, your heart is gonna win every time.”1 So I’ve had it backward the whole time?! This clears up a litany of questions I’ve had over the years: Why do I pray for patience and then try hard to be patient? What makes it so difficult to truly love another person, especially when I’m spread thin and they’re a hundred pounds of trouble? When will my beliefs about God start impacting the way I interact with Him and with people? Why am I always at war with myself, exhausted by listening to the arguing factions and trying to reach a conclusion?

Answer: “If there’s a battle between your head and your heart, your heart is gonna win every time.”

Karen McAdams suggests it’s critical that I give my heart permission to speak.2 So I opened my heart room and started picking things up and asking questions. I spent a long time learning how my heart pictures God. I refused the right answers, and listened for the felt answers. The honest truth is shocking, sometimes sacrilegious, always insightful.

God,
I don’t trust You. I want to be in charge of my own self, my day, my time, my family.
You don’t want me to be kind to myself because that would be selfish and sinful. I was made to think of others and do for others.
I’m angry at You for not changing me the way You said you would.
You’d rather be with me when I’m in a good mood.
You’d prefer I figure things out on my own; and also, get them right the first time.
You want me to be dependent so You can control me.
No matter what I do, You’re gonna be volatile, unpredictable. I never know if you’re gonna show up.
When I get lost in myself, You look the other way and wait for me to find myself again.
You like to watch me fail because it reminds me that I need You.
No matter how hard I try, I will fall short. The standards are always changing, just enough to keep me ashamed and aware of my sinfulness.
Your so-called perfection is made perfect in apathy. You are neither warm nor cold, loving nor angry, approachable nor distant, kind nor harsh. This middle ground protects You from criticism, and also from getting too close to me.
I’m furious at You for promising abundance and then giving me stale trail mix.
You’ve really fucked me up by promising You love me and then forgetting to hug me, ever.
The only reason I still believe in You is that my daft head tells me to, and keeps cramming stuff at me until I can’t breathe.
When things get hard, it’s my fault, so I ought not to expect a handout from You.
You’re actually an alcoholic because looking at me and the rest of this world is so damn overwhelming You need to numb it however You can.
You’re so sick and tired of my slow transformation that You can’t stand to look at me, and You’d rather not talk again until I get my act together.
I’m supposed to just let You do whatever the heck You feel like and be okay with it because You’re God.
I’m invisible to You unless I’m useful.

Lonely heart, I hear your pain.

My heart was at capacity, but I didn’t know it. It was full, full, full. Whatever my head sent to my heart, my heart sent right back, unopened. Return to sender. I foolishly thought my heart had unlimited capacity. It never occurred to me I might need to do a good old-fashioned purge and let a couple of boxes go to the second-hand store.

Oh my heart, I’m sorry I have rendered you voiceless, and therefore powerless. But now that you have some room again, and we’re talking, what do you think about some new things? Not too heavy, not too many things. Pick a few. Leave space to breathe.

God,
You don’t mind that I curse at You more than anyone else.
I have Your undivided attention and unmetered affection.
You want to give to me more than you want to take from me.
You see how often I run on empty, and You notice my weary body.
You don’t expect me to change because You love me.
You are more interested in being present with me than You are in molding my character.
You favor me and bless me when I reject You.
You don’t expect me to figure things out on my own, but neither do You expect me to rely on Your advice.
You like to laugh and joke with me, read books together, write together, sit together and look out the window.
You feel the pain I feel, and You bless it.
I am important to You. When You’re dancing with me, You don’t let anyone cut in.
You like to hug me, and You’re always up for a celebration.
You are such a God that I cannot permanently mess even one thing up.
You are not politely neutral toward me. This is a love story, not an agreement to shake hands and keep the peace.
You come find me when I’m curled up in fear and self-loathing, holding a sign that says, “Fuck Off.” You are not fooled, and You’re not offended. You come close enough to feel the tension and see my eyes flashing, and You stay, gently.
You always see the real me, the truest me, the me You made in Your image, unshakably good. You are disinterested in my performance or mistakes and fully aware of who I am as Your daughter.

“Homegirl Inez says, ‘At Homeboy, we don’t check boxes, we check pulses.’ And if one of our trainees misses, we don’t ask, ‘Where you been at?’ but ‘How ya doin’?’”3 Imagine a God who doesn’t ask, “Where have you been?” but “How are you doing?” That’s the God we actually have. The too-good-to-be-true Father, who can witness everything in our hearts and still want to hold hands.

Homeboy Ricky said, “I’ve come to realize that I never need to drown in the shallow end of my own beliefs ever again. Been standin’ up ever since.”4 After living in the fetal position so long, standing up is like becoming a whole new person, unfurled, alive, looking around in wonder at all the beauty.

I will keep giving my heart a voice. I will engage with hope by letting God encourage me. Boyle writes, “… we are meant to both feel encouraged by God and be a source of endless, hopeful encouragement for the downhearted.”5 Dialoging with my own heart will teach me how to dialogue with other beautiful hearts. And I will keep the conversation open. I will be tender with myself when I find more pain in my heart, and I will pray:

Okay Father, I’m gonna talk directly to You. I have a hard time picturing a Father who delights in me, whose countenance toward me does not change based on my performance. But I know that being kind to myself is a way to remember Your kindness, and that remembering Your kindness is a way to be kind to myself. We are in this together. Your authority is my authority—not standing over me, but always backing me up. You like to have fun with me. You always have time for me. You do not hand me a to-do list in the morning and check it over in the evening. You invite me to be with You, creating or enjoying. Just by being You and being my Dad, You remind me who I am when I forget. I belong in Your house. I receive You as my Father, Jesus as my brother, and Spirit as my truest self, my center. Thank You for hearing my heart, and for giving me courage to hear it too.

Endnotes:
1Father’s House, Session Seven video teaching
2Father’s House, Session Seven video teaching
3The Whole Language, page 103
4The Whole Language, page 118
5The Whole Language, page 116

I’m Afraid Being Me Will Ruin Every Relationship I’m In

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“Life is a journey,” we say. I want a rest stop. I want to stay at a posh hotel for, I don’t know, a couple of years. But in a rash moment I decided healing is a priority. Discomfort is part and parcel with healing, so I carry on. I receive the affirmation of my friends and of my own spirit and I keep taking steps.

My current discomfort comes from the fluctuations and changes of intimacy in marriage. I feel like I’m on a chain and I don’t know when it’s gonna get jerked. It seems we oscillate between politeness and passion, and both extremes are uncomfortable. The truth is I’m really scared to be me. Around all the actual dynamics and realities of our relationship is a cloud of fear. My thoughts are fearful, terrified. Though I’m acting peaceful, some inward part of me is frozen, and if it gets poked it will likely either fight or flee.

What if this fear is not me, not true to who I am? What if it doesn’t belong here and I can send it away?

What if being me is never a mistake? There can be fallout, but it doesn’t mean I ought not to have been me. I am not the mistake. I make mistakes, but I am not a mistake. I’m gonna agree with Papa God and Jesus and Holy Spirit on this one.

“A feeling is just a feeling,” I say, quoting Josh Straub. What is under this fear? What is my internal space without the fear?

I journal the fears. I allow myself to explore them and feel them and write them down. Then I do the same with healing messages. Sometimes it helps to call them “lies” and “truths.”

Lie: I am not and cannot be enough.
Truth: I am enough.

Lie: I am not worthy of connection or belonging.
Truth: I am worthy of connection and belonging.

Lie: Vulnerability may cause permanent damage to my sense of self.
Truth: No matter how someone reaches out to me or responds to me, they cannot touch my identity of wholeness. Vulnerability involves sharing my inner world, but it does not involve putting my value up for negotiation.

Lie: Rejection says something about who I am.
Truth: Rejection is a normal human dynamic, a part of processing experiences in a shared space, and grappling with fears. Rejection does not tell me the truth about who I am or about who the other person is.

Lie: Being different means someone is wrong.
Truth: Being different probably means we’re both right, both have something to contribute. We bring our flat realities and together make a 3D reality.

Lie: I should be able to avoid hurting someone if I try hard enough.
Truth: I cannot avoid hurting other people. Hurting someone does not declare that I am a hurtful person. It means that my movement in the world interacted with another person’s movement in the world in a way that was painful—similar to accidentally stepping on someone’s toe, or elbowing your kid in the head while unloading the dishwasher.

Lie: I am not a safe person.
Truth: I am a safe person when I am a real person. Being me is the greatest gift I can give.

Lie: I can unwittingly ruin a relationship.
Truth: I can unwittingly cause pain, but I cannot unwittingly ruin a relationship. Relationships are bigger than the stimulus of pain. Relationships always hold the potential for repair and shared understanding, connection and healing. Even when there is a rift in a relationship, the relationship continues to hold that potential.

And so it seems I am a lot less dangerous and powerful than I thought I was. The success or failure of each relationship I’m in—including my marriage—is not mine to carry. I am me, and that is good. I will keep showing up because relationships are life, and I was made to live.

Growing Pains

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Have you noticed it is hard to be loved by God? It is the end of a long day, and I sit in the quiet of my daughters’ bedroom, tired in every way. Finally they are sleeping, and finally I take inventory of my cowering spirit. I let the discomfort and fear rise to my conscious mind and the falling tears are evidence of despair over my mediocrity. Sometimes I think it would feel better to fail epically than to struggle along day after day, doing what I need to do, but feeling purposeless; being possessed by a nagging ache that I could do so much better. I could be a better mom and wife and friend; a better housekeeper and cook and caretaker of pets.

As I sit in the quiet and feel the discomfort of my own existence, the whisper to my soul is one of love. “How do I go through the coming week?” I wonder. And God says, “Let me love you.” Even as my tears become tears of relief, I realize: being loved is hard too. I don’t know how to be loved. For 34 years I have believed that I must perform. This is so deeply a part of me that an identity based on being loved feels like insanity. I must be crazy. God must be crazy. What is going on? Is He sure He really loves me? Is He sure loving me and not fixing me this week is the best idea? At any rate, shouldn’t I earn His love by doing something good? Or shouldn’t the purpose of His love be to make me good?

And so I find before me a most difficult task this week. Not to become a better parent, or a better wife. Not to hold my tongue, or have a hot dinner ready at 5:30 every day. Not to make fancy after-school snacks and remember everything I need when I go to the store. Not to have the perfect ratio of social time and time at home. Not to always listen attentively to my children. Not to affirm my husband every day. Not to anticipate and care for the needs of my family, friends and community. My task is to be loved.

This is hard because I don’t really believe I am lovable – especially when I am performing so far below my own expectations. But if I am honest, I know in my spirit that love is exactly the right place to begin. Love is transforming. Love is a safe place to be when my own self is a minefield of lies and scoffing laughter at my attempts to be “good.” Love when I don’t deserve it is precisely what nudges me toward healing: what gives me permission to be broken, so that instead of fighting against myself I can embrace brokenness and know the first moments of healing.

God’s love is too good to be true. And haven’t I always been told, “If it’s too good to be true, it’s probably not true”? Well, this time it is too good to be true, but it is nevertheless true. God loves me. He really is crazy. And this really is good news. I can lay down this ungainly burden of must-get-everything-right, and breath some fresh grace-air deep into my bones, my spirit, my identity.

How does this all work? I’m not exactly sure. But maybe one tiny step is becoming aware of my allegiance. Dare I give more allegiance to the whispers of Love than to the well-worn paths of performing and earning? Could I choose to believe that I am loved, having done nothing to deserve it? Could I take one tiny step away from legalism and toward grace: away from starvation and toward abundance?

I learned from Dr. Caroline Leaf’s brain detox program how our thoughts occupy physical space in our minds. When we develop new thoughts they begin as little “bumps” in our brain, which then grow into “mushrooms” and then big healthy “trees,” simply because we think them over and over. Conversely, we can physically remove thoughts from our brain, reversing this process and deteriorating healthy “trees” down into “mushrooms,” then “bumps,” then nothing. Death.

Life or death. Choose this day whom you will serve (Joshua 24:15). This week, choosing to serve God looks like letting God love me, even though it makes no sense. Letting Him hold me after I belittle my children. Letting Him forgive me 100 times in one afternoon. Letting Him give me gifts I do not deserve. Letting Him withhold consequences I do deserve. Letting Him get a little crazy with me. Letting Him decide whether I am worthy, because He already decided on a cross a long time ago, when He was worthy for me so I don’t have to be worthy.

Fear of Parenting, Part 2

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As I explored in my previous post – Fear of Parenting, Part 1 – parenting has undone me in many ways. The truth is, I was already selfish and overwhelmed and angry, I just didn’t see it until I became a parent. This wide revelation of my inner self often leaves me feeling naked and ashamed. Yet I am confident this is not where God intends me to remain, because He says things like “So now there is no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.” (Romans 8:1)

When I state in plain words the things I am thinking and believing (the lies listed in my previous post), it gets really clear how far my head and heart are from the truth. This provides the opportunity to explore with the Holy Spirit what the truth is. As I have done that, these truths have emerged:

  • There is not one right answer. Perfect parenting is not the goal. It’s ok. Jesus is here with us.
  • God’s power to redeem is much greater than my power to destroy.
  • Enough faith to come to Jesus is enough faith to be healed by Jesus.
  • I CAN change. But where I’m going is God’s work in me. I am neither a slave to bad behavior or good behavior. I am free in grace.
  • The only thing that recommends me to Jesus is my great need.
  • Mistakes are not preventable. They are normal. They are evidence of showing up and living life.
  • The goal of parenting is to love my children (imperfectly) and model trusting Jesus (also imperfectly).
  • God gave me the full range of emotions. None of them are bad. He experiences them all too. I am made in His image.
  • I am exactly where I need to be. I can rest now (NOT after I become a “better” parent). Jesus’ fullness is the perfect match for my emptiness.
  • I don’t have to be ashamed. His mercies are new every morning. There is grace, grace, and more grace.
  • I can give myself permission to be calm and centered after a difficult day or experience (i.e. parenting fail). I don’t have to wallow in the bad (God has no desire to punish me). I can move on, grateful for grace and the newness of the moment.
  • There will always be problems and unresolved issues in parenting. I can welcome them, knowing 1) they are normal, 2) there is not one right answer, and 3) Jesus is walking me through them.
  • My children are not disrespecting me and acting like brainless wild creatures on purpose. They are weak, desiring my love and guidance.

Isn’t it nice that Jesus doesn’t think I’m acting like a brainless wild creature on purpose, but instead moves closer to me to love and guide me? Every now and then he reminds me not to take myself too seriously. Perfectionism has a way of turning every moment of life into an opportunity to be “right.” That much pressure is bound to make even the best of us into the worst versions of ourselves. When I feel overwhelmed, it helps to imagine my Savior smiling at me and reminding me, “Don’t take yourself too seriously.” No condemnation.

I still struggle with feeling that I am ruining my children. I joke that we have a therapy fund for the hours of therapy they will one day need in order to recover from growing up in our home. But somehow softening the edges of my struggle is the truth that it’s not about me, and it’s not about perfection. Someone Bigger is in charge, and He is God, which means I don’t have to be. He is Big and I am small. He is Creator, I am created. He is Redeemer, I am redeemed. He is Perfect, I am flawed. He is Potter, I am clay. And He is all this to my children as well. I cannot mess anything up so badly that He cannot redeem it. This is truth, this is freedom.