The Truth? You Can't Handle the Truth!

All my life, I've heard that line and I have no idea what movie it is from. My dad used to say it, so I assume it is either one of those mobster guy movies like The Godfather, or some western with John Wayne. I have no clue. Now that I see myself writing that, I feel like a moron. I could google it and know in a moment and not look like an idiot for not knowing the source of a great American "line". But I don't care.

I know I can't handle the truth. I suspect the truth is awful. I suspect someone somewhere knows how horrible the truth is, and just doesn't think I can handle it. That's part of the truth.

My personal truth is that I struggle every day with addictions. I'm sure people I know from church will eventually find my blog, as everyone is on here nowadays, and will realize I am not entirely what I appear. A bit about me...

My past is ugly. I've been involved with alcohol, tobacco, and sex. I've been addicted to alcohol from my first taste when I was about 7. I drank heavily all through Jr. High and High School and often found myself in the company of people who probably would have taken advantage of the situation had I ever let myself be alone with them. Fortunately for me, there was only one person who I ever let my guard down with, and now I'm married to him. Because of my addiction and so many other issues I just can't even begin to address here, I hated myself. I still do. I struggle every day with the idea that the past has somehow defined me and that no matter what I do, I can never fully repent of all the things I have done in the past that were awful. In short, I believe God can save, and He DOES save, he just won't save me. I'm not worth it.

I tell my friends at church, or the extended family who cares to listen (thanks, Uncle Bill, I love you!!) how inadeguate I feel to teach spiritual things, or talk about spirituality or my knowledge of scripture or God or religion, and they chuckle at me as if everyone's little skeletons are like mine. Like they have been addicted to alcohol and sex and great looking men who somehow manage to make them forget who and what they are. Nah, they don't know. There ain't one of those people who have even the foggiest notions as to why I hide all I truly am from everyone who might delve into my past...

One of these days, I am going to decorate my profile and send the link to my blog to certain choice individuals whom I trust and believe in. There aren't many. In fact, right off hand, I can only think of three people in the whole world, myself and my mom included, who would not judge me by my past and condemn me to the same fate to which I have condemned myself. They are all men, and they are all people I've shared parts of my past with. They are all men, two of which I can have nothing to do with because they are part of my problem. And that is my truth, or at least part of it.

But I thought I would write a bit about my life. My kids, who number 3, are great. The littlest one, who is 4, is hell on two legs. He's a monster, and I don't exactly mean that in a loving, doting way. He's just plain horrible. He's the human version of Marley from the book "Marley and Me". The worst kid ever. He's loud and abnoxious and has this "Satan face" look that literally scares the hell out of me. And he's mean. He'll just walk by and pull your hair out by the roots and keep walking like he didn't even know he did anything. Or kick you or pinch and twist your skin off. Oh, and he doesn't realize after 4 years that some places you just have to sit down and shut up and not wrestle with people. He yells in church, "I hate freakin' prayers. This is stupid. Let me go, I want to get a drink," and then jerks your hair out and kicks you with his hard shoes and bites your hand when you try to cover his mouth. If I believed in demon possession, I would have him exorcised in a heartbeat because normal children do not behave this way. He's like Dennis the Menace, but mixed with Chucky and that scary little kid on Pet Cemetary. You can't spank him because he'll wait until you aren't looking and hit you in the back of the head with a golf club or tennis raquet. If you yell at him, he'll go in his room and cry loudly and say things to himself, loudly, like, "I really hate my mom. She's so mean because she always yells at me and I just wanted to break brother's finger because he won't let me tear his ear phones off of his i-pod and that just isn't fair. And my mom is mean hateful and I wish I could go live with Tisha. I really hate my mom because she always makes me put shoes on when I just want to throw them at Dakota because I never wanted to have a sister." Stop laughing. This actually happens on a daily basis.

But it is almost summer and my hope is that if I can shoo this evil child outside in the sunshine and fresh air, some of the hateful will rub off him and people can stand to be around him. Maybe if he plants some flowers or feeds the chickens some bugs, he'll develop more of his sweet side and people won't be afraid to be around him. And maybe if I am outside, I will develop more patience with him so that I don't feel like choking him as often. I don't know.

Again, you want the truth? You can't handle the truth.