The Healer's Art Podcast

I think it was spring or summer of 1991. I was ten years old turning eleven, or just turned eleven.

My uncle by marriage did something to me that is considered first degree rape in the state of Washington where I grew up.

I knew it was wrong and gross. Something inside me told me I needed to tell someone. But who? Mom? Dad? (No definitely not Dad. He would take matters into his own hands and go to prison for sure.) One of my grandparents? Who?

As I was walking home form my aunt and uncle’s house, my mom came walking toward me. It was now or never. She showed up at exactly the right moment. And we were alone. Perfect.

I knew within myself that if I didn’t say something NOW, I would probably never say it. How many times before had I wanted to say something and talked myself out of it or just didn’t find the right time? Or stayed quiet to keep the peace.

As we got closer to each other, I blurted out, “I have to tell you something!”

“What?” she asked with a slight edge of alarm in her voice.

I didn’t know how to say it. I literally didn’t have words to describe it. This was back before we were taught that nobody should touch our private parts. I had no models.

But that thing on the inside was insisting I say something, and NOW.

“John sticks his hands down my pants,” I blurted.

Silence.

A chasm of silence that was probably only a second or two, but has lasted for decades inside of me.

No outrage. No concern. Just…

“What do you want me to do about it?”

What she was really saying was I’m not going to do anything about this. And I heard her loud and clear.

“Nothing. Never mind.” And I ran home to my room. It was up to me. Nobody was going to protect me or defend me. It was up to me.

And so I resolved to just stay away from the uncle that lived fifty yards away from us and who we spent most social gatherings and holidays with. If he entered a room, I would leave. I would not make eye contact or talk to him if I could help it. With my body language, facial expression, and tone of voice I would send every signal saying, “LEAVE ME ALONE.”

It kinda worked. He never did that thing again. He absolutely touched me inappropriately after that, but never in the first degree rape kind of way.

Later I would come to understand that the sexual abuse, while creepy, was not traumatic for me.

My mom’s response was.

My mentor, David Bedrick, teaches that who you tell and how they respond is important. Anything that minimizes your experience is a shaming witness and affects how you see yourself and how you relate to others.

That day, my mother sent the message that she either couldn’t or wouldn’t help, and that is was my problem, not hers. Shame, shame, shame.

I healthy mother would have chosen a different option.

For the next thirty-five years, I would give my mother the benefit of the doubt.

She probably had some kind of trauma herself, so she couldn’t show up in that moment.

The system was rigged against her; she probably felt like there was nothing she could do.

She had so very little support; what could she have done??

It was what it was. I survived. It could have been so much worse.

I know my parents loved me. I always had a place to sleep, food in my belly, and clothes to wear.

And then one day I gathered the courage to call my dad, from whom I am mostly estranged, and ask him what he knew.

He told me he did not know about that conversation I had with my mother. I believe him. I never told him, and based on my mother’s reaction I don’t doubt she never said anything.

And then the bombshell: He told me he always got weirded out by my uncle and wanted to ask him to leave. But my mother wouldn’t agree to it. (And without saying as much, he told me he wasn’t courageous enough to put his foot down. He wanted to “give her everything” and couldn’t stand up to her. Not new information.)

The moment I learned this new information, my entire world shifted location.

I had always thought my mother to be the victim. In fact, we were victims together! I thought she didn’t have support to do a hard thing. I thought she felt trapped. I thought the trauma inside her prevented her from doing the right thing.

But my father corrected me. She had support. Repeatedly. She wasn’t trapped— at least not in the way I assumed. And trauma or not, she could have done the right thing, in fact she was pressured to do so, and she consciously and willingly chose not to.

She chose her sister and her pedophile partner over the well-being of her own daughters, all three of whom would be abused by him.

She knew.

She did nothing.

She wasn’t the victim. She was the abuser.

And then I was pissed.

I hated my mother and was glad she was dead.

Strong words, I know.

Not long after this realization, I was coached by the lovely Karen C. L. Anderson who specializes in shame and mother-daughter relationships. I got up from that coaching experience realizing something that profoundly helped:

My mother never loved me.

Not really. Not truly.

Not all mothers can or do love their children. I, of course, had made the assumption that she did.

She cared for me the way society expected her to, but looking back I can see what I never saw before. She was going through the motions. She didn’t really care in an embodied way. She never truly sacrificed. She never opened herself to me.

I was a burden. A thing she never wanted. Motherhood was the trap for her, not finances or safety or all the other things I thought it was.

She never loved me.

She never loved me!

Oh my goodness—she never loved me!!!

This realization freed me. My entire life experience made sense in a way it never had before. None of it was about me, how worthy or good I was. It was always all about her. Our world revolved around my mother in such a dysfunctional way. I was never going to gain her affection or respect, no matter what I did. (And neither was my dad.) She had made up her mind, and there was no changing it. She wanted to believe she was the victim, but really she was the one in control, abusing all of us by taking advantage of her relationship with us.

I saw the truth and the truth set me free.

I’m still angry though. It still feels unfair. But it feels more like healthy anger. Like, anybody in my position would feel this way, not that it is personal. It would be wrong if I weren’t angry.

Life is unfair, almost always. It can feel good and right to feel angry about that.

Until next time,xo,Denita

My publication is called The Healer’s Art. I love that title. It’s a phrase that came to me via personal revelation one day in the shower many months ago.

It has caused me to think about what healing really is, and what art is. As I was journaling about this, “the art of being whole in a fallen world” came to my mind. Because it seems to sum up everything I like to talk about.

Art.

Art is messy. Art is creative by nature. Art requires experience. Art is not a science, thank goodness!

I am a recovering perfectionist. One part of perfectionism, for me at least, is wanting things to be efficient. I want to make just enough food, but not too much. I want to write just enough words, but not be too wordy. Enough without being too much. It’s such a fine line to walk. In fact, I think most of the time, it’s impossible.

I remember many years ago realizing that God is a God of abundance, and perhaps even over-abundance. When we plant one seed, that seed theoretically will bear multiple fruit, each with dozens of seeds. Have you ever grown tomatoes? There is absolutely no way to eat them all! This realization helped me loosen up about the idea of just enough.

Relatedly, somewhere along the way, I realized that art requires waste. In my culture, waste seems to be a bad word, so I’ve always avoided waste as much as possible. But art requires waste. When you paint, you squeeze out more paint than you need. Inevitably, you are throwing away some paint. You shave clay away from the sculpture. It could be considered a waste, but it can also just be considered part of the process.

When I think of art, I think of feeling. Art seems to require us to feel and then express that feeling. Are there ways of expression that we wouldn’t consider art in some way? I can’t think of any. Music is expression and art. Writing is expression and art. The spoken word is both expression and in many cases would be considered art. Painting, sculpting, drawing, dance, cooking, baking, architecture, quilting, sewing… I could go on and on, but my point is that expression is necessarily a felt experience and art.

Art is a unique, messy, expression of a person.

Art is also work. It requires thought and energy most of the time. Art is not created by following the path of least resistance.

Being.

The word “being” evokes the ideas of identity, embodiment, and energy to me.

Identity is who you are. It’s the unique set of characteristics, values, traits and expressions that make you who you are. I think identity is only who YOU think you are, but often times we hear what other people think we are, and we live up to those ideas. Identity is essentially an idea.

Being is also embodiment. Beyond the idea of who you are, embodiment is the expression, feeling, and experience of what it’s like to be you in the world. If you have a chronic illness, for example, that is going to inform how you feel, how you move, how you express yourself, who you are being.

Being-ness creates a certain kind of energy. “She’s shy.” “He’s forceful.” “They’re funny.” These are examples of descriptions of energy or ways of being.

“Being” is an abstract concept, so my definitions may not be the same as yours.

Whole.

I always associate the word “whole” with the spiritual and God. Jesus, Heavenly Father, The Spirit, Heavenly Mother— whatever your choice is, that thing that is beyond us and connects us all. In some ways I think wholeness is also beyond us. Wholeness is like the horizon, by definition always in front of us. In a way I think it’s not possible to truly be whole in this fallen world, but we can practice at it, we can move toward it. I love the idea that we are never fully formed and we always have more to become.

“Whole” means complete or total. In the scriptures Christ says “Be ye perfect,” but the translation for perfect does not mean without flaw, but whole or complete. Think of a whole loaf of bread. The loaf of bread may not be perfect, per se, but it can be whole, uncut, fully formed and baked.

“Whole” also invokes the feeling of unity. Oneness. To me, “whole” insinuates connection between all the parts of ourselves. We can think of this as connection within one person, or connection between each of us individually. As a body, together we can be whole. This brings up working together toward a common goal. In this way, whole does not mean sameness, but perhaps more of a singular focus.

Fallen.

Based on my study of scripture, I think of “fallen” as the opposite of whole. Disconnected, fractured, incomplete. I also associate “fallen” with fear and shame. Adam and Eve “fell,” meaning they were severed from the presence of God. Why? Because they transgressed God’s instruction. They went against God. In this process they felt shame and fear.

A fallen world insinuates mortality, or the opposite of the glory of God. We could think of this as mundane. Fear, shame, sin, contention— these are all contrary, or opposite, to who God is. Part of our work in this world is to overcome these things, which we cannot do without a Savior. But we can work to become more holy, and less fallen.

World.

The place we live. Where we are. The context of our being-ness.

I think it’s interesting that God created the earth, or the world, as a beautiful place. He could have made it ugly or basic. I think he wanted us to think of Heaven as we navigate the fallen world. The earth itself contains a hope we can all attain.

The context of our lives is important. We each live in a slightly, or not so slightly, different world. Your world is informed by climate, weather, geography, but also by media, culture, and so many other factors. We are not all working with the same variables. Which means, each of us has a different path or journey.

Bringing it all together.

So— The Healer’s Art to me means the messy, unique work of overcoming trauma, fear and shame to understand and become a more powerful version of ourselves. It’s a journey we are all on whether we know it or not. We can make it a conscious journey, or not.

In my coaching, I think deeply about motherhood and the role mothers play in this work. I think mothers have a special place in helping individuals heal and become. Not to say that nobody else does this work, but mothers are my focus. If you’re a mom and want to learn the Healer’s Art, I hope you’ll stick around!

xo, Denita

I am an oldest daughter and an oldest grandchild on one side of my family. My mother was barely seventeen years old when I was born. I have two sisters; one not quite two years younger than me, and the other almost twelve years younger. I also have four cousins who grew up next door to me, all younger than myself.

It might go without saying, but I was born to be a mother. From a very young age, there was never a doubt in my mind that I would have children. My patriarchal blessing also reinforced the idea that I would be a mother, and that I would be challenged by motherhood.

Even so, it came as a great surprise when I had my first baby that motherhood felt like frustration and anger so much. I hated the mother I was, especially because that first baby of mine was literally the best baby.

She had clear as a whistle cues when she was hungry, tired, and wet. She was such a happy baby and wicked-smart. She was using sign language at six months old. Sleeping through the night was a little difficult, but after sleep training her at six months she slept twelve hours a night from 7 pm to 7 am. And a 3 hour nap during the day!

She should have given me an easy transition to motherhood, but I’m pretty sure I had undiagnosed postpartum depression, so I was always upset about something. I hated myself for not being the mother I thought I would be: patient, loving, delighting over my child.

The truth is, my most salient models of motherhood acted exactly as I did: yelled, spanked, and withdrew when they were overwhelmed. It wasn’t until a decade later that I learned about the nervous system and trauma and realized those models were acting out of their own trauma, and I was following in their footsteps.

I learned about coaching because I wanted to be a better mother. I wanted to stop trying to control my children. I wanted to stop yelling at them, and my husband also joined me in that desire. I wanted to ENJOY my children. I wanted to love them better.

In order for me to do these things, I had to heal a lot within myself. It felt like a long, complicated path, but looking back it wasn’t so complicated. It was basically learning to truly feel. Of course there are things I learned about shame and about my nervous system that supported me in that journey.

But really, it’s simple. Learn to really feel, and lean on the Lord. That’s what healing is to me.

Thank you for being here. For reading or listening. I hope to tell you more about this journey I’ve been on, and maybe what I share will help others to become the mom they want to be.

xo,

Denita