The true story behind The Place of Endless Lights: Part II - Facing myself

Part 2: Facing myself

The Board Room

The last blog I wrote was about facing my fears - Aria’s journey to find the Place of Endless Lights, the place where she no longer has to run from all the things she is afraid of.

Read about it here.

But there was another thing I had to face in that valley, when I was really sick with chronic fatigue.

Myself.

Part of the reason I spent so many years being so incredibly busy, was because I wasn’t really a big fan of myself. I was compensating I think. Determined to be the person I wanted to be, the person I thought the world needed and God required me to be.

Just saying that is exhausting.

The truth was, although I knew I was loved, I only really believed that about part of myself. The good part. Or at least what I thought was the good part.

The problem with this compartmentalisation of course, is that the parts of you that are ignored, become the most powerful ones.

I remember part way through the very worst of my illness, talking to my counsellor about the board meeting in my head. When I come to make decisions, I imagine it much like a board room. There’s the part of me that I like, who is lovely and kind and full of child like faith (a bit like Aria’s little brother Danny in my book), and the part of me that is cynical and struggling but has good intentions and is proactive about doing the right thing (the Aria bit). But there were also characters I wasn’t so keen on. Miss Matilda, the squirrel in my story, is fierce and feisty. Her major reaction to situations of stress is to take control.

Now the Miss Matilda part of me, was at the time, quite well hidden. Or at least I liked to think so. She only really came out when I was trying to get things done. That’s when she would appear with a clipboard, barking orders at me, and refusing to let up for a second. Because that’s what makes Miss Matilda feel in control and productive. Achieving things. Knowing she is worthwhile because of what she has done.

Getting things done, was a big thing for me. It became a particularly big problem when I had two children a year and a half apart. I basically got nothing 'done' for three years. My reaction was to redefine what it was I wanted to achieve. I made washing and getting out of the house and making jelly-paint, the new tasks to tick off the list. I wrestled with feeling permanently not good enough as a mum and remember the endless exhasusting smell of inadequacy that kept me doing and doing and doing, just to avoid it overwhelming me.

Then, of course, I fell head first into a permanent fatigue crash, and even getting out of bed was an achievement. Creating a life full of accolades and achievements to add to my mental trophy cabinet, became a distant dream. Miss Matilda went mental. I could no longer keep my control issues a secret. I could no longer keep them directed only at me. They showed up the whole time, because I could. not. rest.

And suddenly it was very obvious that I needed to be doing in order to feel a whole person. That I needed to be in control not to go bat-flip crazy at all the people nearest and dearest to me - mostly my husband. (Love you Sam).

So that was Miss Matilda. And then there was the part of me even deeper buried. This was my Uncle Stickleberry part. He’s a hedgehog in the book. A grumpy little dumpling, whose response to stress is, as you would imagine, to curl up into a ball, and preferably blame someone else.

I remember a friend remarking to me about my lack of competitiveness once, and feeling very pleased with myself. He had noticed that I didn’t really get involved with sports, and that I was quite happy to let others win. The truth, I realised after the conversation, was that I am so competitive, that I had completely shut down that part of myself. Instead of being willing to loose, I had decided I would never try in certain situations, for fear of the crushing weight of disappointment if I did loose. This is the opposite of non-competitive. It is cripplingly competitive. Desperately insecure. So convinced of my unworthiness that I wouldn’t even try. This is where I was at with ministry at the time. I was so aware of my disappointments and lack of progress that I hated it. I would dreaded church. Dreaded seeing people. Fear of failing them all, already flaring as anxiety and resentment. And it didn't stop there. I basically disliked the entire world a little bit. Everyone had the potential to disappoint me, or I them.

So back to the board meeting in my imagination. Trying to decide what to do with the day, or with my whole life. There were the parts of me that I was happy with, the parts that I thought were the real me. But also, there were the parts I wouldn't admit were there, even to myself. The parts I was so ashamed of, and so cross with, that they weren't even on the invitation list.

But the terrible truth was, I discovered, that those parts of me were the ones with all the power. They were making the decisions. But not because we’d come to a sensible and rational conclusion, taking all ideas and feelings into account and deciding to do something beautiful, even if it was costly. It wasn’t even a place where raging arguments took place between all the parts of myself, everyone shouting to be heard and no one remembering to be kind. The board room was a passive aggressive nightmare, locked in silent judgement of each other, where shamed and chained parts of myself that were not allowed to speak, would say nothing throughout the meeting and then suddenly announce the plan at the end. No discussion.

Shame was meaning that these parts of me were actually the ones in control.

Shame keeps things locked into place.

So my Miss Matilda part and my Uncle Stickleberry part needed softening and helping, yes. But first, they just needed to be allowed to speak.

In order to feel fully loved by Jesus and fully surrender to him, I needed to allow him to see my whole heart. Even the broken, disfunctional, ugly bits. If I couldn’t let him love me there, if I couldn’t let the light into those messy places, I could never feel them to be loved. They could never be shown how to shine. And I hated those parts of other people too. My compassion would run out in certain places, as I was essentially living out the idea that God’s love and grace only extend so far. Then it stops. Because I hadn’t allowed it to scoop up all the dregs in me and let them too be ecstatically cherished.

The worst part of chronic fatigue for me, was the inescapable presence of my worst self.

Here I was, operating only out of my shadow side. Disfunctional and unhealthy, showing all my worst traits, reacting in my least positive way. I was a dragon in my parenting, controlling in my marriage, ungenerous in my giving, cynical in my ministry. All the unloved parts of me were out, all the time. And I was too tired to cover them. Too weak and fragile to reason with them. I had to face them.

And the reponse from Jesus, of course, was the simplest, most difficult to understand, and beautiful truth that can ever be encountered. Grace. The tiny, most unholdable gift at the very centre of Christianity. That when we were still far off, we were loved.

That when I am uncovered. He is my covering.

And this truth is the one that Aria learns too in her moment of revelation and light.

That even in the darkness, with nothing to offer, and all of our worst parts on display. When we call out from nothing, deserving nothing, weak and close to death in every way. It is there, we find that we are held.

This is the antidote to shame. To be accepted. To be held.

And then, to be loved back to life.

Writing these characters into my story was part of this process for me. On the pages of my book you can see my exploration of these parts of me, that for so long had been such a dark secret in my life. And the truth is that now, I love them. They’re funny, and they shouldn’t be allowed to drive, but they’re actually useful in the right places. They have things to offer. It is when they are silenced and unloved that these parts of us operate the darkness.

Miss Matilda is still allowed to have a mental clipboard. But now, I try and give her the job of collecting things to be grateful for. She’s very good at it. Very efficient.

And Stickleberry, the prickly ball of cynicism who loves to show the world his retreating backside. Well, he has a soft underbelly of course. And he’s good at hugs though he sometimes forgets he likes them. He’s best unarmed by gentleness and a pinch of his friend Fuzz’ mischief. That always makes him laugh.

The Place of Endless Lights is a story about facing fears, but for me, it is also the story of facing myself. A story of facing those parts of myself long hidden, showing them to Jesus, watching those eyes that made worlds and wonders fill with love, just for them. Just for me.

My book is available for preorder here.

To read more about The True Story Behind The Place of Endless Lights, go here.

I am so glad you are here. Every click, every read, every share, is seen and greatly appreciated. Please share this straight away on facebook. That will give this blog a big boost. Thank you for your encouragement and support. Can't wait to get this book into your hands and the hands of your small people!

Katy x