Category Archives: Healing

Blogging, Healing, Personal Recovery, Salvation Seasons, Secular Wings, The Unknown Journey, Trauma Talk

Streak # 8

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WordPress is telling me I’m on a 7 day posting streak. LOL! I should let them know not to get too excited. I’m basically not on search engines and it is up to the search engines to honour my request.

I come and go. I think this blog is about 15 years old. They sent me an anniversary note in 2025 I think. Before that, I was here, on my ACS blog for quite some time.

When up to it, I am still reviewing old posts. I enjoy the comments on them too. This really is a long history of all sorts of Zoe stuff. I owe Zoe a lot. She came into my life at a pivotal moment of addressing trauma. A part of me that gave me freedom to get in touch without fear, of my truth. Of my story. I don’t have multiple personality disorder. I purposely chose the name because it meant “Life” in Greek and way back when I needed to separate myself from the trauma of my given name, until I healed in that regard.

I was sharing with someone recently, that writing is lonely. I tried to explain myself. It is lonely if you consider that those who might benefit from reading it, don’t. But then I remember, when I first started all this, way back before WordPress, it was about me and if it helped one other person along the way, it was worth it.

Gardens, Healing, Personal Memoirs, Personal Recovery, The Unknown Journey, Trauma Talk

Sandy Bumps

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I can feel the sandbar beneath my young feet. An unexpected moment this morning as I sit here before the sun rises or the snow continues. I allow myself to just remember that feeling. Of my curiosity as to how that happens and what is a sandbar and how is it way out here so far from shore. Is this safe?

It’s a fleeting moment really. But a happy one full of wonder. I felt safe probably because I was far from shore. If only I could stay here and not go back.

I was around 60 years of age when it suddenly occurred to me that I had to embrace me, despite the trauma, in spite of my pain and fake it until I make it as I use to teach in aerobics. For my birthday, we went shopping for a rose bush. I needed something that spoke to me and to help me remember this moment. I found it in the Love and Peace rose. Almost ten years later, it continues to give life, love, peace and remembrance.

A few years later, my therapist helped me understand that I am safe. It wasn’t an easy “get” to tell you the truth. She didn’t say: Look Zoe, you are safe. It didn’t happen like that. She let me come to it on my own. She allowed me to realize, OMG, I’m safe! I’m safe and have been safe but my mind, my body, my heart didn’t know it. I had been waiting for the people back on shore to find their own safety, believing if they could just get there, then I’d finally be safe too. All those years of waiting.

Blogging, Healing, Life, Personal Recovery, Salvation Seasons, Secular Wings, Spiritual Abuse, The Unknown Journey, Trauma Talk

Community

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Though I am not blogging much as a rule, I do spend some time writing here at home. I use my search option here on this blog to look up certain words and phrases to see what I’ve written about over the years. Some of those posts I put into *private* mode. Others are *pass-word protected.*

I am grateful for my readers over the years. A community that gathered here that I found very supportive. When you change your beliefs and leave churches, all your former social interactions, end, period. They have too. You aren’t considered a heretic. You are an apostate. Doesn’t matter the reason for leaving. You left. You are no longer part of “them.” As adults you lose your friendships and your children lose their playmates. People cross the street to avoid you and if they can’t avoid you, they nearly walk past you brushing up against your arm, and pretend they don’t see you. I laugh now when I look back. I wish when they crossed the street I had done the same thing. I wish when they walked past me I had willingly run into them and said: oh hello. How you doing? as I continued on my way.

I was too traumatized to do so.

I’m glad I found my way to blogging. It was a way to vent, to process, to think, to consider, to interact, to listen and to learn. It gave me other humans who related to my journey. A place where I too made a difference as others were changing their minds about belief. We use to call it deconversion. The popular term now is deconstruction. Spiritual abuse was not really talked about when I started and now it’s a very popular topic. Trauma became a term people were talking about and before long, help was being offered online. The list goes on and on.

I miss the community in many ways, but as life moves forward, we all go with it. A lot of healing and recovery took place in this place. I’m not saying good-bye, I’m just saying . . . thanks. <3

Christianity, Death, Healing, Humanist, Pain, The Unknown Journey, Trauma Talk

Green

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Part of Carmen’s comment: “Every person brings a unique perspective to a very broad topic; one never knows what explicit comment another person might identify with. It’s all about connections. . . I, for one, think it’s nothing less than HEROIC that you actually put yourselves out there and share your innermost thoughts.”

As I turned to leave her business, I heard her say thank you. The usual thing would be to say, you’re welcome and continue on my way. This was different. I turned and faced her. Her face and bodily language wracked with her pain of grief. Agony. I had given her two hugs. A mother’s hug and a grandmother’s hug. She held me so tight that perhaps in those moments she was holding herself up.

I actually was triggered though not in the negative way. I’m not sure how to explain. She is a born-again Christian. She knows I left that world behind and over several years I have slowly just been me. Over the years I have been a willing listener to her wonder. I have also been a contributor in small bits and bites to the greater wonder. The “broad topic” of life and in this case, death. There is this huge world that exists outside one’s belief system. I had a very broad perspective. Always have. Inside the tight parameters of my former belief system, I was a bit of a thorn that way. I just never could really separate myself from the bigger picture.

My compassion doesn’t go out the door as she grieves her loss. As a mother and a grandmother I have common ground with her grief because I too am a mother and a grandmother. Though her loss is not mine, it doesn’t mean it won’t be one day, and whether so, it doesn’t have to be, because I do know loss. I met her where she was because all around the world, people mourn. I cannot shake off her pain. It is my pain too. Pain is pain regardless of your eternal beliefs. We share a common humanity. And though beliefs may separate us, it is a false separation because though we fight it, we are all connected.

So why was I triggered? This woman, in her unbelievable moment of grief that will be never ending for her, thanked me. And, in that moment, in those moments of her horrible truth, she saw me. I was confused. She followed up because I think she saw my confusion. She then seriously stood there in her grief and told me that I am so compassionate, kind and caring. What? I thought. Seriously she said, you always listen and you are so accepting and kind. You are understanding. I thought I would crumble. I felt guilty because now it was about me and not her. I shared with her that this is just me. I do death well. I don’t know why. It’s always been that way. It’s just who I am. It doesn’t matter who you are or what you believe. By this time she’s deeply overwhelmed and so am I. She then told me that I wouldn’t believe the things people have said to her. And my heart ached because in her circles “those people” are fellow believers. My heart ached because I have deeply mourned what “those people” said to me a long time ago. I know how cruel it can be to hear believers wave a hand as if it’s no big deal because, well, Jesus. The insensitivity of minimizing pain. In some circles it’s an art. :(

I thanked her for sharing that with me. I felt kind of stupid. But honestly, she gave me a gift. I don’t know why with this one person I have slowly over time just allowed myself to listen, share bits here and there but above all, just listen. And when she asked me those difficult questions, I did not shy away from slowly allowing myself to feel safe enough to answer her. “What do you do at a funeral when someone doesn’t know the Lord? How do you comfort them?” I simply said, you don’t know what they believe and you don’t have to say anything. You can take their hand, give a hug or simply say, I’m sorry.

There is a saying, it isn’t easy being green. The thing is, aren’t we all green?

Aging, Blogging, Healing

Honestly

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After awhile you lose it, things change, you toy around and just can’t remember . . . aging.

I use to enjoy blogging just to process my stuff. I miss it in a way. I do some of my own writing in a journal, but sitting here is sort of a lost art. I enjoy a few blogs I’ve followed for years, occasionally participate by joining in on the conversation, but I struggle looking at the screen and often take a few days to think about my point of view or thoughts, before commenting. Late to the conversation but grateful to be made to contemplate.

I go through periods of time where I put the blog in private mode. I just don’t want to think of it being here in a public way. Sometimes I look at old posts and I am amazed at so much content and my favourite part, the conversations.

As I age, I am reflective of the opportunity I had in blogging and being more me here than I ever could be in real life. The blog was my therapy before I actually availed myself of therapy. I worked through a ton of stuff before I got to therapeutic settings. Then I peeled through more layers of the onion and eventually reached a day when the therapist said I didn’t need to be there anymore. I’m not sure I agreed with her because it took me so long to finally get “good” therapy that I wasn’t sure I was done talking. :) I did understand where she was coming from though as she was right. I had done a lot of my own therapy myself, so when I finally saw her I was way ahead of the game, according to her. I had read the books, I knew the terminology, I had healed a great deal. I had one more thing to conquer and through therapy I found that again. Safety.

Healing, Life, Personal Recovery, Salvation Seasons, Secular Wings, The Unknown Journey, Trauma Talk

Hope

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There isn’t a day &/or night go by that I don’t find myself having a conversation with my mother. When I catch myself in this ruminating loop, I have to stop myself literally, switching my focus to the present. Hoping to reach her has left me with 66 years of dysfunctional hope. A default system of hoping I could take away her pain.

He then said: “Well, you know . . . hope springs eternal.” Dad was dying. There was no hope for a miracle. Yet, he wondered if taking his eye out would save him or give him more time. Hope can be a cruel task-master. I tried to hide my shock and tears. I let him talk. My silence perhaps told him the truth. He never mentioned it again. Maybe he let go of that hope and in so doing, embraced his reality, his “now.”

Perhaps there is a time to let go of that kind of hope that robs you of the present. That keeps you from the “now” of life. Whether it be a hope in a cancer miracle or a hope in a miraculous belief-system. Whatever form it be. No matter your hope . . . life is still a terminal enterprise. Hope? Okay. Hope that denies reality?

Addendum: Perhaps hope is wasted when one forgets that love is forever. In other words: It is love that springs eternal. Without love, there is no hope.

Agnosticism/Atheism, Christian Years, Emotions, Healing, Heretic Years, Leaving Christianity, Pain, Personal Memoirs, Personal Recovery, Secular Wings, Spiritual Abuse, Trauma Talk, Zoe's favourites

Breathe, Live – A Repost

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  • Breathe, Live.

So from my post yesterday I’ve decided to consider my words here:

“When I left the church I literally became an introvert, not my natural inclination. I literally went underground. If anyone thinks that spiritual abuse ends when you finally get up and walk out you are mistaken. It can get even uglier (depending on circumstances) after you walk away, even when you still call yourself a Christian. It can be brutal. I think this also can depend on one’s personality. I’m sad in so many ways for the days and weeks and years that I wasted grieving a world that never gave me a second thought after I left, while I sat on the computer looking desperately for help in Christian forums for the spiritually abused and hurting Christians which often can lead to further abuse. Ironic. I poured through books. Christian books, Christian authors who wrote about abuse, about legalism, about literalism, about denominations, about who is right and who is wrong, who is righteous and who is carnal.”

I’d like to climb back into this space to expand on this a bit. Yesterday’s post was a rant.  I’ve blogged about all that stuff years ago.  As the years go by though I often find myself shocked by the commitment of time and money that went into trying to sort it all out both intellectually and emotionally.  I’m not sure if I’ll ever be able to put words into the physical despair.  I always want to go there.  Always.  I likely will, probably have and can’t remember it and am too tired to bother looking through my archives for it.  Some of it will come out in my stories I will try to tell.

This post I think will be about the highlighted part above.

I noticed I typed the word “sad” in my above quote.  I’ve had a lot of sad in my life.  I remember when I wrote that word I wondered if I should change it to “regret.”  I chose sad.  After pondering it maybe the correct phrasing would be, “sad regret.”  Though I think most of us who regret are sad about it.  I want to paint a picture of who I am during those years in my 30’s & 40’s as a result of spiritual abuse.  I was devastated and wasted.  I was a stay at home mom with chronic illness and emotional stuff that was being poked day after day night after night year after year. In hindsight, bleak.  Our children were in school, Biker Dude at work, and I was alone for hours wandering in a house, a library full of books, Christian books, authors from various denominations and theological positions, and a dinosaur computer (though not at the time) that I turned to after reading the book The Subtle Power of Spiritual Abuse.  I found the forum that Jeff (co-author of the book) started many years ago.  This isn’t easy to admit.  I don’t like how I feel remembering it.  Tears well up in my eyes.  There were many years that I feel were wasted searching.  I was very much alone.

I developed social anxiety and a panic disorder.  I was suffering with *PTSD-like symptoms.  There’s more to all of this but will leave it at that for now.  One of my former friends use to say that God never gives us more than we can bear.  I use to think to myself, ‘Yes He does!’  I’d look around at my friends and think they’ve got their own burdens to bear that God allows.  I’m not adding to God’s load by sharing mine.

So what do I mean by “very much alone” . . . good question?  I think I mean I had too much time on my hands.  I wasn’t working out of the home (had my reasons) and what happened in the church paralyzed me with fear. There I was, stuck.  How did I spend my time alone?  I was a profuse reader and writer.  I took copious notes and studied.  It’s like I was getting ready to teach a university class or something.  It’s like I was trying to heal myself and heal the world all at the same time.  I was desperately looking for the one Christian truth that was true.  I didn’t know it was elusive.  I didn’t know squat.  Though I thought all these authors of books from then and now knew. Then I realized they all knew differently.  Then I tried to make the differences insignificant.  All the while there I am with my various Bibles at hand along with Strong’s and Unger’s and note books and note paper galore.  Ink, ink and more ink. Copious piles of ink and paper in this drawer, in that drawer, in the closet, in the library, in the desk, in the china cabinet, in the kitchen buffet drawers, in my Bibles, in my books, in my purse. The bookmarked websites, here, there, everywhere.  The underlining in my Bibles.  The notes in the margins.   The prayers. Oh the prayers.  Without ceasing. The prayers.  Prostrate on the floor, tears shampooing the carpet.  On my knees, sore as the knee caps bore the weight of this thin but often frail frame.

If Jesus can die by crucifixion I can damn well kneel to pray.  

Sitting on the bed gazing as the seasons passed by and sometimes not seeing anything but winter.  Page after page in my journal of poetry, things written meant for books, prayers wondering if this season, winter, would ever end.  The nights, in the dark, laying in bed, sitting on the couch, in the lazy-boy, searching the sky, the moon, the stars . . . grasping for Him. His truth.  The many spiritual baptisms in the tub and the shower.  Every moment, every cell, all Jesus all the time.  I never felt He left me.  I knew I had to keep praying, keep searching . . . the truth would come.  I’d find the right denomination, the correct exegesis, the true Biblical interpretation.  I’d find the people who were waiting for me, for our family.  God would lead.

In a very odd way the people who died at Jonestown just came to mind.  

I’m not churchless during this time.  Though we left the one church after years and walked away from our lay youth ministry, we remained.  I remained in church for many more years. At that time, I’m still surrounded by people, by activity, by shared beliefs and the hope that this church will work. Thing is, it was more of the same.  When I realized it, I walked.  But I still searched.  I, alone in the house spent hours everyday pouring through resources and praying.  The topic of spiritual abuse came out into the open. Books were written.  I read them all.

Picture me then.

I’m alone, curled up in the black computer desk chair in the computer room.  I read on the screen.  I glance at my Bible, I look outside, what season is it?  The clock ticks away the seconds, minutes, hours.  The kids will be home soon.  Didn’t they just leave for school?  You need to stop, to pull yourself away from this search, this place of pain.  You are alone here.  No one knows you do this.  God knows.  Yes.  Is there more to life than this?  Yes.  Did I miss it?  Yes.  There’s so much I missed by sitting there every day, my pacing the floor, praying, reading, studying, crying dehydrated tears, aching, sleepless, tormented, afraid, isolated and torn. That’s what I regret with sadness.  I stopped living.  I beat myself up for not being able to figure it out.  Everything became hyper-spiritualized. Everything was a spiritual war.  When I say I beat myself up I mean mentally and physically.   I felt like shit.  Listen, if you feel like that you are not living.  I use to be a fun loving person. 

Suddenly I found myself in an abyss I couldn’t climb out of but I didn’t know it at the time.  Part of me wonders if I’m still here in this blogging world for those who don’t know they are in an abyss.  Don’t hurt yourself. Don’t do it.  You are not shit.  You are not trash.  You are not stupid.  You aren’t.  Breathe.  Take a walk.  Pick up your camera.  Change the dialogue in your head.  I know it’s a huge task.  Take 10 seconds and change the dialogue.  It’s a start.  Find something that is creative.  I don’t care if your crocheting is crooked, nor should you.  Garden.  Paint.  Start a blog. Breathe.  Live.

  • *I was eventually diagnosed with PTSD and later with C-PTSD which is complex trauma. Not just one event, but several, one on top of another. Many layers, having their primary roots in the first 20 years of my life. I’ve resurrected this post since it’s resurrection time in the Christian community and though my profile here is low, I am reminded of those who are still hurting and it’s my way of saying that I’ve been there and I understand from my own personal experience.

I have added a new category on the blog, mostly for quick reference for me, titled: Zoe’s favourites.

This blog was first posted a few years back HERE.