Wounds of the Heart - part 1

~Fudge Pops for Dinner~

I fell in love with ice cream at a very early age. I don’t think this is odd or remotely unusual. All kids have their favorite forms of sugar - hard candy, chewy candy, chocolate candies, sugary drinks, frozen desserts, even gum - there’s a plethora to choose from. Mine was definitely ice cream. I tried some of the others over the years of my chubby childhood but always came back to ice cream. I did greatly enjoy milk chocolate, never by itself but in all its other fabulous combinations with nuts, nougat, or caramel. It came in a close second to ice cream, but neither chocolate nor any of its candy aisle counterparts provided the level of comfort and satisfaction that ice cream did. It was perfect in every way. And fortunately, it was always available to me. 

I grew up in East Texas, so Blue Bell ice cream was always in our freezer. For those that don’t see the connection, Blue Bell Creameries is in Texas Hill Country; that’s a region in Texas that’s located towards the center - and a little bit to the southeast - of the state. Anyone could find Blue Bell ice cream pretty much anywhere in Texas. It dominated every ice cream aisle in the state and even those freezer boxes in convenience stores and gas stations. My favorite flavor was milk chocolate (an obvious match made in heaven). It was sold by the half gallon, and since there were five of us, my mother bought one chocolate and one of another flavor. The second flavor varied. From time to time mint chocolate chip would end up beside chocolate; sometimes vanilla. But chocolate was a constant in our freezer.

At one point I presented a very compelling argument for fudge pops. To me they were chocolate ice cream on a stick - far more convenient and portable than carrying around a bowl of ice cream, which is exactly what I needed as a chubby child, portable ice cream. My case was so convincing that they became a regular in our freezer which may actually have spurred my love of debate. That win was very empowering. It was either that or my mother spoiled me rotten and could hardly say no to me. Either way I won.

I can’t pinpoint the exact age I was when I tried ice cream or fudge pops for the first time, but I know without a doubt how old I was when I realized we would have the most amazing relationship imaginable and that I’d always be able to count on one of them to provide comfort in my time of need. I was twelve. Actually, I was less than twenty days away from turning thirteen. It was sometime shortly after September 6, 1987. That was the day my father died.

~A Better Place~

My mother and I didn’t live with my dad and my two older brothers. Our parents split when we were toddlers. As odd as it sounds, my mom took custody of me, and my dad took custody of my brothers. We saw each other on weekends. So when he died, my mother and I - and eventually my grandmother - moved back into the house where my brothers lived. That’s when life turned into a chaotic mess of confusion, fear, sadness, and a seemingly perpetual merging and purging of household items and furniture. 

For days after the funeral, people were a constant in our home - hugging us, crying over us, offering freezable condolence casseroles and handing us grievance cards that all said the same thing. Of course, it could’ve just been one day, but in my despair it felt like many. However long it had been, I found myself tired of people, and I was definitely tired of all the crying. I just wanted to be alone and be quiet, but there was nowhere to do that. Once I tried locking myself in the master bedroom at the back of the house, but that lasted about 5 minutes before my mother knocked and asked me what I was doing. Looking at old pictures and reading stupid cards that say Daddy is in a better place now. 

That made no sense to me. He seemed like he was in a really good place already - here. I mean it seemed that way to me. And I didn’t know those people anyway, and some of them I was related to. Literally blood related, and I didn’t know them. Almost everyone was a stranger, and no one there was around my age except my brothers and a couple of cousins. And what business did they have saying that to me anyway? I thought, That's a stupid thing to say. So I locked myself in a room to look at pictures. By myself. 

~Sweet Victory~

A few days later, since I couldn’t do the whole looking at pictures alone thing again, I devised a different plan to make myself feel better. Eating had always seemed like something I could do when I couldn’t figure out what else to do, so I started looking around the kitchen. Almost immediately I went to the freezer, crossing my fingers I would find my beloved Blue Bell gallon or some fudge pops. And I did! A gallon of Blue Bell Milk Chocolate and a box of fudge pops were both staring back at me. Heaven, I thought. But wait, choices.

I had learned my lesson about asking for ice cream in lieu of dinner one weekend I was at my dad’s house when it was still his house. He and my brothers were excited about having shrimp - which I detested as a kid - so when I didn’t want to eat dinner and instead asked for ice cream I received a resounding NO. But that was my dad. My mother was different (at least, I hoped she would be in this instant). I just needed her to say yes to one or the other and I would take home another win.

She was in the back of the house in the master bedroom talking with one of my cousins. I remember being hesitant to ask her, especially in front of him. I hadn’t prepared for an audience. Even as a twelve year old I feared judgement and ridicule, a familiar and frequent concern since I was the only girl in a family full of boys. Plus I was chubby, and that comes with built-in baggage. But I had already devised my plan of attack, and nothing, not even ridicule, would stand in my way. Plus the look on her face when I entered the room told me all I needed to know. She’s preoccupied, go for it.

With all the confidence I could muster, I asked if I could have a fudge pop for dinner. To my surprise she replied, “I don’t care.” YES! I immediately thought. I started to hurry out of the room before she changed her mind or before I was forced to shield any fiery darts from my cousin but paused and turned around, “Can I have two?” It was all very impromptu; I never intended to ask for two. And honestly it just sort of came out before I could stop it, like something else was controlling me. “Sure,” she said in that kind of dismissive ‘I can’t process that right now, so do whatever you want and leave me alone’ sort of way. WOW! I wanted to shout but contained my victory and left very quickly. One could say it presented as more of a shameless run. But I didn't care.  I was the victor once again.

~The Fudge Pop Effect~

I felt about 5% guilty of taking advantage of the situation and her vulnerability at such a tragic time - that is, until I had the first fudge pop in my mouth. The guilt disappeared with the first bite. And as I continued to eat, so did the sadness, the confusion, the fear, the insecurity, everything I had felt since the night my mother received the call that my dad had been in a bad car accident and wouldn’t make it - gone, all of it. And at the risk of sounding dramatic and for oversimplifying the situation, it was at that moment that I made the connection between emotional distress and sugar - more so, how I could use one to alleviate the other. Of course, at twelve years old I can’t really believe I was fully aware that I could falsely resolve emotional conflict with sugar on a cognitive level, but I do know that my little underdeveloped brain felt the wonderful rush of dopamine and I felt happy instead of all those other things. 

My mother’s nonchalant dismissal of my dinner request would play a role in the equation as well. Later in life I would learn that connecting all of these variables and lining them up forms a perfect little formula that equates to a perfect little sugar addiction:

Emotional distress + nothing better to do + complete dismissal of all things remotely healthy + a deep desire to feel better immediately albeit temporarily (even if unconsciously) = sugar addiction. (Really, any food, substance, or activity works here.)

I don’t think this is odd or remotely unusual either, learning at an early age to use sugar as my solace. I was a kid; sugar was an easy get. And traumatic, unexpected death of a parent is the perfect time for a kid to seek solace. In my case, the moment I was given liberty to eat whatever I wanted for dinner became my first lesson on emotional eating during a time that legitimately warranted emotional eating. It was a completely rational way of handling things; I called it The Fudge Pop Effect. Simply put, sugar made me feel better. It was just that easy.

~An Emotional U-haul~

This season of my childhood was a defining moment of my life. It would dictate the rest of my life and do so on a mostly unconscious level. Mainly because I got really good at burying most things that happened to me. All the choices I encountered, all the decisions I made, all the emotions I felt, people I met, places I went, all of it dictated by a season of eating fudge pops for dinner and quite frankly any other time I needed them or ice cream. It was easier than getting a shovel to dig it all up and deal with it. Trauma causes emotional baggage, and I learned to carry it around with me wherever I went. There have been times throughout my life when I’ve needed suitcases to carry it all, sometimes just a backpack, and sometimes I had to rent a U-haul. The season I was in determined which.

I don’t blame my mother. I don’t blame anybody; it’s the hand I was dealt, losing my dad. Besides, there’s no room to pack in any blame. There’s far more baggage than there needs to be. In fact, I think I’ve reached a point now that I’m tired of carrying it all; I’m tired of being weighed down by it; I’m exhausted from its ever presence. I’m finally allowing myself to answer the question: Is it really worth all the trouble to carry this stuff around? And the answer is easy, NO. I’m ready to hand over the keys, return the truck, rip up the rental agreement and leave it behind. Freedom from it seems a better way to travel in my opinion.

Recently I participated in my church’s corporate prayer and fasting week and got to experience some of that freedom. It was my first successful attempt at corporate fasting. When I say successful I don’t mean perfect, just successful. I attempted the sacrifice, and because I remained willing - not perfect - throughout the process, I deepened my relationship with God - something I’ve been deeply desiring lately. Actually I felt Holy Spirit have His way in me, and because of my willingness to let Him, He was able to help me unpack and He healed parts of me that have remained locked away and untouched for a lifetime. It’s like when Jesus asked the man who had been sitting at the pool of Bethesda for 38 years if he wanted to be healed, but instead He asked a girl who’s lived with a broken heart for 38 years if she wanted it mended. I think He got His answer just by witnessing my willingness to show up for the sacrifice: Heck yeah! Didn't even need a shovel.

My desire is always to be willing to say yes to God - yes to healing, yes to freedom, yes to being obedient, yes to hope and to restoration, yes to allowing Him to turn my mourning into beauty, and yes to His peace for my weary soul. I won’t always be perfect at being willing. Some days I may have to be willing to be willing. But I think - I’m pretty sure - that He’s more interested in progress than perfection. In any case, Yes, Lord, I am willing.

He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds. ~ Psalm 147:3 (NIV)