9 October 2017: Discipler and I meet weekly to read Scripture

Discipler and I meet weekly to read Scripture and articulate our best understanding of its relationship to our existence.

Before you switch off observation and click on suspicion, please read that Discipler is not a drive-by conversion-seeking imperialist whose Christian Curricula Vitae needs a boost now it’s October. She loves me. I am not her next checklist project.

Discipler and I most share our self-conferred PhD degrees in Recovery. We are both mental health sufferers in ongoing treatment, so we understand people more than the average homosapien.

Today, I described some observations and consequential perspectives. It was not intentional; Mom called in the middle of our meeting and began a never-awaited shame tirade. It only ended because I said someone was with me and waiting.

We resolve that Mom loves, but it is fear. And fear cannot healthily operate as love. Of what is Mom afraid? Oh. We all have theories, but it’s our favorite prerogative to delineate practical life realizations so I recognize Truth.

Consider them.

I am emotionally unsafe with Mom because her emotions determine our identity. Since last October, Mom and I used multiple sessions to discuss medical payments for my treatment. Today, I still owe over 10k.

In context, partnering to cover medical costs is only a piece of a larger, ongoing conversation that began in 2012 when I discreetly began counseling. I waited until college because Mom disqualified little middle-school me from counseling on grounds that I lacked need. I had just told her how I was molested at six-years-old, and was amidst a three-year abusive relationship, but she said I should confide in her and not a professional.

So, once I left home, I appealed my ineligibility, and to my un-surprise, I was deeply, deeply in need. It was so great that I should have paused my undergraduate education right then and there and entered full-time care. But I was not as nearly as self-aware as I am now, so I just plowed my way through college. I almost did not graduate, but that’s a story for another day.

What’s important to gather here is the very real fact that those middle-school-aged issues went unaddressed to the extent they became the permanent, full-blown disorders I have now.