The Big Bully

Growing up I never thought all that much about bullies as a subset of humanity. Being the youngest of three and the only female, I experienced boys in general as persons to battle, bait, charm, resist, and sometimes rally around when something good was happening. I resigned myself to the fact that this was the normal social framework of life and I needed to learn to deal with it successfully. Bullies were always boys…boys who pushed you down and then laughed when you cried. Or brothers who snuck up behind you when you weren’t looking, or broke your mom’s favorite vase and blamed it on you. Or the neighbor kid with funny glasses who lived for the day when he could booby trap the sidewalk so you’d flip off your bike coming around the corner and be hurled like a spent cartridge onto the driveway. The day came when I realized my understanding of a bully was way too narrow, misleading to the point of pygmy thinking, and that it was so much more than my childhood characterizations. Much more! It was the day when I looked over the wreckage of what I thought had been the construction of a pretty good life built by hard work, determination, and a belief that I could overcome whatever came my way and survive. Instead, I was struck by the suffocating reality that everything I valued and strived for was undergoing utter deconstruction and devastation. My marriage, my family, my reputation, my hopes and dreams for the future all were exploding like a disaster at a Chinese fireworks factory. The only thing missing were sirens and the TV cameras! What had happened? Who had done this horrific thing to me? Who was responsible? What could I do about it? Huge questions with no answers, and nothing but an empty feeling in my soul as if it were shot through with a blast of double-aught buckshot leaving gaping holes for my identity and reputation to seep out. I was raised to believe I knew God and that being included in my family’s membership of the local Baptist Church gave me an early spiritual identity. I have a distinct memory of going to the altar as a ten-year old, giving my heart to Jesus, and asking to be baptized. I attended a Christian college and marrying someone I met there deepened this faith identity and because of our vocations, a pattern of teaching, coaching, serving, and living in other similar educational communities across the country continued to define our faith culture. Then the music stopped! The day came that I had to quit lying to myself and admit that I’d lost touch with reality, that a marriage isn’t a marriage if I never seemed to know where my husband was or what he was doing, or that my family really wasn’t a family when its members were never all together at the same place at the same time and that no one seemed to care about it. I hit the wall so hard it literally incapacitated me. I was utterly devastated! Crying to the edges of my eyes so that I wouldn’t ruin my mascara became a learned art as I drove to school to engage with my students each morning. Having to face the empty darkness as I drove home in the evening created panic attacks that nearly immobilized me. “Angst” has a definition but, just writing it and speaking it silently to myself even now fills me with a sense of nothingness. I woke up one morning knowing that something was very wrong in my world. I was despondent and terribly sad, there was a pressure in my chest, my brain and my back that made it difficult to breathe, to get out of bed and instruct my legs to take me to work. I learned to cry tearlessly and silently as I processed shaming and shunning treatment. I put on a happy face to acknowledge a friend and pretend as if my life had some normalcy and meaning although feeling I was on the Titanic’s course with an unseen but deadly iceberg in my path. I was overwhelmed the day I realized that I was in a battle, a great and terrible battle for the preservation of my soul and the souls of my family. Who or what was in control of my life? I needed to know what was going on, exactly who my enemy was, what the rules of engagement were, and what could be done about it. I was quite certain that if I understood these things and the other people in my family got themselves straightened out that my situation would improve immensely! One summer day a very good friend suggested to me that I join her and some other mutual friends for an evening with a woman whom God was using to minister to women in our area. It seemed a totally remote possibility to me, as they were all from the Seattle area and during the summer I was on Whidbey Island, fifty miles plus a ferry ride away. But, for some reason, I toggled the invitation into my memory bank. The meeting day arrived and I wasn’t able to find any excuse not to join them and so I loaded up my trusty faithful Skeeter, “human dog extraordinaire,” and began the trek down island. Disembarking the ferry, I was so hot, tired, and thirsty I stopped by the local ale house at the landing for a beer before continuing on my way, just to settle my nerves, perhaps! I arrived at our hostess’ beautiful home in a lovely garden setting and, parking under an inviting maple tree, got my dog watered and settled before heading to the porch. Peering through the doorway past my hostess, I saw ten or twelve women looking as if they were straight out of a William Faulkner novel in their cool cotton dresses and summer sandals, sipping iced drinks while I tried to compress my 5’ 8” frame into the wallpaper to conceal my attire of shorts, T-shirt, and flip flops…