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Sharon Dunn is the author of the
Ruby Taylor mysteries. Book two in
that series, Sassy Cinderella and
the Valiant Vigilante was voted
Book of the Year by ACFW. Book
One, Death of a Garage Sale
Newbie, in Sharon’s new series
Bargain Hunters mysteries was
released in March 2007. Book two,
Death of a Six Foot Teddy Bear will
hit the stores in January 2008. Her
books have been characterized as
humorous who-dun-its that provide
an honest portrayal of the Christian
journey. Sharon lives with her
husband of twenty years, three
children, three cats and lots of dust
bunnies. You can read more about
Sharon and her books at www.
sharondunnbooks.com
Ruby Taylor mysteries. Book two in
that series, Sassy Cinderella and
the Valiant Vigilante was voted
Book of the Year by ACFW. Book
One, Death of a Garage Sale
Newbie, in Sharon’s new series
Bargain Hunters mysteries was
released in March 2007. Book two,
Death of a Six Foot Teddy Bear will
hit the stores in January 2008. Her
books have been characterized as
humorous who-dun-its that provide
an honest portrayal of the Christian
journey. Sharon lives with her
husband of twenty years, three
children, three cats and lots of dust
bunnies. You can read more about
Sharon and her books at www.
sharondunnbooks.com
My Testimony: Invisible Girl
by
Sharon Dunn
Once in high school, I found a friend weeping in the bathroom stall.
Had her boyfriend rejected her? Were her parents divorcing? No, it
was worse. She’d gotten a “C” on a school assignment. I was not
the girl crying in the bathroom stall that day, but I could have been.
Because I had no sense of intrinsic value, getting good grades
was one way that I made myself feel necessary. Throughout my
childhood and into high school, I was a superhero. I was Invisible
Girl. I had the amazing ability to only be seen when I was achieving
and succeeding.
If I had to choose only one word to describe my life, it would be the
word “rejected.” Because my father was alcoholic and emotionally
incapable of intimacy (due to abuse in his own childhood), the
foundation of my life was one of feeling invisible. As an adult, I
understand that my father simply was ill equipped to love me. But
as a child, I could only see all my experiences through the lens of
that initial rejection.
I used my Invisible Girl superpowers of winning awards and
accolades so people would see me. Achievement was my drug of
choice and I had to feed my addiction constantly. The high over an
“A+” or an award only lasted a few minutes and then I had to find
another way to feed the monster inside. I had to be the best. I had
to get the highest grade. I squealed inwardly with delight when my
perfect test score threw off the curve. I had to be the one chosen
to give the good-bye speech at graduation. I could not be second
best. I could not fail. Therefore, I only tried things I knew I could
succeed at. Like a light on a bicycle that only stays on if you keep
pedaling, I had to achieve achieve achieve or I would become
invisible again. Because I saw everything through that lens of
rejection, I was only loved if I achieved. I only had value if I got the
highest grade, the best score, the purple ribbon.
Part of the job as Invisible Girl was having people think I was
perfect. The only way to maintain such an impression is to hold
people at a distance. I never shared vulnerabilities or fears with
friends. Intimacy and closeness had not been modeled for me and
I had no frame of reference for it. God designed us to be connected
with other people to be interdependent. People who can’t connect
and can’t be vulnerable sink into depression. That is what
happened to me.
I was out with depression for many weeks of my freshman year
and for enough of my sophomore year that I had to redo the year.
Though my grades were good, it took me five years to finish high
school.
Unable to deal with my depression and because my father was
drinking heavily, my mother sent me to live with a Christian aunt in
Arizona. Things were better there. In an alcoholic household, the
only emotion that is safe to express is anger. So when I was afraid,
I got angry. When I was hurt, I got angry. When I was sad, I got
angry. I hadn’t realized that my family had twisted coping
mechanisms until I got away from my family. My aunt was sensitive
to the smallest changes in my emotions. I was permitted to do
something I had never been allowed to do before. At my Aunt’s
house, I could have feelings and I could express them in some
other form besides anger.
But the need to succeed continued. I excelled academically and at
drama. Though I was in a safe place, the habits of childhood died
hard. Like many daughters of alcoholics, I had an incredible
longing for attention from boys and men. Sometimes the attention
was romantic or sexual and sometimes it was just compliments
from male teachers. Though I guarded my virginity (not because
of some high moral standard but because part of being perfect
was holding out for the perfect first time), I crossed lines and broke
standards in an effort to please the few dates I did have.
Fortunately, I was out acquiring my Invisible Girl superpowers
when the workshop on flirting was held, so I was not very
successful at getting dates.
In retrospect, I see that as God’s protection from someone taking
advantage of me sexually. But as a sixteen year old, I saw it as just
another way I was rejected. That voice inside spoke loudest in
relationship to dating “Nobody wants you,” it said. “I will make
them want me by being the best at everything I do,” I said.
At school, I encountered Christians. None of them offered long
theological discussions, they were simply kind to me. Because of
personal tragedy in their life, my aunt and uncle were unable to
care for me for my senior year. I did not want to go back home.
When I lamented about this possibility in French class, the girl next
to me said, “You can come live with me and my family.” Her family
was Christian. They had one stipulation for my staying with them. I
had to attend church while under their roof. It was a small price to
pay.
Somewhere between my asserting that I was a confirmed agnostic
and the kindness extended to me by this family and my Aunt, I
knew something in my own belief system wasn’t working. It was
refreshing news to me that I didn’t have to do anything to earn God’
s love or salvation. So much of what was given to me had a price
tag on it, and I was convinced that I must work work work, earn
earn earn. Here was a God who didn’t want anything from me and
was willing to give his life.
More than twenty years have gone by since I made that choice. So
many Christian conversion stories are presented in terms of black
and white change. “I was a homeless slobbering drunk. Jesus
saved me, and now I am a cleaned up business man with a family.”
That is not my story. The depression, the need to achieve, and the
longing for attention from men all followed me into Christianity.
Much of my sin and habits continued. My conversion story does
not have clean exacting lines, but it does have a happy ending.
I have gained skills in dealing with the depression and fatalistic
thinking. God cured my need to get my value from achievement by
allowing failure in my life (and I was still breathing afterwards) and
He put a husband in my path who over and over loves me when I
am ugly and moody and …imperfect.
The healing happens day by day, moment by moment. Sometimes
I catch myself looking through that childhood lens, assuming
people are rejecting me when they aren’t—thinking I must do
something to earn their affection. I lost all my super powers in the
conversion. I am no longer Invisible Girl. In exchange, God gave
me a whole new set of eyes. I can see myself as God’s little girl,
loved by a Father more than capable of loving me. It was a good
trade.
by
Sharon Dunn
Once in high school, I found a friend weeping in the bathroom stall.
Had her boyfriend rejected her? Were her parents divorcing? No, it
was worse. She’d gotten a “C” on a school assignment. I was not
the girl crying in the bathroom stall that day, but I could have been.
Because I had no sense of intrinsic value, getting good grades
was one way that I made myself feel necessary. Throughout my
childhood and into high school, I was a superhero. I was Invisible
Girl. I had the amazing ability to only be seen when I was achieving
and succeeding.
If I had to choose only one word to describe my life, it would be the
word “rejected.” Because my father was alcoholic and emotionally
incapable of intimacy (due to abuse in his own childhood), the
foundation of my life was one of feeling invisible. As an adult, I
understand that my father simply was ill equipped to love me. But
as a child, I could only see all my experiences through the lens of
that initial rejection.
I used my Invisible Girl superpowers of winning awards and
accolades so people would see me. Achievement was my drug of
choice and I had to feed my addiction constantly. The high over an
“A+” or an award only lasted a few minutes and then I had to find
another way to feed the monster inside. I had to be the best. I had
to get the highest grade. I squealed inwardly with delight when my
perfect test score threw off the curve. I had to be the one chosen
to give the good-bye speech at graduation. I could not be second
best. I could not fail. Therefore, I only tried things I knew I could
succeed at. Like a light on a bicycle that only stays on if you keep
pedaling, I had to achieve achieve achieve or I would become
invisible again. Because I saw everything through that lens of
rejection, I was only loved if I achieved. I only had value if I got the
highest grade, the best score, the purple ribbon.
Part of the job as Invisible Girl was having people think I was
perfect. The only way to maintain such an impression is to hold
people at a distance. I never shared vulnerabilities or fears with
friends. Intimacy and closeness had not been modeled for me and
I had no frame of reference for it. God designed us to be connected
with other people to be interdependent. People who can’t connect
and can’t be vulnerable sink into depression. That is what
happened to me.
I was out with depression for many weeks of my freshman year
and for enough of my sophomore year that I had to redo the year.
Though my grades were good, it took me five years to finish high
school.
Unable to deal with my depression and because my father was
drinking heavily, my mother sent me to live with a Christian aunt in
Arizona. Things were better there. In an alcoholic household, the
only emotion that is safe to express is anger. So when I was afraid,
I got angry. When I was hurt, I got angry. When I was sad, I got
angry. I hadn’t realized that my family had twisted coping
mechanisms until I got away from my family. My aunt was sensitive
to the smallest changes in my emotions. I was permitted to do
something I had never been allowed to do before. At my Aunt’s
house, I could have feelings and I could express them in some
other form besides anger.
But the need to succeed continued. I excelled academically and at
drama. Though I was in a safe place, the habits of childhood died
hard. Like many daughters of alcoholics, I had an incredible
longing for attention from boys and men. Sometimes the attention
was romantic or sexual and sometimes it was just compliments
from male teachers. Though I guarded my virginity (not because
of some high moral standard but because part of being perfect
was holding out for the perfect first time), I crossed lines and broke
standards in an effort to please the few dates I did have.
Fortunately, I was out acquiring my Invisible Girl superpowers
when the workshop on flirting was held, so I was not very
successful at getting dates.
In retrospect, I see that as God’s protection from someone taking
advantage of me sexually. But as a sixteen year old, I saw it as just
another way I was rejected. That voice inside spoke loudest in
relationship to dating “Nobody wants you,” it said. “I will make
them want me by being the best at everything I do,” I said.
At school, I encountered Christians. None of them offered long
theological discussions, they were simply kind to me. Because of
personal tragedy in their life, my aunt and uncle were unable to
care for me for my senior year. I did not want to go back home.
When I lamented about this possibility in French class, the girl next
to me said, “You can come live with me and my family.” Her family
was Christian. They had one stipulation for my staying with them. I
had to attend church while under their roof. It was a small price to
pay.
Somewhere between my asserting that I was a confirmed agnostic
and the kindness extended to me by this family and my Aunt, I
knew something in my own belief system wasn’t working. It was
refreshing news to me that I didn’t have to do anything to earn God’
s love or salvation. So much of what was given to me had a price
tag on it, and I was convinced that I must work work work, earn
earn earn. Here was a God who didn’t want anything from me and
was willing to give his life.
More than twenty years have gone by since I made that choice. So
many Christian conversion stories are presented in terms of black
and white change. “I was a homeless slobbering drunk. Jesus
saved me, and now I am a cleaned up business man with a family.”
That is not my story. The depression, the need to achieve, and the
longing for attention from men all followed me into Christianity.
Much of my sin and habits continued. My conversion story does
not have clean exacting lines, but it does have a happy ending.
I have gained skills in dealing with the depression and fatalistic
thinking. God cured my need to get my value from achievement by
allowing failure in my life (and I was still breathing afterwards) and
He put a husband in my path who over and over loves me when I
am ugly and moody and …imperfect.
The healing happens day by day, moment by moment. Sometimes
I catch myself looking through that childhood lens, assuming
people are rejecting me when they aren’t—thinking I must do
something to earn their affection. I lost all my super powers in the
conversion. I am no longer Invisible Girl. In exchange, God gave
me a whole new set of eyes. I can see myself as God’s little girl,
loved by a Father more than capable of loving me. It was a good
trade.