Puzzles

My wife loves jigsaw puzzles. In fact, the passion for puzzles goes back generations. Often during family get-togethers, my mother-in-law, sister-in-law, and wife will join around the dining room table for hours of puzzle assembly fun. My wife’s grandparents enjoyed puzzles as well. I, on the other hand, can’t stand puzzles. They stress me out. Maybe because I’m not good at them. Maybe because I don’t have the patience or see the point. Why spend hours working on something which will only be torn apart and put back in a box? I just don’t get it.

I do however enjoy a good word puzzle. Not necessarily Scrabble or Mad Gab (although those are fun). I love to write. Words can shift a perspective, comfort a broken heart, deepen a conviction or rekindle a dream. Words can transform the mind, start a revolution and reshape society. Words have incredible power. Words give me power when I feel powerless. Writing isn’t easy, and it can be quite time consuming and emotionally draining. Yet there is almost always a pay off, even if I’m the only audience, even if the process only brings a sense of self-consolation.

I wouldn’t be a writer if I weren’t also an analyzer. My mind is a freeway of speeding and stalled thoughts. Some buzz by while others sit stagnant, stranded on the berm or smoking under the overpass. Some are surrounded by police cars and EMS. Some are on a wrecker headed to the junkyard. It’s like my brain is stuck in a wide-eyed REM cycle, constantly defragmenting memories, experiences and emotions. The inner dialog rarely stops.

Sometimes, I’m assembling blogs or constructing lyrics. Other times, I’m building a case against myself - entertaining negative thoughts and marinating in self-doubt. However, things have gotten better over the years. There are many times when I genuinely enjoy the moment instead of picking it apart. I’m generally more positive than I used to be and have better control over the inner conversation. I used to think I was a freak of nature, but have, over time, accepted my crazy mind for what it is. I suppose this relentless processing of information is my brain’s way of making sense of the world, and writing is my way of putting the craziness to rest.

Thankfully, God has also brought some amazing people into my life. In 2018, I started corresponding with Cheryl through email. Soon after, we spoke on the phone. In 2019, she flew all the way from California to Ohio to visit me. Come to find out, Cheryl was the mother I never had. She and I are a lot alike. She understands my crazy brain. She understands trauma. She understands rejection and abandonment. And she plays the piano and loves music. Cheryl and I actually go way back. See, Cheryl and her husband worked with my parents in Chalon, France between 1977 and 1978, and Cheryl knew me as a shy brown-eyed, brown-hair two-year-old. Few people get me like Cheryl does and along the way, she has repeatedly reminded me that God is proud of me and loves me just the way I am. Both Cheryl and I have been on a long path of healing and self-discovery. Like me, whether it be health-related or emotion-related, Cheryl wants to know the why’s and how’s. We’ve had many deep discussions about many deep things. It’s good to know I’m not the only analyzer in the world.

In my quest for answers, I’ve spent a lot of time looking within myself. I’ve tried to unpack why my body reacts to stress the way it does. I’ve tried to pinpoint and then avoid triggers as much as possible. I’ve set new emotional boundaries. Some days are pretty good, others are not. In the end, I want to be a healthier person - physically and mentally. My upbringing would tell me that “self-care” is the antithesis of godliness. But I would argue that a person can only be as healthy “externally” as they are “internally.” As any good stewardess would suggest, it’s better to put the oxygen mask on your own face before assisting those around you. For me, it’s been a slow process, but like I’ve said so many times, I’m making progress and the breathing is getting easier.

For the last couple months, I’ve been meeting with a new therapist who specializes in EMDR. We’ve so far covered specific debilitating thoughts such as “I am all alone” and “I don’t fit in.” The experience is nothing flashy. I hold two vibrating paddles, one in each hand, and with some guidance, I meditate on certain memories and allow my brain to wander. After 60 seconds or so, I take a short break and my therapist and I talk through my thoughts. This process is repeated 4-5 times in a session.

Next week, we’ll start working through some of my traumatic childhood memories. There’s part of me which is curious. Yet part of me is downright scared. It’s like opening a dark cellar and reaching for the light switch. I’m not sure what might be crawling on the wall or what might be dangling from the ceiling. I’m more convinced than ever that I was abused as a young child. I certainly witnessed some pretty awful things. Some would say it’s better not to know. But again, I desperately and instinctively want to understand the why’s and how’s…even if it’s painful…even if the layer peeling leaves me feeling exposed and insecure.

My mind is a puzzle. My body is a puzzle. My history is a puzzle. And then there are other puzzles. My biological family is a puzzle - or should I say, a train wreck. It’s pointless to waste my life trying to salvage twisted metal and shattered glass. My son, on the other hand, is an amazing and complex puzzle which I’ve left in God’s hands. I can see the puzzle coming together, but I’m more or less watching from the sidelines. The more I let go, the more I see progress. I want to be the dad I wish I had. Yet my son’s needs are different than my own. He speaks a different love language. Words of affirmation and affection aren’t his thing. His inner voices and emotional triggers are different. I’ve learned to pray more and let God do what He needs to do in my son’s heart.

For the time being, I have chosen to focus on myself - as I am the only puzzle I can alter. As selfish as it feels, I’m learning to prioritize my own healing as my mental health ultimately affects everyone I love. It’s taken me years to understand myself, and I’m still on the journey. There are days when I wake up discouraged - times when I feel crazy…or alone…or guilty for not being the person God wants me to be. But then, I’m reminded that God understands the puzzle, and I imagine Him leaning over me slowly guiding my hand as I press another puzzle piece into place. “I understand you, son,” He whispers, “It will all be ok.” And with this image, I realize why my wife loves puzzles. It’s not the pursuit of the finished puzzle which brings her the most joy, it’s the company.

“For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well. My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place, when I was woven together in the depths of the earth. Your eyes saw my unformed body; all the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.” Psalm 139:13-16