Lysa TerKeurst - Unglued - Making Wise Choices in the Midst of Raw Emotions

E motions arent bad. But try telling that to my brain at 2:08 a.m. when I should be sleeping instead of mentally beating myself up.

Why had I become completely unglued about bathroom towels? Towels, for heavens sake. Towels!

The master bathroom is the favorite bathroom in our house. Although my three girls share a small bathroom upstairs, they much prefer our more spacious bathroom downstairs. As a result, our bath towels are frequently hijacked. Ill hop out of the tub and reach for the freshly laundered towel I hung on the rack the day before only to discover it isnt there. Ugh. So, I wind up using a hand towel. (A hand towel. Can you feel my pain?) And while using said hand towel, I am muttering under my breath, Im banning the girls from our bathroom. Then, of course, I never do anything to make the situation better. And the same scene repeats itself time and time again.

Id been dealing with the bath towel, or lack thereof, situation for quite a while before Art got involved. Up to this point, he had somehow managed to escape the woes of using a hand towel. But not this day. And his happiness did not abound upon discovering nothing but air where the towel should have been.

Since I happened to be nearby, he asked if I might please go get him a towel. I marched upstairs, convinced Id find every towel we own strewn randomly about in my girls rooms. I was preparing a little scolding speech as I marched, marched, marched up the stairs. With each step I felt more and more stern. But when I went from room to room, there were no towels. None. How could this be? Completely baffled, I then went into the laundry room. Nope, no towels there either. What in the world? Meanwhile, I felt a tightening knot of tension in my neck as Art again called out for a towel.

Im coming, for heavens sake, I snapped back as I walked to the linen closet where the beach towels are kept.

Youll just have to use one of these, I said, tossing a large Barbie beach towel over the shower door.

What? he asked, Isnt this the towel the dogs sleep on?

Oh good gracious, it was clean and folded in the linen closet. I wouldnt give you a towel the dogs had been on! Now my voice came out high-pitched, and it was clear I was really annoyed.

Uggghhhh. Is it too much to ask for a clean towel? Art was asking a question, but to me it was more like a statement. A judgment. Of me.

Why do you always do that?! I screamed. You take simple mistakes and turn them into slams against me! Did I take the towels and hide them who-knows-where? No! Did I let the dogs sleep on the Barbie towel? No! And furthermore, that isnt the Barbie towel the dogs were sleeping on. We have three Barbie towels so there! Now you have the dadgum 4-1-1 on the towel issue. And none of this is my fault!

I headed upstairs in a huff to give the girls a piece of my mind. Never! Ever! Ever! You are not allowed to use the towels in our bathroom ever, ever, ever again! Do you understand me?! The girls just looked at me, dumbfounded that I was getting this upset over towels, and then started profusely declaring that they didnt have said towels.

Back downstairs, I grabbed my purse, slammed the door, and screeched the tires as I angrily peeled out of the driveway on my way to a meeting. A meeting for which I was now late and in no mood to participate. It was probably some meeting about being kind to your family. I wouldnt know. My mind was a blur the rest of the day.

And now its 2:08 a.m. and I cant sleep.

Im sad because of the way I acted today. Im disappointed in my lack of self-control. Im sad that I accused my girls when later I found the towels in my sons room. Go figure. And the more I relive my towel tirade, the more my brain refuses sleep.

I have to figure this out. What is my problem? Why cant I seem to control my reactions? I stuff. I explode. And I dont know how to get a handle on this. But God help me if I dont get a handle on this. I will destroy the relationships I value most and weave into my life permanent threads of short-temperedness, shame, fear, and frustration. Is that what I really want? Do I want my headstone to read, Well, on the days she was nice she was really nice. But on the days she wasnt, rest assured, hell hath no fury like the woman who lies beneath the ground right here?

No. Thats not what I want. Not at all. I dont want the script of my life to be written that way. So, at 2:08 a.m., I vow to do better tomorrow. But better proves illusive, and my vow wears thin in the face of daily annoyances and other unpleasant realities. Tears slip and Im worn out from trying. Always trying.

So who says emotions arent bad? I feel like mine are. I feel broken. Unglued, actually. I have vowed to do better at 2:08 a.m. and 8:14 a.m. and 3:37 p.m. and 9:49 p.m. and many other minutes in between. I know what its like to praise God one minute and in the next minute yell and scream at my child and then to feel both the burden of my destructive behavior and the shame of my powerlessness to stop it.

I also know what its like to be on the receiving end of unglued behavior and to experience that painful sting of disrespect that makes me want to hurt the one who hurt me.

And the emotional demands keep on coming. Unrelenting insecurity. Wondering if anyone appreciates me. Feeling tired, stressed, hormonal.

Feeling unglued is really all Ive ever known. And Im starting to wonder if maybe its all Ill ever be.

Those were the defeating thoughts I couldnt escape. Maybe you can relate. If you relate to my hurt, I pray you will also relate to my hope.

What kept me from making changes was the feeling that I wouldnt do it perfectly. I knew Id still mess up and the changes wouldnt come instantly. Sometimes we girls think if we dont make instant progress, then real change isnt coming. But thats not so. There is a beautiful reality called imperfect progress. The day I realized the glorious hope of this kind of imperfect change is the day I gave myself permission to believe I really could be different.

Imperfect changes are slow steps of progress wrapped in grace imperfect progress. And good heavens, I need lots of that. So, I dared to write this in my journal:

Progress. Just make progress. Its okay to have setbacks and the need for do-overs. Its okay to draw a line in the sand and start over againand again. Just make sure youre moving the line forward. Move forward. Take baby steps, but at least take steps that keep you from being stuck. Then change will come. And it will be good.

These honest words enabled me to begin rewriting my story. Not that I erased what came before, but I stopped rehashing it and turned the page afresh. Eventually, I started blogging about my raw emotions and imperfect changes. In response, I got comments whispering, Me too.

Being unglued, for me, comes from a combination of anger and fear, wrote Kathy. I think part of it is learned behavior. This is how my father was. Courtney honestly admitted, I come unglued when I feel out of control because my kids are screaming or fighting or whining or negotiating and wont listen. I like silence, calm, obedience, and control. When its not going my way, I come unglued and freak out and it goes quiet. And then the regret comes.