So … my name is not really Ferrell McClanahan.  I made that up.  It is a combination of my grandmother’s last names.  I haven’t shared my real name for a couple reasons.

First – protection, for myself and my daughter.

We are the survivors of an all out, no holds barred, gloves off, two year war for protection with a serious emotional-financial-verbal-sexual-about-to-escalate-into-physical-abuse abuser.  A quietly-covertly-lurking-in-dark-rooms-changing-knobs-on-doors-to-ones-with-a-key-that-only-he-has type abuser.  When the Judge gave us a year to live in this blue house, he also granted me a divorce and a restraining order and terminated contact between my ex and our daughter.  Even so, it doesn’t always feel safe and, truthfully, probably isn’t.  Creating even a gauzy partition between us and him by making it a little less obvious to curious seekers of information allows me a translucent pretense of security.

Second – respect for myself and others, including him.

I want to pursue the things which make for peace and the building up of myself and others (Romans 14:19).

I’m reluctant to share my name for even his sake … maybe that is misguided … this is all still so fresh.  I would support and be proud of anyone in a similar situation who chose to call the perpetrator out, so sick of the silence might she be, that she chooses to shout it from the mountaintops, unable to keep quiet for one more moment.  Truth is on my side, but there is a part of this story that is not mine to tell … it is my daughter’s and it is for her to decide when and if she shares her experience.  Or, it could be a vestigial tendril of the abusive control he had over me, even my voice…  Or, it could be part of the fear instilled in me during the separation and custody battle phase.  There are moments I would love nothing more than to pop in on Facebook and announce to all who have “liked” his interminable stream of old pictures of our daughter … “He abused her!  He abused this sweet little innocent child that you are ignorantly thumbs-upping!  You are complicit in condoning the behavior of a malignant narcissist!”  But, I don’t.  Is that powerless or powerful?  I don’t want to be a part of the yuck anymore.  I want more yum.  I want to gather beauty and give it away.

In the meantime, I surrender my frustrations to the One who has fulfilled His promise to contend with him who has contended with me and save my child (Isaiah 49:25).  I am here to speak for myself as opposed to against another.  I am here to tell my story and bear witness to this year we’re presently living.   This is sacred space to walk my own path, to speak my truth and hope there is healing in the telling and, maybe, the reading.  Who am I to determine what he needs for his growth or the direction in which he should go or to arrogantly interfere with his “process” in any way.

Yes, who am I?   I realized recently that I am just as God made me, perfectly imperfect and I do not need fixing.  I am kind and loving.  I am a good mother and friend.  I do not need “help.”  My help comes from the Maker of heaven and earth – the One in whom I have faith and from whom I attempt to receive direction in every moment.  I am proudly flawed and Loved deeply and completely, without judgement, under Grace, and by divine right in spite of that.  A daughter of the King of Kings.  One of the many beloved children of the Star Breather.  That is who I am.  That is Whose I am.