Truth Behind the Fantasy of Porn by Shelley Lubben

Author:Shelley Lubben
Language: eng
Format: azw3
ISBN: 9780983189015
Publisher: Shelley Lubben Communications LLC
Published: 2010-10-08T04:00:00+00:00

XX

Admit One

Mama’s Heart Trauma

Chapter Twenty

Surely he has borne our griefs and carried our sorrow.

- Isaiah 53:4 (NASB)

God became my Father. He knew how much I would need Him for the can of black worms only a shocking birth could pry open.

I was on such a high the first few days after Teresa’s amazing birth. Recovering from a brutal C-section, I barely noticed the pain. I was too enamored with the five pound, nine ounce bundle of joy in my arms. Teresa was born small but like her Daddy, had very long legs. With little fat on her tiny body, the heroic mother in me rose to the occasion and proudly nursed my first baby!

At first nursing was difficult because my milk ducts were damaged from the implants. My right breast more damaged than my left, Teresa screamed her lungs out when she didn’t get enough milk. Frustrated and overwhelmed, I bawled my eyes out while trying to read through books about breastfeeding. Finally, after a couple of weeks, I started to get a system down.

Breastfeeding my baby suddenly became the most beautiful experience of my life. Drizzling quiet mornings to nurse to, I snuggled up with Teresa under a big soft blanket while she sucked to the gentle sound of rain. The safety and comfort I felt was indescribable. Not only was I giving my child the gift of nutrition and warmth, I was using my breasts for something beautiful. No longer were they objects of abuse; my breasts gave life to another human being. I felt so amazingly feminine.

I also felt extremely depressed at times. At first I was mad at myself for not constantly being in joy. But then I read about postpartum depression and figured that was why I was so depressed. When the harsh symptoms didn’t go away and nightmares began to appear, I knew something was wrong.

Trauma enters.

Every time I held Teresa I had to fight back tears. The overwhelming realization that my mother never loved me the way I loved my baby began to torment me day and night. Images of my mother’s face screaming at me entered my mind.

“You forgetful lazy girl, you never clean your room!”

“Why can’t you be more like your sister?”

“Shame on you for talking back to me!”

“Shame on you for not honoring your parents. The Bible says you won’t live a long life you know!”

“Don’t you know you could go to hell for that?!”

The little girl in me cringed at the tormenting words of shame, guilt and threats my mother barraged me with much of my childhood. The resounding gongs of her nagging voice during my teenage years were even louder.

“I’ll make sure your father hears about this one!”

“Don’t you dare or I’ll…!”

“I love your sister more than I ever loved you!”

“I see Satan behind those eyes. I’m going to cast the devil out of you!”

And she did. She grabbed healing cloths that we bought from a preacher on TV and threw them on me while she attempted to cast the devil out of me.

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