Candle in the Wind

I have a lifelong fascination with the royals—which has been reignited as I’ve watched the coverage of Prince Harry and his fiancée over the past few weeks.  I love the royals’ clothes, their customs, their manners and manors, and of course, their dramas.  I always loved Princess Diana the most.  I had a paper doll of her in every famous outfit, and I played with those endlessly, making up stories for her until the poor little doll and her clothes were in tatters.  When Princess Diana died, I was shocked and saddened, like the rest of the world.  I watched every hour of her funeral and cried when Elton John sang “Candle in the Wind,” rewritten for her as “Goodbye, England’s Rose.”  Part of the reason I cried was because my childish ideas about the beautiful Princess had been shattered over the years.  I’d seen her struggle with the paparazzi, fight to save her marriage, and battle eating disorders and debilitating depression.  She truly was a candle in the wind, at the mercy of everyone else’s voices.

Elton John originally wrote the song for Marilyn Monroe.  The refrain of the song for Marilyn, is:
“And it seems to me you lived your life
Like a candle in the wind
Never knowing who to cling to
When the rain set in.”

He later revised the lyrics for Princess Di.  I’ve noticed over the years how many different people this song would, sadly, have been perfect for—Judy Garland.  Janis Joplin.  Michael Jackson.  Carrie Fisher.  Karen Carpenter.  Prince.  Whitney Houston.  Anna Nicole Smith.  All were bullied in the press and in their personal lives.  All were told that the person they were wasn’t good enough.  They were told that they were too fat.  Too thin.  Too old.  Too short.  Too tall.  Too black.  Too white.  Worthless and worth less.  And all of them believed it, though they spent their tragically short lives trying desperately to prove to the world that they didn’t.

When I think of bullies now, I think of Facebook.  I have a love/hate relationship with Facebook.  I have made some amazing friends on Facebook, and yes, I do consider them friends.  We share different interests, from reading, to cats, even a love for tulips.  I also hate Facebook.  I have been shocked, over and over again, by the abusive language and hateful comments that people make about everything—you can find a hater in the comments section of any public post.  It doesn’t matter if the post is about something as sweet and benign as kittens—someone will hate it and point out all of the reasons it’s stupid and shouldn’t exist.  There are haters everywhere.  There are bullies popping out all over the place.

This isn’t unique to this time period.  I mentioned earlier all the celebrities who were bullied and died because of it—either because they self-medicated to somehow stop the pain they were in or because they were tormented by their inner demons that were outed by bullies.  The voices of the bullies in the press and in their personal lives became louder than any other voices.  And, like Elton John’s song says, they didn’t know where to turn—they felt as though they were at the mercy of a wind that blew them every which way until finally, their flame blew out.

I understand this to some extent.  Growing up, I was awkward and friendless.  But I had an incredibly loving and supportive family and a perfectly beautiful childhood.  Then came junior high, and that beautiful snow globe of a perfect little world was shattered.  Everything I loved was made fun of and deemed worthless by certain kids at school.  These kids—these bullies—were relentless.  Ruthless.   I never told anyone—not even my parents.  The pain of having to relive it by telling them was simply not something I could have coped with at the time.  I was so humiliated and hurt that I didn’t want to tell anyone what was being said to me.  The words and phrases that those kids used, and the names they called me, are a source of deep, private pain to me to this day.

My story, sadly, is not at all unusual.  Kids are bullied every day at school and now on social media.  Children as young as eleven are committing suicide because of it.  And I know that the ones who survive, the sensitive ones like me, will have a long road of healing ahead of them—because even when the bullies stop talking, you still hear them.  I know I do.  I’m no longer a walking open wound, but I bear the emotional scars of having been told repeatedly that I was worth less than everybody else.  I spent years trying to forget how that felt—years numbing myself with drugs and alcohol.  Bullies weren’t the only reason I made that choice, but they were certainly a piece of the puzzle.  Only in the past five years in recovery have I started to learn how to be kind to myself.  To listen to the voice of truth and not to the voices that lie.  To feel the love of a God who knew me as that awkward little girl and loved me anyway—just as I was.

Do I still hear the bullies?  Every day of my life.  I have a whole chorus of haters in my head.  But every day, I take more of my power back.  The haters won’t win.  I’ll even give them some credit for making me who I am today—a survivor of a great deal of personal pain.  That pain led me to Monty’s love and grace.  To recovery.  And to the arms of a Savior who couldn’t love me more even if I was perfect.  My story may have started along the same lines as all the others who were like a candle in the wind, but I won’t let it end that way.  I may flicker.  I may burn low.  But I will not burn out.  I choose to believe the words of the One who created me, not the ones who were cruel to me.

Please, please be kind.  And be very careful with your words.  Every time you speak to someone, you write on the slate of who they are.  You can hurt or you can help someone to heal.  Please be a healer, not a hater.  Especially to yourself.

As a tribute to those who lost their battles, and as a reminder to those of us still fighting, here’s “Candle in the Wind.”  Remember: there is Someone to cling to when the rain sets in.  He will love you, heal you, and in His arms, your flame will burn again.