I’m struggling here.
And I want and need to express and I want and need to be understood.
Coming up with the title of a blog piece can be half the battle, and my mind has meandered over several titles until I came up with the above.
On the naming of things…
Naming things is one of the most important things we humans do in order to communicate, and naming things (people, places, things, concepts, etc) serves so many important functions.
In this written expression, I am going to name some things.
First, I am going to name (first the adjective and then the noun) my current overall condition:
-deep discouragement (what kind of discouragement? it feels deep)
-immense overwhelm (what kind of overwhelm? it feels immense)
-massive fear (what kind of fear? it feels massive)
-battle-weary (here, the noun comes first and then the adjective…what kind of battle? it is a wearying one)
Second, I am going to name two types of military battles (and two military-coined slang-names) that in part or in whole reflect my current feelings and position:
-the War of Attrition
-the Pyrrhic Victory
-FUBAR
-SNAFU
(Please pardon my “French” in the above use of Military Slang).
I felt that throwing in those last two names/terms–since this piece is about naming things–was warranted. Although, I battle to not dwell on that kind of terminology/language and descriptor. But since I’m about to talk about two kinds of military battles, it seems appropriate to insert those “verbal summaries” (a kind of naming) of what actual contemporary soldiers speak/name in the midst of such battles…
The Pyrrhic Victory
I first heard the term Pyrrhic Victory when I was doing some counseling in my mid-twenties. I was describing one aspect of my childhood that involved having to continually fight for things I considered “normal.”
Examples of those things would include the following:
-participating in Brownies and Girl Scouts (unfortunately this was a battle I never “won”)
-going on school field trips
-going to a middle school dance
-having more than an inch of water in a swimming pool (by about fourth grade, I finally was permitted to be in and own a two foot pool…filled with two feet of water, rather than a one foot pool filled with one inch of water)
-going outside to play with friends
-leaving my yard
-crossing the street
-riding a bike
-roller skating
-having my own bedroom (with my very own bed) without it being filled with my mother’s messes and “hoarding” junk
-having a Christmas tree
-talking on the phone to friends without my mother listening in on an extension line
-opening my own mail
-taking driver’s ed at age 16
-freely participating in Sunday School and church activities
Anyone reading this list might understandably have questions as to why these things were on my list.
Each item I quickly listed from the top of my head holds a story–and reasoning by my mentally ill mother as to why the named thing was either “dangerous” or “suspicious” or otherwise “inconvenient” to her. Depending upon her mood/mental state or other factors (relationships with various neighbors and her own logic/paranoia), any one of these things might propel me–a young child/young girl who simply wanted to be “normal”–into some type of emotionally damaging battle.
Some might read the items on the above list and think that each item seems a bit trivial–not recognizing the overall situation and sum total.
Often, our overall battles are greater than the sum of any one part.
It’s just everything, or so it seems.
I will tell the specific story I recall sharing in that counseling session so long ago, and the feelings it produced, to which the counselor describe it as a “Pyrrhic Victory” (a historical battle term that is now applied to a number of types of situations).
Here’s the story:
One Friday night during middle school (probably sixth grade), I had my hopes up to attend one of the middle school dances. The preceding week was likely filled with unclear “we’ll see” or back-and-forths. Maybe I was promised, maybe not. Maybe it was the very first dance I ever wanted to attend, I don’t recall. My friends would tell me about the school dances, and I was a normal middle school girl who wanted to dress up and meet up with my friends at such events. In that day, the dances were well-chaperoned (by normal parents and teachers) and clean activities for school mates.
I mean, it wasn’t like I wanted to attend a drag show. I simply wanted to get dressed up and go to a Friday night dance where the cafeteria would be cleared out of tables and there would be a DJ, and the girls would do those 70’s synchronized slide dances or “the bump” to pop music. And then there would be the “slow dances” where we nervous, shy girls would sit along the wall in lined up chairs, pretending not to be looking at middle school boys wandering around or hoping/giggling if we thought one was walking our way…
They were days where we girls would put lots of deodorant on and I remember taking whiffs of my underarms to make sure it was working, when I was sweating. We girls would experiment with makeup and nail polish and we wanted to wear those bell-bottoms and 70’s shirts or maxi-dresses. We learned the words to Jim Croce songs and some of us had disco lights. Maybe I had even heard there were disco lights at those dances. It was all such a big deal in our little minds, and, I just wanted a chance to be normal and to be carefree and happy. Like “everyone else.”
That Friday night I must have had some reason to believe that my father might drop me off at the dance, and I had my hopes up. I had gotten myself ready, only to find myself in the middle of a huge argument between my parents (and me) in our little kitchen. My mother must have been in one of her moods where total dysfunction was on full display–she was likely telling my dad that he would need to make dinner and she would need to take a powerful sedative which would knock her out for a full 24 hours, or so it seemed (I recall she periodically took Seconal and I have memories of her being so knocked out that once, she was slumped over the kitchen table with a cigarette going and was not responding to me talking to her that I thought for a few moments she was dead) …and that “Eileen Slifer” (she often called me my first and last name, or called my father “Rodney Slifer” in the third person) that I would be “going nowhere” that Friday night…that there were ”emergencies” in the home and neighborhood… maybe even some “conspiracy” between people and neighbors that would necessitate “Eileen Slifer” staying in the house that night and that weekend.
No fun dance for Eileen Slifer…no normal for Eileen…just more FUBAR and SNAFU…with my father, a WWII vet, powerless to win the battles we were caught up in. The War of Attrition for my father had him within five years of his physical death–by a 2nd heart attack in 1979–and I was about to see what a “Pyrrhic Victory” looked like, though I wouldn’t have a name for such a thing just yet.
I can’t recall the specifics of course, so what I’m re-telling here about that Friday night is a general, typical description of things. I became very upset and was crying–begging, pleading to go to this middle school dance–as the time continued to tick away. I think my father was willing to take me but my mother refused. It was a terribly upsetting situation and I was caught up in the middle, with tears flowing (and any middle-school makeup surely smearing) with such disappointment…
…I just wanted to be normal and to go be with my friends who were planning to be at this middle school dance.
At one point I stormed down the three little steps that led to the landing/back door in our tiny Harmony Hills neighborhood house kitchen, and I slammed my hand toward the latch on the back door, probably yelling and insisting that I was going to go get into the car, while my parents continued to argue.
I put my hand right through the glass of the door, shattering the storm door and miraculously not having a single cut on me.
I was shocked by the loud and quick shattering of the storm door glass. I couldn’t believe what had just happened.
Of course, that only escalated the immense argument that was in full swing, and my upset. Now I was likely being yelled at by my father, too–although I don’t recall–and the sense of shame and upset was taking a high toll on me. I was not a troublemaker at school, in the neighborhood or otherwise. I was an excellent student and cooperative. I was shy, quiet and sweet. I never argued with my father, but, my mother was another story. I was not alone in arguing with her–my father would be reduced to swearing at her and then confessing to me, a young girl, that he “never swore before he met her” and for that, he would probably be going to hell.
That’s a lot for a young girl to carry and process–that her Daddy who took her to Sunday School and church and waited for her in the car might end up in hell for his use of profanity. And of course there is the command to “honor one’s father and mother” and the secret shame I carried with me based on the happenings in our homelife and my inability to cope with it all with a sense of “gracefulness.”
The kind of behavior my mother’s irrational illness brought out in me was so uncharacteristic of myself in any other context.
Somehow, that Friday night, I “won.”
I got to go to that school dance. It was a victory, I suppose…if it were not for the immensely damaging defeat and affect on my sense of my little, forming self.
My father took me and dropped me off, and in went “little Eileen Slifer” likely trying to calm down my crying spirit, wipe away signs of my crying eyes, and put on a happy smile…or whatever.
I was finally getting to go to a school dance.
Likely my mother was already on the phone with school staff instructing them in bizarre ways to “keep their eye on me.” Nothing about my childhood was normal.
But, there I was.
Again, “I won.”
And it was the recounting of this traumatic story (and many others) to which the counselor said, “It was a Pyrrhic Victory,” introducing me to a psychological concept that would seem to plague me at times during all of my adult life in various other contexts, indeed, right up until today.
A Pyrrhic Victory is a “win” that has taken such a toll on a person (or an army) that it is tantamount to a loss.
Etymology
-Source
A “Pyrrhic victory” is named after King Pyrrhus of Epirus, whose army suffered irreplaceable casualties in defeating the Romans at the Battle of Heraclea in 280 BC and the Battle of Asculum in 279 BC, during the Pyrrhic War. After the latter battle, Plutarch relates in a report by Dionysius:
The armies separated; and, it is said, Pyrrhus replied to one that gave him joy of his victory that one other such victory would utterly undo him. For he had lost a great part of the forces he brought with him, and almost all his particular friends and principal commanders; there were no others there to make recruits, and he found the confederates in Italy backward. On the other hand, as from a fountain continually flowing out of the city, the Roman camp was quickly and plentifully filled up with fresh men, not at all abating in courage for the loss they sustained, but even from their very anger gaining new force and resolution to go on with the war.
— Plutarch, Life of Pyrrhus[2]
In both Epirote victories, the Romans suffered greater casualties, but they had a much larger pool of replacements, so the casualties had less impact on the Roman war effort than the losses had on the campaign of King Pyrrhus.
The report is often quoted as:
Ne ego si iterum eodem modo vicero, sine ullo milite Epirum revertar.
If I achieve such a victory again, I shall return to Epirus without any soldier.
— Orosius[3]
or
If we are victorious in one more battle with the Romans, we shall be utterly ruined.
— Plutarch[4]est officers.
Some readers may know about my ordeal this past month with my van. Some may also recall the 100 mile/$700 towing in July 2022 when my alternator died in upper Virginia, and all that followed…with a van I had only owned one month at that time. A van that began a mysterious issue one day after purchase on a trip to Delaware, with intermittent mysterious the following month. A van my mechanic tested the alternator to be fine, and was taken to West Virginia and back without issue, until that day the end of July 2022 coming back from Fairfax, VA, when I suddenly lost power and steering in the middle lane of heavy DC traffic/exits.
Some readers may also be following the parasitic battery drain which mysteriously began last December, and the recent two towings and ordeals with Triple A, Advanced Auto and my mechanic–with a final diagnosis that yes, it is in fact the alternator. Again. And, the alternator thankfully was under warranty, so I just paid labor. Oh but wait, when I finally got a ride there to get it, and turned on the remote controlled battery disconnect (for the parasitic battery drain which still must be considered and precautions taken) the panic siren went off and wouldn’t stop. You can’t make this stuff up. Another two days and the mechanic got that to stop (probably taking the battery in and out did it?) and I got a ride there. I got my van back. Yay. I am thankful and grateful. I am.
However…somehow in this process I’m feeling dreadfully discouraged; it has taken a toll on me.
And now, I am fearful. Something weird is wrong with this van. I’m holding my breath, fearful. I’m not even sure the “victory” is a victory… it has all been so difficult. I don’t know if the “running OK” will last, or if I might get stranded again…this time possibly out of state on a job. I hope not. Truly.
All this happened during a time of extreme heat here, an extreme case of poison ivy, and extreme financial stressors with a July in which business seemed to suddenly just dry up, while expenses increased.
But again. I’ve won. I have work now. God provided. My van is back. I have what I need today.
Right?
Yes, of course.
And the little voice inside my head that knows it is “good and right” to stay positive condemns me for expressing my sense of discouragement, defeat and personal exhaustion.
The stress of it all and the continued struggles going forward took a terrible toll on me emotionally. So much, that I currently am having trouble seeing many things in any positive way, nor seeing any end in sight to the ongoing battles, discouragements and depletion of my personal emotional, spiritual and financial resources.
There’s just not enough of me, seemingly, at the moment.
Of course, like the Psalmists, I continue to look to God. And I pray, and ask for prayers. And I praise, and I persevere. When I am weak, then He is strong. The battle belongs to God, right?
Yes. Of course.
However, I’m having a hard time feeling God’s strength and presence at the moment. Last week within my mental processing of things, I thought about this for a blog expression:
Peace|Pressure|Panic|Prayer|Proverbs|Praise|Perseverance|Pride|Prudence|Providence
How great of an alliterated title is that? In my mind, I joked to myself, “I think I need to PEE!”
I suppose I should add “punning” to the list, too.
But seriously…though that piece did not get fully formed, we know that when we are in difficult times (such as grief, for example) that we can rapidly go in-and-out of so many thoughts/perspectives/emotions and otherwise.
Things that can see confoundingly contradictory, such as how can one “praise” and “pray” in one moment and “panic” in the next?
And now, I turn my writing attention here to the War of Attrition.
That is the battle where the “enemy” simply wins by so utterly wearing the other side down. Many of us know exactly what this is like. We all go through times where we are brought low and say, “This is exhausting…and I’m just not sure how much more I can take.”
The seemingly stronger, more equipped enemy doesn’t even have to use its full resources–they simply strategize and attack in such a way that forces their opponent to keep expending every last “resource” until they are absolutely worn down, discouraged, defeated, cornered and depleted to such an extent that they “surrender.“
As Christians, we also navigate the spiritual sides of material world battles, don’t we?
In this arena, we can deplete energies wondering, “why” or “for what purpose?” And, is this an act of God or an act of satan that is seeming like some “attack?” And furthermore, “What shall we do? Where is God? How will I have strength to endure some situation that appears to have no hope and no end?”
When we are in the midst of a hardship, if we only knew “how long” it would go on, we think we might have fortitude.
Right?
Think of a woman in labor. She knows not how long it will go on…does she only have to endure the thing for another two hours, or another twelve? And, what will be the outcome, especially in a difficult birth situation. If she only knew–if we only knew the “how long O God” and the exact outcome of some situation–we imagine it might be easier in some way.
Right?
We all go through times where we find ourselves in such battle types as I’ve named above. During such times, it can be a challenge to keep positive and to keep enduring. To keep our eyes focused on the bigger goals, and of course, on God who is our ultimate refuge and help in times of trouble.
Lately, in the midst of these battles, I begin to feel that the goal posts just keep getting moved.
That there is no end in sight, and worse, no “reward” at the finish line.
For most of us, the hopes and dreams we hold for our families and our lives, and the things we sense God has called us to and gifted us for, are that which provide sustaining purpose that help us endure difficult times.
In Viktor Frankl’s book “Man’s Search For Meaning,” he talks about how those Jews in the Nazi concentration camps who could mentally find some purpose in their sufferings tended to fare better in terms of personal survival than those who despaired and could find no meaning/hope to sustain them.
One of the reasons I take time to write and express is that it does just that–it is a means for me to express my thoughts and communicate to others not only of my own human experiences but to possibly put something out that will resonate with others who have their own struggles.
We all struggle. It is the human condition.
The sustaining focus of these past 4-5 years with my divorce and relocation back north has been the hope of somehow–against all odds–rebuilding my life, my home and the condition of my family situation, my personal and church connections and of course, my business which sustains and undergirds most all hopes of progress–all that took such a hard beating during my eight years in Alabama.
I have expended much effort and all kinds of immense emotional, physical, spiritual and financial resources, and yet, I find myself in such continued overwhelming difficulties. The situation demands me take a look at the bigger picture–how far I have come on a number of fronts–yet, the temptation to call it a Pyrrhic Victory and a War of Attrition that I feel myself slowly being swallowed up by–and the temptation to take my eyes off of the daily grace and provision of God–is immense.
In fact, that may be the battle itself: To lose sight of how far God has brought me and His continued provisions, even when it feels I have been stretched so very thin in my ability to navigate some things and evidences of His grace and provisions seem to trickle in while worries flow…He keeps making me wait until seemingly the last possible moment!
Like Jesus showing up late to the tomb of Lazarus or sleeping on the boat during a terrific storm, we wonder, “Why does He keep doing this? Does He not see our distress and know how much more we can take?”
Indeed, of course He does.
(But…but…but…we cry out!)
To wrap up this written expression here, I want to share something I’ve recently found myself fixated upon, to some degree. In my mind, this thing in itself represents the very idea of “battle-FUBAR”.
So, here goes:
Almost daily on social media, I see friends I’ve known for years announcing the birth of a grandchild or showing seemingly normal and happy images with their grown children and grandchildren. We all know that social media doesn’t tell the whole story. And yet…yet…it is truly difficult for me at this juncture to watch “gender reveals” and baby birth announcements complete with names (imagine you are a grandparent that gets to know THAT) …and to see people holding newborns right there within hours of birth…
“Rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep” (Romans 12:15) so the scripture goes and so it guides us…
..yet for me, I confess that I am increasingly struggling both privately and publicly with a number of things in my family situation(s) that I would have never imagined in my wildest dreams so many years ago…
I’ve found myself recently in conversations with those closest to me, inserting the following statement:
“I don’t even know the last names of my grandchildren.”
I say it in private to close friends because it represents the seeming absurdity of it all.
I have now asked directly those who might be willing to tell me of this seemingly-normal detail, but the fact remains there has been no response (OK, I only asked within the past 24 hours and the message remains unread) and the fact that these children are now two years old and I have yet to know this seemingly small thing, says a lot about what I am emotionally navigating and carrying here.
This is not normal. I am in a number of absurd situations on every front. Imagine if you are a grandparent, and you do not know the last names of your grandchildren.
Speaking of the absurd.
It feels absurd to work as hard as I do (and that I have done for years upon years), and yet not be able to pay my basic bills in a timely fashion, and to live with overwhelming weights and fears that increasingly affect my ability to do my needed work.
It feels absurd to have given myself so deeply to two different marriages and people (as well as step-children), and yet be in the position I am now in. The sense of being discarded in a number of ways plagues me, and those who navigate the ugliness of divorce will imagine the complex difficulties unique to each divorce.
It feels absurd to have given myself to motherhood and parenting (yes I am not perfect but am also a decent human being and was/am a good and basically normal mother who shares the same basic hopes, concerns and dreams that every other basically good and normal mother holds) and be in the position I am now in due to ideology and due to dysfunctions.
This world has a lot of absurdity in it, these days. This world also has a lot of cruelty that accompanies the many absurdities, these days.
And if you haven’t yet noticed all this–if it all hasn’t yet touched you and your children and grandchildren personally–consider yourself fortunate.
I know that I am surrounded by a number of truly caring friends; many of which try to understand that which I am struggling with. And for that, I am truly grateful. If you have read this far, most likely you are in that category of being a truly caring friend or family member.
It may be a small and trivial thing, but surely my grandchildren have some type of last name. The issue of “names” in these situations is one of many absurdities that continues to be in my face, so-to-speak.
And this blog piece, again, is about the importance and function of naming things: Pyrrhic Victories, Wars of Attrition and so much more.
My sons both carry names.
They carry their given first names…and my oldest son’s middle name is his father’s (James). My youngest son’s middle name is my father’s (Rodney). They both still carry the last name of Elfers; and twice now I have taken back what I name as the “name of someone who truly loved me.” That is, my father.
Yes, I took back my father’s name of “Slifer” which I was given upon my birth, as my last name. I gave back the names of Elfers and Sunstrom for very personal reasons. Not all divorced women do this, because there are often other considerations. It was a big decision for me in 2005, upon my first divorce after a twenty year marriage.
I had teenage sons with the last name of Elfers. And it wouldn’t make things easier in school/social/church realms to take back my maiden name. But, that was my decision after a lot of deep thought.
And so, I’m just plain curious. I mean, whatever the last names of my grandbabies is just fine with me; I’m sure that my son and his partner thought through it and also have some logic. I simply would like to know, right now. In light of the many absurdities I’m dealing with, it might be yet another Pyrrhic Victory for me to finally know!
Maybe some people reading don’t follow or understand my dark humor and sarcasm. To that I can only say, I was raised by a father who became somewhat of a master at sarcasm. I suppose it became one of my coping devices, too.
For better or worse.
So…is it “Arlo Henry (the first name of their paternal great-grandfather) Elfers“ and “Zola Lynne (a family name on their mother’s side as I understand it) Elfers? Or, are their last names after the maternal surname of my son’s partner (I am very grateful for this woman, who is clearly a loving/caring mother to my grandbabies)…or…is their last name some hyphenated combination?
I just want to know how this all works. Because, it’s confusing to me.
I just want answers.
I can’t seem to get answers to many other things such as when will my personal and financial situation stabilize or when, if and how I can go to Maine again and whether I will be permitted by one or both parents to see and hold my grandchildren again. Or, when and if we can video again.
So, I’m just asking for something that should be easy here…if not for…ummmm…FUBAR???
There. I said it. I said that terrible thing. (FUBAR)
Right?
I’m sorry. I’m sorry if this sounds negative.
Surely there is a (last) name “for him and for her”…as the title of this piece on naming here reflects.
I didn’t know their first names until Thanksgiving Day 2021 when they were over 3 months old. The way I found out and was permitted to know, seemed to also be some form of FUBAR.
There. I said it again.
I’m sorry. I suppose…
And now…like a broken record…can I know the last name of my grandchildren?
It seems like such a small thing…
No one will ever fill the lyric-writing shoes that Jim Croce wears in my mind…one of my very first albums I got in middle school was Jim Croce’s “Photographs and Memories.”
He’s a master story-teller, and my musical “first love” from middle school.
Surely at that long-ago Friday night dance–that one I showed up to in all the tearful glory of my Pyrrhic Victory, they played one of his tunes.
And with that…“I’ve Got a Name” and I carry it with me…like my Daddy did and like my sons of their Daddy did…and surely, little Arlo and Zola have a last name, too…
I Got A Name (Jim Croce)
Like the pine trees lining the winding road
I got a name, I got a name
Like the singing bird and the croaking toad
I got a name, I got a name
And I carry it with me like my daddy did
But I’m living the dream that he kept hid
Moving me down the highway
Rolling me down the highway
Moving ahead so life won’t pass me by
Like the north wind whistling down the sky
I’ve got a song, I’ve got a song
Like the whippoorwill and the baby’s cry
I’ve got a song, I’ve got a song
And I carry it with me and I sing it loud
If it gets me nowhere, I go there proud
Moving me down the highway
Rolling me down the highway
Moving ahead so life won’t pass me by
And I’m gonna go there free
Like the fool I am and I’ll always be
I’ve got a dream, I’ve got a dream
They can change their minds but they can’t change me
I’ve got a dream, I’ve got a dream
Well, I know I can share it if you want me to
If you’re going my way, I’ll go with you
Moving me down the highway
Rolling me down the highway
Moving ahead so life won’t pass me by
Moving me down the highway
Rolling me down the highway
Moving ahead so life won’t pass me by
Thank You For Reading
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