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In The Chameleon Effect, author Chelsea McDuffey provides strategies to overcome self-sabotage and overthinking using empowered choices. Often times choices are made out of emotions which can be destructive to the mind, body, and spirit. Fear and anger cloud our judgment, but biblical principles and self-education offer clarity. The enemy learns from your mistakes even if you don't.
Choice is a fact of life. Start to view life as a series of choices so you can harness the gift of hope to change your story no matter the circumstances. God's greatest gift to mankind is free will which allows you to operate in power, love, and a sound mind. This awareness opens doors no man can close.
The Chameleon Effect encourages you to get in tune with yourself so you can make smart decisions through difficult times. Making the wrong choice doesn't make you a failure; it just means you need to make another choice.
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Seitenzahl: 242
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022
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The Chameleon Effect
By
Chelsea S. McDuffey
The Chameleon Effect © 2022 Chelsea S. McDuffey
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission from the author. For permission requests, write to the publisher at the address below.
Chelsea S. McDuffey
Chelsea Publishing, Inc.
Atlanta, GA 30318
www.damnchelsea.com
Editor: Mullen Publish, LLC
Publisher’s Note: The information in this book is true and complete to the best of the author’s knowledge. Any advice or recommendations are made without guarantee on the part of the author or publisher. The author and publisher disclaim any liability in connection with the use of this information.
The Chameleon Effect, Second Edition
Hardcover ISBN 979-8-9869988-3-1
Paperback ISBN 979-8-9869988-1-7
Ebook ISBN 979-8-9869988-0-0
Schools and Businesses:
Chelsea Publishing, Inc. books are available at quantity discounts with bulk purchases for educational, business, or sales promotional use. For information, please email Chelsea Publishing Inc. at [email protected]
Table of Contents
Chapter 1: Home6
Chapter 4: Then Came the Anger40
Chapter 5: Lonely Road46
Chapter 6: My Great Wall54
Chapter 7: Relationships64
Chapter 8: Self-Love81
Chapter 9: Fear85
Chapter 10: Change87
Chapter 11: Life after Death91
Chapter 12: Purpose99
Chapter 13: Spiritual Warfare113
Chapter 14: Forgiveness122
Conclusion129
Afterword133
Acknowledgments134
About the Author135
INTRODUCTION
Mastering positive change in your life regardless of your circumstances is The Chameleon Effect. There’s a hidden power within all of us that gives us the ability to change ourselves and any environment we inhabit. The ability to get in tune with yourself is probably the greatest well-kept secret between the haves and the have-nots. Getting in tune means operating in a heightened state of awareness with your mind, body, and spirit. Harnessing your sense of self proves victorious over any form of deception or manipulation ever conjured.
Here in our most private thoughts lies the power of choice. You still have power in your choices. If anyone infringes on that birthright, they are to be considered vile enemies. One option is not a choice, but a demand. There is always another way for you to escape the ways of the world. So lead freely and choose wisely.
The information presented in this book can build confidence, reduce limitations, and provide an understanding of the seriousness of choices. The testimonies here are to encourage stability in the sense of self, explore creativity, and foster resourcefulness. You are your greatest asset. Anyone who tells you otherwise is a liar. An in-depth look into this book teaches the importance of critical thinking, which is vital for you to survive and thrive. My story presents opportunities to gain knowledge and apply wisdom. I’d rather you learn from my failures than for you to experience hitting the brick walls yourself.
You can change your life today by understanding the power in you and your choices. Choices allow you to experience freedom in every area of your life. This grants access to God’s promise for you to have life and life more abundantly. This body of work encourages bigger dreams. Your healthy decisions are an attractive trait. They have the potential to usher positive growth in others too. Start attracting success today.
My perspective on my journey changed my life because I was able to draw meaning from my trauma. No matter the environment, I could always change the narrative of my story and you can too. I was able to fall in love with my uniqueness. Knowing that God made me with a purpose destroyed every moment I experienced rejection. I tapped into the courage that God gave me because I know wherever I go, I am never alone. My God is a god of choices. He wanted me to choose Him, just as He chose me. Please use this book as a tool to harness the power of your choices and as a path to the journey of your purpose. Inside is an escape route to a greater level of living and keys to breaking generational curses. I share this book as a word of victory to heal yourself and your relationships. As you read, you will gain motivation and encouragement to establish new traditions. You could also use this book to tear down toxic strongholds or to even spark a conversation. Either way, you have the power to choose.
Chapter 1: Home
I grew up in a one-parent household. In my hell, my name could be everything but a child of God in that house, either an inanimate object or an enemy combatant. Those were my only two choices. Voiceless and overlooked, I lived on high alert daily. My mother's voice would shriek with hostility. When I told the truth, she called me a liar. When I lied, she could not be the least bit bothered. Chaos ensued; nothing made sense; and my mother Linda always misunderstood me. Mom possessed a knack for twisting my words. It's like she thrived on fussing, or perhaps she practiced her natural gift of debating on me. Either way, I tried my hardest to avoid communication with Mom. I spent every waking moment trying to go outside in hopes to escape that house.
My Sister
From the age of nine up until I was seventeen, Mom and I were the only ones in the house. My oldest sister, Danielle, was away at college by the time my cognitive memories formed. No matter how much time we spent apart, intellectual conversations and laughter soon followed after most of our reunions. I remember when I was twelve years old and my sister had this summer job at a camp. I had never been camping before and as a birthday present, my sister paid for my stay at the camp. I learned archery, cross-stitching, and latch hook. That summer was the first time I ever had s’mores and also my first time horseback riding. My favorite horse was named Applejacks. The camp called him that because he had beige specks in his brown cinnamon coat. Despite the bugs and the treacherous Georgia heat, I truly had memorable fun which said a lot coming from me. That summer camp was epic and so is my sister.
Danielle helped raise me and has been a constant driving force in my life. She has the warm embrace of a mother and childlike infectious energy. When she came around, you knew you would have fun, but you couldn’t do too much. When I hit puberty, she bought me my first training bra. She explained that my body was going through changes and this was normal. She said everybody experiences these changes and it’s just a part of life.
This talk with Danielle was my first introduction to womanhood. However, Mom’s talk about my first cycle was a lot less smooth. I think it’s fair to say my mother was not so happy about my new changes. My sister always had the hard conversations with me. She wasn’t shy with her words. She would celebrate me in one breath and light up my behind in another. Mommy deemed her “the responsible one” which meant Danielle would do what was necessary. This title was not a badge of honor for my sister, because she often did what the adults in the family wouldn’t do.
My sister provided for our family when there was no man in the house. She took a lot of crap without so much as a thank you sometimes. Unfortunately, I didn’t see all that went on behind the scenes. I never figured out why Mommy loved it when Danielle would come home, but then Mom found some way to upset her just before she left. It was like a never-ending cycle with the two of them.
Their mother-daughter relationship is not a story for me to tell. However, I felt trapped in the middle. I just wanted us to have a visit without them arguing or Mom ending up sick. Outside the chaos, my sister made time for me before the end of her visit. We would usually wait until late in the evening and ride around the city just to clear our minds.
I remember us either at the Riverwalk, Shirley B. Winston, or at Lakebottom. If it was late enough, you might have caught us on that midnight run to Krystal’s off of Buena Vista Rd. No matter where we were, or what we were doing, Danielle always made it a point to talk to me, not at me. Sometimes the conversations were light and full of jokes. Other times, she was correcting my behavior and I loathed it. I was always trying to have fun while at the same time avoiding important issues. It was in these moments, I showed my immaturity and we had discord.
Like most siblings, there were times when we just didn’t agree on something. Nine times out of ten, I either said or did something my sister disapproved of, and then we wouldn’t speak for hours or days at a time. This pattern persisted throughout our entire relationship. I believe the age gap between us was the biggest reason for the discord; I was emotionally immature about not addressing our family’s dysfunction. I would either freeze up because I was uncomfortable, or I’d get really quiet because I was speechless. On the other hand, my sister and I grew up separately. While she was navigating life in college, I was dealing with Mom at home. When my sister left, I experienced the full brunt of my mother’s bullying behavior and her sporadic moments of chill. I never knew how bad my sister had it until I was home alone with Mom.
Danielle and I didn’t talk on the phone much and definitely not about Mom. I grew angry over the years, not at Danielle, but about our family matters. When my sister came home to visit, it felt like I had two moms telling me what to do. God forbid if I got into trouble or whatever story my mother conjured up. I felt like my sister believed Mom’s story of events. This agitated me because I rarely got to tell my side of any story. It was always like that. If my sister and I were cool, then we were cool. If we were not talking, then we weren’t talking. Most visits from my sister ended with her and Mom arguing, and I was left with an agitated Linda; all flustered and ready to bicker.
Outside of our weird mother-sister relationship, Danielle and I were vastly different and similar at the same time. It’s easier to start with the similarities. We are both witty, drastically sarcastic, and natural-born leaders. We were both raised to be independent, could thrive in solitude, and we rarely asked each other for help. Both of us got our anger from Pop which has proven to be problematic based on our shared stories. On the other hand, I’m more of an emotionally driven person and my sister is not. She speaks in subtleties which drives me crazy. She also is good at hearing what you didn’t say, but I prefer to analyze spoken words. Here is where the great divide between us begins.
In the past, I felt like my sister made assumptions about me when I was growing up. I would rather discuss a situation before any chastisement. For instance, on the night of my senior prom, I made her and my mother aware that I was going to see my boyfriend afterwards because his mother would be home. So I went on with my night. When I woke up the next morning, I got a nasty call to come home. Not knowing what the problem was this time, I gathered my belongings and hurried home.
I entered my mother’s house in confusion, and both Mom and Danielle gave me the stink eye. Apparently, I was supposed to call home when I made it to my ex’s house. If I had known they were expecting a phone call, I would’ve called them. I hated getting in trouble. I had never stayed out like that before unless I was with family. I wasn’t into blatant disobedience all the time. Why didn’t one of them just state the rules in the beginning as opposed to me learning about their demands through reprimanding? I never got to hang out with friends or attend any parties for that matter.
Misunderstandings have always surrounded my relationship with Danielle. It was a weird balancing act for me. Should I talk to her like a friend or a child? Sometimes I got it right and other times I didn’t. Outside the misunderstandings, I really believe we grew apart during my upbringing from nine to seventeen. I know so many changes happened to me during that time. I can only imagine the changes Danielle experienced. She was living on her own for the first time. She didn’t have a safety net or an option to return home permanently. I don’t know everything my sister endured, but I do know I’m not that nine-year-old little girl she knew when she went off to college. That is the gist of our relationship.
When we’re together, you can’t tell we’ve spent years apart. When we are not together, we are just that; apart. I never saw my sister as competition, only inspiration. I never wanted to be her, because I was too busy trying to be me. I really didn’t think about my sister in a negative way. How could I? She was the only person outside my grandmother who gave love unconditionally and consistently.
I remember one act of kindness in particular when Danielle came home from school just to take me to get my learner’s permit. Out of all the able-bodied family in Columbus at the time, it took my sister coming down from Macon, Georgia to take me to my local DMV. The amount of effort my sister invested showed me her love, and it’s never been matched. I may not remember everything she did or said, but I will always remember how loved I felt in her presence. Mom, Grandma, and Danielle are the three key players in my upbringing, but Danielle intentionally showed up when it counted most.
Me
Energetic and playful as a child, I ruled anything on wheels: bikes, scooters, rollerblades; you name it, I did it all. I should've been dubbed the fastest girl in the neighborhood and the only kid to beat the fastest high school boy in a bike race. Being outside meant life to me. Between school and home, outside was my only opportunity to be me. I could be free there and I had a choice. So, when Mom would make up elaborate excuses to keep me from going outside, I became infuriated. My behavior needed some improvement, but my grades were always good. I made the honor roll all through grade school and never got suspended.
For the life of me, I could not figure out why I fought my mother just to go outside and play. First, she said my homework needed to be done before I could play. That sounds reasonable, right? No. That proved not good enough. If I completed my homework and I answered too quickly, she would jump on the chance to check it. I happily obliged her request, knowing there’d be no way she could use that excuse on me again.
It didn't matter. Mom would change the subject and ask if I had cleaned my room or washed the dishes in the sink. Nothing I did ever measured up. Mom always found a way to disrupt my playtime. I could not stand her for this very thing. It made no sense to me. If she did let me outside, it always came with contingencies. I either went to the pharmacy, my grandmother's house, or I had to retrieve the mail. Sometimes I was a good little errand girl and completed all three tasks. But my grandmother didn't help my case either. She would chime in about her needing something from the store and checking her mailbox too. This occurred almost every time I tried to go outside. Ugh. In frustration, I thought, What does a kid have to do to go outside? I mean seriously, what more could I have done? Be perfect? That probably wouldn't have worked either. Mom could find a flaw in Jesus if she wanted to.
My “G”
Grandma was a pleasant alternative to my mother. She was stern and meant what she said, but she gave great hugs and really cared about our family. As a child, I was more at odds with G simply because I was obstinate, and this baffled my grandmother. She told me she used to pray over me heavily because of my stubborn spirit. She always meant well, but her children could manipulate her love.
Some family members, and my mother included, constantly called on G to settle disputes. This tactic was unfortunate because G wanted the family to get along. She tried to be free from bias, which sometimes landed her on opposite sides with me. I remember while staying with G when Mom was in a nursing home, either my mother or I told my grandmother that I didn’t cook fried food. G took it personally, as if I was being insubordinate; and she forced me into the kitchen. I was already terrified of getting burned because I had the memory of my elementary friend named Quinton getting severely burned. He ended up with a metal plate in his head because his brother dropped hot grease on top of his head.
In my grandmother’s defense, she didn’t know I was carrying around this trauma, but it was true. In fear, I stormed out of G’s kitchen to find anything that could cover my skin. I came back with my red and black hoodie on, zipped all the way up with my sleeves stretched down over my fingers. G was so annoyed with me that night.
She said, “Now get in there and fry that pork chop.”
I tried to explain I didn’t know how and she could care less. It was my first and last attempt at frying pork chops. I was also pissed that she forced me to eat it because it was so dry and hard. That was the most upsetting moment I ever had with my grandmother directly.
On most occasions, I didn’t ruffle my grandmother’s feathers. She never whooped me and she always had the best snacks. She introduced me to all the old-school TV shows like Matlock, In the Heat of the Night, Lassie, and Little House on the Prairie. Now and again her Aries spirit would collide with my Leo spirit, but we were both headstrong. I could feel the love my grandmother gave even when we were at odds. She and my sister constantly buffered between Mom and me.
In her southern matriarch tone, G would say, “That’s enough of that,” and she’d shut down an entire room of people. She was the only one who could silence my mom.
My Mom
My mother's personality captivated every audience. Her smile stayed contagious and that was just one of the characteristics we shared. We didn't look alike, but our personalities, charisma, and smiles were spot on. Mom, also known for her resiliency, survived divorce after twenty years of marriage, while successfully raising three, high school graduates. I might have struggled to grow up, but I didn't know it. I never missed a meal and always had a roof over my head. She made sure of that.
My mom instilled independence in all her children. All of us were pretty self-sufficient by the age of nine. We knew how to make a grilled cheese sandwich and bake cornbread. We also knew that Saturday mornings were for cleaning and that laundry tarried as our worst enemy. If you were smart enough, you could have the house cleaned from top to bottom before noon like my sister did (she was the early bird in our family).
Unfortunately, I bred resistance because I was not a morning person, nor do I like to clean. Perhaps my biggest flaw rested on being told what to do. For that very reason alone, my Saturday cleaning sessions would easily last until 2:00 p.m. or later. I had a habit of making simple tasks complicated because I stayed hardheaded. Mom and I were similar in that regard too.
Mom ran on stubbornness, which is like being hardheaded but to the tenth power. I usually tried things my way first and hit the "brick wall" before I listened to reason. Mom, however, commanded the brick wall and its location. I truly think Mom believed wholeheartedly that her way was always the right way. I find it ironic she adopted the very same dominating methodology as my grandma.
I remember Mom telling me how G instructed her to fold the towels a certain way and how she made Mom refold them if they failed to meet G’s standards. My mom always insisted there was more than one way to do something. Yet in the very same breath, she demanded I fold her towels a certain way too. That was Mommy. She liked what she liked and she couldn’t stand liars. My mom loved in her own way, but she did have a different side.
Mommy’s Two Sides
Underneath my mom’s natural personality raged a war I was oblivious to for too long. Mommy was a complex woman, battling her inner issues daily. After I left home, my sister told me that Mom suffered from depression, and she hated to be alone. I wish I had known that then because my anger toward my mother rested on thinking she didn’t like me. I am more understanding now, but back then, Mom’s bullying was not just because of her physical illness. Some days she would choose to bicker for no good reason. She griped and complained like it was her native language.
I felt like Mom was the warden, and I was trapped in Alcatraz. Overall, I spent my time in solitude staring at the TV. My sister said I grew up as an MTV baby, but I prefer to think of it as living the life of an introvert for the sole reason of avoiding fights with my mom. Mommy and I were very much alike, except for social interactions. I hated being alone too, but I wanted the encounters to feel welcomed, not forced. I never felt welcomed, and I spent most days threatening to leave home as soon as I turned eighteen.
Mom's good and bad days felt like a never-ending roller coaster. You never knew what mood she would be in until she spoke. She would have lucid moments, and we could talk about politics, history, or even some of her tragedies. On good days, you could see Mom’s bubbly spirit and wit flowing effortlessly. She specialized in creativity, whether she told an elaborate story during Sunday school or concocted a tasty meal; Mom could do it all. She could make magic with her hands. Cooking was just one of those gifts she possessed. She truly got that blessing from Grandma.
Mom would often make a meal out of nothing, and it always tasted delicious. Trust me, I am not exaggerating. She never measured any ingredients, either. She would continually taste test her concoction, and I thought she didn't have any taste buds left because she scalded her tongue so often. I honestly think she was immune to being burned.
One time, I witnessed Mom maneuvering a hot pan she had just removed from the oven. I thought she had forgotten the potholder, but she didn't. She explained that the calluses she developed on her fingers were from monitoring her blood sugar, and that process lessened her sense of touch. I thought Mom was fearless in the kitchen. She would get burned, cut, and bruised, but she still found joy in cooking.
Then there were times when she seemed like a different person and that version of Mom knew how to get under my skin. Her patience proved short, and her words were sharp. Mom would say some of the foulest things during those moments. When I was in high school, I remember her saying I would end up pregnant and working at McDonald's. How could any mother say that to her child? If she wanted a better life for me, then she just should have said so. Instead, she condemned my life because she couldn’t get through to me.
Mom's words could hurt more than the words of my enemies. I just wanted to be supported and loved like any child would want. Sadly, I felt like a burden she controlled. She would have me repeat certain tasks over and over again, which drove me crazy. I hated to repeat myself.
At home, Mom ruled that household from the back bedroom, and her illness showed no mercy. She suffered from sickness most of my life and was legally documented as disabled before she even became a senior citizen. I never saw my mother do ordinary parental duties, like drive a car or go to work.
A typical outing for her would be a trip to the local grocery store or a doctor's appointment. She did occasionally have extended stays at the nearest emergency room normally around the holidays. Being exposed to this constant trauma at an early age forced my sister and me to grow up at an exponentially fast rate.
My sister did most of the parenting while Mom battled her illnesses. Health issues dictated everything in our home. From food to clothing and even extracurricular activities: they all had their limitations. Mom’s physical ailments and lifelong battle with depression stripped our home of peace. I didn’t understand if her personal vendetta was ever intentional; I only knew I desperately wanted it to cease. Peace came as rarely as a unicorn. It just didn't exist.
When Mom experienced a good day, we could joke and laugh for hours while we played cards. Our favorite things to do were snacking and watching Law and Order. On that show, we could agree. Pretty much any crime investigative show was our show. We would debate on whom we thought committed the crime and what shred of evidence would convict the suspect. Those moments were the best, especially if pizza made it onto the menu.
My emotional bond with food started with Mom in those early days. We didn’t fight about food. It was a time of truce simply because we found it difficult to fuss with food in our mouths. Sometimes Mom went through bad days that would start at three o'clock in the morning. You could hear Mom sobbing loudly to the point where she would hyperventilate. The exhaustive sounds of agony woke me up often leaving me scared and on edge. Waking any child that abruptly can easily cause anxiety later in their adulthood, especially if the trauma happened regularly.
On those bad days, we could fuss from sunup to sundown. It would start early in the morning with Mommy screaming to wake me up for school. From fourth grade and all through high school, she volunteered to become my alarm clock. I didn't particularly care for the mornings because the screaming at six o'clock caused enough stress to start my day off all wrong, every day. I felt like her tone resounded so unnecessarily because I barely had any tardiness in school. I didn't have a problem with time management but waking up like that traumatized me. I thought we were in danger or maybe something much worse, like when I found out about my cousin's murder. As soon as I woke up hardly functional, Mom would start with her ritual of never-ending questions.
My grandmother used to say Mom's questions were more like an interrogation. Mom would often ask five questions, one right after the other one; and she demanded immediate answers. This behavior lasted from the time I awoke and resumed the moment I returned from school. She became my drill sergeant as if I had enrolled in basic training.
The browbeating was Mom’s normal communication style, which sucked for me because it left me feeling uneasy. I never knew what the day would bring. I grew anxious about most things and unsure about everything. If Mom experienced a bad day over the weekend, her behavior would get worse. I couldn’t escape on those days because I had nowhere to go. My only option was to fulfill every command she ordered, and she would still be dissatisfied. The house could be spotless, my homework completed, laundry washed, and yet Mom would still refuse to let me play outside.
She would say things like, “You’re a fast girl and all you want to do is be around boys.”
