Butterfly Cauldron
Sunday, September 13, 2009
The Nightmare of Christianity
This post rings very true to me. My family was Southern Baptist, not Pentacostal and I attended public schools, but the treatment of children strikes a cord in me. And, while I wouldn't blame Christianity alone for Murray's actions, having grown up in a similar atmosphere I cannot deny it had a profound effect. As a therapist who attempted to help him said:
You cannot destroy a child's sense of self, that core of humanity that keeps most of us from lashing out and destroying others in our grief or pain or fury, and expect that child to grow up into a fully functional adult. Most of us who escape this particular hell DO end up functional, but damaged. So very, very damaged and, unless you move far away from those initial communities, we are not allowed to speak of that damage. I tried to address my damage with my mother. She acted as though I were attacking her, personally. Because her experiences were different than mine and she cannot conceive of anyone having any other reaction than she did. That I did threatens her in some way and that cannot be allowed to stand.
Until the fundamentalist Christian movement acknowledges the fact that its teachings can be profoundly damaging, people like Murray are going to continue. Likely, they won't be so explicit about killing because of Christianity. Possibly, they won't even realize it themselves. The indoctrination is so thorough that it works on a subconscience level. They feel angry or worthless or powerless or are filled with rage and they cannot tell you why. But when you're told from the time you are a small child that you are worthless and deserving of going to Hell, what other reaction can you truly expect?
During the brief moments in which Sanchez allowed Winell to speak, she attempted to explain the obvious, that Murray's destructive actions were influenced at least in part by what she called "a crazy-making system that has all sorts of circular reasoning. It's got bottom line rules like, 'Don't think, don't respect your own feelings in any way.' Small children are told they're going to burn in Hell. And if it doesn't work for you...[you are told that] it's your fault."
You cannot destroy a child's sense of self, that core of humanity that keeps most of us from lashing out and destroying others in our grief or pain or fury, and expect that child to grow up into a fully functional adult. Most of us who escape this particular hell DO end up functional, but damaged. So very, very damaged and, unless you move far away from those initial communities, we are not allowed to speak of that damage. I tried to address my damage with my mother. She acted as though I were attacking her, personally. Because her experiences were different than mine and she cannot conceive of anyone having any other reaction than she did. That I did threatens her in some way and that cannot be allowed to stand.
Until the fundamentalist Christian movement acknowledges the fact that its teachings can be profoundly damaging, people like Murray are going to continue. Likely, they won't be so explicit about killing because of Christianity. Possibly, they won't even realize it themselves. The indoctrination is so thorough that it works on a subconscience level. They feel angry or worthless or powerless or are filled with rage and they cannot tell you why. But when you're told from the time you are a small child that you are worthless and deserving of going to Hell, what other reaction can you truly expect?
Labels: abuse, childhood trauma, religion
I haz a new crush.
Labels: music
Wednesday, September 09, 2009
Decatur Street
If my grief were a tangible thing,
it would be a throbbing red ball
pulled from the deepest pit of my stomach.
Heavy and aching, but slowly, constantly,
in that way you can grow
accustomed to.
I could hold it like a pet,
stroking it in attempt to soothe it.
I like to deal with pain pre-emptively.
That's what I tell myself.
As if that were possible.
As if you can imagine, in advance,
the pain you will feel when your foundation
disappears.
As if you could imagine the hurt
of watching your sun fly away,
not being certain when or where
it will shine again.
Pieces of paper.
Fragile, stupid,
can-get-lost-in-the-mail
or
stolen-from-the-mailbox
pieces of paper.
Paper with government seals of admission
or rejection
or we-want-more-information-so-you'll-just-have-to-keep-waiting.
I despise them, even as I wait for them,
stake out the black box at the end
of my driveway and wait.
Just wait.
I'm tired of leaving.
Tired of brave faces at airports
and I-can't-cry-yet-wait-until-I'm-in-the-car.
I'm tired of worry.
Tired of no knowing when she'll be back
and if I can finally keep her.
If my grief were a tangible thing,
it would be a throbbing red ball
pulled from the deepest pit of my stomach.
Heavy and aching, but slowly, constantly,
in that way you can grow
accustomed to.
I could hold it like a pet,
stroking it in attempt to soothe it.
I like to deal with pain pre-emptively.
That's what I tell myself.
As if that were possible.
As if you can imagine, in advance,
the pain you will feel when your foundation
disappears.
As if you could imagine the hurt
of watching your sun fly away,
not being certain when or where
it will shine again.
Pieces of paper.
Fragile, stupid,
can-get-lost-in-the-mail
or
stolen-from-the-mailbox
pieces of paper.
Paper with government seals of admission
or rejection
or we-want-more-information-so-you'll-just-have-to-keep-waiting.
I despise them, even as I wait for them,
stake out the black box at the end
of my driveway and wait.
Just wait.
I'm tired of leaving.
Tired of brave faces at airports
and I-can't-cry-yet-wait-until-I'm-in-the-car.
I'm tired of worry.
Tired of no knowing when she'll be back
and if I can finally keep her.
Labels: poetry
