Butterfly Cauldron

My mother believes I've never allowed myself to be happy.

She says she doesn't know why that is. She says she doesn't know why I don't always seem to believe she loves me. And, I could explain it all to her, but I'm not sure she'd understand.

I was raised in a very conservative Southern Baptist Church, by parents who were and who remain wholly devoted to their faith. It is their very breath, my mother has said, and she is not exaggerating. Our lives revolved around the church when I was a child. We went at least three times a week: Sunday morning, Sunday night and Wednesday night. Our weekends were generally filled with church-related activities: youth rallies, revivals, prayer meetings. My friends were made at church. The first time a boy actively hit on me was at church. The first concert I attended was a church concert. The first play I performed in was a church play. The church and it's teaching were the core of my life.

So, when the teachers tell you that Jesus loves you, you believe it. And when they tell you that Jesus will also send you to Hell, you believe that too. That these things were incompatible never seemed to occur to anyone else, but they certainly occured to me.

My mother would never understand that the very thing that gives her such great peace is the source of my greatest pains. She'd never understand that being told, repeatedly, that I was not worthy of God's love made me feel I wasn't worthy of anyone's love. After all, if God couldn't love me, how could any human being? If I deserved to die and then to burn eternally in Hellfire, regardless of my sincere desire to be good, to do good, then how was anything I could ever possibly do good enough? How could I ever be good enough? How could I ever try hard enough? I threw myself into Bible study, into prayer. I begged God to love me, to accept me, to tell me I was Good Enough.

But that never happened. No matter how much I tried to assure myself that I had done all the right things, I had prayed all the right prayers, I had opened myself completely to God. That fear never went away. That terror that still wakes me in the middle of the night -- that Jesus has come again and I've been left alone, abandoned, forgotten. Because I wasn't Enough. I could never be Enough. God loves me, but I'm going to Hell. My sins, such as they were, were too great. I was too broken. I was too unlovable, too unsalvagable.

What could an 8-year-old child do that was so horrible she could never be forgiven? I didn't know, but I was sure I had done it. I was 8 when my first phobia manifested. I became terribly afraid of water. Why water? I don't know. But I was stricken with a certainty that something, some demon was going to come up the pipes while I took a shower or a bath. I used to grab my cat and my radio, go into the bathroom and lock the door, run a bath, turn the music up really loud and then lay on the floor, sobbing into my cat's fur, too petrified to actually get into the water. But I knew I couldn't tell my parents. I was certain they'd tell me I was being stupid. I was certain they'd tell me no such thing could happen. But, if demons were real -- and the Bible said they were -- then why couldn't it happen? Why couldn't a demon decide to possess me? It had happened in the Bible, to people who were seemingly innocent. And I, well I was worse than that. I was certain of it. I'd been told. I'd been taught. No one is good enough for God. No one deserves to go to Heaven. We all deserve to burn forever. I deserved to burn forever. So why not a demon?

So I didn't tell my parents and I continued to go to church. Three, four, sometimes seven times a week or more. Year after year, drummed into my head: You're bad. You're broken. You're a sinner. Sin is evil, therefore, you are evil. All the tacked on platitudes that God will save me anyway, if I just do what he wants meant nothing. I was doing what God wanted! So where was my peace? Where my rest? My parents had it. My brother had it. Everyone else around me had it. But it was not for me. Was I one of those the Bible spoke about, the ones whose hearts God would harden? The ones God had given all the chances allowed too, so that even if I begged on my knees, even if I ripped out my hair and gashed out my eyes, he would refuse me? It says that, you know. That God has a limit to the number of chances he'll give a person to be saved. And, I was told, you never know how many you're going to get. You? Maybe you get only one chance. That guy over there? Maybe God gives him 100. No one knows and when your chances are up, they're up. It's Hellfire for you, even if you realize you're wrong. Even if you beg, even if you plead, even if you sacrifice yourself on the altar, God won't care. He won't hear you. Because you're evil, you're rotten, you deserve to burn.

All the other stories? The ones about Jesus loving people, the ones about the shephard leaving his flock to search out one single lost lamb and bring it home to safety? Those stories didn't make sense, not in the face of a God who would randomly cut people off. How could God care so much about one single lamb, when he didn't really give a damn about that other lamb over there? And how could you know which lamb you were? It was impossible!

And they said, God is a Father. An eternal, immortal parent. Parents are supposed to love you, to protect you, care for you. They are not supposed to decide some of their children deserve to burn forever, while others get to loll about Heaven. And if your God Parent can't be counted on to love you, to protect you, to keep you from eternal damnation, how can you count on your human parents? Aren't they much more failable? Aren't they much more fickle? If a single lie told by my 8-year-old self was enough to make God cast me into fire -- a fire where I would not actually die, but live, feeling the fire and the pain and the agony, over and over and over for eternity -- then what would it make my human parents do to me? No. No. I had to try harder, I had to be better, I had to find something, some way to be better, to be worthy. But it was impossible, because the Bible said so.

And this haunts me. No matter how much therapy I do, no matter how much processing or talking it out or reasoning through I do, it haunts me. No matter that I've rejected it all, it's still there. And so, no. I don't always believe my mother loves me. On one level, I know that she does, of course. On one level, I don't doubt it. So long as I do what I'm supposed to do. So long as she doesn't find out about the ways my life differs from what she thinks it is. I doubt anyone really, genuinely loves me -- not once they know who I really am. Not once they find out where I diverge from the path. I am constantly, eternally on edge -- even when I'm not consciously aware of it -- that I may wake up and everyone will Know Me and that they'll leave. The trumpet will sound and *poof* they're all gone, scooped up by that vicious God, leaving me abandoned and alone.

So there it is, why I have such a hard time being happy. Every bad thing in my life, some part of me believes I deserve it for being such a rotten, horrible person. And I blame my parents for it, even though I know they didn't realize what they were doing, for sending me to church, over and over and over, despite my pleas not to go. My parents, whose only answer to the obvious suicidal depression I endured as a teenager was to send me to church MORE often. And I don't think I can tell my mother this, because I know it would break her heart.

Labels: childhood memories, childhood trauma, depression, family, fundies, mothers, pain, parents, religion, sadness

I'm afraid to be 'feminine'.

I don't mean I'm afraid to be girly, because I'm not -- I just don't like being girly. That's not true to who I am. I mean 'feminine' -- vulnerable, nurturing, forgiving. All those stereotypical things I was taught a woman is supposed to be. For the longest time, that didn't bother me. But lately, I'm beginning to feel cut off from parts of myself that I know, instinctively, will make me stronger, more complete.

I'm better than I used to be, with being 'feminine'. (And I realize, the word may not mean to others what it does to me. That's fine. I'm just dealing with my own issue here.) I'm learning there's a very specific sort of peace in being able to forgive people for the hurt they've done to me, even if they don't realize they hurt me or even if they never realize they've been forgiven. I've begun to realize my capacity for nurturing and helping people heal is actually a gift, not a burden I'm forced to bear because I was born with two X chromosomes.

I had never considered my inborn sense of justice and fairness to be nurturing before. I'd always assumed it was something...different. Because I was always told that, for a woman to be nurturing, she had to have children or tend a home or be a nurse or a teacher or something stereotypically feminine.

I've never really doubted I was strong. Or smart. Or capable. But I've never thought of myself as a nurturer. Is that strange? I don't know. I know I grew up wanting my life to look nothing like my mother's. Not that my mother's life is bad. In fact, her life is pretty sweet. She's been married to my father for 35 years, they're happy, her children are both responsible, productive adults. She has friends, a job she likes, a granddaughter she absolutely adores. I'm sure she'd say she's got just the life she wants, and I'm glad she does. But when I was growing up -- things were different.

I think we learn most from the people closest to us. And when I was a girl, my mother had a problem saying no. Not to me, unfortunately, but to everyone else. She taught Sunday School, she was the head of the Social Committee, she was always, always, always cooking for...someone. Anyone, really. She did all sorts of things at our school, whatever anyone asked her to do -- she did it. She felt that she could not tell anyone no. (I understand her motivation. She wanted everyone to like her, because her own father was an abusive asshole who was disappointed she was a girl, not a boy, and never let her forget it.)

And she was miserable. Completely, totally, miserable. She was also very depressed, but I couldn't know that as a child. So, what I saw, was my Mother giving all her time and energy to these projects and people who never told her they appreciated what she did, who often times didn't even ask her to help, just assumed she would and I never, ever saw her stand up to them and tell them to stop. She would cry at home, but she'd be all smiles around them. The stress would get to her and she'd snap at us (my brother and I, although mostly me since I was the one expressing the most disagreement). To a child, it seemed an easy situation. She was unhappy, I wanted to be happy. Therefore, I would do the opposite of what she did.

My father worked offshore until just before I graduated high school. He would usually work two weeks away, then be home for two weeks. It was like I lived two different lives. When Dad was gone, my mother was less stressed. We'd have ceral for supper, or cinnamon rolls or pancakes or whatever we wanted. We'd watch movies or cartoons or go visit my grandparents. She wasn't as concerned about having the house look Just So. She wasn't concerned about what we were wearing, so long as it was clean and covered everything. It was just much, much more relaxed with my father away at work.

When Dad came home, the world flipped. Suddenly, my mother was all about making sure everything was perfect. The house had to be clean, supper had to be hot every night, we had to dress better, we had to go and do whatever my father wanted. The stress level jumped about a dozen notches. Suddenly, we couldn't watch what we wanted on t.v. Suddenly, we were going to visit my father's friends, who didn't have kids and I'd never meet before, so I'd sit there bored out of my mind for hours on end. For a child, that's a big deal. I saw my mother as two different people. On, when she was with us, I liked. She was fun. The other, when my dad was around, eh. She wasn't all that much fun. Partially, I'm sure it was because I was a child and wanted all my mother's attention. That's pretty normal. But partially, I felt that I was supposed to immulate this behaviour. Like I was supposed to drop everything and mold myself to fit his (and by extension, any man) expectations of his family.

So, again, following kid logic I decided -- this did not make me happy. I want to be happy. Ergo, I'll do the opposite.

Unfortunately, it's been that way the rest of my life. Even as I get older and realize the compromises necessary in any relationship, somewhere inside me I'm that little girl, thinking she doesn't want to mold herself into someone else to make someone else happy. A little girl whose mother was held up as what it means to be feminine and a woman.

So, this all makes me angry. I've got this block inside me, keeping me from parts of myself that I want to get to, dammit. To parts of me what I'm not afraid of anymore, and yet....it's still there. I know life and relationships are about finding balance. That's what I'm trying to do, I suppose. Find the balance between who I really am and the assumptions I've been engrained with.

(Frankly, I'm starting to feel like a basketcase when I read what I'm writing. I don't think I'm really that messed up, but sometimes? Eh. I'm not sure.)

Labels: childhood memories, fundies, gender, religion

My father and I have an interesting relationship. When I was a little girl, he just adored me. (He still does, I'm sure.) He used to take me everywhere. He even picked out my name. Which is a funny story, actually. My parents had decided on two names, either Sarah or Candace, but they weren't sure which one they were going to name me. So, I'm born and they're looking at me and my dad goes, "You know, I think she looks like a Zan." And that was my name. A name they'd not considered before. But he looked at me and decided it fit and here I am. I always liked that story.

So, when I was a little girl, things were really good. But then, I hit puberty and he didn't know how to deal with me. Part of this was because I wasn't a very girly teenager. Actually, I was the broody goth kid reading Russian literature and scaring my teachers. Face it, puberty isn't easy for anyone and it's really hard on those of us who don't quite 'fit'. So, things got strained for a few years. I think some of that's inevitable with fathers and daughters -- it's got to be hard for a man watching his little girl turn into a woman, knowing all the shit that could happen to her out there. I know that was on my dad's mind a lot, not because he said anything to me, but because my mom let me in on it later. He was really terrified that some boy was going to hurt me or abuse me. A not unfounded fear, given how common assault and abuse is, but it would have helped our relationship a great deal if he'd sat down with me and told me that. Instead, I always thought he just didn't trust me, because my brother had a later curfew, could date sooner, didn't have to get our Mom in there insisting that he be allowed to go to his senior prom. (And I went by myself! I didn't even have a boy for him to worry about!)

Anyway, I went away to college and got a boyfriend. A serious, long-term, maybe-I'll-marry-him boyfriend. Who was nothing at all like my dad. Well, not in any way that was easily noticable.

My father is a smart man, but he's not educated. He went to trade school and worked as a welder off-shore on an oil rig until he got hurt when I was a senior in high school. Education for his children was very important to him, even though he didn't have much past high school himself. He works hard, he works a lot and he has always taken care of us. For him, that's what his job was, that's how he showed us he loved us. He provided a good home for us, he provided a stable marriage with my mother, we never had to want for things we really needed -- even though we rarely had money for extras or brand names. He is always fair, always decent, always willing to help out someone in need -- even if they're a total stranger or a person he doesn't really like. He does what's right because it's the right thing to do. (He's not a saint though -- some of his ideas about race and religion make me just want to scream.) But overall, he's a really good, decent man. He's also very stoic. I call him the jolly green giant. He's nearly seven feet tall, built like a brick wall, the kind of man who just terrifies other men by his sheer existence, but every woman knows will never, ever hurt them. Moreover, every man knows not to so much as hint at disrespect toward a woman in his presence. To do so would.not.be.pretty.

My boyfriend at the time was somewhat like that too. He had a lot of my father's standup qualities. He was a decent person, fundamentally. He was kind and generous and never, ever would dream of harming or disrepecting a woman. He was also gangly and geeky and not the most socially ept person. Which was part of what I found attractive. He wasn't a man's man, none of that macho posturing. He was wicked smart, planning to go on and get his Masters in Physics, because he wanted to design rockets for NASA. Seriously, wicked smart. (And I have suuuuuch a weakness for smart, it's not funny.) He and my dad, eh, they didn't have a lot of interests in common. My dad's a farmer, the Ex wasn't. At all. My dad had certain views on what a man should do and how he should act and the Ex? Well. He didn't seem to fit them. He was too awkward in social situations, his sense of humor was too out there. He didn't watch football or do stereotypical guy things. Which is part of what I really loved about him. Plus, he was a good writer. And we could talk and he always made me feel safe.

But I knew, always, that my father wouldn't really like him. Oh, he wouldn't dislike him, ya know. He would just think he wasn't 'strong enough' for me. Now, in the end he really wasn't, but not for the reasons my father would have pointed out. The Ex had grown up in a very disfuncational family. He mother was an unmedicated, manic obssessive compulsive with serious control issues and his dad was an (eventually) diagnosed, treated manic depressive. He really didn't know how a healthy family functioned or how to fight healthily, so he avoided conflict at all costs. So, when I started to get sick and the doctors thought I was just seriously depressed -- well, he couldn't handle that, given his upbringing. Looking back now, I can understand and forgive him for that, but at the time? Eh.

So, anyway, I knew Dad wouldn't ever really click with the Ex. And they never did, even though he and I were together for almost six years.

The thing is, I don't think my father will ever really like any of the men I'm attracted to. (And gods help me if I bring home a woman.) Because they're not like him in ways he'd understand. And I want my father to approve and like the men I like. I want him to be able to accept them and love them because I love them. I don't want to always feel like I've done something to disappoint him, because that's just stupid. Because the person I love, whoever he/she ends up being, will be the sort of person I can be proud of, who I can tell the world I love because they're good, decent people. It's almost an insult to me, this feeling that my suitors will never be good enough. Because what the hell? I have good judgement. I would never, ever tie my life to a person who wasn't worthy of me, who wasn't the kind of person I could spend a lifetime with, who wasn't fundamentally a good, decent, loving person. And if I can love them, if I can want them, how can anyone ask for more than that?

Labels: childhood memories