Butterfly Cauldron

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:

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

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

So, there's this new film out called "Jesus Camp." There's a clip on iFilm.

It hurts me to even watch that. I'm sitting here, my stomach is starting to churn, I'm feeling sick and lightheaded. Gods, that's the exact same shit I went through. Look at those kids. Look how young they are. See how they're crying? That was me. That was me starting from about the age of 8. I was sent to church camp every summer, there were Youth rallies at least once a month, Sunday School every Sunday, Discipleship Training every Sunday, Girls in Action every Wednesday. There were the revivals every year. All of it like that, all of it so emotional and forceful and so many times there'd be someone, someone in charge who'd stand up just like and make that sort of pronouncment. God is telling me people here are fake. They're phony. They need to rededicate.

How many times did I go to the altar? How many times did I beg God to please, please, please just change me, just make me good? How many times did I cry myself to sleep at night, knowing I'd never make it?

I remember, quite clearly, one night at our youth group. It was almost time for class to be over and the leader had us all kneel in front of our chairs and then turned the light out. So it was dark in this room, with probably a dozen teenagers kneeling in front of metal folding chairs. And our leader started talking, this huge voice in a small, dark room. How many of you are saved? How many of you need to find Jesus? If you die tonight, if some drunk hits your car on the way home, will you end up in Heaven? Or will you burn in Hell forever? Then, he paused. Now, I don't want anyone to feel any pressure. If you're not ready to accept Jesus, just get up and leave.

Just get up and leave? How?? It was pitch black in that room, but the light would come on again. And everyone would know that I had left, that I was lost, that I didn't want Jesus. That I was going to Hell. Everyone would know I was broken and bad. So I couldn't leave. I couldn't leave, even though I wanted nothing more than to get out of that room, away from that voice in the dark, away from those people trying to force me into being someone I wasn't, from those people who didn't understand me or love me or care about anything but there holy mission to make my life miserable.

If anyone tells you this damned film is a misrepresentation of what's going on, don't believe them. That clip is dead-on. It's not an exaggeration, it's not an isolated incident. It's happening all the time, all over the place in this country. If you can still manage to believe in God after watching it, pray for those children. They're going to need a lot of help to heal the damage that's being done to them.

Labels: childhood trauma, fundies, religion

When I was younger, I had a terrible temper. I mean, it was on a razor-thin tripwire and could explode at any time. As I've gotten older, it's subsided some, reserved now for things that truely deserve anger. I've also gotten better at dealing with it, because I've accepted and embraced it. Contrary to what I was taught, my anger is a source of power for me. If I can get angry at something, there's no limit to what I can do to change it.

Example: I was diagnosed a few years ago with Lupus, a chronic auto-immune disease that really runs roughshod over my life at time. Because it took years to get a diagnosis, at first I was elated. It had a name. I wasn't crazy. Then, when I realized just how much medication I was going to have to take (14 pills per day to start with), how much I was going to have to alter my life, how long I was going to have to do this (uh, forever) -- I got very depressed. Which is a perfectly normal reaction. When people get sick, they expect to either get better or die. They don't expect to live in limbo for the rest of their lives. So, for probably about a year I was very depressed about being sick, about being the only person I know with this illness, about how it made me feel, about how my family wasn't really able to understand or accept that I was NOT going to get better...Which is also a prefectly normal reaction, although I didn't think so at the time.

Then, at some point, I got angry. I got really angry. I got angry at my body, I got angry at God, I got angry at my family, I got angry at the whole damn world and I got very, very angry at this damned disease for stealing my life. I got angry and sick of it all and refused to put up with it anymore.

And I started to get better. Literally, within days, there was a detectable difference in my pain levels, in my exhaustion, in my attitude, even in my damned test results.

Anger for me works like a fire, one that turns me into steel. I have this image in my head of my spine being coated in steel, of something in me waking up and saying "Enough of this shit." If I can get angry, I can get better. Period. It's powerful and, yes, can be dangerous if not applied wisely.

I was taught that I wasn't supposed to be angry, so I repressed it for a long, long time. Or, I tried to, but the thing with power is it won't be ignored. If you won't use it the way it wants to be, it'll find other ways to manifest. My very healthy anger, which is and was always triggered by injustice, turned itself into that hair-trigger my family was so afraid of. Instead of helping me find ways to express my anger healthily, I was sent to my room or told not to say that or that it was wrong to be angry and I should apologize. Which made me even more angry, thus perpetuating the cycle.

I've always felt it was perfectly ok to be angry with God. If something happened that pissed you off -- your Grandfather dies when you're 13, say -- if you want to yell at God, go ahead. I mean, isn't God big enough to take a little anger? From a grieving girl? This really alarmed my family. You're not supposed to question. You're not supposed to second-guess God! You're just supposed to be resigned and accepting of His will.

Bullshit. If we're supposed to have a real relationship with God, as the church is always saying, then it has to be real, not fake and one-sided. Name a single person you know personally that you've never been angry at. Name one you've never wanted to shake until they saw sense and reason. Those things happen in relationships and if it's a good one, they'll understand and not hold it against you.

I was a girl, in the South, so that was another reason I wasn't supposed to be angry. Because ladies didn't do that. Funny thing is, I have never had the desire to be a 'lady'. I want to be real, for gods sake! I want to be me, with all my flaws and gifts, in full-color. I want people to know me not some idealized version of me that makes them comfortable.

I know I scared my parents, in so many ways, when I was growing up. They were really unprepared to deal with this sulky, angry, misfit of a daughter. And because they were young when I was born, they reacted out of their own fear and tried to suppress a lot of what made them uncomfortable. They mellowed as they got older, but the lessons you learn as a young child are the ones that stick with you. They're also the ones that take the longest to reject, but sometimes you have to, otherwise you cut yourself off from sources of strength you'll need to survive.

Labels: childhood trauma, fundies, religion

Growing up in the grip of fundamentalist religion can only result in a few outcomes. One, you'll be a good fundy like you're taught you should, not because you really believe it, but because you're too terrified to do anything else. Two, you'll be a bad fundy, terrified constantly because you know it's crazy to expect a human being to live up to that crap. Three, you'll leave the church completely, never to darken its doors again and spend obscene amounts on therapy putting your life back together. Four, you give up and kill yourself, probably before you reach adulthood.

Myself, I took option three with a pretty close call at number four. I do my best to avoid thinking about the things I was taught, trying to live my life by my own principals. However, sometimes I see stuff like this and I have to say something.

Sadly, I don't find that letter the slightest bit surprising. Having sex when you've been told, over and over and over again, that you shouldn't. That it's painful. That you'll get pregnant. That you're life will be over -- well, it's not easy. It should be, shouldn't it? It's the simplest thing in the world, exploring with someone you love. And yet, I see so much of my younger self in that letter I want to cry.

I left home, and the church, when I was 17. I didn't have sex until I was 19, but during that time I was dating, seriously, one man for over a year. I knew I wanted to have sex with him in the first two weeks. But I didn't, for almost a year. Why? Partially, because I'm not the sort to just jump into bed with whoever. But mostly, it was because I couldn't. Not physically. But mentally, emotionally, spiritually even, I could not do it. I wanted to. I wanted his so badly it made my physically hurt. But I couldn't do it.

We came close over and over again. It must have been agonizing for him. I know it was agonising for me. I lost count of the times we'd end up in bed together, naked and ready, only to have me completely freak out at the last minute. I loved this man. I desired this man. I was so turned-on I was shaking. And I could not do it. We had protection, we had privacy, we had a committed relationship. And I couldn't do it. I would sit in bed and sob, because I wanted to and I couldn't and I didn't know why I couldn't.

During that time I sat and thought hard over what was going on and I realized -- even if we'd been married, I couldn't have had sex with him. The very thought of having sex panicked me. My heart would race, I couldn't breath, I felt trapped, I was terrified. I would have full-blown panic attacks and my poor boyfriend didn't know what to do for me. He wasn't asking me to do anything kinky. He wasn't asking me to do anything unusual. He wasn't asking me to do a damned thing I didn't want to do, but I couldn't do it.

Sex had been painted as this important, life-altering, traumatic event. I wasn't abused as a child. I wasn't raped or molested or had anyone so much as look at me inappropriately. Physically, I had never been abused. But emotionally? Emotionally I was tormented constantly. Repress your desires. Repress your longings. Don't think about men. Don't think about sex. Don't think about anything physical. If you do, you're bad. Damaged. Broken. No one will want you. No one will love you. You'll be all alone and you'll deserve it.

I don't know if I can explain how horrible it was for me, being completely incapable of having sex with the person I loved more than anyone else. I don't know if I can explain how broken that made me feel. I don't know if I can explain how it made me feel like a failure. He never said anything cruel to me about it. He was nothing but supportive and understanding. He never once attempted to make me do anything. When I said stop, he stopped, no hesitation, no question. And that, eventually, is what helped me get over it. If he'd once attempted to coerce or talk me into it when I'd said no, I'd have walked out and been justified in it. But he never did. Instead, he let me take control. We only did what I was able to do. Instead of sex, we'd take showers together or we'd bathe together or we'd just lay naked together, touching and kissing but not having sex. Because I was terrifed of penetration (all those stories of bleeding and pain and sobbing wedding nights had done a number on me), we started slow, just fingertips or tongue, until I was ready to try more. Because I was crazy afraid of becoming pregnant, he was willing to use any contraception I wanted him to. (The boy was willing to wear two condoms at a time, if it made me feel safer. Compare that to so many men who don't even wanna use one ever...Such men don't deserve to have sex. Ever.)

I was able, after a full year of slowly building up to it, to overcome the revulsion my family's faith had created in me for sex. And it wasn't amazing or anything, but it wasn't the terror I was expecting it to be. Because I'd had time, I was with someone who was patient and loving and who geniunely wanted me as I was, not just a body to use for pleasure. I cannot imagine being a "good" girl who doesn't do more than kiss or hold hands before the wedding and then going right into sex immediately. I could never have done it, and I wasn't really that invested in retaining my good girl status. A lot of the things I did with my boyfriend would have gotten me kicked outta lots of churchs. Hell, I wasn't even supposed to masturbate. (And the guilt I had from that is a whole different post in itself.) Good Fundy Girls do not shower with men before marriage. They do not let him run his hands over and into their naked body. They do not sleep naked together without a wedding ring -- and they really shouldn't do it then either. And if I hadn't done all those things before the actual Act itself? I'd have never been able to do it at all.

And now? Now I've found myself on a spiritual path that celebrates the physical body. Still not one for casual hook-ups, but no more hang-ups about sexuality anymore. And I grieve for the girl I was and for all those girls growing in with those same beliefs today who are going to go through what I went through. For those who aren't going to ever be able to reconcile what they were taught with what they want. For those that will, but only by leaving completely the life and family they've created. For alll those people that think it's okay to live a life where you can't enjoy your body, can't enjoy the sensations it's capable of, because....why? I still don't know why.

Labels: childhood trauma, fundies, religion, sex

Let's talk about sex, shall we?

There's a new article, blogged about here among other places, that details how hard it is for women who are virgins at 'advanced ages' to lose their virginity. Advanced age in this case being into the 30s. The article doesn't talk about male virgins, but I'm assuming they have some of the same difficulties. I'm not sure though, so if I have any male virgin readers, feel free to chime in.

The thing is, I don't see why virginity is such a big deal. You are either a virgin or you are not. You either have green eyes or you don't. You're either left-handed or not. You're either going bald or you're not. It's just one state of being, neither better nor worse than any other state. I also don't understand the apprehension of being someone's first time if they're an older virgin. Or a younger virgin, for that matter. This may be because I've been someone's first time before, but I just don't see why it's an issue. So long as you engage in any sexual act with passion and respect for your partner, why does it matter what he/she hasn't done before?

I was one of those persons who skipped the high school dating/fucking scene. First off, I terrified most of the boys in my school (and wasn't aware or capable of acting on my attraction to women just yet) and I just didn't want to chance ending up pregnant. I had plans, I had things I wanted to do and so...no sex for me. And I admit, at the time I did feel a little weird about it. Everyone else seemed to be hooking up and I wasn't, I didn't even get any offers (see: terrified boys at my school) so I thought something must be wrong with me. There, wasn't, of course, but it seemed that way to me.

I felt ancient as a 17-year-old virgin, so I can imagine how it feels to people much older than that. (And it's not all that uncommon. I have a friend, 32, a lawyer, who is a virgin. I had another friend, a professor, who was a virgin until she was 30. I have male friends in the same boat, I'm sure.) At 19, when I slept with my boyfriend for the first time, I thought I was the oldest virgin on the planet. Dumb, but that's how it felt at that age.

Our society is way too sexualized. (Duh!) We put so much pressure on people to have sex, or to not have sex or to conform to some unrealistic idea of sexual behavior. I grew up in FundyLand, so I got the No-Sex-Until-Marriage lecture over and over and over again. Partially, it stuck. Even when I was embarking into sexual activity, I was scared and nervous and ready to be struck down at any moment. I was, however, more practical than most. I didn't expect the first time to be incredible. In fact, I expected it to be terribly painful.

It wasn't, thank god. It wasn't particularly wonderful, either. It was fast and over with before I could get a real handle on what I was feeling. Afterward, I felt lied too. Not by my BF, who was great, but by all those people who made such a big, fucking deal out of virginity and the first time and how it was so important and would change your life forever. No, it didn't. It really, really didn't. All it meant was, hey, I'd had sex. I was still the same person, with the same thoughts and passions and ideas and problems and whatever as I had been before. So, what was the big deal?

The idea that everyone is running around having all this hot, crazy sex? Bullshit. Some people are, I'm sure, but I don't know these people. Their life doesn't look anything like mine or most of the people I know. Most of the people I know my age are focused on work and paying the bills, not trying to get laid. So, if someone is a virgin at 35 or 40? So what?

The truth is, if you're enthusiastic and engaged and willing to talk to your partner and find out what they like, it's unlikely anyone is going to be able to tell you're a virgin. The pressure to be amazing the first time is stupid. No one can live up to it, but that doesn't mean it has to be awful. I wouldn't have a problem dating a virgin -- unless they were hyper-religious and wanted to convert me. But that wouldn't be about them being a virgin, that'd be about them being fundyish.

Also, we seriously need to revisit our definition of sex. Just because someone hasn't had PIV sex, doesn't mean they're a virgin or inexperienced. There is soooo much sex that can be had without penetration, to limit your defination seems counterproductive to me.

Labels: childhood trauma, religion, sex

So, I've been thinking a lot lately about dating. I don't date, personally. Not because I'm opposed to the idea. I'd be happy to have someone in my life. No, I don't date because I have issues with power.

My relationships with men are...difficult. I've internalized a lot of the lessons I was raised with and, though I fight them constantly, they're still there. Friendships with men are no problem. Hell, my best friends are usually male. But once a relationship turns romantic? Well. Things become difficult.

I've lived my entire life in the Deep South. I was raised a fundamentalist Southern Baptist. Everything in my childhood pointed me toward a decided, clear power imbalance between men and women. The women in my family are phenominal. They're amazing and strong and have such incredible minds. But every one of them, to a fault, give lip service to the idea that the 'man is the head of the household.' The men in my family are equally amazing. Not one of them has ever tried to take advantage of that "theory". My father would never dream of trying to tell my mother what to do or how to live her life. They got married right out of high school. My mother was the valedictorian, dad went to trade school. He told her, right off the bat, that if she wanted to go to college, he'd move whereever she wanted to go. No questions. But she wanted to have a family and stay home. So he was okay with that too. He never, as far as I know, pressured her to go to work, even when money was tight for us. (And it was. We were Louisiana poor.) My brother takes after our father. He got married young (22), but he's the one who does all the cooking, lots of cleaning and he's really amazing with his daughter. Neither of them are remotely redneckish or domineering.

And yet, all I can think of, when I get involved with a man, is when the competition is going to start? When is he going to start being patronizing? When is he going to pull a he-man act on me? When is he going to try to compell me to do something I don't want to do?

I know, in my head and through experience, that there are men in this world who don't act that way. I know there are men who value their female partners as full equals. But I just can't feel comfortable in relationships. I always feel like....well, they're going to start, any day now. Why don't I cook more? Why don't I clean more? Why won't I have children? Why won't I lose weight so they won't be ashamed of me? Why, why, why?

Instinctively, I feel a power imbalance. I know that in this society, if I had a boyfriend/husband, other people would look at me differently. I know they'd think of me a little better. But I also know they'd instantly begin deferring to HIM when we were in public. Does it matter that I'm the one making the money and picking up the check? No. The waiters always give the check to my male friends when we're out. Does it matter that it's my fucking car and I'm the one who does the upkeep? No, mechanics always seem to want to talk to my husband about it.

And I realize, in my head at least, that those things are not the fault of the men I date. (Because there's no way I'm putting up with some asshole who thinks he can just start making decisions for me.) And yet, that imbalance exists and I feel it. I know it's there.

I have a huge, incredible fear of being controlled. I always have, since I was a child. (The fact that the fundy church I grew up in did a serious number on my head contributed to this greatly. How is it NOT being controlled to be told 'do what God says or burn forever'?) I've never been particularly 'girly.' I don't like makeup or dresses or most Society Approved girl things. Those things have never appealed to me. And yet...and yet I fear that I'm being disapproved of because of it. On one level, I simply don't care. Strangers disapprove of me? Fuck them. What does that matter? But someone I love? That's a different matter all together. So if I meet someone, and I love him, and he's thinking "I wish she'd wear a dress" or "Why isn't she more /normal/?" that's just....something I can't handle.

Add to that the fact that I have a chronic illness that is difficult enough for me to handle, let alone have to worry about what a BF thinks of that fact that I'm sick all the time. My head understands that I'm still an amazing woman, with more than enough to offer anyone...and yet there's this sick, sinking feeling I get whenever I think of being in a relationship. I want that, on one level, and on another I simply cannot do it.

Part of me thinks this whole thing is just crazy. I've never, nor would I, date a man who would see me as anything other than a fully equal partner. And yet it's a very real thing, this inate power imbalance when I'm in a het relationship. I've been through counseling to deal with the issues from my fundy upbringing, but I just can't seem to shake this.

So, how am I supposed to find someone to share my life with, if I'm constantly internalizing this shit? (Okay, yes. I could date women exclusively. But that seems a coward's way out, if I'm only doing that because I'm too afraid to be involved with a man. Whoever I'm involved with deserves to have my affection for themselves, not because of their gender.)

Labels: childhood trauma, power, relationships

It occurred to me recently that I really like being alive.

Now, I realize that doesn't sound like a radical realization. But until fairly recently, the last five or six years probably, I've spent a good deal of my life severely depressed and occassionally suicidal. My memories of Episodes (that's what I call 'em) go back to about...eight or nine, I think. I was petrified of water. There was no reason, I just became, suddenly, horrified of water. I couldn't take a bath, because something was going to happen to me if I got into the water. But I couldn't tell anyone that, so I'd take my radio into the bathroom, drag one of my cats into the room with me, turn the music up loud, fill the bathtub up and lay on the floor crying, petting the cat, because I was so, so very scared. And confused. Logically, I knew, there was nothing going to happen to me if I got into the bathtub. I tried all sorts of things to work around it. I'd make up little rituals, moving all the possible dangers away from the tub. No razors, nothing battery operated, certainly nothing that so much as looked electrical. I even put the soap away, so I didn't fall on it. In the end, there was just a plain, blank tub full of water and I still couldn't get into it. And there was absolutely no reason for it, none. No childhood trauma, no near drowning. I was just suddenly, unexplainable terrified of getting into the bathtub. And I stayed that way for about a year and then, just as unexplainably, it went away. Just one day, gone. I could get in the tub, I could go swimming, whatever I wanted. No problem. And no explaination.

I started getting hung up on certain thoughts, after that. Random things. Like I was obsessed, and terrified, with getting my period. Nothing really strange about a girl worrying about her period, but this wasn't normal. I was so stressed and worried, I'd bargain with God. Not this year, okay? I just can't handle it right now. And...there wasn't anything bad going on in my life. Again, no trauma, no abuse, no nothing. I was just obsessed with...things...with all the things I was doing wrong, with how I wasn't good enough or smart enough or how I was 'sinning' all the time. (See previous post on the Evils of Fundamentalism, if you would.) Again, I couldn't tell anyone any of this. I just knew they'd have reacted badly. Or worst, they'd have been dismissive. It was all in my head, I was just being silly. So it all just kept building. I went through stages. When I got my period, that obsession faded. Then it was things like, oh the music I was listening to was evil and God would punish me for it. Seriously, I thought that. (Admittedly, I had shitty taste as a teenager, but I hardly thing God sends people to hell for that. Otherwise, damn, Hell is gonna be HUGE.) So I'd have to read my Bible every night, a chapter a night, or I was in trouble. Then it got to the point where I couldn't listen to anything but Christian music or I was going to Hell. (Yeah. Try finding decent rock Christian music in the 80s. Uh huh. Little did I realize it then, I was IN hell listening to that stuff.)

Anyway, the point is, I kept having these episodes and they kept getting worse as the years past. And I couldn't tell anyone about them, because in my very religious household, this things Did Not Happen. Regardless of the fact that my mother has a history of depression. Regardless of the fact she's got a lot of the same problems I do. These things Do Not Happen. If my mother had a rough patch, she'd just go to church a bit more often or pray more often. And that seemed to work for her. But it did not for me. (Again, see previous post about how the Fundy church warped my brain.) By the time I was 14, I was full-blown suicidal. I was just too depressed to actually act on it. It's a preverse irony, the disease that made me want to die also saved my life. I was too exhausted from just getting through the day to actually be able to carry out my suicide plans.

And I had them. Oh, did I have them. My father, as all good Southern men, is a hunter. And there are guns all over their home. Unlocked, with bullets right next to them. I know how to handle a gun. Dad made sure of that, since it would be irresponsible to not educate your kids about guns when you've got so many. And there were always pills in the medicine cabinets. Sleeping pills, pain pillls, all kinds of things for whatever illnesses my folks got. Then again, we lived right next to a creek. It wouldn't have been very hard to 'trip' and drown. And growing up on a farm, I could imagine a hundred 'accidents' that could quickly dispatch me. And yet, I was just so very, very, very tired. All I could do was go to school, come home and go to sleep. I couldn't physically DO anything else.

And then, I'd have breaks in the episodes. Sudden, almost complete remissions. One day I'd be so very depressed I wanted to die, the next I'd wake up and feel perilously close to normal. When those breaks came, I'd make myself believe I was better. It had all just been a test and I'd passed, so God was rewarding me. And I'd really believe that, until it started again.

And that was my life, for years. Until I was about 22 and in college. I'd gotten really, really sick and gone to the doctor. Who happened to notice I was depressed and put me on Prozac. I know people malign Prozac, but that damned green pill saved my life. It didn't 'fix' everything (because what was going on wasn't strictly depression), but it kept my head just far enough above the waterline so I didn't feel like I was dying all the time. I still got depressed, but my suicidal phases faded to once a year instead of every three or four months. (Yeah, I was seriously THAT depressed.)

But my physical symptoms increased. And intensified. Until I was ready to die, again. And I started going to doctor after doctor after doctor....who kept telling me I was just depressed and fat and needed to relax. For the next three years, that's what I got. So,I just stopped going to doctors. Just gave up completely.

Until the pain got so bad I couldn't stand it and went to one more doctor. Who finally listened. She listened and she did some tests and it turns out, HEY! I'm wasn't just depressed -- I had a serious, chronic illness that had been uncontrolled for years. It had a name (Lupus) and it had treatment and I wasn't crazy and I wasn't imagining things and yes, I was sick and yes, she believed me.

That was almost six years ago. I started out taking fourteen pills a day and now I'm down to two. If I'm lucky, at my next doctors appointment I'll be able to get down to one. It's taken a lot of time and trial to find a treatment plan that works for me, but I have. There are still rough days. There are still days when this illness kicks my ass. (I haven't gone into details about the physical effects of Lupus. I've got lots of those too. But since it's affecting my neurological system, I've also got an extra handful of the psychological symptoms. My doctors think the disease has been working it's evil magic on me for a very long time, but didn't show any diagnosable symptoms until I was in my 20s.) But even when I'm getting my ass kicked by this damned disease, I don't want to die.

I haven't wanted to die in a very long time. Not since someone listened to me. Not since I found out the name for what's wrong with me. Not since I was able to take back some measure of control. I cannot control this disease, but knowing that it's real, that's it's not a personal, moral failing (which is what I was also made to feel it was before) allows me to take some ownership, some responsbility. I cannot control this disease, but I can control how it makes me act. I cannot control the fact that it makes me feel like I'm physically dying, but I can control whether it makes me actual act to kill myself. I can control if I decide to value my life, pain and all.

And the thing is, I really do. I don't know when I started, but somehow it's occurred to me that I'm a pretty valuable person. Not just valuable, but so incredible strong and brave. You don't survive the interal struggles I have without being strong. You don't look at the future, knowing you have a disease that could decide to royally fuck you up at any moment, and say to yourself "Yeah, that's where I want to be" unless you're brave. It's not the kind of strength or bravery this world puts much value in, but it's real and it lasts. Everytime I get afraid, I stop myself. What, exactly, could be so bad? What could possible scare me? What could possibly hurt me so much I couldn't recover? I'm not a fool. I know there are lots of horrible things that could happen to me. And I don't want them to happen, of course. But if they did...I've spent most of my life fighting myself. No one knows the buttons to push like I do. And if I can survive myself jumping up and down on them for 20 years, I can pretty much handle anything.

Anyway, I realized I like being alive. As crappy as life can be sometimes, it's still way better than the alternative.

Labels: childhood trauma, depression, Lupus, suicide