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

*sigh* I talked to her tonight, to tell her the good news about my upcoming raise (7 percent!), and she said she thought she'd found me a boyfriend. I was all -- but I don't want a boyfriend. *sigh* She means well, but....I've got an Emmy. Don't need a boyfriend. Of course, she doesn't know I've got an Emmy. She wouldn't like that I've got an Emmy. *sigh*

I love my mother and I know she means well. She doesn't want me to be lonely. But, how is she going to deal with an Emmy instead of an Emmett? I don't know. And she's not so pleased about me wanting to move to Atlanta either. But then, I pointed out that I could be moving to another country, and suddenly Atlanta seemed pretty good.

In other news, this post by Thoughtracer has me thinking. Actually, most of her posts get me thinking. She may be my long lost twin. But anyway. . .I share her feeling of not quite fitting in the queer community. In fact, I pretty much have no association with the queer community at the moment, but when I did, I still felt...not quite right.

Despite the fact that I joke that I'm the stereotypical bisexual woman -- fat, non-shaven, burks and a buncha cats -- no one looks at me and thinks "Ayep, she's queer." I'm just a girl, not particularly butch nor femme. Sometimes I wear makeup, usually I don't. Sometimes I wear dresses, mostly I don't. Sometimes I'm more 'queer' than other times, but there's no rainbow stickers on my car, ya know? So, I'd like to be part of the community, but I don't know how.

Thoughtracer says: Not being able to be identified as a member of the group, being “stealth,” being, basically, invisible, really demarcates you from that group, in a certain way. Aside from allowing the “stealth” to claim the privilege that the oppressing, opposing, or other group claims, it also allows the group to which you really belong, the group you’d like to identify with, separate you from its ranks. Can you really be a part of a group without appearing or taking the image of one of its members?

I don't know the answer to that question. I'd like to belong. Goddess knows, my politics and sympathies are firmly in the queer camp. I've been out as bi to my friends for a few years. I haven't ever had a serious girlfriend before, but there have been flirtations and whatnot. And well, the biphobia in certain queer corners is legendary, so it's pretty easy for me to be excluded. And honestly, I feel too uncertain in many situations to be comfortable. So, what am I supposed to do?

I know, of course, that I'm under no obligation to be part of any community. Because sexuality isn't a club you join. And whether or not I get involved has no bearing at all on my orientation. But....my family is not going to react well when everything is out in the open. Having somewhere I can go, people who understand. Well. That'd be nice.

Labels: bisexuality, mothers, parents

I did a year of therapy to come to terms with my relationship with my mother and I still get tangled up in it.

In the arc of my life, I'm not sure anyone will ever have more influence on my than my mother. It makes sense, seeing as how she's the first person I ever knew. We have history, she and I. We go way back.

For a great deal of my life, my mother was unhappy. I don't know if she was aware of it, but I was. She battled depression, untreated, undiagnosed, unnamed, but fierce just the same. I was her oldest. She saw herself in me. Even my name is merely a longer verson of hers. I was her first chance at building the family she didn't have as a child. A stable, harmonious, no one abusive or cheating or lying home. She and my father waited three years to have me, after they got married. And yet, they were still so young. Does any 20 year old really know what they're getting into when they give birth? Does any woman, ever?

I was independant from birth, I'm told. The sort of child who was perfectly happy to play by herself for hours. I didn't need her, my mother has said to me. I didn't seem to need anyone. Sometimes I wonder if she resented that. If she expected her daughter would need more direct attention. But, I didn't. I had the same needs as any infant, of course, but when I was older? I was content to amuse myself, even though my mother stayed home to take care of me.

My mother's untreated depression, as well as my own, ignited when I hit puberty. From age 12 to when I moved out at age 17, we faught. Constantly. Non-stop. About how I folded the towels. About the music I listened to. About my friends. About how long I took in the shower. About how I spelled my name. About anything and everything. It didn't matter, we faught. My father and brother, both huge, strapping men, were afraid of us. They learned quickly that getting in betweeen us was a bad idea. And so, they hid. Those big, scary men hiding from two women. It's funny, in hindsight.

She wanted to much to see herself in me, I think. And there are parts of her there. How can there not be? I get my temper from her. And my stubborness. But mostly, I'm me. I'm not my mother, even though I felt compelled to be like her. Because that's how I was supposed to be. Because she was.

We learned to make compromises. She stopped being so insistant that I dress a certain way. That I take certain classes. It wasn't always bad, not when we were both in remission. When our minds weren't clouded with depression, we could be civil to each other. Nice, sometimes. But the problem with depression is that it always comes back. And then she would say something and I would be angry. Or I would say something, or not say something, and she'd be mad. It was a long, twisted, neverending cycle.

And then -- college. I left and never wanted to go home. Which hurt her, of course. She made me come home that first summer. And I moped and brooded and staked out the mailbox, waiting for letters from my new friends. She was hurt that I wasn't happy to be back home. That I wasn't happy to be her little girl again. I thought she was treating me like I was 12 again. We started fighting. Again. But this time, my grandmother (her mother) stepped in. You have to let her go, she said. She's not a baby anymore.

I remember, that first summer, I was talking about the next semester starting. And I said, I can't wait to go home. And my mother, my poor mother, looked like I'd slapped her. Because she thought I was home. But I wasn't. I wasn't even close. And my grandmother, my wonderful, wise grandmother, just put her hand on my Moms and smiles. But that is home to her now, you know. This is what you wanted. This is what you raised her for. She's her own person. And you have to let her go.

And yet, mothers never really let you go. I don't know if it's possible, really breaking that tie. Now, we don'ty fight. Now, we can respect each other as women, not simply mother or daughter. And yes, we still disagree. On just about everything. Religion, relationships, money, where I'm going to live, politics. And there's some sort of uneasy peace. There are things we don't talk about. Because if we do, we'll fight. And it's more important now that we don't fight.

Still. She's in my head. I think, when I'm considering accepting a date, what my mother will say if this turns into a longterm relationship? Because it matters, even if I don't want it to. If I take this job and move across the country, how will it affect her? I think these things. I take that into consideration. Even when she wouldn't want me to. Even when I don't want me to. Because she's in my head and my heart and there's no getting around that.

Labels: mothers