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

Is there an age at which your family's opinions cease to matter to you? I'm wondering, because I'd like to know how long it will be before that thought -- but they'll be so upset/disappointed, this is going to cause problems -- won't pop up everytime I consider taking a path at odds with my families.

Case in point: I really, really, really need a new job. Seriously. So, I'm always looking at job announcements and mailing off applications. Eventually, something will stick. So, last night I'm looking on idealist.org and find an announcement for a Media Relations and Marketing Manager for the Gay & Lesbian Victory Fund and Leadership Institute in D.C. This job seems tailormade for me, so instantly I'm like "Oh. Must apply." Next thought? "No, wait. My parents would completely flip out."

It's a ridiculious thought. I'm far too old to be worried about what my parents will think of the job I choose to take. I'm far too old to worry about what they'll think of the relationships I do or do not have. And yet...there it is, popping into my head anyway.

That's part of the reason I want to move away from here. (Well, aside from the fact I'm in fricking Louisiana, it's waaay too hot for my illness and I'm so vastly underpaid I could cry. And have.) I have this idea that physical distance will help me establish emotional distance. I don't want too much emotional distance, because (contrary to apparent assumptions) my family and I are close.

I think there are things in life that we are easily able to resist and things that are much more difficult to resist. Some people have little difficulties going against expectations and others don't. For me, I can disregard pretty many anyone else's opinion of me except my family. And it's not really their opinion -- I just don't want to have to deal with the disappointment, anxiety, their sense of 'how did this happen.' Because they reduce something in my life, my life, to being about them. I don't think they do it on purpose, but that's what happens. What will the neighbors think if they know my daughter is working for a gay organization? What will the people at church think if they find out my daughter writes erotica for a living? What will the people at work think if they see her out drinking? And ultimately, they're not worried about what people will think about me, they're worried about what people will think of them. How did they raise a bisexual daughter? Aren't they good Christians? Didn't they teach her better?

And that makes me angry. Why should they care more about what other people think of them than about what makes their daughter happy? And why do I still have this crazy amount of rage about it?

Labels: parents

Today's Round 2 in the Obesity Wars -- children whose mothers diet regularly develop poor body image.

To which I say -- Duh.

As obesity rates climb among children, health officials are warning parents about the dangers of junk food and lack of exercise. Yet few speak about parents who meticulously count every calorie that crosses their lips.

That type of obsession can be just as destructive and eventually teaches kids to weigh their self-worth on the scale, said Christine Gerbstadt, spokeswoman for the American Dietetic Association.

While fathers also play a crucial a role in shaping children’s attitudes about food, research has focused primarily on women and their daughters, since females are more likely to diet and worry about body image.

(And yeah! Let's blame women! Whoohoo!! Because girls and women have so many pluses in this society, what harm could it do to blame them for their own body issues? It's not the fault of society or airbrushed magazines or a patriarchy that discourages girls to be physically active and assertive. Nope. It's all mom's fault.)

I'm actually surprised this required a study to figure out. Most of the fat people I know had parents who compulsively dieted. And put them on diets. And forced them to exercise. And counted calories. And give the a Look when they were fixing their plates. Oh yeah.

I, unhappily enough, was one of them. My mother has, as long as I can remember, been fixated on losing weight. She's 52 years old and I can't remember a single span of time when she hasn't been on a diet. And she's not that big! Sure, by society's standards she is, but for gods sake, she's only a size 18.

I remember my mother dragging my brother and me into the living room to exercise with her. Neither of us wanted to. I couldn't stand it. I would get so very angry. I'd be reading or writing or playing with my cats and suddenly, it's time to go exercise. Now, part of that was my mother didn't want to exercise alone. The bigger part was that she didn't want us to get fat.

Well, too bad. Both of us are quite corpulant. I don't know how my brother feels about his body, but I'm quite happy with mine, thank you very much.

I remember resenting the restrictions put on food and the push to exercise. I remember being so very pissed off. What was wrong with my body? I didn't have any problems with it! But no, there was always something wrong with it, according to someone. It was bad enough that my peers were calling me fat, but to have my own family suggest it? My mother never actually said it, but she made it clear in other ways.

She was afraid, always, that she'd (or me!) would get as big as her sister. My Aunt Vickie was a very large woman. Actually, she and I were probably the same size, but I'm 5'10 and she was 5' even. Which makes a huge amount of difference in appearance. My mother loved her sister so much, but she was always....it was clear that being Aunt Vickie's size was Not Good.

Even my Aunt didn't like her size. And, in this instance, I can understand why. Because she was so short, her size made getting around easily difficult for her. So, I get that, for her, her weight was causing some problems. But for me? Eh. I've never really been bothered.

My mother doesn't understand that. I really think she wants to, but she just can't.

The really messed up part? I wasn't overweight when I was younger. I was big, sure, but that's because my family is all big. Genetically, I'm destined to be large. Cool. I'm big and I'm tall. I look at my teenage photos and I'm a fricking Amazon. I was tall and strong and imposing and no one could see it. To this day, it pisses me off. I want a time machine so I can go back and give that girl my current attitude. I want to tell her that she really is as amazing as she thinks she is, that she really is as capable as she believes she is, that her body is a blessing, not a curse. That people are going to love her, they are going to love her body, they're going to celebrate it. I want to tell her to celebrate it like she wants to.

It's almost enough to make me want to have a child, so I can contribute to changing the future.

Labels: diet, fat, parents