Talking About It

Talking about it is hard.

Whenever you make new friends there inevitably comes that moment where you have to tell them.

Maybe not right away, maybe its like a few months in.

But eventually you have to say yeah… my childhood wasn’t actually perfect.

“they were really religious… they homeschooled me k-12.” But you seem so normal!

“yeah I have 10 siblings.. no we’re not catholic…” I could never do that! Your mum must be a saint!

“no I will never have that many kids. No I don’t plan to homeschool. No it wasn’t a good experience.”

You sit there feeling like a freak show. Everybody’s gawking because they’ve never even heard of such things. Surely you must be exaggerating?! But in reality you’re dumbing it down, polishing the edges.

And in the back of your mind is the old family mantra hissing “You are so selfish. Telling tales for attention. People are going to think bad things about the family! Where is your loyalty?!”

They all shake their heads in wonderment. Courtship? Isn’t that another word for dating? You are monopolizing the conversation now. But they won’t let you stop. They have so many questions. You’re like a space alien telling stories about your exotic and barbaric planet.

You mentally sweep the years of violence and neglect and manipulation into a neat little dustpan and name it: “It wasn’t really a healthy environment.” And people infer what they want, and you move on. And eventually someone changes the subject and you sit there feeling embarrassed.

You wonder if your cheeks have turned red. Did you say too much? “You always say too much!” You smile and engage in the rest of the conversation. And then you go home and aggressively wash the dishes, fighting back your rising anxiety.

Eventually you find yourself in bed with a pillow over your face.

Trying to slow your breathing. Trying to fall asleep.

Its been ages. It should be so hard to talk about.

I Do Not Belong To You

I am a teenager. He is a stranger waiting next to me for the train. When he calls me “sexy” and tells me to smile, I blush as red as his baseball cap. “aww are you blushing, baby?” My stomach churns. I do not want his attention, but I cannot say no. I smile for him, hoping I look more bashful than scared. On the train I seek out a seat next to very large older woman and bite my lip to hold back the tears brought on by adrenaline and embarrassment.

My smile does not belong to me.

 You taught me this when you ordered me to smile for your friend who was over for dinner. I was 5. I didn’t like him, but you took me aside and told me to “smile and be nice” or I would have to sit alone in the other room.

I am 14 years old. He is my sparring partner in Martial Arts class. “I’m gonna punch you in the boob!” He laughs like it’s the funniest joke he ever heard. I am uncomfortable, but I don’t know what to say. He jabs at my right breast, like it’s a target, and pain blossoms across my chest. He laughs, his buddies laugh, and I laugh with them. I don’t want to be rude. “Do you need me to kiss it and make it better?” More laughter. I tell myself we’re all just kidding around, it’s just fine… everything is fine.

My body does not belong to me and I do not have the right to decide what I think is funny.

You taught me this when you let my cousin tickle me without my consent. I was 7 and he was 19. I screamed through the involuntary laughter and everybody just smiled and laughed along. When I finally got away I was angry. Hot tears sprung up in my eyes and shouted at him, at all of you, “I told you to stop!” You gripped my arm and pulled me aside. “Your cousin was just joking with you and you were very rude to him. Go apologize and give him a hug!”

I am 19. He is my sexually aggressive co-worker. He traps me against the wall and whispers explicit things to me, hot breath against my neck. Sometimes he sneaks up behind me and wraps his arms around my waist, purposely pressing his body against mine. He grows bolder each day, and he never listens when I insist that he leave me alone. I never tell anyone, just befriend an older man who works with us, and hide near him when I’m feeling afraid.

My sexuality belongs to the most powerful male-bodied person available.

You taught me this when you bought me a purity ring at age 16 and made me promise that I would never let anyone touch me until you gave me away to a man on my wedding day. And all the times you ordered my brother to protect me, instead of teaching me to defend myself.

You just wanted me to behave. You wanted me to obey the rules as children should. You didn’t known that children are just tiny adults. You couldn’t have foreseen that your words would shape the woman I would become. You never thought that I would carry the lessons meant for a five year old with me for the rest of my life.

But I know now. And if I ever have a child I will remember that she does not belong to me. I will never force her to talk to my dinner guest, because I do not own her voice, or her smile, or her body, or her heart.

Confessions of a Bad Mother

This post is from a reader named Jane B. Thank you for your courage in sharing your story Jane!
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 Let me just get it out of the way and say I was a BAD MOMMY who did not know any better. I yelled at her, brushed off her thoughts and feelings,called her all kinds of names, put hot sauce in her mouth, spanked her, and worst of all thought children should be told what to do and not really listened to.
 When my daughter was 10 years old I was putting away some of her clothes and saw her diary on top of the dresser  so I grabbed it and started crying at some of the stuff I read. In her diary she wrote stuff like I am scared of mom and dad, that she did not trust us, thought she was stupid, thought she was a Disappointment to the both of us,  thoughts that her feelings did not matter, thought she was a bad kid, and worst off all thought our love was conditional. 
 Later that day went to the bookstore and bought a book called P.E.T (Parent Effectiveness Training) by Dr Thomas Gordon and since then my little girl my baby has been more confident,happier,well behaved,loving, caring, compassionate, and best of all she shares her thoughts feeling fear and concerns problems with us because she know we are gonna try and teach/guide her and not punish/hurt her any more.

And to those who spank or who are considering it I ask of two humble requests. First please look at scientific research that shows all the negative effects of corpal punishment. And  second I ask that you please look at other more peaceful loving effective methods to raise your children. And to my hunni bunni( daughter childhood nick name) I know you have forgiven me and I have said it a bunch of time but I am sorry for all the pain I have caused you. I will always love you unconditionally no matter what you do.

Jane B

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Probably Not

Do you remember when I couldn’t breathe? Probably not. But I do.

 I remember the sensation of weight on my chest, weight on my eyelids, weight on my heart. Expectations were heavy, Responsibilities were unrealistic, Burdens were unbearable. You thought I was strong, you thought I was fine. But it’s only because you never asked. Were you too caught up in your own pain to see mine? Was your baggage so binding that you did notice the bags you strapped to my back every day?

When I think about that life, about those days in the big brick house, I feel the air slip out of my lungs. My chest tightens, and I feel heavy. I know there were so many good times. So many hugs and smiles. Christmas cookies, and back scratches. I wish those memories were sharper, and clearer, and brighter. But when I look back, everything is covered in fog. Heavy fog.

Do you remember when I hated myself? Probably not. I never told you.

 Sometimes I wonder if you noticed the blood through my sleeve and chose not to speak up. It’s easier to believe you never saw. Was your pain so raw that you never noticed me crying myself to sleep? Would you have been surprised to find me dead at last, my arm submerged in a bathtub full of blood, just like I fantasized a thousand times?

You try to tell me how beautiful I am now. But the part of me that needed to hear that grew up and moved out a long time ago.

Do you remember the day I learned I was evil? Probably not. But I do.

 I remember your words, immortalized in the pages of my diary, came to life and stood before my eyes like living demons. Liar, untrustworthy, lazy, selfish. You taught me to ask God for forgiveness. You promised me that He would make me perfect. But he didn’t, and that’s when I knew I was evil, wrong, bad, lost. Were you proud of me? Of all the time I spent on my knees hating my own guts? Did you mistake my self-deprecation for humility? Or was this your desired result?

I already forgave you for the things you did, on accident or otherwise. I have taken responsibility for my life and my feelings. But the marks remain, like sunspots from the glare of your unrelenting righteousness.  I don’t want to blame you for the depression, for the years I spent swimming against the current, trying to break away from the darkness. I don’t want to hate you for the anxiety I’ve experienced over every small decision.

 But some day I’d like to hear you admit that you were wrong, and mean it. If that’s selfish of me, I’m sorry.

You remember the laughter and the warmth. You remember your ups and downs. Maybe you even have regrets. But do you remember my daily struggle to be perfect for you? Do you remember how I felt when I failed every single day? Probably not. But I do, and I wish with all my heart that I could forget.

Still Crying: Dear Young Parents

This post is from an anoymous reader. Please remember to show your support in the comments section!

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Dear Young Parents:

Because of my own experiences, I would encourage to try hard to avoid spanking your children.

My own experiences with spanking I believe are responsible for a sexual fetish that I wish I did not have.  It is important for everyone to realize that young children develop sexuality at an earlier age than we probably realize.  The butt is very close to genitals.  Force or pressure directed to one area is generally felt in the other.  Without meaning to do so, I believe many well-meaning parents accidentally cause or promote such a fetish. 

My parents did nothing that even today I believe would be classified as abuse.  They were well-meaning and the discipline I got was probably less than they received as children.  However, between ages 4 and 12, I was spanked maybe one to two dozen times.  It was not often and my parents preferred other methods of discipline.  They did use spanking though when they felt behavior called for it.

Perhaps, the ritual involved in my punishment accounted for what happened.  I don't know.  I will say that when I was spanked for some wrongdoing it was usually done in a specific way.  I would be called to the living room and my father and mother would talk to me and my two siblings (brother and sister) about what I had done wrong.  My father would than explain the consequences which would include getting a spanking.  My pants were usually pulled down.  Although, I was never spanked on my bare butt. Instead, I was spanked in my underwear.  My father would make me bend over his knee and would spank me until I cried. Sometimes it was with his hand.  I remember a couple of spankings with a very thin paddle. I don't think even today anyone looking at the paddle would have called what he did abuse.  However, the whole experience was very shaming.  To this day, I remember my mother sitting there with a look of satisfaction on her face while I got spanked in my jockey shorts.  Also, having my brother and sister there to watch this was hugely embarrassing for me.

Please don't do this to your children.  Find other ways to discipline them.

 - A concerned parent.

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Still Crying: What Spanking Really Taught Me

This powerful piece comes from Lisa Helms. She blogs over at Musings of a Fat Kid. Thanks for your contribution Lisa!

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Dear Mom and Dad,

I've come to the realization, that I own my body.  You gave me this right-- of owning my body-- until it was taken away.  It was taken away every time you spanked me from the age of two until the age of ten, and the many times after that when I was threatened by the possibility.

Being spanked taught me that it's okay to be hit without consent.  It doesn't matter where on my body you "spanked" me.  The fact that I was hit without consent, carried into my adult life, when I was again, several times, hit without consent, and I thought it was okay.

It's not okay, and I'm taking my inherent right back.  You will never see your future grandchildren without my supervision, because I can't know for sure you'll respect their right to own their bodies.

Love,

Your Daughter

(Please show your support and leave comments for the authors if you can. Remember, this is an open ended series! Please consider writing something yourself, or sharing the project with your friends and followers. The guidelines are listed here, but feel free to write in whatever format is easiest for you)

Carly

Her name was Carly.

I met her when I was 5 years old.

She came over almost every day after school and rang the doorbell.

“Can Sarah play?”

She didn’t care that I wore a dress over my leggings. And she never told on me when I tucked my skirts into my waist band to ride her bike.

I loved that she always asked for just me. She didn’t want to hang out with my sisters, just me.

As we grew older, her clothes got darker and her makeup got thicker.

She had secret scars on her arms just like I did.

But I never asked her about them. I didn’t know how to talk about things that were important.

I think I was 13 when everything changed. And she was 14.

One day we were outside riding scooters down her slanted driveway, when her little sister suddenly asked, “Carly, did you tell her yet?”

“tell me what?!” I asked.

                                            “You have to tell her eventually”

                                                                                                        “She won’t understand”

 “Carly just tell me!”

                                         She told me.

                                                                                  “I’m bi-sexual”

I didn’t know what she was talking about. She had to explain it to me.

Bi-sexual. Kindof like gay, but not quite. I knew what gay was. Mom said it was something people pretend to have so they can get attention. Dad said it was a really bad demon that lived inside people.

“That’s not a real thing” I said.

I don’t remember what happened next; just that it was time for me to go home.

I told mom about it later that night. And I’ll never forgive myself for that.

Later that week, I walked into the dining room to see Carly sitting at the table with my mom.

She was crying. Sobbing. I’d never seen Carly cry like that before.

“You have to give it up to God, Carly” my mom was saying.

There was a brochure on the table between them titled “Love Won Out.” Next to it was a blank application. And a pen.

Carly looked up at me for just a second and then buried her head in her arms. But I’ll never forget her face. Her makeup was running down her cheeks. And her eyes weren’t ashamed, or even angry, just sad.      So

                                                  very

                                                               sad.

After she left that day, my parents sat me down and told me that they didn’t want Carly around the little kids any more. They explained that homosexuality was a sin. A terrible awful sin. I remember my face turning very very red as I remembered the time I dreamed about kissing a girl. I resolved to never ask them about my budding sexual attractions. I loved my little brothers and sisters, I didn’t want them to be kept away from me. I didn’t want my daddy to hate me…

Carly came over less and less after that. She never told me about the conversation she’d had with my mom. We drifted apart. I’d wave to her when I passed her on the street, but eventually we never spoke anymore.

It might seem strange, but I still know the number to her mom’s house by heart.

I still tie my shoes the way she showed me when we were kids.

I still feel guilty every time I pass her street.

I want to reach out and tell her that I’m sorry, but I don’t know how.

I want to tell her that I’m so sorry that I didn’t know what to say.

I’m sorry that I didn’t support her like I should have.

 I’m sorry that I didn’t protect her from my parents.

 I’m sorry that I pushed her away, just when she probably needed friends the most.

 I’m sorry that I told her that she was a fake.

                                      I was only repeating what they told me.

                                                                                         I wish I had known then what I know now.

I look back now and realize how brave she must have been. How strong she must have been, and how hard it must have been. I wish I knew how to tell her that I’m sorry. If I could go back in time, I’d give her a hug and tell her how beautiful and inspiring she is.

Her name is Carly.

I'm sending her a link to this post, and maybe one day I’ll have the courage to ring her doorbell and tell her all this in person.

Let my Soul Heal (Spiritual Journey Part 2)

The healing process is not easy. Long suppressed feelings are even more painful when you experience them later in life. There were times I walked out in the middle of conversations with friends or family to avoid shouting or bursting into tears. Long conversations with my older sisters gave me courage to keep pressing on. Blogging has also been Instrumental in my “recovery.” Hearing from other people with similar struggles is incredibly encouraging! 

Husband kept expecting that my rest period would end with some sudden realization or conversion. But I knew that this journey was only just beginning.

I always assumed that Husband’s faith was just the same as mine, stubborn and unfounded. The more disillusioned I became with my faith, the more I started thinking that maybe He was brainwashed too, especially when nothing I could say would sway him. But the more we debated, the more I realized he really did know what he was talking about. At some point before becoming a Christian, he had done his homework. He knew both sides of the creation/evolution argument. He knew the tenants and philosophies of every main world religion. He even had experience with people from almost every walk of life. All I had was what my parents gave me: the ability to reason, and a thorough brainwashing. I had never studied other religions, I knew nothing about the evolution, and I had limited social experience. He could argue circles around me no matter what we were discussing. I was frustrated with some of his conclusions, but also shocked to discover he wasn’t nearly as hard lined as my parents had been. He didn’t believe in female submission, or spiritual headship. He didn’t think Catholics were going hell, in fact, he questioned whether hell was really the burning torture chamber I had learned about. He loved rock music and thought I looked nice in a bikini…

 I realized I could never make an informed decision on religion until I was actually informed.

I started browsing the documentary section at the library and brought home a number of different DVDs on subjects ranging from Ancient Wicka to the Galapagos Islands. Husband watched them with me sometimes and listened to me talk about what I’d learned with patience and interest. I’ll list a few of my favorites here.

I watched a documentary called “in the name of God.” It was made just after 9/11 as a look into various religions and their take on violence, war, and where “god” fits in. It was beautiful and refreshing. I teared up a couple times throughout the film as my heart celebrated the goodness of humanity. It also helped me silence my inner conspiracy theorist. Religion isn’t all bad, it’s not all evil, it’s not a tool used by the government to control the masses. Religion comes from the hearts of people seeking truth, happiness, and greater good; there’s nothing inherently sinister about it.

Another of my favorites was a PBS documentary called “The question of God.” In this film, Harvard Professor Dr. Armand Nicholi examines the questions of faith and belief. He and a panel of prestigious psychologists and philosophers look at the lives and works of C.S. Lewis and Sigmund Freud. "It may be that Freud and Lewis represent conflicting parts of ourselves," Dr. Nicholi notes. "Part of us yearns for a relationship with the source of all joy, hope and happiness, as described by Lewis, and yet, there is another part that raises its fist in defiance and says with Freud, 'I will not surrender.' Whatever part we choose to express will determine our purpose, our identity, and our whole philosophy of life."

I continue to read and research in my spare time. I’m in Psychology 101 in college and I love every minute of it. I feel like a whole new world is opening up before my eyes. Why were my parents so afraid to educate me? As I grow more knowledgeable, my discussions with my husband get less heated and more intellectual. I love being a blank slate. I love not knowing. My healing process is slowly becoming a learning process as well.

 I’ll periodically update my blog with a post about where I am in my spiritual journey. If you’re on the same path, just know that it might take you your entire life. And that’s okay! Lets learn to embrace this journey together!  

   

Chasing Perfection

My Mother and Father were born into broken families. Both had alcoholic fathers and were raised in poverty. Both had troubled siblings and my father was physically abused. Christianity provided them with hope and purpose. They met and fell deeply in love. He was a soldier, she was a teaching student. They married and started a family right away. A beautiful baby girl, and then two, and then three. They loved their children and each other very much, but i imagine they were still afraid. Would love be enough to keep these precious little ones safe? What if the lies of the world drew them away from the love and hope of Jesus? What if they were brainwashed in school and there was nothing they could do to stop it? What if bad people drew them into drugs and alcohol, like Dad's sister? what if they made mistakes in raising them and they ended up bitter and wounded like Mom's sister?

One day my mother found an article in the newspaper about homeschooling. My dad, who had hated every moment of public school, loved the idea. They started looking into it. They soon discovered what they had been searching for all along. They discovered people who knew all the answers. Books that promised healthy happy children that feared God and loved their parents. This system taught them what God REALLY wanted for them. If they followed these steps, God would bless them. Their family would never suffer the way that THEY had suffered as children. It was calm in a world of chaos. It answered every question and calmed every fear. They implemented their new beliefs and soon began to reap the blessings of God.
It was may years before those babies grew up and rocked the boat. We are not the chaste, happy, selfless children they were promised we'd be. Between the oldest five there is depression, drug and alcohol abuse, promiscuity, self mutilation, sexual abuse, eating disorders, and suicide attempts.  But still they will not renounce the system. They hush it up, brush it under the rug, and let everybody think that we're still perfect. They see the system as something good that they were never able to achieve.  Today i see my cousins falling into the same trap.

My father's sister struggled with alcoholism and bulimia her whole life. She and her husband made some terrible mistakes and eventually their family fell apart. leaving my cousin Wendy (not her real name) and her two siblings in a wake of destruction. Her brother got into drugs, she struggled with depression. Then she met Jesus at church, and then a boy at college. This boy has 11 siblings. He was home schooled in a family that looks just as perfect as mine. His sisters are submissive and his father is a strong leader. Wendy has fallen hard for this boy and everything he represents. She hopes to have his children, and teach them at home just as God intended. She wants to follow the system to a T. She has been promised that they will never suffer the way that she did. They wont get in to drugs like her little brother. they wont lose their virginity to a liar or lose their mother to the bottle. She thinks she has found the answer to all her fears and questions.

I have tried to pull her back from the edge, to save her like i saved myself. Maybe i still can. But right now, all she can see is perfection.The promise of certainty that just does not exist. I just hope that some day when her children tell her she was wrong, she'll have what it takes to admit it, and maybe stop this cycle once and for all... 

The ONLY right way to spank? My way!

Inspired by Heather over at My Life, I have decided to re post a pro-spanking comment i received on my Childhood Memories post. I hear this type of thing a lot. People express outrage at how "abused" i was, and then launch into enumerating what they think is the "right way" to spank. News Flash people: my parents thought they were doing it right too. Sure, maybe they got a little out of hand sometimes, but it wasn't the exception that was the problem, it was the rule. Even if my parents had never once hit me, just making bend over their knee would have been too much.

Here is the anonymous comment and my response:

"Anonymous said...

I am so sorry that you guys have had to live through the horrific beatings. Those parents were abusive!!!
I'm not against spanking, but I'm against beating. My parents spanked us, but it was, at the most, 5 swats. It lasted about 5-10 seconds and then it was over.
I cannot comprehend spanking someone for any longer than 5-10 seconds...that's abuse and if I EVER saw a parent do that, I would turn them in!"

"Enigma said...

Anonymous, who decides what type of spanking is abusive? Is it you? Is it me? Is a spanking okay as long as it only lasts 10 seconds? Or is it 20? Should a parent use their hand? or an impartial object like a spoon? Or a switch? Maybe a pvc pipe? Is 5 swats okay but 6 swats is abusive? should you force your child to bend over your knee? or do you just swat at them when they run past? My parents are wonderful loving people who tried to do everything right. They said the same things you're saying now. That they're apposed to beating, im sure they would have turned somebody in for beating children in way they thought was inappropriate. In my opinion there is NO right way to spank. Even the mildest of spankings can lead to lasting emotional, mental and sexual repercussions. You may be one of the lucky ones who is not permanently damaged, but another kid who was just "swatted" for 5-10 seconds might end up with self esteem issues, warped sexuality, self destructive tendencies, or low self worth. Any kind of hitting is dangerous to a child and your relationship with that child. Are you really willing to risk that based solely on what YOU think is acceptable?"

Do you think there's a "right way" to spank? If so, how do you know? Can you be SURE? If not, what would YOU say to someone who thinks they know the "right way" to spank?

Teenage Identity Crisis

Every kid reaches that age where they struggle to discover who they really are. It is natural to the process of growing up. We stop defining ourselves by our family, and start defining ourselves by our friends. We naturally want to push the limits, push our bodies, and push the rules. During this time, our dreams and feelings are larger than life, and Oh-so-real. Parents often make the mistake of shrugging off the teenage years as a “faze” in which their kids are overcome by hormones. They often chuckle behind closed doors about the latest “teenage moment” and make their kids feel patronized and misunderstood. Parents long for the day that their teen’s hormone levels will normalize and they will have an adult on their hands instead of a large, moody child. Talking and listening to your teenager is the best thing you can do for them. As young adults, all we want is to be taken seriously, and to be heard. The teenage years are a beautiful, fragile time in which children become adults.

In a Fundamentalist Christian household, the teenage years can be a very different story. My parents didn’t want their daughters to grow up. Ever. We were trained to serve and submit from an early age. Pushing the limits was NEVER tolerated. Emotions were either irrelevant, or labeled as rebellion. As early as age 11, I remember having those “teenage moments” of huge emotion. Like every kid, I felt misunderstood and unjustly suppressed. Instead of being asked how I felt, or what was wrong, I was taught that my emotions were the manifestation of my sinful nature.

Tired and sore in all the wrong places? Laziness, Sloth.

Sad, depressed? = Bad Attitude, Selfishness.

Anger? = Rebellion.

Whenever I showed emotion, my mother would be disappointed. “this is isn’t the Sarah I know!” she would say. “who are you trying to imitate?” She wouldn’t let me see my friends anymore. Not even my cousins. Because I was “copying” them and not acting like the sweet happy daughter she knew. Instead of asking me what was wrong, or how I felt, she questioned my identity. As a teenager, I was already struggling to discover myself. She told me that she knew me better than anyone else. I tried so hard to be who she wanted me to be. How could she love someone who wasn’t her daughter anymore? I second guessed every word I said. I was paranoid that my motives were impure, that I was a copy cat, that I had no personality. I am still struggling to trust myself, all these years later.

 I remember at around age 13 I rolled my eyes at my dad. This was a BIG no-no. Sighing, stomping, folding my arms, and rolling my eyes were all deserving of a spanking. He grew angry and ordered me to come to him for a spanking. The injustice of it all welled up in my chest and I suddenly shouted out “No!” He was shocked. I was terrified. My legs took over and I took off running down the hall. I had never run from him before. He caught me, in what turned out to be one of my worst memories of my dad. He grabbed me by the arm and threw me into the bathroom. I tried to apologize, but he mashed my face into the corner. I screamed and I cried and I begged, and I hated myself for every “I’m sorry” and every “please stop.” I had hand prints on my arms and bruising on my face. The wooden spoon left bruises all over my newly developing body. And I hated myself. My mouth had betrayed me. If I hadn’t shouted that word this would never have happened. My body had betrayed me as well. If I hadn’t ran away, my punishment would not have been so severe.

 I hated myself for not having total control over my sin nature. I started cutting myself. I picked apart shavers with a pair of tweezers and saved the individual razor blades. It was freeing to exercise this type of control. It was like bleeding out all my emotions so they could not cause me problems throughout the day. It was freeing, it was addicting, it was frightening. My body learned to crave punishment, and I learned to oblige. When growth spurts made me so hungry it hurt, I agonize over every bite I ate. I would stare for hours in the mirror, begging for the courage to deny myself these gluttonous urges. I cut myself again and again. For every extra bite, for every surge of anger, for every misplaced tear.

My parents were happy with me. I was showing self control. I was being their sweet compliant daughter again. My mother was happy to have me back. She thought she knew me so well. Thought she had encouraged me right back into the girl I used to be. But every conversation was tailored to please. I had no idea who I was anymore. I was a bloody, torn mess, buried under a hard shell called Self Control.

 Parents, your children are going to change. Please let them. Don’t pretend to know them. Ask them questions, listen to them talk, and understand that their reality is just as important as your own. Don’t use the teenage identity crisis as an excuse to avoid meaningful conversation. You’re children will grow and change whether you want them to or not.

If you want to have any influence on the rest of their lives, embrace them for who they are.

Why am I not enough?

I don't remember how it came up. But somehow i got the courage to mention the research I'd done on spanking. Maybe i mis-judged her voice through the phone, but I thought my mom sounded receptive, almost interested.
I talked about the bible. And she even agreed that God never mandated spanking. I felt affirmed, hopeful that just maybe she would listen. Maybe i could save my baby sisters and brothers. Maybe they would just stop.
I shared my research in detail. Science suggests that ALL spanking is dangerous. There is no "right way" to spank. Even the bible is against it.
I told her about the sexual effects of spanking. About how even the gentlest of spankings can lead to permanent sexual damage and confusion. Children can  Subconsciously link sexual feelings with violence and degradation.

"That's not accurate. Children can link those things even if they're not spanked"
"how?"
"Because of our culture! The media!"

I pressed on. I risked it. I told her about me. About how even normal everyday spankings, the ones that never left a bruise, were terrible for me. My feelings of self hatred were birthed on the floor in the bathroom, waiting for mom to come with the spanking spoon. How my earliest experiences with my sexuality revolved around pain, around violence, around shame. It was hard for me to say, SO hard, but i just kept thinking of my sister: So much like me. Too much like me....

"The bible teaches us gentleness. And respect. It is a basic human right to NOT be hit."

She became immediately defensive.

"Oh so you think I'm a violent parent? You're saying i don't respect my kids?"

"I know you only did what you thought was right, but now I'm giving you new information. Every person in America has the right to not be hit except children. If children are people too, i think they should have the same rights"

She told me this was just a knee jerk reaction.

"Just because your dad messed up a few times your freaking out and going in the exact opposite direction. Everybody does this. You'll understand someday when you're a parent"

"Mom, I've done the research. That just doesn't make sense"

"Well you've obviously been brainwashed"

"NO MOM! YOU BRAINWASHED ME!"

My heart was sinking. Fast.
She rambled on, using all the old HSLDA rhetoric I've heard so many times. I know that argument backwards. I've changed my mind because now I've finally seen the rest of the facts. I've seen how i am affected. I only said something because i cant stand the thought of my siblings having to feel the way that i feel.

"You're obviously having issues, Sarah. I think you need to take this to God"

I was crying now. Desperate for her to hear me, begging her to not shut down on me.

"I have mom. I have! Listen to me please. I understand if you don't believe the research. Interpret the bible however you want to, but can you please just ignore all that  for a moment and HEAR me? I am your daughter and spanking HURT me. So why wont you just stop?!"

I was sobbing, shaking, pleading.

"Why is that not enough?"

In the silence that followed, I let my heart believe that she had heard me. That a 25-year-old mistake could not be stronger than my mother's love. I had bared my soul. I had begged her. She had no choice but to listen, right?

Wrong. She spoke again. Bitter. Angry. Sarcastic.

"Well I'm so sorry I ruined your life, Sarah. Obviously we just hate you right? is that what you wanted to hear me say?"

She continued, but i could no longer speak. Choked by tears, I whispered that i had to go and hung up the phone. My heart is still breaking at this fresh memory.

I am your daughter and you hurt me. Even if you never hit me, just making me stand, bent over your knee, would have been too much. Even if i didn't have any evidence, I am LIVING proof that your method didn't work. So why don't you just stop? Why is my word, my pain, my HEART, still not enough for you?

(By the way, this all took place just last night. I am still reeling from the shock. I am so disappointed, I don't even know what to say)

Walking In The Spirit

"Are you walking in the spirit? If you stay close to God, he will show you what he wants you to do."

My mom said this in an email to me last week. As i read it, i was suddenly overcome with anger and guilt. Guilt because i am certainly not "walking in the spirit." I haven't prayed in weeks. Guilt because reading the bible secretly makes me squirm. Guilt because i would rather hear God explain himself to me than beg and plead with him to tell me what HE wants. And Anger. Anger because her admonitions still make me feel small. Anger at God. Because, as usual, He's upset with me. Impatient, threatening to leave me if i don't get back to working on our relationship.

I was raised to believe that only a few were going to heaven. We were disdainful of those who believed they were saved by "works". but we simultaneously judged the state of a persons salvation based on how they lived their lives. We were told that true believers were always full of the spirit. If we were real Christians, all we would ever want to talk about would be God.
I am not exactly displaying the fruits of the spirit these days. I imagine that's why my mother is so concerned. I am not bursting with joy, my heart is often far from peaceful, and talking about God makes me uncomfortable, and sad.

Sometimes i wish i could just toss it all out and forget about religion. But I can't. Somewhere in the midst of the lies my parents told me, I caught a glimpse of God that was strong enough to make me stay. I have been comforted by God. I have seen him change lives, i have felt the joy of trusting him. But most of all, I see my husband.

My husband: The product of a broken family. Tumult and pain color the story of his past. He is analytical, He is a skeptic, and He is a christian. Strong and quietly passionate, He sees the loving God I have always searched for. His God is the calm in the storm. The peace and hope that changed his life. I have brushed shoulders with this God and been blown away by his goodness.

I want to learn about this God. If he's really who i think he is, then He has nothing to hide. I can face my demons, I can rest, and heal, and take my time. And He's not going to threaten me, or leave me, or even disapprove of me. If God is who i think he is, then he knows my heart, he understands my pain, and nothing else matters.

So mom, don't question my salvation. Don't tell me what God wants. Because you don't know and you never have. It's always just been you, attributing your human concerns and emotions to God.

  My husband tells me that God is not a human. He doesn't react like mothers and fathers do: with impatience, disappointment, and threats. I don't have to earn His love. My Husband's God IS love, and He would literally wait forever, just for me.

Independence: Trials and Choices (Part 3 of 3)

As I neared the end of my first semester, it became increasingly clear that I could not attend college the following year. I had no money, no scholarships, and no possibility of a loan. Boyfriend and I continued to grow closer and the thought of leaving him and moving back in with my parents was unbearable. It came as a surprise when a dear Friend of mine convinced her father to co-sign on a private student loan. I had not asked for help and her loving generosity still brings me to tears. The loan enabled me to pay off the $15000 i had already racked up in debt, and left me with a choice: Continue my education (as a journalist) and create $70 K in debt that i had no plan to pay, OR go to a more cost-effective institution and get a quick degree in something that i knew would pay my debt. Over Christmas break, Boyfriend and I did a lot of talking and praying. It was one of the hardest decisions i ever had to make. I never went back after that Christmas break. I had my stuff shipped to me at my parents house and i signed myself up for CNA (Certified Nurse Assistant) Training at the local community college.

We were miserable.

Boyfriend was planning on heading back out to Virginia, 13 hours away, in a week. We spent every spare moment together, much to the chagrin of my parents who thought we should be with family all the time. I guess they thought that we had just held hands up to this point. One night after a movie, Boyfriend pulled the car over at a local park and we sat watching the snow fall. He asked me if i really thought i could stand to spend the rest of my life with him. I told i couldn't stand to spend it without him. And then he asked me to marry him. I Said Yes.

Of course it was shocking to everyone. Except my parents. They took it to mean I was obeying their council. Everyone else told me i was making a huge mistake. Honestly i cant blame them. We had known each other for 6 months and were already engaged. We were freshman in college. We were poor, and we were YOUNG. But at 18 years of age, I walked the isle and spoke the vows, and i haven't regretted it for a day since. My father rambled on in his reception speech about how he had "allowed" me to marry. He even said that "(Boyfriend) started as worse than Whale Scum in my eyes, but he is slowly redeeming himself." I was mortified. That however, is the only bad memory of my wedding. It was wonderful and beautiful and everything I never dreamed of.

Husband is now studying at a State school (we left PHC) and plans to go on to law school. I got my CNA, but have decided to go in another direction. I will be starting part time school in the fall and hopefully pursuing a degree in psychology. I work full time as a receptionist to pay the bills. We are very happy with our life. My parents on the other hand continue to insist that we are not living a godly lifestyle. My father constantly mentions the fact that we are not having children and my mother often expresses her doubt that my husband is "taking care of me." I am sure they will be horrified to learn that I do not plan to home school our future children.

Anyway, now you know the basics of my life story. These last three posts have given me a structure on which to build further posts. I wanted to say thank you to everyone who has been reading my posts! I didn't expect this and it is such an encouragement to me. <3

Independence: A Taste Of Freedom. (Part 2)

2 days after the birth of my baby brother, my dad drove me to Midway airport for my flight to Virginia and freedom. “You are never to be alone with a man at any time, not even professors”
“If a boy expresses any interest in you whatsoever, you must give him my number and have him call me before you spend any time with him”
“Remember, men are scum”
“I know this is supposedly a Christian college, but that doesn’t mean you can automatically trust people!”
I humored him and pretended like I was listening. This was the last time I’d have to hear it after all. He walked me all the way to the gate, hugged and kissed me goodbye. He was a little choked up; I was chomping at the bit. Dad had gotten better over the last year at telling us girls he loved us, but it was too late now. I was so used to not hearing it that now it all just felt so forced.
The first few weeks of college were a blur of activities, new people, and frustrations. The college was founded by leaders in the homeschooling movement, so every kid there was either a socially awkward dreamer, a spouse hunter, or a really confused public school-er who ended up there on accident. The latter describes my two best friends: Tim & Kevin. (names changed) I pretended to be just as confused as they were, but secretly I knew exactly why the college only allowed men on the security and grounds teams. I understood the theology behind shy girls with no makeup and long dresses. I silently sympathized with the blond who, free for the first time, was caught in the back seat of an upperclassman's car at night furiously making up for lost time. This place was only different from home in that I was able to be whoever i wanted. Nobody knew i was actually one of the girls sent to college only for an MRS degree. I painted myself as the tough, feminist, martial artist. My hair was boy-short and i swore allot so everybody bought the facade.


About 2 weeks into my first semester, the guy i had been dating back home started to get serious and i started to get scared. He was using the "M" word. Allot. He had been more of a stress reliever to me than a potential husband. Between "sortof-boyfriend" and the school Rules i started to feel trapped again. And the more trapped i felt, the more drawn i was to my friend "Tim". He was blond, handsome, kind, and best of all he didn't pretend to understand me. He thought i was pretty (what!?) and called me a girly girl. I found myself thinking about him all the time, ignoring calls from "sortof-boyfriend" when we were together, and smiling every time i heard his voice. When "Tim" finally asked me out, i was still technically dating "sortof-boyfriend". I said yes right away, and then dumped "sortof-boyfriend" 4 days after that.


When "Tim" (I'll just call him Boyfriend now) and i started dating, My world changed completely. He was amazing. I fought and doubted my feelings for months, but he patiently chipped away at my bitterness with honest goodness. He cared about ME. He told me my feelings were important, helped me work through the jumbled mess that was my heart. We were completely in love. Using the "M" word came easily with Boyfriend. I couldn't imagine my life without him. But still i had to keep it a secret. I couldn't gush to my Mom about how amazing he was because i knew she would tell Dad. And Dad would get in his car and drive all 13 hours just to scare off the scum bag. So of course it was a huge shock when i brought him home for Thanksgiving.


That weekend was full of screaming and tears and anger. Dad ordered me to break up with him immediately or marry him within a year. There was no other alternative. He took Boyfriend into his office and grilled him for 2 hours. "are you ready to be her spiritual head and protection?" "How are you going to provide for your family?" Boyfriend and I escaped back to school with lots of questions for each other and ourselves. I told my parents we were thinking about their ultimatum and would eventually decide between the choices. We knew we wanted marriage eventually, but we decided it was no-ones decision but our own. We would wait out these college years together and then see what happened.....

(To Be Continued)

Part 1
Part 3

Childhood Memories

I couldn't stop crying. That was the problem. I was hot and cold all over, shaking and crying so hard i couldn't breathe. My skin was stinging, throbbing from the punishment that started almost an hour ago. My chest rose and fell in sharp jerky motions with each hickup, with each choking breath i tried to take. "control yourself" he said softly. His voice was sad, almost gentle. Almost.

He was so disappointed in me. I knew it, and now time was running out again. "Are you going to stop?" His grip tightened on my arm. Panic surged through my body, threatening more tears, I bit down on my lip. "God please make me stop! Help me control myself!" My mind screamed out to God, but nothing happened. No sense of calm. I should have expected this, God doesn't answer bad 6-year-olds. My little body shuddered and i started to sob again. Failure. Dad pulled me back over his knee and hit me three times with a wooden spoon. Pain blossomed up the back of my legs, my bottom. I cried. Loud. I was completely unable to control myself and i was dizzy from trying. Dad clamped his hand over my mouth. "silence" he hissed. Now he was frustrated as well as disappointed. What was wrong with me? Why was i too weak to just say "yes sir" and shut my mouth?

My foggy little mind understood why this was happening. I needed to learn to be silent when i was punished and Daddy was helping me. If i was allowed to be loud and mellow dramatic, the neighbors might get the wrong idea and tell the cops that we were being abused. The cops weren't Christians, and they wouldn't understand. They might get a judge to split up our family, and it would be all my fault. Daddy was just protecting our family. I mustered all my strength and stood very still. I sucked in as much air as i could, held my breath and waited. "are you going to control yourself now?" I nodded. Not too fast. "Do you understand why i had to spank you?" I'd forgotten actually, but I nodded anyway. I was running out of air. "Are you sorry?" I nodded again, waited. My vision began to go dark around the edges. I didn't dare draw a breath and ruin this long awaited silence. "Alright, come here" My father took me in his arms and I slowly let out my breath. It was over now. My body was still shaking but my lips were clamped shut. "What do you say Sarah?" he asked. Still no gentleness in his voice, but the anger was gone. I cautiously opened my mouth, terrified that my body would betray me again. I wiped the tears and snot away with the back of my hand and whispered: "Thank You"

Independence: My Great Escape. (Part 1)

I married young. Upon many occasions i have seen marriage used as an escape for adult children, trapped at home by parents and the Patriarchal lifestyle. Two kids, caught in the system, clinging together for dear life. I like to think that desperation had nothing to do with my decision marry, but it was defiantly the force that put me in the position in the first place. I was struggling to find myself, forced to lie about it, trapped in a cycle of guilt. I dragged myself to the finish line of high school. I begged my dad not to make me finish Algebra, coaxed them into signing the transcripts i wrote. There was only one school of higher learning they would consider letting me attend. A private christian college in Virginia. A college that didn't accept federal grants or loans. I applied, knowing full well my parents couldn't put one cent towards the $30,000 tuition. My dad told me to start looking for scholarships. My mom called it a leap of faith.
I found my self an SAT tutor and scraped by with a 1810. There were some serious holes in my education. I stood on the precipice of the rest of my life and i was terrified. No Money, No Choices, No Cap and Gown. I knew the smartest thing to do would be stay home, go to community college, work for my dad, save money. But i had to get away. the thought of being here any longer, hiding my boyfriend, lying to my parents, the emotional manipulation, the constant judgement, the expectation, I couldn't do it any more.
I started talking to a recruiter for the Army. It was a way out. A way to pay for the education i so desperately wanted. Most importantly, It was a decision that, once made, could not be reversed. Could not be held over my head. I was close. One confirmation away from heading down to the office and signing away 4 years, and maybe my life. I don't know what changed my mind. Maybe i was afraid of dying, afraid i would get to see my baby brothers grow up. Maybe i wasn't ready to see the bitter disapproval in my dad's eyes. maybe it was God. Whispering some silent promise that He was on my side, that everything would be okay. Whatever it was, I knew it was time to go. I stood at that gaping precipice. And I Jumped.


(...to be continued)