Longing

I am intimately familiar with the feeling called longing

Intense, sharp, caustic need

the kind that chews a hole inside your chest

like a shot of novocain, a burn and a sting

I only ever longed for freedom

burning my hands over a steaming pot

the future stretching out before me

strangled by the sameness and monotony

longing like bile in my throat

gagging, choking, my stomach in knots

fight or flight, but i could do neither

twelve years old and living in my own coffin

need is dangerous

if you acknowledge it, it demands to be satisfied

and when you can’t deliver

longing will tear.you.apart.

with sharp, curved claws

longing tore it’s way through my lungs

i stopped breathing for 6 years

those talons tore divots in my baby skin

I chased after freedom even as my lips were turning blue

flat on my belly, crawling with my fingernails

this longing is brutal

it will kill you before it will be ignored

every year i long for Fall

every fall i’d turn one year closer to freedom

it was fall when I broke away and started running

fall is a clean cold slate against fevered skin

the longing for freedom is part of being human

it’s right beneath your skin

a hungry monster you will never escape

I’d advise you to embrace it before it eats you alive

(originally published on my Tumblr)

Self Hatred and the Morning Person

I got up this morning at the usual time and rushed through my weekday morning routine. I’ve been doing the same thing every day for the last 3 years: shower, hair, makeup, clothes, and shoes, fly out the door just in time to make it to the office by 8. 

Getting ready in the morning has always been like a nightmare for me, ever since I was a kid. I’ve always hated my body, and squeezing into clothes makes me self conscious. Staring myself in the face without makeup makes me uncomfortable. Putting on my hand-me-down jewelry that isn’t quite fashionable embarrasses me. Leaving the house with all these insecurities makes me anxious and nervous. Maybe it’s the anticipation that makes me wake up nauseas and sore every morning, feeling like I’ve caught the flue overnight. Depression hits me the hardest in the morning.

Up until recently, if you asked me if I’m a “morning person” I would always say NO. Mornings are awful. Mornings mean facing overwhelming self-hatred. Mornings mean another long day of adversity. Waking up means the disappointment of knowing that I’m still alive. I’d rather just stay buried under the blankets where no one will know I exist.

There are a number of factors that led to my self-hatred. The Patriarchal society I grew up in demonized a woman’s body and sexuality while simultaneously glorifying the concept of the sweet, childlike virgin bride that I knew I would never emulate. I was never encouraged to express my emotions, so all my confusing feelings stayed trapped inside me. Being bisexual (and being taught that such things were abominable) also caused me to vilify a woman’s body in general. It was easier to hate it than admit to forbidden attraction. When paired with depression and lack of education, my natural bodily development became a waking nightmare. The hatred I had for myself and my body was not just a passing teenage phase; it was a devastating condition that colored my entire world in a muddy shade of black.

 For most of my life I sincerely believed that I was stupid, worthless, ugly, lazy, gluttonous, and sloppy. Self hatred is painful, debilitating, and dangerous. Lucky for me, I have people in my life who understand that. I am here today, I am healthy today, because my Hunnie, my sister, and a few close friends chose to take my struggles seriously. They insisted again and again that the opinions I had of myself were false.  They were there for me day or night to talk me though my anxiety.  It took countless long talks and years of hard work to get me to the place I am today. 

This is actually me wearing my fave brown dress pants



I don’t know exactly when it happened, but at some point this last year the heavy fog of depression, anxiety, and self hatred started to dissipate. It wasn’t until this morning that I realized how far I have come. I found myself singing in the shower at 6:00am (sorry neighbor). I winked at myself in the mirror while rubbing product into my super short hair. I put on my favorite checkered socks and walked around the house in my underwear without cringing every time I passed a mirror. And when my grey dress pants were too small to button, I switched to the bigger brown pair and it didn’t even bother me. Really.

This is ME we’re talking about here. The same girl who, at 8 years old, covered her whole body with washcloths in the bathtub because she didn’t want to have to see how “fat” she was. The same girl who refused to look in the mirror for much of her teenage life.. The same girl who stopped eating because a friend mentioned that she had a “little pooch.” And there I was this morning, smiling at my curves and meaning it. I just thought “welp, guess I’m not a size 8 after all.” Those grey pants were milestone for me.

Don’t be afraid to reach out to someone who’s hurting. You don’t have to say much. Simply tell them the truth:

You are beautiful.

                                 You are smart.

                                                           You are strong.

                                                                                         You can be anything you want to be.

And don’t stop saying it until they start to believe.

Dear Diary: Fundamentalism Through the Eyes of a Child

I don't know about you, but sometimes I feel guilty for leaving fundamentalism  It's not logical obviously, but somewhere deep down I still have this built in self-doubt. "It wasn't that bad," I tell myself, "you're exaggerating " I think about the things I've written on my blog and wonder if maybe I've somehow made them all up. Maybe my memories are flawed, maybe I'm victimizing myself.

In one of these moments of self-doubt, I turned to my childhood journal for affirmation. What I found startled me even more than my memories. Every page is swimming with self-hatred. Half the journal entries read like a suicide note. It's horrifying.

Fundamentalism teaches children that they are sinners. It teaches them to deny themselves, despise their needs, sterilize their personality, and strangle their sexuality. It teaches girls that they are stupid, insignificant, and purposeless without a man. The things you believe about yourself during your formative years shape the way you think, feel, and behave for the rest of your life. Nothing can be more crippling than self-hatred.

To illustrate how deeply fundamentalism destroys a child's self-worth, I am considering publishing some of the entries from my childhood/teenage journals. This will not be a commentary on my family or the things that happened in my home. It will be a glimpse into the mind and heart of a little girl who believed she did not deserve to live. My hope would be that people will see the dangers of fundamentalist Christianity and think twice about the things they teach (or allow to be thought) to their children.

Would anyone find this helpful or interesting? Would you be interested in sharing bits from your childhood journal to add to the illustration?

UPDATE: Many people experienced similar self-hatred stemming from psychological abuse that was not necessarily religious in nature. I welcome journal entries from those children as well as they offer a clear example of how religious fundamentalism is a form of psychological abuse.

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.

I Am Human

In my senior year of High School, I attended a “rebolution” event hosted by Brett and Alex Harris. They are the little brothers of the infamous Joshua Harris (author of “I kissed dating goodbye”) and the sons of Gregg Harris (a well known leader in the Home School community.) The “rebolution” is a movement that challenges young people to rise above the low expectations of the culture and become men and women of honor. At first it sounds like a great idea. The American teenager is often pushed aside and discounted. We are not treated as full members of society. I loved the idea of a movement encouraging kids to fearlessly pursue their dreams and step outside the “irresponsible teenager” box. However, the Harris brothers do not want kids to pursue their dreams. They want them to pursue “God’s” dream. Much like Eric and Leslie Ludy, they teach young people that God has a plan for them bigger than any dream or desire they might have. They talk about our fallen, depraved culture and about life’s struggles, and then proceed to give us the recipe for success. No matter what your situation in life, you can fix it by “selling out” to Jesus. They tell us that it is impossible to engage in the world and still be a real Christian. All our problems are caused by our lack of faith, by our inability to leave the world behind and trust God fully. They challenge kids to stand up in the middle of the seminar and confess their apathy. They demand that we forsake all, take up our cross, and follow Jesus. I saw kids with tears streaming down their faces, convinced that they had finally found the answer. I watched them commit to purity and promise to throw away all their secular music. I saw girls zip up their jackets, ashamed of the clothing that so clearly represented the world. I watched an auditorium full of my generation get swept away.

Christians get all excited about the idea of being set apart. It makes you special, part of something bigger, and definitely on the winning team. I’m not sure when Fundamentalists decided that the highest form of devotion was separation, but somewhere along the line, they decided that our souls were the only important part of our being. The human body, Emotion, Culture, Self expression, and the fruits of the human mind have somehow become the enemies of our souls. We all want to be fulfilled. As humans, this often leads us to make radical decisions and do crazy things. There is nothing more radical than denying our very humanity.

To remove yourself from “the world” is to remove yourself from your humanity. Humans have bodies and minds as well as souls. We create art and music and scientific theories. A lifestyle that demands only spiritual expression will squelch human emotion. A worldview that rejects any knowledge and beauty apart from God will not engage or value the power of the human mind. We cannot pick and choose which parts of our being to keep or throw away.  When you do this, you run the risk of setting yourself above all others. I was taught from an early age to look down on women wearing makeup. I was taught that my emotions were something to hate and my sexuality was something to be ashamed of. I was taught Doctors were liars and the Psychology was the devil’s work. I was taught disdain for fashion and culture. Fundamentalist groups see human nature as evil. They promote a lifestyle that is supposedly Godly only by virtue of being different from everyone else. They have lost site of the enduring and troubled beauty that is humanity. Humans are blessed with a range of emotions and senses as wide as the sky and as deep as the ocean. History and culture are a canvas painted by human hands, minds and hearts. We are an excellent and fascinating creation.

I love knowing that i am no different from the guy sitting next to me on the bus. For the first time in my life I acknowledge my feelings as valid and natural. I am fascinated by psychology and the study of the human mind. I am free at last to engage in my culture without fear of demons or destruction. I LOVE BEING HUMAN. Brett and Alex Harris mean well. They were taught what I was taught. They think they have found the answer and they are passionate about sharing it with their peers. But they are missing out. Humans are so much more than a soul. 

We cannot live fulfilled lives without accepting the fullness of our humanity.

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.