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)

My Journey: An Update

I have been neglecting my blog.

But I promise, the reasons are mostly good. I have been getting better. So much better. The suffocating blanket of uncertainty has almost completely disappeared. So many of my fears have been replaced with confidence and peace. I don’t feel so raw all the time anymore. I don’t always feel the need to pour my emotions out on “paper” to get them out of my system. I think I know who I am now. As an individual. And most days that means I feel peaceful, and happy.

None of things happened over night. And I’m sure I’ll change and have new questions all over again. But for once, I am not afraid of the future, because I finally trust myself to navigate it with authenticity. If I change, I change, and that’s okay. Because human beings are fluid. We are meant to change and grow, and rejecting that fact is unhealthy. P/QF folks will tell you that there’s a solid, biblical answer for every question, and if you don’t get it you need to try harder. But that kind of mindset removes us from our consciences, and from the opportunity to change and grow, which is what makes us human to begin with.

Letting go of belief in “right answers” is scary.
Letting go of the walls that you were always told would protect you is terrifying.
Letting go of the personality pajamas your parents swaddled you in at birth leaves you feeling naked and without identity.
Waking up in your twenties with no sense of self seems unbearable.

But I let go. And I started from scratch. And I trusted my conscience, and as cheesy as it sounds, I trusted my heart. It’s been over 2 years now, of slowly putting myself together, piece by piece. This is not the end of my journey. But I am happy to say that I know who I am today. I know what I want today. And that is more than enough for me.

I would love to talk more about my journey. I know how helpful it was to hear stories like mine when I was first beginning my journey. The tips and tricks and encouragements of others were invaluable to me. Please feel free to email me, or leave a comment about what you need to hear about. What will help you on your journey? If I get any responses I will write on those subjects.

College

Things I have learned from the 3 years I’ve spent in college:

•  Pulling an all-nighter is never worth it.
• Nobody cares what you wear to class.
• If you don’t get enough nutrition you grades will suffer.
• Getting a B is okay.
• The key to making a professor like you is to keep a low profile at first and then gradually become more engaged in class as the semester goes on. Your professor will feel like they drew you out of your shell. They’ll be really proud of themselves and totally love you for the rest of the year.
• It’s okay to procrastinate, just make sure you read all the instructions for a project way ahead of time so you arent suprised by how much there is to do the night before
• Don’t sit by fun, social people in class, they’ll get you in trouble
• Keep a constant list of assignments on your phone so you never forget stuff
• Never ever ever share your homework with classmates
• Always sell your textbooks at the end of the semester
• Never start a new show on Netflix close to finals or midterms
• Limit drinking to one night a week, if you dont you WILL get fat
• Try to have some fun. You won’t be this young forever

Things i still dont have answers for after 3 years in college:

• When you pass sombody in the hallway or on the sidewalk, is it weirder to make eye contact and smile or just completely ignore them?

Skirts Make Me Uncomfortable

I work at a tax firm, so I'm basically way too busy this time of year to be blogging. But I've been feeling very fashionable this week and I wanted to share pictures with somebody. Photo posts are so lazy, but I don't really have time for much else!

This is my outfit from Wednesday of this week. Just ignore the fact that I'm clearly standing in the bathroom at work, and also ignore the fact that I'm taking pictures of myself in the mirror. I was feeling extremely uncomfortable and traumatized all day, and I'm positive it was because of the skirt.

This is me on Thursday, suddenly feeling confident and comfortable in a pair of dress pants and a cardigan. It's amazing how much better I felt that day. 

Anybody from a Fundy background like me knows how frustrating clothes can be. I feel like I never had a chance to discover my style, and I have all these random insecurities and paranoia when it comes to getting dressed.

 "OMG what will happen if I lift my arms up? Someone might see my midrif!"

"Relax"

"Can't wear this, you can see a bra strap"

"Is it acceptable to wear pants this tight?"

"What is normal?"

"Forget it. I give up. I'll just stay in the house all day. Better yet, I'll stay in bed all day."

I've had to force myself to put aside my fears and focus on what I want and what makes me feel good. Those are both major no-no's for a Fundie girl, but those days are behind me now. This last year has been an adventure in self discover and self acceptance, and I think I'm finally starting to enjoy it.

This is me today. We do casual Friday at my office. I'm feeling awesome in my sweater from the men's section of H & M. I painted my nails green and I'm wearing neon orange socks under my boots, because they make me happy and remind me that it's okay to be me. Today is a good day. :)

Has anyone else experienced skirt-PTSD? Have you guys struggled to find your style or accept your body? What is your version of "Neon Orange Socks?"

The Magical Third Strand

When I got married two and a half years ago, I had a lot of pre-conceived opinions. I knew marriage wasn’t going to be easy, but I was convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt that we were going to make it. My confidence came from the belief that my fiancé and I had a special secret weapon against the trials of marriage: we had God. God was the third strand that would keep our marriage together, no matter what. I believed that my marriage was inherently stronger than those of non-believers. After all, God gave us superior insight and patience. God had gifted us with stronger and more powerful feelings of commitment. God had promised us that our cord of three strands would not be easily broken. I knew that my marriage was better than your marriage because God was supernaturally holding us together.

Imagine my surprise when I faced reality for the first time. We had been married for about 6 months. I was deep in post-patriarchy depression and I cried myself to sleep almost every night. My husband and I prayed together every day, but still I could see the toll my struggles were taking our marriage. I didn’t know how to feel better, and he didn’t know how to help me. I often thought of how much better off he would be without me. As I began facing my childhood for the first time, I developed a visceral reaction to anything that felt restrictive to me. I remember the exact moment when I first realized the magnitude of my “till death do us part” commitment.

I was sitting on my bed in our tiny apartment folding clothes. I started to think about the rest of my life. I was 19, and already the biggest decisions of my life were behind me. I would be folding these same socks and underwear every week for the rest. Of. My. Life.  I suddenly felt trapped, claustrophobic in my own life. I had committed to this marriage before God, and now I couldn’t leave. Ever. My chest constricted and my breath came faster. “I can’t do this.” I thought. “I can’t do this.”  

I imagined packing my things and leaving right then. My heart swelled with hope at the idea of being truly free for the first time in my life. Those thoughts terrified me, and in that moment I felt betrayed by God. “You promised that I wouldn’t have to feel this way!” I prayed through the tears. “You promised you would hold us together!” I felt cold and naked as I realized that there was no supernatural power keeping me here in this apartment with this man. There was no safety net protecting our marriage. There was nothing but our own desires, and I didn’t even know what I wanted.

What first felt like betrayal, turned out to be the most freeing realization of my married life. I examined my heart and gave myself permission to think about what I wanted. I gave myself permission to pursue the things that made me happy. I made a lot of changes in my life, like going back to school and moving to a new state. The biggest breakthrough of all was realizing that I wanted to be with my spouse. He makes me laugh, his personality compliments mine. He believes in me even when I don’t believe in myself. He does not “complete me,” but I cannot imagine my life without him. The life that I have is the life that I want.

The love we have for each other, and the commitment we made to each other is stronger and more profound than it has ever been. Many people question the strength and validity of our marriage because we are “unequally yoked” or too egalitarian. I used to do the same thing. The idea of stepping into a lifelong commitment is substantially less terrifying when you think you have a supernatural shield around you and your spouse. But how much more beautiful is a wedding where two flawed humans commit to one another, fully aware of the challenges they will face? How much more powerful is a marriage where two people stay together because they want to?

There is no magical third strand holding my marriage together, it’s just us. We promised each other that no matter what happens, we will never stop working on our marriage. We promised that no matter how our feelings change, we will never give up on our love. I mean it, and know that he does too. And that’s good enough for me.

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.

Imaginary Friend

I sometimes hear my non-religious friends making jokes about Christians and mocking them for their “imaginary friend,” god. The implication is that Christians are foolish, weak, or childish for their beliefs.

I do not call myself a Christian. The idea of a Deity that human beings can understand seems impossible to me. But my spouse is a Christian, many of my close friends are Christians. To them, faith means the security of knowing they are loved and accepted by someone, even when their lives and their hearts are in chaos. Their faith isn't about politics or perfection, it's about purpose and inner peace.

Everybody needs to be loved.

So why should we mock somebody who chooses to believe that they are unconditionally and eternally loved by a higher power?

I am lucky enough to have a loving and supportive spouse, family, and community, but that doesn’t make it okay for me to ridicule those who choose to seek out love and support from a god and a church.

We live in a world full of questions; let’s not mock each other’s answers.

Afraid of the dark

 A year ago, I wrote a post about how as a kid I was convinced that I was possessed by the devil. I talked about the very first moment that I became afraid.

One of my earliest memories is of playing hide-and-seek at Grandma and Grandpa’s trailer. I was lying in the dark under the bed with my face pressed down into the red shag carpet. Waiting. There were dusty shoe boxes and plastic-wrapped blankets stacked all around me. I felt like they were waiting too, for the sunlight, for someone to open them again. Like most children, I was patient only when it came to hiding games, and I was willing to lie there all night, if need be, for someone to find me. I put my hands over my eyes and pushed down on my eye balls. When I lifted the pressure, the space in front of me exploded with imaginary fireworks. I pressed down harder, and harder, until suddenly I thought that maybe I could see a set of eyes. They were big and round and silver and stared right back at me unblinking, like an owl. Completely forgetting the game, I wriggled out from under the bed and went charging down the hall into the kitchen.

“Gramma! When I hide under the bed, I can see an owl’s eyes looking at me!”

Grandma looked up from the dishes with concern on her face. Grandpa, who was sitting at the kitchen table while Grandma cleaned, ordered me to come and stand before him.

 “What did you see?”

“Owl Eyes!” I laughed. “Big round silver ones! Under the bed when I close my eyes!”

I don’t remember what he said next, but I remember my excitement went suddenly cold. Grandpa was not happy. He asked me lots of questions, and before long, Grandma dried off her hands and came to sit with us at the table. They laid their hands on my head and prayed. Grandpa rebuked Satan in the name of Jesus and Grandma whispered “yes Lord” under her breath again and again.

I used to look back on that day as the moment when Satan entered my body.

 

I am sometimes afraid that if I ever become a parent I wont know how to address situations like this. When someone talks about seeing things in the dark, my automatic thought is that it MUST be demons. (Which is ridiculous since I don’t believe in demons.)  But I get uncomfortable and nervous none the less. I was wondering what I would do if my hypothetical child came to me about seeing things in the dark. As I browsed the comments, I came across one from Shadowspring that brought a huge smile to my face.

“Horrifying. You poor princess. I just want to pick up that little girl that saw owl eyes and go rewrite that whole story.

Would I be smart enough to figure out exactly what you had experienced? Probably not, but we could've put treats out for the owl, gone to library for owl books (including Winnie the Pooh), made up a series of owl adventures and/or even had a field trip to the raptor center. That's the kind of grandma I want to be.

I bet your grandparents would cry if they knew that religious freak-out was the beginning of so much pain for you. At least, I hope they would.

Hugs, SS”

 

 As an agnostic, I no longer believe in dark, powerful demons that can harm and hurt you at will. I have no reason to be afraid for myself or my hypothetical children. Thanks, SS for the sweet comment. I know someday I'll think of you when my children come to me afraid of the dark. I know i will honestly be able to say "there is nothing to fear."

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.

Superhero



I look nothing like this when i work out



Every morning I wake up at 5:45am. I go to the gym and work out for 30-45 minutes. Throughout the day I eat lots of healthy snacks like veggies, fruits, and nuts and drink lots of water. My meals are low in fats and sugars. I eat around 1200 calories a day and I’m never really hungry.  Basically, I do everything right.

But every time I get on the scale, I’m still the exact same weight. According to the internet, my BMI is like 26. I’m in the “overweight” category. I need to lose almost 10 pounds before I’ll be considered healthy.

WTF?

You can literally see my abs. well, three of them at least.

Most people would say I have a slow metabolism. I prefer to think it is just madly efficient. It would keep me alive for months without hardly any food or water. My Irish genes are designed to withstand cold, starvation, and probably virus’s, which means I will be the one saving the world during the zombie apocalypse when the rest of you are enjoying brains for dinner. So really, I’m not chubby and awkward; I’m a super hero. Why didn’t I figure this out sooner?

I’m pretty sure superhero’s don’t change their bodies to fit into their clothes. Hell No. Super hero’s have clothes made especially to fit their super awesome bodies. I think it’s time I threw out my old size 8 pants and got myself some new 10’s and 11’s. I guess I’ll just always have giant, well-muscled thighs and broad shoulders. That’s not a bad thing.



I like Wonder Woman's hips. They're giant. Like mine

What does your body do that makes you special? Are your arms just the right size to reach through half closed car windows and unlock the door, thereby rescuing the person who locked their keys inside? I have news for you, you have a superhero body too. Are you super awesome at moving your hips, to the point where you rock every dance floor you stand on? Superhero. Are you so awesomely hairy that you could survive an Alaskan blizzard because of your extra warmth? Superhero. Does your extra layer of fat make treading water incredibly easy? Super. Hero.

Why do we spend so much time focusing on what our bodies look like, instead of what our bodies can do? Why do we think about our hips and double chins when we plan what to eat? Shouldn’t we be eating out of respect and love for our bodies instead of hatred and mistrust?

So, here’s some advice I should really take myself. Do you own a scale? I suggest that you go and throw it out. Or at least take out the batteries. Stop looking at charts and graphs that measure numbers instead of value. Our bodies are awesome machines that perform extremely complex and impressive tasks every day. Find some things about your body that rock, and celebrate them!

Still Crying: Thoughts on spanking

This post is from Gloria Froese. It's a little long, but every one of her words is worth reading. Thank you Gloria!

____________________________________________________________

I horrify people when they find out when my last spanking was- I was 18. I was furious- when I was close to my 18th birthday, I decided that I wasn't going to get any spankings- I was going to behave perfectly and obey everything-I would be the best, most sin-free person that ever existed- anything to avoid the lash on my body. It was a matter of pride for me- I wanted spankings to be over with at 17.

I’m not sure what happened- I don't even think it was something I did wrong-I think my dad wrongly accused me of something, and took my denial as lying, and I got spanked. The humiliation, rage and violation that I felt still is a vivid memory. I vaguely remember having a very strong discussion with my parents after that, informing them that there were to be no more spankings after that one- I was now an adult, and they would have to come up with a different method of punishment.

Spanking into the adult years is extremely common in these religious circles. Children belong to their parents until they get married, and personal space or dignity is non-existent.

I personally don't think spanking is effective at all. Yes, it gets the result that the parent is looking for- the child is terrified of the pain, and will do anything to avoid having the parent catch them at that again. It's not really a discipline that teaches anything of real value, though. It so easily devolves into an outlet for a parent's frustration- they may claim to only do it once they’ve “cooled down”, but a child knows when it’s being done in rage and frustration.

And really, all that I remember of being spanked is feeling rage, resentment and fear. I'm a methodically honest person and hate lying, but I certainly became good at it- I learned that it was the only way to save my skin. (heh - pun intended!) I learned to suppress my honesty, and would tell my parents what they wanted to hear. (although it usually took several rounds- I was also a very strong, independent child, and was enraged at the injustice of being spanked. I soon learned that sticking up for myself was futile.) I lost count of the times that I hyperventilated from the pain, begging and pleading my parents to please stop-I couldn’t bear it any longer! They laughed and kept on going. If I squirmed, the belt merely traveled up my back...down my legs...wherever it hit.

So, what I learned was that if I didn't do things exactly the way my parents wanted, my backside would suffer. (and by that, I mean any territory from my upper back to knees) I didn't ever actually learn to do something out of free will- it was all terror.

When I look back at those years, it’s not even the physical pain that so much stands out to me. Yes, it was horrible and nearly unbearable, and I sometimes wonder if there wasn’t permanent physical damage done just from the actual blows.

What was the most traumatic was the emotional effect. The terror of knowing that even the slightest transgression- real or imagined- would result in a spanking left me constantly on guard- there was never any time that I could truly be at ease. If I dared to act up or speak out of place while around others, a death glare from one of my parents would let me know what was to come when we got home. The anticipation was nerve wracking and awful- there were many times that I begged them to please just do it and get it over- I couldn’t stand the wait. (they never did- I always had to wait until later.) I didn’t even need to know that what I was doing was bad- if my parents deemed it to be bad, I was punished, in spite of my complete innocence.

The worst, though, was knowing that I would never be believed- ever. My parents believed that I was inherently evil, and always had malicious intent. People in the church loved complaining to my parents about me, but my side was never listened to- I was punished according to what those evil busybodies had said. When I tried to tell my side of the story, I was told that I was lying, and they knew my true intentions. (this has taken me years to get over- I have accepted people’s “truths” about me well into adulthood- if someone else says it, they obviously know better than me, and are right.)

One story that stands out in humiliating experiences is the one trip my family took with the cult leader of the new church we had joined. It was a brutally hot summer day in Arizona, and we stopped at a gas station. I saw a bubblegum machine, and really wanted one- they were only 25 cents! I asked my dad, and he said no. I reasoned with him, and came to the understanding that he had relented, and that I was allowed to go get one. I happily was chewing on my gum when dad came back to the van, and all hell broke loose- I had deliberately disobeyed- how dare I? I was devastated- I was sure he had agreed that I could get one, after all, and I tearfully pleaded my case. No- there was no budging- I had been evil and disobedient, and would get a spanking when we arrived at our destination- the home of another family in the church. Those hours of anticipation were some of the worst of my life- not only had I been humiliated in front of the church leader, but I would also be humiliated by getting a spanking in a stranger’s home. I begged to get the spanking now- in the van- I didn’t care anymore- I just wanted it over. Nope. It was going to wait.

I still remember walking into the house, and seeing a bunch of young men sleeping on the floor in the living room. I was 10, and was already acutely aware of boys, so knowing that I would be whipped within their hearing distance was unbearably humiliating. My stomach hurt- I felt sick as I followed my dad into another room. The belt was pulled out, and the lashes fell. I tried so hard to be brave and bite back any sound, but a few cries escaped. To say that I was humiliated beyond belief doesn’t even begin to touch it. I couldn’t look anyone in the eye the next day- I was so embarrassed that they had heard me get whipped.

The long-reaching effects of this type of childhood were devastating for me. I developed chronic anxiety and stress. From the age of 10 until a year or two ago, I had non-stop back pain. My muscles were like iron knots- nothing could release them. I'd pretty much say that I was wound as tight as I could go. It was only during and after therapy that the unbearable tightness and pain began to release.

Knowing what I do about PCOS and Hypothyroidism and hormones now, I very strongly suspect that my condition was triggered and worsened by the chronic stress and anxiety. It’s taken years of gentle therapy, a loving husband and friends, an excellent therapist and being surrounded by wonderful people to finally bring me to a point where I am not in excruciating physical pain every day.

I was a very sensitive child- there was nothing I wanted more than to please everyone and make everyone happy. When I got spanked, I got stubborn and rebellious- it was a matter of principle- I was being treated unfairly, and I needed to stand up for justice. I know that I eventually presented as a very willful, defiant child, but all that was was my way of protesting the unfairness. Inside, I bled every time, and felt unbearable guilt and remorse for what I had done- I just couldn't admit to it when I was being violently forced to repent. I may not have had much respect, privacy, etc., but I did have my pride.

I stayed with my grandparents for a month when I was 2, going on 3. My grandma has reminded me of the fun we had, and how well we got along. I was an extremely bright, precocious child, and I loved to talk! She realized that if she wanted something with me, she needed to discuss and explain it- I responded very well to the common sense approach. She has reminded me of how I was crying one night because I missed my mom, who was in Germany. She came alongside me, and asked if she should also cry with me, because her mom was also in Germany- her mom and my mom were together. So, after that, whenever I missed my mommy, I would go to Grandma and suggest that we both cry about missing our mommies. :) Who said that 2 year olds aren't incredibly perceptive and smart? :)

I didn't need spankings. I needed an adult to sit down with me, reason with me, and explain what needed to be done, or discuss what I had done wrong. I didn't need violence- the spankings destroyed me. It's devastating to look back and think how different things could have been if my parents had taken a non-physical approach to discipline. If my parents had taken time to listen to me, to hear my viewpoint, to actually *care* about my feelings, things would have been so different.

I think that's largely why I'm against physical punishment- it doesn't accomplish much besides pain and fear. I honestly don't think that most children mean to be evil- some are more defiant and bratty than others, but I think deep down, most really want to please. It's a lot more work to actually find their "language" and discipline accordingly, but there are ways to do so more empathetically and lovingly. I never want my children to fear me because of physical pain.

And in case anyone is wondering, my parents and I now have a great relationship. We’ve talked and worked through the past, and they feel horrific shame and regret for what they did to us. They would give anything to go back and re-do the past, and raise us more humanely and lovingly. It’s very difficult and painful for them to remember what they did to us- I don’t write this to bash them- I’m telling my story in the hope that even one child can be spared the pain, humiliation and subsequent years of illness that I have had to live through.

And seriously, people wonder why children get violent and stab or shoot their parents. It's long built up rage and resentment, and retaliation against the violence... It’s the age old principle of sowing and reaping.

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Sick-Fil-A

Chick-fil-A's homophobia doesn’t really surprise, nor does it necessarily bother me. Companies donate their money and build their products wherever and however they want all the time. If I was going to boycott CFA I’d have to boycott lots of other things, like gasoline and tennis shoes.

What surprises and frustrates me, are all the people that are using this as an opportunity to spread hatred. Whether you agree or disagree with chick-fil-a and their choices, it makes no difference. They will go on spending their money how they please. By declaring a "chick-fil-a Wednesday" you are not supporting anything or anyone, you are simply seizing an opportunity to express hatred towards an entire group of people.

I'll be staying as far away from Chick-Fil-A as possible tomorrow. Not because I dislike their menu or their business model, but because I can't stomach the idea of hundreds of people getting together to celebrate homophobia over chicken and fries.

Heartsick

I have spent the majority of this week feeling heartsick. My days are interrupted every hour or so by a sudden pang of sorrow. My stomach drops and my chest constrict, and I swallow hard to keep back tears. Earlier this week, a very dear friend of mine shut me out of her life forever. Even now I can’t believe that she meant the things she said… Our friendship hasn’t always been perfect, but I always thought of her a sister. You fight with your sisters sure, but you laugh with them more. It doesn’t matter what paths your lives take, you will always be connected by that unbreakable childhood bond. I guess I was wrong.

I met her when I was 11 years old. We didn’t go to church before that because Dad couldn’t find one that was “Christian” enough. We met a pastor and his family at a home school convention and they invited us to their church. The first day there I was felt so awkward and alone, and then I met her, and we hit it off immediately. She was my first friend really, outside of family.

It wasn’t long before we started begging our parents to let us spend more time together. We wrote stories and made home movies, and played piano together, and mostly we talked, about everything from theology to mythology. We had sleepovers all the time and would stay up till 3am jabbering on and on.

She was the only person who noticed when I started cutting myself. I remember she cried, and begged me not to hurt myself.

 As we got older, I spent a hundred free weekends at her house. We took the dogs out on ridiculously long walks in the country. When I was dealing with depression, she was dealing with a panic disorder. I didn’t judge her and she didn’t judge me, we supported each other no matter what. We were sisters. More than once I fiercely defended her to people who dismissed her as “the holier-than-thou pastor’s daughter.” They didn’t know her like I did. She was sweet and sensitive and misunderstood.

She was third bride’s maid in my wedding, right after my two sisters. And when I lived 900 miles away, I drove all the way home to be there for her bachelorette party. I was the only one there who knew the right size to get. Of course I knew, we had borrowed each other’s pajamas a million times. A few days before her wedding we sat and talked about how fast this day had come. Wasn’t it just yesterday we were 12 years old; fishing with her grandpa and joking about our someday weddings? We walked to the park that night while comparing wedding rings. We talked about having babies, and I promised that my kids would call her “Auntie,” she said hers would do the same.

It wasn’t until I started to question my faith that I saw a change in our relationship. She became a bit distant, almost suspicious. We had periods where she wouldn’t even speak to me because she was offended by a link I’d posted on my Facebook. I wised up pretty quick and stopped posting links to things that didn’t accurately represent my thoughts. After one too many uncomfortable Facebook chats, I called her one day to sort it all out. We talked for a good hour and I explained how I just wasn’t sure of things anymore. “I still believe there is probably a God” I told her, “but I don’t really know for sure, I just need time to heal.”

When she told me she was pregnant, I was overjoyed. We went to dinner and she had twice as much food as I did. I remember smiling and thinking that someday I would tell the baby how mommy forgot her wallet and Aunt Sarah bought enough food to feed Mamma and Baby.

The last time we really talked was in January sometime, and then my life got really busy: school, tax season at work, marathon training, I kind of lost track of her. Last week I heard that she had finally publisher her first novel. I had read a dozen rough drafts of that book and I was VERY excited to see it in print. I bought it on my kindle, and half way through I decided to go write a quick note on her Facebook wall about it. And that’s when I noticed that she and her husband had un-friended me. Confused, I texted her to ask what was up, and the answer I received made me instantly sick to my stomach.

“You become like the people you hang out with. I don’t want to become bitter and anti-Christian like you”

There was more. Much more. She told me she couldn’t have me in her life anymore because I disrespect the things she believes in. Her husband texted me as well, ordering me to cease contact with his wife. What did I do? “I will still look back fondly on the memories of our friendship,” she said. Fond memories? Is that really all that’s left? I thought we were sisters. She could have converted to Hinduism and moved to India and I still would have loved and respected her. I would have gotten up in the middle of the night so I could call her in her time zone.

I am miserable, and I’m trying to find a way to blame myself. But what did I really do wrong? What could I do to make everything okay? Should I apologize for questioning the existence of God? Should I swallow the pain I feel when I walk into church? Do I have to pretend to be someone I’m not in order to keep the people I love in my life? The questions I ask myself are painful enough without the reproach I get for asking them.

She gave birth to a daughter this week; A little baby girl that I will never meet. She will never call me “Aunty” and I will never get to tell her stories of how adventurous and silly her mommy always was. My heart breaks a little more every day. How many more friends will I lose on this journey?

(Because this post received so much traffic, there are a few things I would like to clear up for my readers. I did not write this post out of spite, anger, or impulse. After a year of distant disapproval, my friend and her husband purposefully removed me from their lives. The words they used were clear, forceful, and very familiar. My relationship with my friend had been falling apart piece by piece for almost a year. Since the very first day I started struggling with my faith I noticed a distinct and negative change in our relationship. If there had been a way to salvage our relationship I WOULD HAVE DONE IT. But I was told in no uncertain terms that she was through with me. If I somehow misinterpreted all of this, I wish she would tell me. I have tried to reach out to her many times since this post was published. All I have received in return is anger, and some of the most hurtful language I have ever experienced. I wrote this post with a broken heart. I was certain my friend would never be contacting my again, much less reading my anonymous blog. I am emotionally exhausted from this entire experience, maybe I shouldn’t have tried so hard to get her back when she started shutting me out. Maybe if i had just let her drift away like she wanted, then all of this wouldn't hurt so bad.....)

Un-Ignorable

My feet pound the pavement relentlessly.

It’s been an hour and I’m coming up on mile 6. Four more to go… I’m cold and sore. I need motivation. On days like today I have to dig deep for the strength I need to keep on going. But my damaged psyche doesn’t know the difference between inspiring and belittling. My footsteps turn into words:

“fat, fat, fat, fat.”

I can suddenly feel the eyes of every passerby on my enormous body.

“fat, fat, fat, fat”

 I am mortified. I resolve to run faster.

 Maybe if I push harder these thick legs will melt a little,

                                                      these strong arms with shrink a little,

                                                                                  these breasts won’t protrude so far.

I find myself apologizing to the sidewalk for the weight of my body. More than anything in the world, I want to disappear.

As I drag my tired body over the last few miles, my mind is full of images. What would it be like, I wonder, to grow too small for all my clothes? To take up only half of a chair? To blend right in with the crowd instead of standing out like a sore thumb,

                                                                                 or a black eye,

                                                                                              or a broken nose?

I don’t want to be a skeleton, just small enough to be ignored. Maybe without all these eyes on me I wouldn’t have to hate myself so much.

I reach my apartment at long last, thankful for the opportunity to disappear behind my uniform grey door. It is easy to ignore my little home, and that makes me feel safe. As I’m stretching, I stare mournfully down at my legs. They are short and stout from the bottoms of my shorts to the top of my wooly running socks. I imagine how they will look one day, long and willowy and narrow.

 I reach down and grab my calves for deeper stretch,

                                                                                  .....and suddenly my daydream ends.

 My legs are all muscle; completely solid from the knee down and only a little softness around my thighs. Reality hits me like snow ball to the face: startling, refreshing, and somehow exhilarating.

I am not a big version of someone else, I am a healthy version of ME.

Call me big-boned,

                                     fat,

                                             athletic

                                                             or plus sized,

it doesn’t matter. I need to learn to call myself Sarah.  I cannot change my body any more than I can change who I am.

My body is muscled and curvy,

                                                           ......just like my heart is strong and compassionate.

Like it or not, I will never be able to disappear.

I feel a smile creep across my face.

Could it be that I have already arrived?

 Relief floods my heart as I realize the truth. My endless struggle for the perfect body finally over. My body IS perfect. Every unique inch of me is a reflection of who I am inside.

I am bold,

                       I am strong,

                                                   I am beautiful.

                                                                                 I am un-ignorable.

Thoughts on Church

I know a lady who was always very deeply involved in her church. She poured her heart and soul into everything she did and was a huge blessing on the congregation. However, because she is a woman, many people were offended by her leadership. There were many issues that arose over the years, but eventually she was pushed out of the church she had been serving for many many years. She recently told me that she has stopped going to church all together. I asked her why, and her answer was both moving and thought provoking. I’ll share her letter below.

Why I don’t attend Church.

First, I was deeply hurt by things that happened at [my old church.] especially the last month. [The pastor] did and said some pretty horrible things to me. I still don't know if he was angry because I was leaving or what was going on. He did apologize to me last year for those last few things, but not for lying to me and about me for all those years.

Second, as I was just taking a break I began to examine what was going on inside of me. I started teaching Sunday School when I was 16 and I worked or volunteered in a church somewhere for the next 34 years without a break. I've done pretty much everything that can be done in a church. And for the most part, I loved it and I was good at the tasks.

However, as the days without church went on, I felt such an utter sense of quietness and peace come over me. So much tension went out of my heart and mind and body. I realized that working in the church has been such a huge source of inner turmoil for me. I have never liked church. I'm not a social person, I could be a hermit and not miss anyone.

However, I know God wanted me ministering to people with my gifts, so I did it. I detest almost all worship services. I don't care for hymns or choruses. I especially resent greatly that one man gets to get paid to study the Word of God and then stand up every week and tell us what he discovered. and most of them do a pretty poor job at communicating. And my beliefs tend toward the traditional so of course, I'm NEVER going to hear a woman preach although I believe one should preach every other week. Men just communicate and use different examples than women and we as women have to always switch it to apply to us.

I gave one talk at [my old church] once at the end of the worship service and you would have thought the sky was falling! I was good and funny and interesting and [the pastor] hated that. And so did others. So sad.

So I realized that I have been staying busy in a church my whole life, just tolerating the social aspect (which wears me out) and the worship service (which I find a waste of time). If I was using my gifts and doing something, I actually was able to enjoy myself. I literally cannot go into a church and sit and feel anything but anxiety, panic, disgust, anger, frustration and criticalness.

I'm not upset with the Church. I think that local churches could do better, but I understand ALL the barriers and issues toward change.

Many many people are served and helped and led to Christ because of churches. I'm not mad or upset with God or Jesus. I know with 100% certainty that Christianity is the only worldview that makes sense and can transcend every culture and every time period. I love Jesus.

I just find church a complete waste of time, unless I am doing something... and I can't do anything anymore. I'm hurt and tired and don't want the fight. And I certainly could never sit back submissively and let all the men make the decisions.

So I worship all week with amazing little vignettes within my life. I'm resting. It has been almost exactly 4 years. I have only gone to church once and it was because my whole family was here. with all the girlfriends or wives and everyone looked so striking I wanted to go show them off and we sat in the 2nd row and we had so many comments. Not very spiritual. :) But there it is.

I find being part of the unchurched very interesting. I am now just beginning to explore what would bring me back to a church. I have very interesting thoughts about that and how to market the whole church experience. For instance, why is the only gateway into church life through the worship service itself? It is really hard to pick and choose and be part of a church society without attending the all- hallowed worship service, why? It is such a narrow gate and one I find many people just endure in order to get the other things they need like a pastor for a funeral or wedding or conversations over coffee etc.

Sorry it got so long. I could keep going. But I'll stop now. It is the first time I have written it all down. Thanks for asking! That was a nice little gift you gave to me without even knowing it.

Have you been hurt by the church? Is there anything you would change if you had the chance? I’d LOVE to hear your stories!