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...ah, the memories! :)
I was a bad girl, but hopefully my actions saved someone from having to go through what I went through at Walk-Away. I hope I played some small part in driving away the board sociopath. Note to self: trust no one.
Hi Lars! :headbang:
Anyway, I grew up in a fundy school with fundy parents in a fundy community. I don't think I'll ever be quite right. It was quite a mind-fuck and I'm half nuts.
Do you really want details? I can dig up an old post...ah, here we go:
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I grew up in a fundaMENTAList Christian family. We started out as Southern Baptists. For a time we even lived on church property and took care of the grounds. From an early age I wanted to do the right thing and please God. I accepted Christ as my personal savior at age five and was baptized at age six even though I was terrified of water. I was convinced that Jesus wanted me to face this fear for him. I was ashamed of the fear and wanted to show him I was a good little Christian girl.
In the meantime, my father took the phrase "spare the rod, spoil the child" to heart. When my mom wasn't around, he "disciplined" my brother and me by hitting us with a belt. I never knew what was going to set him off. The beating I remember most vividly happened when I was in the fourth grade. I was sitting on the couch with my cousin Kim, watching a Tarzan movie. I made the mistake of commenting, "Gee, Tarzan has a nice bod." My father took me in the back room and beat me. I was told the word "bod" was bad. This sent the message that sex was bad. I've told my mother about my father's behavior many times, but her reaction seems to change with the times. Once she told me that if she had known he was doing that, she would have left him (I seriously doubt that). Most of the time, she tells me it "wasn't that bad" and that I haven't had a bad life. She also asserts to this day that my father was "a good man." Yet since his death she has seemed happier, as if a great weight was lifted off her shoulders (which it was). Regardless of how bad it was or wasn't, I ended up hating my father with a passion that could never be fully quenched by the love of Christianity no matter how hard I tried.
My father was controlling. When he came home from work, he would feel the TV to see if it was hot and if it was, we'd get it. I can remember switching off the TV in a panic, fleeing to my room and hiding many, many times. When my father was home, I spent most of my time in my room. As I got older and wanted independence, he started following me around. I was rarely allowed to go anywhere by myself. When I did go places, he would follow me. I'd find him in the most incongruous places, shadowing me on the road, in the library, in stores. He would follow me on walks and try to catch me listening to non-Christian music. Even when I came home from college, the incessant stalking continued.
During my Freshman year in high school, our class--yes, I went to a fundy school from second grade on--attended the Bill Gothard seminar. During our stay at a church, we were attacked by a demon--or so we thought at the time. Now I think it was a case of simple hysteria. At that seminar, I vowed to erase or throw away all my rock music and submit myself thoroughly to God and my father. What a huge mistake. Thanks a lot, Bill Gothard.
Thanks to Gothard's poisonous teachings, I never went through a normal rebellious period. As a result, my social development was arrested at around age fourteen. In a lot of ways, I'm still there.
For the next few years I was content in my chains, but it couldn't last, of course. Despite the indoctrination from church, school, family and community, I couldn't ignore the huge inconsistencies and cruelties of God and the Bible. I just stuffed it down deep and tried not to think.
During the time we lived on the property of the Southern Baptist Church something else happened that had a profound effect on me. A member of the church--the first black man I'd ever seen--sexually molested me over the course of several weeks until my mom wrung the story out of me. Although I wasn't told the whole story at the time, I found out later that the church took the side of the molester. My family moved and we didn't go to church much after that, but the tenets of fundaMENTALism were still enforced at home and school.
The whole thing started to come unraveled when I attended a Mennonite Brethren college in Fresno with my friends since grade school. I had my first real boyfriend at the age of 18. He was 21. When he kissed me, I found myself back in the halls of the church and annex being groped by the molester. It confused me. If God loved me, wouldn't that all be in the past? I started having flashbacks. The day before this guy broke up, he came to my dorm room and smothered me with kisses. I felt used. When he broke up with me the following day, I felt betrayed. Since that time I've questioned whether or not my feelings were real. Christianity does that to you. If it can't be rationalized with the "Word" then it's not true. I was in pain. That could not be rationalized with my ideas that Christians were never unhappy.
I was in utter misery for months afterward. During my sophomore year, I finally went to my friends. They responded by trying to throw a demon out of me. Then the ringleader, a girl named Jana, told me not to bother her anymore until I could trust Jesus enough to heal me. I didn't know it then, but this was to be the beginning of a long, horrible nightmare. My friends--the friends I would have given my life for, the friends I had known since I was just a little kid, the friends I had claimed were the most loyal friends ever--abandoned me as soon as there was a problem.
God, I was miserable. At night I would walk around the campus in tears. I would cry out to God to help me. I would sob. I would beg. I would plead. The pain never went away. I approached our choir director, a man who was also having a "spiritual crisis" and he was supportive for many years. Unfortunately, his decision to return to the "fold" changed him. He was no longer as caring or supportive once he decided to commit his life to Christ again. That should say something right there. He had promised me he would never abandon me and well, turns out he was a liar. Interesting how Christians are the first to abandon you when things go awry. It's also interesting how they tell you to look to God, not to man, if you want to see what Christianity is all about. I guess that excuses my old choir director. Who excuses God for all his crimes?
The final straw came right after I graduated as valedictorian of my college class. For years I had been wandering in the night, crying out to God to help me. After committing my entire life to him, the only thing I'd gotten out of it was betrayal and pain. I hadn't been on speaking terms with God for a couple of years when my sister-in-law went into labor with her first child.
What causes premonitions? Somehow I knew that things wouldn't go well. I sat in the waiting room, reading Far Side comics and back issues of Reader's Digest. One story was about a child that had died and I burst into tears, knowing in my heart that things weren't going to go work out for my niece.
Code Blue, Room 202.
Again I begged God, pleaded with him to save my niece. I even threatened him. I told him if he didn't help her, I would never, ever speak to him again. I'm sure you've guessed that the baby died. I'm sure you've also guessed that was the last time I ever spoke to biblegod.
I started another descent into depression, this one even deeper than before. I knew in my heart there was no god...and I am not a fool. I was the smartest kid in every class I ever took and it seemed to me that others were the fools because they refused to look at facts. I don't know how I did this with no support. I don't know how I'm doing it now. I guess the analytical part of my mind can't bend facts to fit into fundaMENTALism any longer.
About a year ago--I'm almost 34--I sank to my lowest point ever. After the death of my father and another break-up with a guy, I started sleeping with a .357 magnum and seriously considered using it on myself. I've slit my wrist--not seriously--and have hurt myself in countless other ways: staplers, razors, keys. I could never punish myself enough. My father wasn't punishing me any more and neither was biblegod. Someone had to do it and that was me.
I had post-traumatic stress disorder, horribly deep depression and OCD. Drugs weren't helping. Prayers never had helped, not even when my mother embarrassed me to no end by having two preacher friends come over and lay hands on me. (It brought back shades of my history teacher. I'd told him I was depressed and he told everyone in the class, then proceeded to tell me why Christians shouldn't get depressed.) Finally, a little over a year ago, I had electro-convulsive therapy, also known as ECT, or shock treatments. It helped to break the cycle of depression and I'm doing much better.
I'm still not completely free. I've never been able to have a normal relationship with a man. Yes, I'm a virgin. Nor have I been able to live my own life. Because of my problems, both physical and emotional, I live with my mother and still have to hear her fundaMENTAL ideas constantly. My dream for myself is to get out of this house and out of this community. It's a small, inbred community of mostly fundies and everyone remembers me as that smart, weird kid who subsequently fucked up her life.
I'm terrified of:
1. Ending up a slave to a job like my parents were. 2. Not ever finding support for my lifestyle. 3. Not ever leading a life completely free from the fear of hell...I still go crazy when my mom disappears from sight, thinking the rapture has happened and I've been left behind. 4. Not ever having my own life, free from depression, PTSD, OCD and fundaMENTAL Christianity.
Respectfully Submitted,
Ladyhawk
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Addendum: Loss of Belief in Biblegod Followed by Loss of Belief in Any Form of Spirituality (Date of Incident: May of 2001)
I've been a walk-away for about thirteen years, but until this year I fervently hoped something greater than myself would reveal itself to me. Only recently have I decided any form of spirituality is wishful thinking. The events on 9-11-01 were the final blow, but interestingly enough, the death of a snake also played an important role. Read these stories posted on another forum and mourn for my spirituality.
Ladyhawk finally had to grow up. I had a kind of interesting experience yesterday. I was driving home from my creative writing class when I saw what looked like a stick in the road. I'm very tuned in to wildlife, so I immediately thought "snake." I slowed down and stopped. It was a snake and it was in a very bad location on the road.
There was a lady behind me and when I got out of my car, she started screaming at me: "What are you doing? What the hell are you doing?"
I reached down and in true Crocodile Hunter form, grabbed the 3-foot-long gopher snake by the tail. I hurried back to my car, noticing that I'd created a minor traffic jam.
I held the snake up so the lady could see it. "It's a snake!" I shouted. "I didn't want him to get squished on the road."
Her eyes got really big. She looked interested so I took the snake over for her to see. "Geez, you're brave," she said. "Will it bite you?"
I told her it didn't matter if it did because it was a non-venomous species. Actually it was quite calm, only rattling its tail for a few seconds and threatening me with a couple of hisses.
Interestingly enough, I had my "Crocodile Hunter" T-shirt on. The lady got a huge kick out of that.
I ended up driving home with the snake wrapped around my wrist. I'll probably end up releasing it in a safe spot this weekend after I show it to my nephew.
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If you're squeamish, don't read this post.
I had a rough experience today. As you may have figured out from some of my posts, I'm a real animal lover. I even love snakes. Remember that gopher snake I saved last week? Well, today I decided to drive him way out into the country where he would be safe from cars and people and could hopefully have a good shot at life.
As I was driving, I started feeling spiritual. I don't want to talk about religion much because that topic seems to push people's buttons. Look at all the wars that take place because both sides adamantly believe theirs is the only true religion. Anyway, to make a long story short, I was thinking that as I released the snake, I would say something like this: "God, if you exist, look down here and see that I care about this snake. Watch over it. Protect it. And watch over me, too."
As I thought this, the old negative feelings crept in. I thought--for the millionth time--that if there is a God, he hates my guts (it's a long story).
Then I thought about a story my brother told me. After some grade school kids helped finance a sea lion's recovery, they went on a boat to release it. It had been convalescing for months and thousands of dollars had been spent on its rehabilitation. As the sea lion was released, the children cheered--then shrieked--as a huge orca surged from the depths to eat their pinniped friend. My brother thinks this is a funny story. I don't.
I thought, Wouldn't it be ironic if I ran over a snake on my journey to release this one?
I'm sure you've already guessed what happened. I went around a bend and ran over a large gopher snake right in the middle of the road. There was no missing him. I stopped the car, opened the door and looked back. A tire-width section on the snake's body had been flattened. Scarlet innards were spilling out of the flattened section. The force of the tires had expelled the snake's intestines out its cloaca, but dammit, it was still alive!
It tried to get away and was actually making progress toward the side of the road. For a moment I thought about finding it a vet, but the snake was doomed. Parts of its innards had stuck to the road and peeled off when it tried to crawl away. There was only one thing I could do. I turned the other snake loose, then lined up the mortally wounded snake so I could run over him and finish the job, put him out of his misery.
Damn, why was it so easy when I wasn't trying and so hard when I was? I backed up and rolled forward about fifteen times before I finally I hit the right spot and the snake stopped moving. I got out of the car and saw that more of the snake's innards had squirted out, including its heart, which--can you believe it?--was still beating. I took a twig and squished the heart, then threw the unfortunate snake off the road. I don't know how many times I told it I was sorry.
I drove from that remote canyon to Jack in the Box, of all places. The girl running the drive-through window noticed I was crying. What was I supposed to tell her? That I was crying over a dead snake? A lot of people wouldn't understand that.
I guess I was crying over the dead snake and the strange sense that someone in a position of celestial power is out to get me. I waxed spiritual for the first time in months and immediately got the message that the universe really is a cold and uncaring place.
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