The Energetic Healing in Anger

Anger is a funny thing. 

Rage is a funny thing.

It can be constructive.

Even though society tells us it isn't.

Even though society tells us to tamp that thing down and hide it, suppress it, be good little citizens. 

Even though many individuals who do act on their anger do so in a way that is violent and aggressive. 

Anger can actually be an incredible force towards healing.

Especially if you grew up in a setting where people didn't want you to tell on them, or if you are currently in a situation now where people want you to be quiet about their actions towards you, or yourself and your children. 

Fascinating, isn't it?

Imagine a scenario like this... what if you had something absolutely terrifying happen to you when you were a little kid... 

Let's say your parent decided in anger, to kill you as a 5 year old and leave you for dead... but you actually in your resilience... LIVED through this nightmare.... 

And you know he wants you dead. 

You know you have to live in the same house with this parent plotting to kill you again in some sneaky, nefarious way between then and the day you leave the house in your 20's.

You end up with a traumatic brain injury from the beating he leaves you with, and amnesia that spots your memory of the event. 

Your memory after this is never clear, and becomes ever the more faded the older you become.

Your brain also simply will not allow you to remember because it is too terrifying for any child to process.

So you file it all away as a nightmare instead of reality.

You "forget" as completely as your murderer desires you to keep it a secret.

Because who wants to remember their parent is a murderer lurking behind every door?

Who wants to remember ocean of heartbreak that large?

Honestly, I've felt an ocean of sadness this large my whole life without knowing WHY I felt it.

Because I was murdered at age 5 in cold blood.

He walked away and left me there to die. 

But I wasn't able to remember this happened to me until this year.

It's been buried in amnesia for 40 years.

And I've only started to process my feelings. 

I grew up with my murderer, who is also my biological "f-a-t-h-e-r" side by side in the same house, day in and day out, and it was a big secret. 

Shhhhhhhhh. 

When I was dying, my mother wasn’t there to save me. 

I intuited at my young age that the reason she wasn't there was on purpose... the evil thing he was doing... was definitely supposed to be a secret from her. 

Shhhhhhh. She wasn't supposed to know. 

So, as I was dying, I realized I shouldn't ever tell my mother what he was doing to me.

Shhhhhh. Don't tell! 

Because if he was killing me, and keeping it a secret from her, would her knowing the secret mean he would kill her too?

In my child's brain, I did the math and decided instantly that a monster capable of killing their own daughter and hiding it from their wife would certainly be capable of killing the wife, too.

Especially a wife as kind, trusting, sweet, naive and gullible as my mom.

Especially if she knew the secret and decided to stand up for me?

In that split second of realization before my memory closed down and wiped out, I decided I had no choice. 

I would save my mother from ever knowing he did it.

I would save her life.

Even if it meant that NOT telling her meant SHE couldn't help ME get away from him.

Because I realized she had no power to ever get away from him, never did, never would, and my choice to remain silent meant I had no power to ever help her or me.

I realized right then and there that it was a loose-loose situation for both my mother and me.

All we could do was wait it out.

All I could do was let amnesia bury me forever.

All she could do was live with him until he died.

The secret was sealed in my memory which was mercifully now going, going, going, mercifully... gone. 

My head hit the concrete, and all brain activity was gone, oh so mercifully gone. 

All memory was wiped.

And I was glad. 

I went through the tunnel of light.

I was in bliss. 

Euphoria.

The place where you know you are dead, and you certainly don't want to go back to your body. 

I remember how violently upset my "f-a-t-h-e-r" was to learn that I had lived after all, after he had left me to die when I was 5. 

I remember how terrified and confused I was. 

I remember having difficulties staying conscious, feeling like my brain was tormenting me, having problems breathing, trying to move my body but not able to move my arms or legs. 

I remember him telling my mom that if I wasn't out of his sight by 8 pm, he would "finish me off" himself. I was out for a full day and a half after that. I don't know how I got in my bed. 

I understand now why I was given no medical attention as a child.

It understand now it was on purpose.

I remember now how my "father" got pleasure by watching me suffer slowly. 

I remember how I stopped breathing often, as is the case after severe traumatic brain injury. 

I remember that my brain didn't tell my body to breath, so my body went into a state of crisis often. My brain simply didn't get enough oxygen. My body would send a red alert signal, but nothing would register. My body kept signaling, "Red alert, red alert!!!' 

But my body did nothing.

I remember panic, uncontrollable movements, seizures, then paralysis, freezing of the chest and throat, inability to breath and not being able to move my body at all for an infinitely long, torturous amount of time. Hoping someone would come. 

I remember going often into states where I knew I was out of my body and I was in bliss. I don't know if it was death or not. But I was in a state of no thinking and completely limp.

I remember how finally I would feel myself gasping violently for air, my body would start flailing, and I then would be crying, and no one was there watching or caring. 

I remember growing up knowing that nobody cared about my life. 

I also remember caring about myself immensely when I was little during states of euphoria that seizures would send me to, then forgetting about it instantly afterwards.

I remember going to states of euphoria where I experienced the afterlife... what love and bliss felt like.. I knew what it felt like to die.. and I preferred death to life... knowing that in death, real love and comfort existed beautifully with open arms for me always, but it was not there for me in what I experienced in "real" physical life in that house I was growing up in... that was painful, bizarre, scary, and terrible. 

I remember having extremes of terror and bliss, and I alternated between them sharply, back and forth. 

I remember never knowing where I lived, in the horror of my mind, in the horror of that house, in the bliss of my mind, or in the perfect little church fairy tale they said we lived in. 

Coming, going, going, coming. 

Nightmare, bliss, sanity, reality.

I remember it wasn't safe to think.

Check out.

I remember I was always, always checked out.

I remember my "f-a-t-h-e-r" abusing me sexually over the years a little girl, but thinking it was just "a game," as he called it.

I remember the constant possibility that every day, my "f-a-t-h-e-r" might try to take my life again. Would he put poison in my cup? Why did the chicken for dinner taste weird? Was there something odd in my sandwich at lunch? Would he give me a push when I wasn’t watching? What was that gun shot I just heard? Why was everything making me jump? Why was I was in constant fight or flight?

I remember day of my life, every minute for the 19 years I lived there after age 5, being out of my body. 

I remember being too fragile as a child to process the nightmare of living in that nightmare, and processing absolutely none of it.

I remember my brain immediately placing every event as it happened into amnesia, day after day, minute after minute, automatically without me knowing it. 

I remember living in a completely out of touch state in order to survive. 

I know that if I told my mother today that he murdered me at age 5, she would instantly turn from me and cut me off.  

Just like she cut me off in a rage ten years age, when I told her he sexually abused me when I was a kid. 

Just like she never would have been able to stand up for me when I was a child. 

Just like she never has been able to stand up to him. 

He is "God," you see.

He is the Patriarchy.

He is the leader of a secretive religious cult, and all six of his children were the undercover members, hidden away from the world until we grew up and left. 

And she is his only loyal member now. 

But I can't be completely mad at her. 

Because she was the one solid, beautiful light in my life in my childhood that always shone steady and bright.

Even though I couldn't trust her to get me medical care, help relieve my pain, or protect me from him, at least I knew she never caused me pain while I was in her presence.

In her presence alone, I was safe.

And in the nightmare of that house, she was an angel. 

For that, I will always love her.

For that, I want to protect her from him.

Even though she thinks he's safe with him.

She's not. 

She just knows how to play her role very well in order to "stay" safe.

He used to make her life hell if she didn't vacuum the entire car within an inch properly once a week.

What would he do if she actually ACCUSED him of something?

Like trying to kill me?

She NEVER EVER speaks up to him.

She has never ever raised her voice to him or any of us in our entire lives.

She is terrified of him.

She knows her role in life, and how to act accordingly, meekly, sweetly, calmly, submissively.

She knows how to play it safe.

I won't endanger her.

But I am mad because I know I can't tell her any kind of truth.

I am mad because I want to get close to her as my mother, but I can't even be her friend and write to her, as he monitors and limits it. 

I am seething with anger and sadness now.

I am paralyzed with complicated emotions that feel like they have no place to go.

It's all new, like it just happened to me as a child right now.

New folds of the amnesia are opening up slowly each day to process anew. 

Even after 4 decades of “growing up,” some days, I still feel too fragile to process what’s happened.

Most days, I want to go to back to a state of complete amnesia all over again.

Most days, I want to go into a cocoon and never get back out.

I don't think I was supposed to remember.

But for some reason or another, oh I remember now.

I guess that the fact that the amnesia finally lifted after 4 decades is... I guess... my assurance that surely, I am strong enough to remember?

I guess I can do this. 

I guess that the most difficult part of this amnesia business has been that SO much of my sadness has felt like it has... 

Nowhere to go? 

Most times, when someone has amnesia, they can share what they have remembered immediately with others, and it is exciting!

But in my case, much has been incredibly sad, depressing, horrible and heart crushing.  

For myself

For my "family." 

It's something that's slow and sad for me to process and talk about.

It's something my siblings absolutely refuse to talk with me about. 

It's something my mother absolutely refuses to talk about with me, and cut me off for starting to talk about 10 years ago.

Its something my "f-a-t-h-e-r" absolutely refuses to acknowledge, and wants me to go to my grave keeping a secret. 

It's something that's been bottlenecked and choked up for a couple years now.

By my family's refusal to listen.

And by my not knowing who I can share it with. 

But guess what?

It doesn't matter that my "family" won't or can't listen. 

I can write about it.

Here.

The very minute I confided in a friend that I had decided to write in order to release the sadness and anger, it all completely evaporated.

For a full day.

Then it came back.  

But I know that there is power in telling your story. 

There is power in letting it out. 

So that's exactly what I'm going to do.  

Some days, I feel like I can rip down huge buildings with my bare hands and teeth. 

Rawwwwwwwrrrrrrrrrr!!!!!!

Because I know it's not just 4 decades of unprocessed RAGE for what was done to the child's heart, spirit, soul and body I lived in. 

But it's also the 4 decades of unprocessed, swallowed down, mysterious SADNESS that I swam in, unable to express. 

                       

                    Sadness swallowed down, 

                                 hidden, un-allowed to be expressed... 

 I've internalized as rage. 

But once I've begun to acknowledge and express my sadness, 

the rage has also allowed itself to dissipate...

both have started to dissipate little by little...

And I think healing has started to begin. 

That's the thing about anger.

Anger is a funny thing. 

Rage is a funny thing.

It can be constructive.

It can be a force towards healing. 

It can dissipate by sharing your story. 

Don't let ANYONE tell you not to be angry.

Don't let ANYONE tell you not to tell your story.

Don't let ANYONE tell you not to be sad.

Don't let ANYONE tell you to bottle up your sadness.

Don't let ANYONE take away this amazing power of yours!!!

Tell your story!!!

Q: How have you used the dynamic, healing power of anger to propel you forward in your life?

*all photos on this page I've taken while hiking here in the beautiful Pacific Northwest, particularly in Southern Oregon. 

A single step



Maggie says, "Don't take the tree down yet,
 I'm really digging it.

"Sometimes the smallest step in the right direction [for you] ends up being the biggest step in your life. Tip toe if you must, but take the step." Gemma Stone

Holidays come and go, but this is the first year I've skipped both Thanksgiving and Christmas at my parent's homestead. So it has been a bit odd, and I've felt bad because my mom is wonderful and means well, but it's been in my best interest to stay away to get some distance.

We got back from an overnight stay at Karl's parents' place, which is a two and a half hour drive from where we live. We went to a Christmas Eve party at his sister's house, and the next day we stopped in to visit my mother in law's 90 year old dad, who was an absolute treasure to spend time with. I was amped the whole trip to be finally meeting my in-laws. I married Karl without ever having met his family. I was too ill to travel or have company for a few years. Now, finally, I am well enough to get out more, and I met his family for the first time over this holiday. I was savoring every minute. At his family party, most of his brothers and sisters and relatives were drinking and talking in the kitchen. I found myself in the quieter room drawing pictures on the living room floor with Karl's little nieces and nephews.

 

Most of Karl's family and relatives live either on the same block or within walking distance of each other, and so they bring their family dogs to the party. So I met quite a few dogs, Bindy, Olive, Motley, Baxter and Binga to name a few, as well as a slew of cats, each with their own personality. I met one cat, a soft black longhair named Cocoa. They warned me she was snippy and bit people. Also that she had only one front tooth, as the others were pulled by a vet after being rescued from a cat hoarder who kept 50 plus cats in her house but didn't feed or care for them. I leaned over so I was looking at Cocoa and told her I was so sorry she had to have her teeth pulled, that it must have really hurt, that I was sorry that had happened to her. She leaned her head down and rubbed it on my hand, as if to say she wanted me to pet her. So I did, and she started purring. Two minutes later she's crawling on my lap letting me pet her. My mother in law, who I'll refer to as Jackie, told me that Cocoa doesn't warm up to anyone in the family, and that something amazing had just happened. I personally believe that animals understand perfectly what we communicate to them, and Cocoa was just relieved to hear another human saying in effect, "I understand what you went through."

 



My niece Sabrina working her
candy cane tights, LOL

One of my new sister in laws who I'll call Marjory sent me a message after I met her at Karl's family Christmas party. She is quite stylish and suave, and is quiet and calm in the way she carries herself. Something I admire. She mentioned how she too had a chronic illness (which I didn't even know). She shared how glad she was that I made it to the party, and she invited me over to her place next time I found myself in town. She wants to hear all about my time living in NYC, and what teaching was like up there. Hearing from her was one of the highlights of this week. Many of those closest to me still do not 'get' me, and still think I could technically get 'rid' of this illness if I tried harder. What a whimsical and laughable notion! I do wish that were the case! So it will be nice to spend time with someone like her who won't judge, someone who grasps the situation through personal experience.

My sister Louisa and her two kids Patrick and Sabrina came up to visit us yesterday, and they spent the night. Playing the role of wife, homeowner, hostess and cook still feels new to me, like a coat that I'm wearing that I'm not used to quite yet. I made a roasted chicken, gravy and mashed, and veggies for us all at dinner, and showed everyone around the house. I still feel like a kid, the perpetual traveler, the one who doesn't settle down.... so I felt odd saying, "How do you like our home?" I felt like an actress in an apron showing up on set in this kitchen I called my own cooking dinner for my sister, her kids, my other sister and my husband. I like that I am at the center of a hub for the first time in my life, and not just one of many supportive spokes on someone else's wheel like I used to be. Other people rely on me now, and my actions directly affect more than just me. I'm invested now, and it is an interesting coat to be wearing. I wonder why it still feels like a new coat, why each time I move, it feels awkward as if I didn't break it in yet.




My nephew Patrick

I shared with Louisa that I didn't like the thought of Mom at Christmas with only two of her six kids there to share the holiday with her. Louisa said she didn't think Mom minded, as three of the grand kids were there too. I told Louisa I just didn't feel comfortable going to the homestead, because Mom doesn't stand up for any of her daughters. There's a more than sizable chance that based on his recent track record, Louisa's husband will once again open his yap and say something derogatory about me or my other three sisters... something derogatory but dipped in a sugary Christian coating complete with Biblical references, chapter and verse.  My mom and dad will just smile at Clark with sheep eyes. Really, I am not a masochist, and I don't enjoy being oppressed on such a cheery holiday, so I choose not to go. Louisa couldn't understand what I was sharing with her. She still thinks that no one is treating her poorly. Her standards and the way she views herself is low. I wish I could pluck her out of her body and pop her inside a version of herself who is being treated with respect, so she can experience a healthy baseline. But no one can do this but herself, and she is not ready. Still, I can't bear to watch her being degraded, so I don't choose at this time to go to family functions.

We also had the mandatory check up on the status of my immortal soul, and Louisa was saddened because I told her (once again) I have no fear of hell. Without a fear of hell, I don't need salvation. When I said that, it was like a bomb dropped and there was silence, and Louisa started crying. She really feels bad about me burning in hell. I told her it was fine, I wasn't going "there," and that hell was what you make for yourself here on earth if you so chose, consciously or not, and it's much worse than simple burning of the flesh. That we make our own heavens here on earth as well. Thankfully, the kids had ear buds in their ears watching movies during this conversation. I was glad I stood up for what I believed in, but from now on, it's not worth it if it makes Louisa cry. We are all on different paths, and that is OK. We all get to the same place in the end, so there's no sense trying to change anyone when they are fine where they are. Even though I don't like seeing my sister hurt by my family and her husband. In the future, I won't delve into my beliefs... I will focus on sharing how much I just want to see her cherished and respected in her own home and family.
 

I am glad that Karl has my back and encourages me to stand up for myself. He knows I don't like confrontation, but he encourages me to speak up and respect my boundaries. This was not always the case because we both used to be in the religion. There was a time where he suppressed me when I spoke up about pretty much any topic, especially my beliefs, thinking it was the Godly thing for him as a man to do. It has been extremely difficult for me to stand my ground and for us to find our footing while tearing free from the family at the same time. The fibers of my family and their beliefs are so tightly interwoven that separating from the religion is the same as ripping myself apart from the customs, habits, gatherings and basic heartbeat of my family. I try to find one facet of my family's life that I can still be apart of that is untouched by religion, but I can't find one. So we have been detaching ourselves slowly and painfully, like the separation of skin and a resistant band-aide. Wish we could just rip this bugger off in one quick motion, but I suppose that since this is life, the process is messier and more time consuming than that.  Since we left the religion (me first, and Karl a year later) and took the first steps towards liberation, it's like a pebble has been tossed in a lake, and the rings around the pebble have spread in super slow motion in an ever widening circle. Every several months, I look back and see we have moved so much farther away from where we were two years ago. The rings eventually widen and soften so that eventually they are no longer there, and the place the pebble fell is no longer marked. We aren't exactly to that point yet where breaking free is a distant memory yet, it is actually still occurring... but it is encouraging to look back and see the rings are widening.

The old falls away and life in a new town begins

A view of our new neighborhood.



A lot has happened in the last two months. We bought a house, and have officially moved out of our last apartment. This is our first experience as home owners! I have been on the go nonstop for the past four weeks, painting, scrubbing, up and down ladders, packing and unpacking, juggling movers and carpet cleaners, walking and biking around the new neighborhood, and entertaining my mother in law for a week at our new place the first week I moved in. Three days ago I took a break and sat down from all that work, and since then I basically haven't been able to get off the couch, LOL. I was running on adrenaline and reserve energy that really wasn't there for the taking for several weeks on end, and when I sat down, my body said: "You is not gonna get back up again soon, Missy." So I have been resting and recouping my energy since then. I have my feet up and I'm resting and enjoying the view out my window. 

 





View from our front lawn. The paved area is the historic Schuylkill River Rail Trail that runs the whole way to Philadelphia.



 

The atmosphere around here is vintage and old fashioned, perhaps because trains still run on the local railroad tracks here. The tracks run parallel with our front lawn, which is one reason why I initially liked this house. There's nothing like being transported back in time each time the train rumbles by and the whistle blows. I wondered if the train would wake me in the night, but it doesn't. In the evenings they mute the whistle. In the night, if I'm already awake,  I have to strain my senses and imagination when it goes by to actually realize if it went by or not. It goes by softly like a dream, unrecognizable only if you concentrate on it. Kind of like when you are in the country and you think you hear a train in the distance. But it's so faint you can barely tell if your ears are tricking you or not. I used to have this happen to me all the time. I would hear trains when there were no tracks around for miles. Kind of haunting, actually. But at night the whisper of the train is comforting, actually.

 

 

View from our front porch, taken through the living room window.

 

I was thinking about getting a porch swing to relax on in the evenings and watch the train go by. However, if I was jogging by on the public trail, I would not want some old timer settin' on their porch watching me huff and puff by. We have a side patio that is more private that I'll probably relax on, instead of the porch.

 

Maggie, on the other hand, has no compulsion about oogling the bikers and runners. She hangs out on the windowsills meowing up a storm when she hears the gravel underfoot of anyone approaching. I think she seriously believes that someone will eventually veer off the path, jog up to the porch to pet her, then continue on their merry way.  

 

 

 

Sunlight dappled rail trail.

 

I biked the trail once since we moved in. Once we get a dog, I'll walk with her on the trail. The trees haven't really turned colors here yet. Our neighbors Russ and Edith said that we are technically living in the mountains, and as such, it's 5 degrees colder here than in the town. Jaw drop. Where was I when this information was being disseminated? If I had known this, I might not have agreed to the house. Well, perhaps the scenic views will have to make up for this slight meteorological deficiency?

 

Sunlight drenched, late afternoon railroad crossing, which is a minute walk from our home.

 

Our new home is an hour and a half away from our family, while the apartment we used to live at was just five minutes away from my parents and most of my brothers and sisters. Karl and I have known for quite some time that we wanted and needed to move quite a distance away. First, Karl recently got a job transfer where he was commuting an hour from where we lived. This opened up the door for us to want to move, if only so Karl's commute wasn't as far. But more importantly than that, we knew we needed to get away from the toxicity of my family.  

 

I was on the phone with my mom a few weeks ago. I thought it would be a pleasant conversation. No harm in just talking, right? Somehow she managed to swing the conversation around to religion. This happens each time we talk, because she is a good citizen, conscientious and concerned about her daughter's eternal soul. If she didn't doggedly bring up religion each time, she would have a guilty conscious and would be berating herself until our next conversation.

 

Somehow the conversation zigzagged around my father, and how he was such a good man, a godly example. I said, "What about the way he abused me emotionally and physically?" Suddenly I was crying.

 

And just as suddenly, my mom morphed into a hard edge razor back. Suddenly, she was in her favorite role as protector of the patriarch. She said, "AJ! That is the devil speaking in you! Resist him. Stop letting the devil live in you and speak through you!" This is the second time she's told me there's a devil in me.

 

Yet I was speaking from a place of innocence. I was letting the young child in me speak without fear for the first time in her life. I stood up for her and let her say, "That hurt."

 

I have finally come to realize that being in contact with my family is like banging my head against a concrete wall, hoping the wall will reach out to hug me. It is a futile exercise in insanity. The wall is a wall and will never accept me.

 

It was helpful to live close to family the last few years because if I needed a ride to a doctor appointment or if I needed something when Karl was at work, I could call a family member. Even though not all outings were approved by the patriarch, some were. Now, however, we will be using a taxi for me when Karl is at work. It's OK. We are stepping out on our own, and if getting away from the toxicity means not having transportation, so be it. It is worth it!

 

I am glad we have distanced ourselves. Personally, I would rather be living as far away as Florida. But that wasn't in the cards for the present. For now, an hour and a half away is a world away. This is a time of new beginnings. I don't want to drag the past along with us into this new home. I don't want to muddy up the home with memories from long ago. The hurts have taken up too much space and energy in me, and now is a time to let it all go. The past was in my face while I lived back home, but now is a fresh start.

 

I want to live in the present moment in this new house. Karl and I have decided we aren't having conversations anymore over the dinner table or elsewhere about the family. We are also no longer communicating by phone, email, or social media with the family.   

 

Fall is a time of letting go of the old. As leaves start to drift off the trees, it feels right to start letting go of things, situations and people who no longer serve us. I know many people go through this stripping process without even knowing they are doing so in harmony with nature. I myself didn't realize this was happening until the other day when I was out on the trail. I was watching the wind whip a thousand crispy leaves up into the air and down, like synchronized confetti. Like they were following the invisible hand motions of a conductor, but in perfect free fall. Twisting, then lifting in wild abandon. Free. And completely, foolishly giddy about it. The leaves were having a blast being wild and free.

 

And suddenly I realized that I was free too. And I just couldn't wipe the grin off my face knowing so.

 

Give yourself permission to be exactly who you are!

Art © Moki  https://www.facebook.com/#!/RiversInTheOcean

  

"You may not be able to control what other people say or how they act, but you can always choose how you treat yourself. You can choose who you surround yourself with, and who you let go of. And no matter what your circumstances, you can choose to believe in yourself and your worth.

Because at the end of the day, trying to please everyone is exhausting and impossible. No matter how you change or who you become, there will always be someone who doesn’t approve. So instead of wasting your energy in a futile attempt to become someone that other people want you to be, give yourself permission to be exactly who you are. And know that who you are is exactly enough.

You don’t ever have to feel guilty about removing toxic people from your life. It doesn’t matter whether someone is a relative, romantic interest, employer, childhood friend, or a new acquaintance; you don’t have to make room for people who cause you pain or make you feel small. It’s one thing if a person owns up to their behavior and makes an effort to change. But if a person disregards your feelings, ignores your boundaries, and continues to treat you in a harmful way, they need to go.

The right people will find their way into your life. These are the people who will love and accept you wholeheartedly and without conditions. These are the people who matter. Let go of the rest."

~ Daniell Koepke

 

I discovered this article the other day and have been chewing on it for a week or so. I can tell the ideas here must have been sinking in because I found myself thinking about boundaries and the way I haven't felt safe lately on Facebook.

Recently, whenever I go to post something on FB, I have to stop myself and then never end up posting because I know that nothing I want to write these days will be acceptable to certain family members who will read it and judge me behind my back. I used to believe in the same religion as my family, so I didn’t have to watch my back as much in the past. But even then, I had to be careful about what photos I could put up. If my shorts or jeans were too tight, or if the photo looked too revealing, it would be scrutinized by my father who has access to my page through my mom’s account. Ugggh. I have always been so sick of the way he stares at my sisters and I, looking for immodesty so he can berate us in the name of God for it. I hated it back in the day when I lived on the homestead, and I’ve always hated knowing he was doing the same to me even as an adult on FB or at family functions. I put up with it on FB, just because I figured I had to. I also had to hide or restrict my postings on FB because a lot of my friends’ comments would have been considered lewd or unseemly to my family. My family would have assumed I was the same in associating with them, and they would have been keeping tabs on me, judging me and these friends. I hated having to restrict expressing myself, but somehow thought that as an obedient Christian daughter, this is what I had to do.

The last year or so though, I’ve shed a lot of my family’s toxic religious beliefs that I had believed for many years in the past without even thinking about it. I’ve become  interested in expressing this transformation with like minded friends. At this point in my life, my biggest social outlet is FB, and I’ve rubbed shoulders with  so many beautiful, amazing people who live outside the field of wrong and right. I’ve wanted to connect with them on FB in a public way, but have held myself back because I know my family would confront and shame me for doing so.   

There is this interesting belief that my family circulates about one of my sisters and I. Since both of us became ill with chronic fatigue, PTSD and adrenal burnout, my family members whisper to each other that God is judging us with this illness because of our sins. They say that God will continue to curse us with illness until we “get right with God.” They say they are on God’s side and they won’t help us out when we need help, as long as we remain stubborn and hardened against God. As if they know what it means to be right with God! They say we will never get our careers back and never lead a successful life until we ask forgiveness, get back under submission to God, and get back into the church. As if that is ever going to happen. Basically, my family is cursing me, and I’m supposed to take this bullying as my due. I’m supposed to back down and submit if I want their judgment to stop. What they are doing is tough love, God’s tough love. Their God is a bully who will rain bad luck on me until I relent to him and repent.

 

Well, I am long past that stage in my life. I don’t believe in a God like that. That kind of treatment is an insult to my soul, and I brush it clear off of me. My creator and I are one, and there is nothing I could ever do “wrong” in his/her eyes. I have nothing to be afraid of. I am simply infinitely loved.

 

And yet, I do not feel like I have the freedom to express this to my family. I have been treated like a black sheep and denied help in the past, but my confirming their suspicions would result in some kind of subtle social punishment for me. My mom might not be allowed to visit or call me anymore, and she might not be allowed to pick me up and drive me to appointments. My family would start praying for my repentance, and they would add me to the prayer list under the category “back slidden” at their church.  Family parties would be strained and weird.  I’m not sure I want to speak my truth to them yet. I don’t know if I’m ready yet, or if they are even ready yet to hear me speak. When the time is right, I will know.

But in the meantime, one thing I do know is that I don't like hiding who I am. I am ready to start taking steps towards my freedom. The other morning I woke up and sat up in bed and felt so angry. I had barely time to wake up and already I’m angry. I’ve recently started the habit of checking in with myself, asking myself how I feel. I’ve repressed my emotions so much in the past, that I’m rusty at this. So I check in now every half hour or more often, in the hopes that this will eventually become my natural way.

As I sat there, I felt myself saying, “I’m angry.”  So I asked myself, “Why are you angry?” And I heard myself say, “I’m angry because I am repressed. Here I sit in my own bed, in my own home, with my own comfortable blankets wrapped around me, and I feel unsafe like I can’t even express myself on my own Facebook Page. I am done with feeling like I have no voice!”

So in the next few days, I de-friended my family members, and instantly I felt lighter. I wrote about what happened on FB, and my online friends were so supportive. I love them all! Their spirits shine true in a way that I don’t pick up on with my family. I’m starting to see other areas in my life where I am still repressed. I can’t define yet what these areas are, as they are foggy. I think I have been so used to not having boundaries, that unhealthy boundaries still seem slightly normal to me. However, I have gotten a taste of freedom, and I want more.

 

 

 

 

 

The neighbor waved

Fall is arriving in my small town... this is a tree I see when I go on walks.

 

October 8, 2012

I was taking a walk this morning, and was enjoying how warm and toasty the sun felt on my shirt despite the cool temperatures. I was coming to a turn in the road where I live, when a truck slowly inched into view. A man waved for me to cross the street before he went ahead, but I made a hand motion showing I wasn't crossing the street, I was just turning onto the road he was on. I smiled because it would have taken him less than a second to drive through that intersection, when it would have taken me two and a half minutes or more at the speed I was moving. Suddenly I felt special, like someone thought I was worth two and a half minutes or more of their time. The guy smiled and waved again as he drove away, and I recognized him as a neighbor. I kept walking on, but felt like I had been hit with an epiphany. Which is: "People out in the world are nice." I was walking on air the rest of the walk home. I kept thinking, "I can make it in the world. People out there are nice. They aren't cruel and against me after all."

It has felt like the world has been against me for the last few years. When I got sick and had to give up my career and my apartment three years ago, I didn't know that I was also giving up my independence and all of the things that I loved most. It was a big adjustment. It has taken awhile to get used to no longer hopping in a car to go places anytime I want to. My health isn't good enough for me to be driving yet and it isn't safe for me to be behind the wheel of a car. When I lived in NYC, I could walk anywhere, but I'm in a small town now, so I can't walk to convenience stores or public places.

I have to admit, it's been tough being tucked away from the world like this year in, year out. It's been several years now where I've not gone out to the grocery store, mall, parties, other people's houses, to a work place, to a gas station, to anywhere except my backyard. My backyard is a wonderful place, don’t get me wrong! I see so much more in nature and in details now that I didn’t see before and now appreciate. But I think I forget what real people are like. There aren’t any people in my backyard. I forget what my old life was like. It's kind of like I am living in someone else's story, in some remote world far from the world I used to live in. It's odd, to be sure. People don't tell you what happens when you get sick. They don't talk about these things. They don't talk about how difficult it is to accept this different world.

People don’t tell you that when you get sick, the scaffold of your life just might fall out from under you. Why would they tell you this, though? It’s an unthinkable possibility. But all those threads woven so tightly underneath your feet, all those supports that you’ve unthinkably assumed would always be there for you if you fell might suddenly unravel at a moments’ notice.  I guess I was oblivious in thinking that of course I had a scaffold. Naive. Head in the clouds. Thinking more positively than I possibly should have been. I guess I couldn’t have imagined that so many organizations, groups and people who I thought would support me... could just bottom out all at once and let me fall suddenly through the cracks. For example, once I became so ill that I couldn’t work anymore, my health insurance gave out, and then I got denied coverage due to a pre-existing health condition. So you lose your coverage because you are sick, but you are denied future coverage because you are sick. The healthcare system here in the US currently sucks, so this wasn’t a surprise to me. I knew that the condition I had doesn't qualify for disability benefits. Again, not a surprise. The doctors I went to for years on end eventually also had no answers for me. This was upsetting for me, but it wasn’t the end of the world. What was most surprising to me is that suddenly my closest supports started faltering. First my coworkers and friends disappeared, and then somehow my family and the church started acting shifty.

I think that at first, the hardest thing for me about getting sick was falling out of the old social network into this stretch of isolation. Nobody I knew pre-illness keeps in touch with me anymore. To be honest, I didn't really have close friends back then since I was a private person, but it was nice having coworkers while I was working. I got my taste of social interaction by going to work. Now that I’m not strong enough to work or invite people over, I resort to making friends online. These friends are mostly sick, so they don’t have the juice to interact much. Which is understandable. At times I get mad at my ex-coworkers and friends because they don't try to keep in touch with me. But then I realize that they are busy with their own lives and have long forgotten me as the coworker who rarely talked with them and kept to herself. It's not their fault, or mine, or anyone's fault. It's just how it is. But that doesn't make it easy. Even though I enjoy my alone time out in nature or holed up with a book more than most people, these long stretches of complete isolation aren't something I enjoy.

I guess one thing that surprised me most about getting sick was the way different churches and ministries treated me. I was shocked, honestly. Back in the day, ever since I can remember, I fit so well into the church scene. I was saved and meant it, was baptized, was an excellent teacher, a peaceful law abiding person, going to church, volunteering to teach Sunday school, tithing, helping others.  I was in that bubble, part of the group. I didn’t think I’d ever be the one outside the bubble, pressing my hands and face against the wall trying to get in. And yet, when I got sick, each ministry and church I tried to get in contact with refused to get back in touch with me. This was heart breaking. I was too sick to leave the house for a few years and not one ministry or church returned my calls or emails to come visit me or talk on the phone. They treated me like a leper. A few of them told me I had unconfessed sin in my life, and demonic spirits that needed to be exorcized. I got myself exorcized, did a ton of self examination and confession. One pastor told me that based on my exhaustive list of symptoms, I must have done an enormous amount of sinning, more than any one person could reasonably rack up. He told me I needed to study the Scriptures and repent more. So I studied voraciously for the next couple years and got nowhere except sicker. I checked back in with the pastor and he basically told me he was done with me, there was nothing more he could do. And at this point, the other ministries still wouldn’t speak with me. It was confusing to me how of all organizations, the church could turn its back on me. I wasn't even asking for much. I wasn't asking for money, or anything. I just wanted a kind word, a sympathetic ear. But no. None of that did I get. I was told that everything that was happening to me was my fault, and there wasn’t a drop of compassion to be shared with me. It did make me angry, but I was so unwell that I didn't have the energy to stoke my feisty side and make a scene. Over time, I became disgusted at their response, and eventually gave up even trying to contact them.

So how the church treated me was interesting, to say the least. I would have never expected that. But the thing that they really don't tell you when you get sick is.... your own family might turn on you. My family has never been the type to call or stop by, and although I thought that my being ill would change that, it hasn't. It's like my family just keeps going on in their normal daily lives, while their sister/daughter is in a crisis. I tell them all the time I'm lonely and would love company, but it just goes over their head. I think they think they'll catch the illness from me, or something. But I never thought they would push me away. Not in my wildest dreams. And yet, how does the saying go, "When tragedy strikes, you will see the true colors of those that say they care about you."

I started noticing subtle signs that things weren't as loving as I'd imagined they'd be soon after getting sick. My parents couldn't drive up to help me move from NYC to PA, and they knew nobody who could help me either. They grumbled and complained if I asked them to drive me to get groceries. They went out of their way to judge me behind my back and whisper that I wouldn't ever get better and get my career back until I "got right with God." After a few years, I went through a period of time where I was very sick, unable to shower, cook for myself or care for myself. I thought I was dying. I asked my parents if I could move in with them, and they told me no. They told me I would be a nuisance, an intrusion to their privacy. I was told to check into hospice care, and no I shouldn't expect them to give me a ride. I didn't have a place to go after that, so I became very confused and sad. Let me tell you, I was completely shocked. I always guessed based on my family's treatment of me that I wasn't really that loved, but I never thought when it came down to the wire, my family wouldn't have my back. I was so unwell that I couldn't think straight, and was very scared to be alone. I thought I dreamed it up, it seemed so unreal. And I didn't have a network of others to tell, to check in with to see if what was happening was really happening. I don't think that what happened was right, but to this day no one mentions it, no one is sorry about it, and no one hears me if I try to bring it up. But, back to the story.

I kept asking myself, what did I do to deserve this? What could I have done to have prevented this? And I realize I didn't do anything to deserve this, except agreeing to get born into this world. The only way I could have prevented this was perhaps having some real friends as a support. But if I knew how to make friends, I would have gone about that business real cheery like a long ago. But my dad beat us as children for making friends, so the neurons that normally connect as a child when you learn to make friends got severed back then, and no matter how old I was, I always felt like a large presence was going to beat me if I got caught smiling at another human. So I get the feeling that I couldn’t have created a better, stronger safety net. I couldn’t have known.  And yet, I get the feeling this isn't how life is supposed to work. This is not how I imagined life to be like. The only thing that happened was I got sick and couldn't care for myself, and all of a sudden people run from me willy nilly, like I have something contagious they don't want to get. Like they don't want tragedy to rub off from me to them.

Is that how life works? At the moment you are no longer contributing to society anymore and have to ask for favors, you are on the outs list? I just can’t believe that something as simple as getting sick for several years on end could make people drop their love and care for me. Had they never loved and cared for me in the first place? Was I just simply that unlovable, and nobody had ever bothered to tell me? Or I just never realized it before? It was so difficult for me to wrap my head around believing that my family never really loved me. I resisted this, because it meant that I was by default unlovable. But I didn't know the truth then. I hadn't yet experientially realized that my value as a human being didn't depend on what those closest to me said or did. I had not learned this before, and didn't know it then. I was in a dark place.

But that morning when the neighbor waved for me to walk by, I felt loved. I felt like maybe the world wasn't against me after all. I wished that man was my father. I wished that I could re-experience all over again the breaking apart and shattering of my world, but this time with the knowledge that my parents would have my back after all. When your world falls apart, the last thing you'd want to fall away is the safety net of your family. Guess what? I had no safety net. I went into free fall, and got stuck there in that vortex. Spinning there, dizzy, but whoosh.... out of  the corner of my eye, the neighbor smiles and waves, and waits for me to cross the road. Love. There are good people out there. The whole world is not out to get me after all.

 

 

Stand up and speak your truth: Coming out of the cult closet Part 1



{photo credit: www.bigcatphotography.org}

I have always had a hard time standing up for myself. I chalk it up to the way I grew up. I grew up in a cult where women and children weren't allowed to speak up for themselves, especially when we were abused. We weren't allowed to ask "Why?" even in a quiet voice. We were to take abuse quietly, submissively, like Godly females would. Otherwise, all hell would break loose. So, my sisters and I grew up with blank, obedient minds. We were trained to obey male authority without question, and we had a healthy fear of the chain of command above us. We were Godly, submissive sheep who obeyed at the blink of an eye. We grew up with no defenses around us, like innocent blind kittens, just taking whatever Godly abuse was shunted our way, scared, but too blind and afraid to make a sound. God, it was horrible.

When I was in my mid 20's and left my parents' house, I knew I wanted no more of that. That kind of submission felt like choking.

The way that I left my family and the cult back when I was in my early 20's was a physical separation, in that I physically left my parent's house, and physically moved several cities away so that I no longer had any connection with the cult or anyone in it. But even though I left in person, I hadn't cut the ties mentally or emotionally. My subconscious mind was still being powered by the toxic beliefs I was programmed and brainwashed in. I wasn't convinced that I was free even when I left.

I have an older sister named Thalia. She is made of steel with the heart of a bull. In many ways she is my hero and she is the one my siblings owe their liberation to. When she was 24, she physically took ahold of herself and my trembling, peace loving 25 year old sister Louisa, and they escaped from the house.  Thalia rented them an apartment, and together they went to college. Any kind of education above high school was considered evil and punishable, but they did it. By the time I was 19, my younger sister had already applied to college, so I figured I may as well do the same, even though I felt very guilty.

My younger sister Christy has always been bold and brazen. One day she informed me that she and my younger brother were escaping the house and cult, were leaving the next day and did I want to join them. I was paralyzed in fear, but the next day when I saw them loading their furniture into the U-Haul, I decided I may as well ride the wave with them. So we moved. We were all three in college, and suddenly, we were free.

I won't go into detail how weird it was being suddenly free, out in the real world after being overprotected and isolated from life outside the cult. My sisters and I were raised to be unable to function in the real world, so that we would be pliable and innocent and ready to be shipped into the hands of our future patriarchal husbands. Who were waiting there with open arms, ready for their submissive, uneducated wives.

Trust me, our father was not silent about my older sisters' escape, or about the second wave escape I was in. My father was livid and kept warning us that God was angry and was going to send punishment down on us in the form or our cars breaking down, our health failing, us getting bad grades, going insane, and never getting ahead in life. My brothers and sisters laughed it off, but being sensitive and not wanting to cause trouble, I was more than a little worried.

In the cult I grew up in, there's this concept called the chain of command. It's illustrated by an umbrella. The father is the umbrella, and his wife and children are under it. The wife and children are to be in blind submission, and are taught to give up their rights. The father has ultimate control. His umbrella is two fold in that it represents his authority and his protection of those under him.

The catch here is that if you try to leave the umbrella of "protection" and authority, God will send judgment on you in the form of destroying your career, health, happiness, sanity. Demons supposedly will come up and plague you as well.

This threat kept me in a state of subconscious fear for decades, but I decided that if I didn't think about it and lived an oblivious state, I would be fine.

And I was apparently fine for some time, out in the world.

I decided though that in order to be completely safe, I needed to steer clear of Christian men because they might go fundamental and cultish on me.

So I dated mostly nonbelievers. I was so scared by what my dad did, though, that I was too afraid to get close to guys, and lived on the fringe, skittish, and always ready to leave a man if he started showing scary signs.

I remained detached, unfeeling, never letting myself get too close to a guy, always ready with one foot half out the door.

Even though I dated mostly nonbelievers, I knew that I could never marry one. For two big reasons.

First, because I would never be able to bring him through my parent's front door. He would be rejected, as he was not of the faith. He and I wouldn't be welcomed for holidays. We would be completely cut off from the family.

And second, my family and church would call down God's judgment on us for me being "unequally yoked." My life would fall in tatters around me. God's judgment would affect my health, marriage, career, success and happiness in life. My life would suck, and I would live in guilt.

It is this second reason that made me decide I absolutely would never marry someone who wasn't a Christian. I was not going to jeopardize myself. God is a god of wrath, and he hates sin. If I were to blatantly marry outside my faith, I would be punished severely, on a perpetual basis for the rest of my life. I was not going to let that happen.

And yet, if I married a Christian, I could very easily end up with a one who went fundamentalist on me and started choking me with the old submission tactics. I was dreadfully afraid of this possibility.

I quickly decided that not marrying at all might be the safest course of action in my life. I didn't rule out marriage, but I decided that I should remain alert and highly adverse to it.

So I leaned happily into my life as a single girl, having relationships and boyfriends, but never progressing towards marriage. As time went by, men my age starting talking about marriage, so I had to think of a new strategy.

Every now and again, I would date guys younger than me, and this gave me a much welcome breather. Most of the younger guys hadn't been bitten by the marriage bug.

Things went along OK until I got sick and moved back home.

 

Even though I had physically left the cult some ten years earlier, suddenly I was back again. It was so odd. I had forgotten about it and had somehow blocked most of it out of my memory. That is the only way I was able to return.  

 

Unfortunately, even though I returned home, my parents refused to take me in. I was too worldly and tainted. Supposedly, I blew it by leaving home in a state of disgrace with my siblings instead of being transferred as property under the chain of command to a husband who would be my authoritative master. So I blew my chances back then, and it was my tough luck now.  

 

So Thalia took me in. We all lived within minutes of the rest of my family, and my parents. A huge hub. There I was, suddenly back in the cult, with all the judgment and threats in the name of God whirling around.

 

I thought I would recover my health quickly, and I looked forward to my stay being only temporary. I had forgotten how toxic the cult was and didn't think it would affect me much because I was a grown woman. Little did I know that my age wouldn't matter, and that as a single woman out from under the chain of command and a man's umbrella, I was a prime target for Satan and my family.

 

About two years into the illness while living near my family, I met a man who was so kind and understanding. He was there for me when I was contemplating a move and didn't know what my next option should be. My parents still refused to have anything to do with me. So my boyfriend at the time asked me to move in with him.

I knew that God would judge me for shacking up with a guy, and I already assumed that the fibromyalgia, CFS and adrenal burnout  I had was a punishment from God. I figured it was because  I had left the church, stopped praying for many years, sinned too much, had too many boyfriends, etc.

I knew I couldn't afford to do any more sinning, because I sure didn't want to make the illness get worse.

So I definitely was not about to sin more and move in with this guy without being married to him.

He seemed like a good guy, and he really liked me. He seemed safe enough.  He wasn't devout, and he was a new Christian.

Why, I had been the one who 'converted' him! On date number three, I encouraged him to say the "sinner's prayer," I wrote the date down in my calendar as proof, and then I dusted my hands of the whole thing. Did the basics, and that's all we're doing.

He was now allowed to enter my parents' home without judgment, and I wasn't going to be judged either. We were 'safe.'

I figured that he would be a safe man to spend my life with. He was too new in the faith to have gotten any weird ideas, and I was there to guide him away from patriarchy. And he was thoughtful, kind, supportive. He loved me even though I was very ill. He told me he would always be there for me. He knew I might not ever get better. He didn't mind. He loved me above and beyond what the illness had done or could do to me. Sigh.

Did I dream this guy up? He was a keeper. So we got married. Me in my riding boots, a skirt and top from Gap, and a pony tail. We got hitched at our local mayor's house a 5 minute car ride away.

And after that? Did his Christian tendencies stay good and harmless?

Well, long story short, he fell prey to my family's cult beliefs and he became overnight the reincarnation of my father. I was a child again, falling, falling, choking, gasping, trying to scream but gagging the screams out of fear of punishment from God.

I went through two of the worst years of my life. The stress of the religious, emotional and physical abuse, the yelling, screaming, judgment, things being thrown at me, storming around... it helped my already fragile health spiral downwards and I became broken. I was already raw and sensitive because living in my family's hometown at that time had triggered flashbacks from childhood, but being with Karl was like reliving some parts of my childhood abuse all over, except this time I was the wife instead of the child.

And Karl had found a friend. He found a friend in Louisa's husband Clark. My sister's husband has been beating her and abusing her and her children for more than the last decade. He is a devout Christian and is in Christian ministry. He is a Biblical scholar, and fine upstanding member of his local church.

Even though he beat my sister and she finally left, after a year she went back. He said he was a changed man.

She believed him, and so did I. Neither my sister nor I had any boundaries whatsoever at that point, so if a Christian man says he is changed, who are we to question? Neither she nor I took even a second to think anything was amiss.

So when my sister's husband asks me if I minded him becoming Karl's new Christian mentor, the first words out of my mouth were, "Of course!"

With lots of smiles and nods.

The mentorship went along quite swimmingly. At least, I thought so. Up until about six months in, when I started to realize that the whole thing was unravelling in front of my eyes, and I was the fool who let it even begin.

It turned out that my brother in law had been talking about his wife (Louisa), me, and about my other two sisters behind our backs, judging us, but swearing my husband to secrecy. But my husband, after many months of keeping it all hush hush, started telling me what Clark had been saying about us.

When I found out what Clark was doing, I told my husband I was going to tell my sisters. Karl flipped out and threatened me. He became violent and I had to go hide in the bedroom. Karl was throwing curses at me telling me how dare I threaten his Christian friendship with Clark.

I stewed about it for a day, trying to tune into my inner voice for direction.

In the past I would have swept something like this under the carpet. I would have automatically assumed a passive and submissive role.

But not now. Suddenly, I was so mad. I couldn't take it anymore. This was my life, I was an adult, and I was not about to endure a complete replay of my abusive childhood here in my own home. I was so mad. I didn't care about God judging me anymore for not being an obedient sheep. I was done with being afraid of punishment from God.

I decided that I would directly confront my brother in law. I would send an email to Clark expressing my anger over the way he's been slamming me and my sisters behind my back secretly to Karl. I would also tell him that I didn't agree with his "Christian" beliefs at all.

So I sent the email.

He responded back and said that as a Christian, he wasn't able to take back anything he said. That he was justified under Christ to say what he did. He tried to explain himself, but went further into judging all of us and saying that me and my sisters would have to answer on judgment day for things we had done in the past.

He also said that he was afraid my sister would leave him if I told her what he said about her. So I promised not to tell her. For now it is enough to confront him.
 

It might seem like a small thing, but I was literally shaking in fear for the several weeks it took me to decide to write the letter. Also, I knew Karl would be very angry at me for sending it. He threatened me not to send it. I didn't care. For the first time in my life, I was going to stand up for myself.

Writing that letter was the very first time that I stood up for myself to any of the patriarchs in my family. I'm serious. The first and only time I ever did that.

After I sent that letter, it felt like a hundred pounds had suddenly slid off my shoulders.

I mentioned before that I felt like a caged bird in my family, beating her wings against the bars. The bars are made of fear. Some of those bars aren't there now because I wasn't afraid to confront my brother in law and his religious dogma.

It's almost funny the way things work. I didn't have the courage to face my dad and his religious, emotional, psychological, and emotional abuse when I was young.

I swept it under the rug for my whole life and lived oblivious of it. But I guess you can't sweep things under the rug forever, because they will be bumps there under the carpet and even if you place furniture on top of them, they are still there. I put so much furniture on my life carpet that I thought I had those buggers properly hidden forever.

Until recently when who comes into my life but two more situational reincarnations of my dad: my husband and my brother-in-law.
 

I've stood up and spoken my truth to my brother-in-law, and I feel really good about that. At the time I'm writing this post, Karl has started to change. He is doubting the cult, and doing a lot of questioning. We've had so many tumultuous interactions with me trying to stand my ground. Some days it wears me down so much. I feel ragged, but I can't give up. I can't stifle my voice. Tumult and arguments and stress bothers me so much. I thrive on peace. But I can't let myself be stepped on, even if it means forcing myself to strain my energy reserves enough to get loud and defend myself.

At the last family party I went to, the patriarchs were sequestered in my brother's kitchen while the rest of the family was out on the deck celebrating my niece's birthday. My dad latched onto Karl and began his old routine again, trying to get Karl to learn Greek so he could expound the Scriptures and get the purest interpretation. That's all they do, study the Scriptures ad nauseum. Apparently, Greek is the original languages the Scriptures were written in, and if you can't read them, then you really can't understand the Bible properly and basically are the most ignorant of Christians. Apparently, only a Biblical scholar can really understand Christianity.

The patriarchs in my family see no life or love in their faith, they only dissect Scripture and use it to judge themselves and others in a Pharisaical way.

So when my dad told Karl he had a Greek program Karl could try out, I spoke into the air loudly, without looking at anyone in particular, "Why does Karl need to learn Greek?"

I didn't want to address the father figure directly because I am still a little afraid to be in his presence (I still feel like he's going to hit or attack me), but the question was to him. He didn't answer, but my brother-in-law Clark said, "Because Greek is easier than Hebrew!"

So I say, "So why does Karl need to learn Hebrew? Why not German or Spanish or Italian?"

And the question falls on deaf ears. They are suddenly speaking of something else and are too wrapped up in themselves to respond to a lowly female pawn. What does a female have of importance to contribute to the religious discussion? And so the party went on. They sat sequestered together the rest of the evening.

So I ambled out to the patio and hung out with the rest of the women and children in the family. Who responded quite easily when I chatted with them. The world is still right side up, even when some parts seem upside down.