My Experience Of Growing Up In Christianity(non-lds)

[jhgs15]

"She's an angel," he said.
Oh? I said laughing out of discomfort.
Yes...the devil...but an angel. I nodded my head and let out a sigh that fell somewhere in between relief and panic. My mind reeled back and my heart began to pound. Noticing the silence, he changed the subject. Grateful, I replied, I dont know...I thought the music was dead...
I hung up the phone and caught the rhythm of the dial tone and methodically repeated ....good-bye, I'll talk to you later... good-bye, Ill talk to you later... good-bye, I'll talk to you later...good-bye, I'll talk to you later... until the pre-recorded operator rasped out a command to hang up the phone and please dial again.
I've grown to rely on the drone of repetition in my own head. As long as I could find some sort of rhythm I could remain silent. I found no need to cry out as long as I could busy my concentration with reciting numbers as fast as I could or pacing with a methodical assurance the short distance from the bathtub to the bathroom door as I sliced my hands with Gillette razor blades. Each cut followed the other with precise timing ensuring a staccato like rhythm as my white towel turned crimson. The cuts dulled the pain while the numbers occupied any part of my mind still bold enough to think. And like a bookie waiting for bets, I maintained a perfect calm.
I was bright, obedient and simple. I prayed but could never find the miracle that would set me free from someone elses hands and words. As I grew up I vowed to remain bright, become more obedient and replace my simplicity with complexity, hoping that this would set me free. It didnt. So I relied on the numbers and nothing served me better than their familiarity. I would rattle them off until my mind was in such a musical mayhem that all that mattered was the rhythm. With a few years practice and a little luck I no longer felt a thing. When I ran out of numbers there was always letters and words to repeat. R-O-S-E...rose...R-O-S-E...rose...R-O-S-E...rose...R-O-S-E...rose... My head methodically rocked back and forth as my left foot pulsed against the floor. I felt nothing but the rhythm. Ive attained perfection in figures...a math genius, became a gifted musician and an upright liar. The first two came from pure manic practice and as for the last, I believe it was genetically entwined with my bad luck.
I eventually grew out of my family as if they were a pair of worn hand-me-downs. When time afforded me this luxury my intention was to get as far away as possible. I believed that love couldnt possibly survive anywhere near the life I knew so I began a thorough and haphazard search. I took every chance. Ironically, within sixty miles I realized that the world wasnt cruel and love wasnt crooked. So I stayed and counted on the fact that truth was stronger than the short distance between me and my pain.
I remember bits and pieces of life before this exodus. But most of all I remember my mother. The only thing she nurtured was an insistence that my innocence be lost and then she walked away in haste, leaving the door open so others could do the same. She was the first, but not the last. Her actions spoke clearly, I was not worthy of any love. And that message found its way to a line of over-sexed boys. It was simple, Go ahead, satisfy your needs. That they did. In some ways this was endurable. But pain is never linear...nor is evil. Cyclical. It comes around and around and around and around and around....
I still wake up nights believing that shes powerful enough to find and fill the room next door to wherever Im sleeping. She could saturate four walls and a bed with her presence and enough cruelty to make me reconsider ever closing my eyes again. Im terrified of living anywhere within her reach and growing less and less afraid of living without her. Ive added a new mantra to my chants I am a friend, a sister, but never a daughter. I am a friend, a sister, but never a daughter.
I am caught somewhere in-between a mother on the PTA and one that hit me until Id bleed. Neither could have been any less true. Shed insist we come home for lunch and read to us before we walked back to school. By evening shed be in her room crying and vomiting because we didnt love her well enough. Shed cook us our favorite vegetable or throw our dinner all over the kitchen wall as we watched in silent shock. She taught us to pray and when we found a certain intimacy she would betray it with off color sexuality. We were loved until we were convinced and struck until we complied. We never won.
I, by default, was a consenting participant to every act. I didnt think you could say no. The problem with some crimes is that they dont kill you. In fact its ones very aliveness that makes some crimes possible.


***


When my oldest brother entered the 5th grade he no longer had to share a room with my younger brother. We turned guest rooms and dens into bedrooms so that each of us could sleep in a bed by ourselves. Some cruel act of fate made me the youngest child so I received the room adjacent to hers. She wanted me close by so nothing bad could happen. This nearness shaped my entire existence.


My head throbbed with exhaustion. Please go to sleep. Please go to sleep. I lay in my bed trying to sort through the sounds that I had grown reluctantly familiar with. My father was sporadically yelling out my mothers name. She had locked herself in the bathroom. From the hall I could here her retching, coughing and vomiting. She was having a familiar conversation with death...all for our benefit. I crawled out of bed and shut my door.
We must pray together. She said, staring right through my blood-shot eyes the next morning.
I didn't respond.
The doctors think I had a stroke last night. She lied. I bowed my head and immediately prayed purely out of defeat and nothing more. I had been conditioned to such dullness.


In the process of killing our souls she insisted on joining us in the decline. While our wounds festered, her diseases simply faded into a creative collection of made-up cancers, suicide attempts, strokes and heart disease she attributed to herself and my father. She told me she was dying and chastised my lack of love. She threatened me with predictions of my future life full of regret because I was so evil. She promised she was dying...but never kept her word.


***
I either don't talk about it at all or talk about it too much. Everyone has a remedy and an answer. The odd thing is that they werent there and I was.
"Do you love her?"
I hesitated, "Oh...I don't...I don't know. I feel sorry for her."
"That's not love." he said quickly.
"No...I dont suppose it is." I felt unaffected.


***
Somewhere along the line my life became scandalous. I awarded those around me censorship by my silence. I spoke in only riddles of her slamming her hand into my face or striking me in the head with some hard, cold object. Mostly I said nothing at all. I was too stunned to react with hate. Perhaps I still even loved her but the merits of this virtue were turning dull. I loved out of habit and disengaged out of necessity.


I crouched in the corner of the staircase as I watched my mother beat my brothers face with a wooden Ping-Pong paddle. I cowered in the darkness and looked on as my brother took blow after blow. I wavered between feeling terror for this relentless act and relief that, this time, I was only a spectator. Eventually I opted to feel nothing at all.
Stand in front of me young man! My mother never raised her voice. She grabbed his skinny shoulders.
He didn't say a thing.
You have five.
She threw her arm back to hit him in the face and he winced.
"Dont you pull away from me young man! You have six!"
This was the unspoken rule in her kingdom. She would assign you a number. This night my brothers crime of talking back brought a sentence of being slapped in the face five times. My mother refused to use her hand. If he winced and tried to pull away his assigned number went up and her last blow didnt count, even if he wasnt lucky enough to pull far enough away to miss her swing. My brother couldnt train his reflexes fast enough that night. He winced and pulled away only out of instinct while she calmly uttered you have seven...you have eight...you have nine... until he was a broken boy.
Hes twenty-six now and still wakes up in the middle of the night to pain in his face. Hes conditioned himself to hardly think of it at all. I try to think about it less and less, but the more I corner it the more it seems to crowd me.
I refused to allow myself to think there was anything wrong with her. I took my cues from her bent coolness. Together we created a myth. It was easier to bear the guilt than to own the loneliness. As if my lies would protect me from the truth.
Dear God...let me be better...please let me be better. I sat on the corner of my bed thumping my hand against my chest. Make me good...please make me good. I threw my head against the wall as a faint sense of familiarity crawled through my body. Id been here before. I mumbled an amen and blindly walked into the bathroom. This was the only room of the house where I still ruled. Here I chose when, where and how much. Every other room seemed to be full of people who controlled the aspects of my pain. They found hand holds on the edges of my panic and refused to let go. It was a relentless choking of the soul. But here I immersed myself in knowing that I could make it hurt or make it stop. Here there was no suffocating terror in pain. That afternoon I had taken the blade out of the food processor that sat in the corner of my mothers kitchen. I pulled it out of my pocket and numbly made an attempt to regain control of my world.


***


I slid my tray across the cafeteria table and sat down behind it.
"Some class, huh?" For a second I starred at my lunch and then quickly shoveled a forkful into my mouth.
"I'll never graduate in four years." She shook her head and stuffed her backpack under the cafeteria folding chair.
"Six?" I said in between mouthfuls.
"How can you eat this ######?"
I shrugged my shoulders.


I looked across the table. Sergeant! How am I supposed to eat this? I closed my eyes and reluctantly made an unsuccessful attempt to swallow. I know theses are hard times! But this? I thumbed around my plate looking for something more edible. Very well, very well, sir. These are dark times indeed.
Eat.
I snapped out of my daydream to the sound of my mothers voice. It was our evening ritual. We always ate together, counterfeiting family time. I smiled, trying to gain her approval. I took a bight. My food was moldy. Sir, sir...these rations...so small. I rustled my fork through a mass of dehydrated vegetables.
Eat.
Damn this war. When will it end. Sir, is it true our supply lines are still down? This is nothing less than a siege! Were going to starve to death.
Eat.
I climbed into my imagination and escaped. In my mind this wasnt my moldy dinner but the front lines in some far off wartime country. It was only a dream, but here old crusty food was a necessary duty. At my supper table it was neglect. I preferred the first.
Often we ate the same meal for days on end. When my mom cooked, she did so in mass. We finished dishes months old and did so without a complaint. My mother refused to throw anything away. We never brought up the fact that our food was moldy. I was once stupid enough to throw the remainder of my cereal down the drain. My stomach hurt. I couldnt finish what was left. She stuck my hand down the garbage disposal and I pulled out a handful of cereal, old vegetables mixed with dirt, scraps and hair. Then she told me to eat it. I did.
Ironically she sat across the table from me eating packaged gourmet meals.
She never ate what we did.
Never.
Curse this stupid war.


She reached across the cafeteria table and touched my arm, What are you thinking about?
Nothing.


***
It wasn't her general practice to hit us. Really. It wasn't her general practice to not hit us.
She didn't have a general practice.
The problem with a fist to the face is that it lingers. It coolly hangs on after the sting has gone and grows into an ache somewhere in an entirely inaccessible part of your heart.


No. I said stupidly.
I heard a dull thud and felt a sharp pain finger through my head. I crumpled to the floor, wedged between the door and my bedroom wall. Dont...hit...me...please...dont...hit...me...again . I threw up my hands and cowered under their thin protection. In vain. My mother held something thick and hard in her hand and used it to repeatedly hit whatever part of my body fell in her relentless way. Awkwardly, my two arms sprawled out covering myself in useless defense.
Please...please...please...stop...please. And then in silence I starred at her emotionless face and watched as her arm slammed into my head with the regularity of the nightmares that filled the rest of my life.


***


"You think?" I laughed.
He looked hopeful, "Sometimes."
I laughed again.
So, he changed the subject, "If you had your life to live over again what would you change?"
"The question you just asked."
The trouble with me is that I've never been able to rid my life of hope. I used to think that some people were evil and others were good. But a dissection of the soul proved me otherwise. Evil and good are intertwined in each of us so that one has just become the dark side of the other. Some cheap stock of reality made them inseparable. If you destroy one, you risk the loss of the other. Only God escapes such a dichotomy. That is, if you believe Hes good. Or if you believe Hes evil. Either one.


***


I never doubted my moms love, just her ability to act on it legally and morally. She was a shining example or good and evil. Just like me.


Mom! I yelled through my tears. I have never been able to control my emotions. Unlike her. You love the neighborhood kids more than you love me.
My mother looked somewhat shocked and bewildered, Of course I do.
I watched her calmly look at her face in the vanity mirror. My mother is beautiful. I'd grown accustomed to an awareness that I was somewhat undesirable.


***


"Your mom's an ######."
I threw a look at him.
"Why does that offend you?" he callously remarked.
"She's my mom."
"Well don't ever expect me to talk to her. "
It's easy to hate what you don't know.


***


I was the only adult standing up among a sea of kids. I smiled a thin smile and took hold of the microphone.
Wed like to welcome you to our program. The kids have been working real hard. For some reason I was utterly overcome with nerves.
Weve been studying the parables and the kids have some verses and songs they want to share with you. I glanced around the church full of parents, then I looked at the kids that surrounded me. My thin smile emerged into a grin.
Then we have some very special awards to hand out. I went on. But first lets give a big clap for... I handed the mic to a set of small, sweaty hands. The applause thundered in my ears.


"Say it."
I complied, Children, obey your parents in the Lord, for this is right. Ephesians 6:1 I stood in front of my mom and recited that verse every morning. She used religion like a crime. A breach of her tyranny would leave us with her Bible sprawled open in our laps. We would rewrite chapter after chapter of any scripture she could misinterpret to fit her cruelty. She maligned truth into the service of a lie. Any complaints and the asinine number of chapters we were to copy was doubled. It was humanly impossible to do what she required.
"I can't do it!" I screamed. She spun her body around and hit me in the face. I started to cry. I didnt mean to aggravate her but she hit me again.
All right, she said calmly. Well double it.
"I can't do this!" I repeated. She repeated her response. Until my face bled. I took up my pencil and began to write as my blood steadily dropped onto the pages of her Bible. Hear, my son, your fathers instruction, and reject not your mothers teaching; for they are a fair garland for your head, and pendants for you neck.


"God is our refuge and strength - a help - uh, an ever-present help in - um -uh...." The words stumbled out of her mouth.
"Trouble." I whispered. She grabbed my hand.
Help in trouble.


***


I no longer count. I havent the energy and anyway my miracle finally came through. (Maybe it has always been?) Only a fool would call me cursed...even in retrospect. Ive wondered if Im bitter and settled that Im affected. Theres some relief in that. Some valiant optimist would call me a survivor but I realize Im simply a statistic. My story is not a first edition.
Over the years I've self-inflicted myself with sanity but never enough to eradicate the strange taste that craziness left to linger in some unreachable part of my heart.
"She's an angel." she said, with misguided admiration.
"Oh?" I said.
"Yes... an angel." I nodded my head and let out a sigh that fell somewhere in between relief and panic. Some kinds of pain you grow used to and some you don't. The crux of pain is not what it makes you feel, but rather, what it keeps you from feeling.....






I wish I knew where to go from here. I am 22 years old and living on my own now, but I'm not sure what to do now. I'm always trancing out into this other timeperiod and having flashbacks and crying. I still believe in God, but much of what I've seen in christianity, in evangelical/pentecostal/fundamental has not been pretty. I wish I could find the answers, some way out of this nightmare that still haunts me. I guess it would be nice to talk with someone about this. Any advice is welcome.

[pushka]

Jhgs15, your story really touched me. I really don't know what advice to offer you, apart from asking if you've ever sought counselling for the trauma that you and your brothers endured?

I don't attend church, however I'm sure that there will be some good people in some church that may be able to help you, otherwise seek advice from somewhere else, somewhere neutral where you can discuss the problems your mother was obviously experiencing, and separate it from religion itself...whatever happened to you, from your mother, I would think happened because of a problem within herself rather than within whatever church she happened to belong to.

I hope that you will find comfort somewhere.

[rosie321]

Dear Sister,

My thoughts and prayers are with you. Unfortunately I can feel and understand all too well the volumes of heartache between each line that you did not write. It breaks my heart everytime I hear a story like this. Our stories may be a little different but the overall plot outcome was the same. I wish that there were some magical potion out there that I could give you that would instantly take away every pain you have felt. The things of God were also used in hurtful way against me. Despite that I thank the Lord that the only thing that has helped me over the years is taking the hand of God, continually seeking Him, trusting him, surrounding myself with great people, uplifting music and much time. Trusting God after you may feel he let you down may hurt but I ask you to put your feelings aside and try it anyway. I don't believe true healing will come to your heart any other way.


Though time helps to heal all wounds there will probably always be some remaining scars. As you heal it will probably hurt. It is part of the process. Cling to the promises of God through that time. Study the ones which speak of healing, hope , of comfort , etc and hide them in your heart. Whatever is pure whatever is Holy let your mind dwell on those things. The nightmares, flashbacks will start to subside although I don't know if they will ever totally go away. Just keep fighting the evil with goodness and despair with hope. Who knows how your experiences may be used to bless the lives of others. Your story touched my heart and reminded me of some things that God is carrying me through and that it does indeed get better. I remember the horrible pains of just starting out on my own trying to make sense of the world.

Try and find comfort that you are not in the same place that you were when you were the defenseless child. Your parents do not control you anymore and cannot hurt you. Now you are an adult you do not have to take the abuse whether it be mental or physical (despite what you may be encouraged to believe). Get the healing that God wants you to have. I strongly encourage you to seek outside help as the other person suggested. There are many christian counselors out there and helps for people overcoming abuse. It's easier to face your struggle with someone else. You don't have to do it alone. Counselors are trained to direct people to healing paths. As you have found not everyone will be understanding or helpful. Trust in others can be hard. Keep praying and going until you find the support you need. Keep seeking and piece by piece you WILL find the strength you need.

Use the sickness and disdain you feel inside to push you to be different in a wholesome loving way.
Fight the evil with good. You may have to seperate yourself from her for a time until you can find the strength to do so. There are also many great books on overcoming abuse. Prayerfully seek out good ones and draw out what would best benefit you. A couple of books I have found awesome, not necessarily about abuse, are the ones by Phillip Yancey. Where is God When it Hurts and the other is Disappointment with God. Read them through. They are awesome. It's been a little while since I've read them-I keep handing out my copies- but they ask and answer a lot of painful questions that you might be afraid to ask.

Keep fervently praying for the peace you need and the direction. Seek out good righteous people to surround you.

My thoughts and prayers are defineately with you as you struggle through this very painful issue and try to find some kind of healing. It can be found. I can truly testify that God can start to replace you pains with joys and peace. It may take a lot of time and a little more pain. Wait patiently on Dr Lord to help you heal.

Oodles of love and prayers to you,
Your Sister in Christ

[Dr T]

Hey Rosie,

Just how much is an "Oodle"?

[rosie321]

Such the comedian Mr T

As much as needed?