A New Hope (not Star-Wars-related)

I'd really forgotten a lot.

It was likely a self-preservation tactic my subconscious exercised on my behalf.

In preparing for an interview, I went back and for the first time read through the blog posts I made during 2010-2012. 

I have a few thoughts, and they're all over the place. So in no particular order:

1) Holy cow, I cringed so hard so many times. The things I said as a youngster (pre-40s, but barely)! Your girl has changed A LOT in 15 years, and that's, to borrow a probably-copyrighted phrase from Martha Stewart, a good thing. If you read my blog back then, and you rolled your eyes or gasped at anything I said ("Thanks, Feminism," I'm looking at you), WE ARE IN AGREEMENT. And I'm so sorry. It's bad. It was very, very bad and re-exposing myself to... myself (not in a dirty way, perverts) created quite a rip in the time-space continuum of who I know myself to be.

2) It's easy to believe the people can't or won't change. Good gravy, have I ever changed in the past decade. I like to think it's for the better. I do probably cuss more than I used to. But getting off of social media was a huge improvement. I feel like I am much more accepting and less judgmental than I was back in the day. I definitely don't obsess over my body or my hair or anything the way that I did 14-15 years ago. I'm pretty sure I am NOT maturing, though, so don't worry about that.

3) It was a complete surprise to me to learn that I kept two concurrent blogs during 2011-2012??! I had "Trailer Trash and Proud" for fun stuff like reviews, things we did, stuff I baked, etc. and I kept my older one for all of my angst and preaching and Deep Thoughts™. That one is very barfy and I only read it to make sure that I was remembering timelines and events correctly. But it was a painful read. Bleh. The stuff about my cool pancakes and all of the chocolate I bought in Dallas was a lot more on-brand and enjoyable.

4) After all of the stuff happened in the early 2010s, it was like I was running out of a burning building and didn't have the energy or desire to look back. Now that I have, I feel a lot less... well, just a lot less about it. The feelings aren't a big deal. I'm over it. Things didn't go the way they would have if they'd happened the way I wanted, and apart from my self-esteem taking a huge hit (but refusing to stay down, which actually would have made it easier), it was all really fine. Better in the long run, in fact. Much better.

5) Things I should have done differently: a) Immediately left my church. b) Moved to Austin a year before I did. c) Been more proactive in helping D deal with the huge changes I, too, was finding difficult. It SUCKS as a parent to be barely treading water and therefore not fully notice that your kid is struggling probably worse than you are. A lot of the issues D has had are because I was not thinking properly and didn't notice or realize things I should have noticed and realized. We both have a lot more perspective on this as adults, but it doesn't change that I messed up. I missed a lot. And I can't redo any of it.

6) That said, reading about where I was back then really makes me more hopeful in this part of my life! I was worried about the same things: finding a job, having enough money to make it, where would I end up if I couldn't afford where I was living anymore? Etc. At the time, I had a friend who compared it to swinging on a trapeze and how, for the trapeze to work, sometimes you have to let go and fly and trust that the other trapeze will be there to meet you when you get there. Right now, I have a whole other adult in this with me, and we have more resources than I did at the time. So it helped kind of jolt me out of some doldrums and I appreciate that a lot!

In 12 years, none of us has aged, including the kid. Which is weird. ;)

The Second Round

Last week, I'd started on a blog post about my feelings regarding the outcome of the most recent US elections. I got most of the way through and ran out of steam, plus I wrote a bunch about it on our family Slack and that blew up. Lots of hurt feelings, lots of not really seeing each other, lots of stuff that we might never fully work through but we're family and we love each other anyway. But it's still an open wound.

Wednesday morning, James's first words to me were, "What do we do now?" If I need to explain to you why we're dumbfounded and upset, then you don't really know my family and there's too much to catch you up on here. Regardless, I had a clear-ish vision: "We take care of our kids. We do what's best for our family." As we spoke, I realized that James was in a tailspin and I was perhaps not as gracious as I could have been. I was in active survival mode and James needed a few days to process and gain his bearings. I know that my inability to suffer prolonged bouts of vulnerability in others is one of my character flaws. I've been thinking on that as I've looked at rentals in Minneapolis and priced snow pants, crampons for all, and winter tires.

The past few weeks, I've been listening to various episodes of a podcast my sister mentioned to me: The Bodies Behind the Bus. The most recent episode I listened to resonated do deeply with me. The guest was Eric Isaac. He was talking about creating his own definition of spiritual abuse. I couldn't find a transcript, so ended up transcribing his thoughts on my own. And I ruminated.

This morning, it all came together in my brain, why I feel like I know where we are, why I feel so personally worn down and discouraged, and why my instinct was to ramp up and do this thing, whereas James needed more time to grieve and come to grips with reality.

First, I'm going to share Eric Isaac's definition of spiritual abuse: "Spiritual abuse is its own umbrella category of abuse. Any form of abuse — sexual, emotional, psychological, vocational, or other — can fall under the category of spiritual abuse if God or the sacred is presented as complicit or used to justify abuse by power-holders through attempting to coerce or manipulate others for the purposes of control. The effects of this unique form of abuse can create unique theological or ontological trauma that can leave a lasting abusive construction of the sacred or God long after the individuals have removed themselves from the abusive environment. Spiritual abuse can also create and inform entire faith communities and institutions that are built on abusive manipulations of the sacred, perpetuating abusive conceptions of the sacred, alongside behavior by institutionalizing the conceptions of the sacred."

By that definition, I've been the victim of spiritual abuse multiple times in my life.

First, I was married to someone for 13 years who would make a decision (for example: that I needed not to talk to my sister as often as I was) and say, "If that's the wrong decision, then someday I will answer to God for it. But I'm responsible for this family, and that is my decision as to what's best for us."

Second, when I set about to leave that man, the church where I'd served for more than 6 years called me into meetings almost every day for two weeks trying to talk me out of divorcing him because "What if Jesus is going to save your marriage tomorrow and you gave up one day early?" They didn't what to appear to support the idea of divorce, so they micromanaged my behavior (or tried to; I'm bad at obeying when I disagree) for over a year before I folded and moved away. This was after they invited me to leave several times.

Third, when James and I got engaged, my church leadership tried to talk us both out of it. Since James isn't a believer, they didn't want me yoking myself to him. In the end, the preacher told me, "If you're not willing to submit to this part of our leadership, I'm not sure what we have for you here." This hurt, but when I found out that he'd groomed another young member of that church and carried on an inappropriate extramarital relationship with them (which started as sexual assault and continued through spiritual abuse over time) for many years, I was just mad.

Mad at the control for their own purposes. Mad at withholding the love of Christ because their priority was maintaining the glowing reputation of the church. Mad that the parable of the 99 sheep doesn't seem to apply to these people and their organizations: When you have a lost sheep, that's where you devote resources and love... you aren't supposed to just say, "Wow, you're a mess. Sacrificing the one for the 99 is just good math."

I have decades of experience in the arena of, "You'll do what I tell you to do or you'll suffer the consequences because God and stuff."

Years ago, when I was cleaning out my closet to prepare for moving from our family home of 7 years into the RV that D and I share for a couple of pretty awesome years, I remember a feeling washed over me. It said, "No help is coming."

For weeks, I'd been telling my story to anyone who would listen, in hopes that they'd understand my predicament, have some empathy, and walk through the process as my corroborating testimony. (To be clear, I did have friends who rose to this occasion, but no one on the church staff; no one who had any ability to make my presence in that body anything other than a thorn in the side of leadership.)

That message that I was on my own was kind of freeing. It allowed me to stop looking for a soft heart where none existed and instead redouble my efforts to move ahead, knowing what I needed to do.

The trauma of that lives large in my life to this day. I think that's why the quote about spiritual abuse felt so affirming and cathartic. It helped me see that when I'm triggered with a certain flavor of despair, I click immediately back into that mindset.

Last week, I tried to explain my hurt regarding the election to people who couldn't hear it. I guess I haven't learned that lesson yet. I'll just commiserate with those close to me who feel the same way I do and keep doing what I always do: taking care of my family and putting one foot in front of the other. Oh, and resisting. Because, as you now know, I do not obey well when I don't trust my leaders.