Public Service Announcement

A reader kindly sent me the link below.  If you think you, or someone you love, might be involved in a cult, this website will break it down for you.  It lists, in plain English and straightforward detail, the warning signs in both leadership and followers.  As an added bonus, there is also a list of healthy leadership indicators.

Warning Signs

If I encounter any good advice for extricating a loved one, I will pass it on.  If you need extricating, there is help available.  Unfortunately, you will need to be prepared for the abuse and ostracism that will come.  Please feel free to contact me if you need resources or click on Resources in the menu.

Advertisements

Faith Healing, Chickenshit and Bears

Well, this is weird.  It seems I have created a blog for my own personal use that I now handle with care.  In the beginning, this was a place to write my stories and get out my rants; my assumption was no one would ever read them, so I did not bother to filter.  I was wrong, so now I get nervous.  A profanity-laced version of this post was published on a secret site, so as not to offend, like the chickenshit that I am.

Some readers here, perhaps most, are showing up for the gossip factor.  Even Christians skip to the sex scenes.  Some understand the oppression of growing up fundie and appreciate the “me, too” feeling. Some are closeted unbelievers and are struggling with the reality that in order to be their own true fully actualized selves they have to come out to their families.  This is terrifying, because, as all of us who have been through it know, you risk losing everything: your family, your community and social life, your identity.  Your people will likely turn on you in a multitude of ways (disappointment, anger, fear for your soul, pray for, pity or condemn you) for your self-discovery.  Rarely are they accepting or curious about your evolution.  Rarely are there no emotional repercussions.  All of us who have walked away know this.  We have all experienced it in one form or another, the condescension and rejection.  There is a network of ex-Christians who have escaped fundamentalism and survived or are trying to escape and hoping to survive.  Some keep their non-beliefs secret from their families to avoid dealing with the drama. Many suffer from the aftermath of cognitive dissonance, PTSD and suicidal thoughts; leftover irrational fears that won’t quiet.   The beleaguered mental health community is not up to speed on the effects of fundamentalism.   My voice is one of many.  I thought I could walk away and pretend none of it ever happened, but that’s not how life works.  Here I am, decades later, finally speaking up.  I can’t say it isn’t still frightening, the risk of offending.

A recent Facebook post pushed me over the edge, as will happen.  A sad, sick woman with a debilitating disease wrote to an evangelical TV show asking why her prayers for healing had not been answered.  The response was a clip of Pat Robertson blaming demons or some such bullshit.  (Nut Job Here)  It really flipped my switch, not just because Pat Robertson is a douchebag, but because there was a sick, vulnerable, desperate person in need of help and comfort who was emotionally manipulated in a deeply sadistic way.   Not only was she dealing with the reality of her illness, she was also wounded, confused and fearful that the god she loved and depended on was ignoring her pleas.   It was a double whammy of pain.

Here’s the thing, I’ve got nothing against prayer.  As a matter of fact, sometimes that’s all you can do. When a worry is too big to bear, you have to let it go or be consumed. When life takes a turn, thoughtful folks say “I’m praying for you” or “thoughts and prayers” and post sweet emojis, they are saying they care and hope things get better. It’s nice. This isn’t about that. What follows is a request directed to those who are strident believers in faith healing; an appeal for consideration.  Please hear me out.

When a person with an incurable disease is told their condition can be whisked away by a prayer, it disregards their daily reality.  Every day contains struggles unknown to the rest of us, both physical and emotional.

To profess to have access to a magical cure insults the sick in a way that faith healing believers do not seem to understand.  The underlying emotion might be love for the afflicted and a desire for their wellness, but disregarding the daily reality of living with illness, the limitations of medical science and the personal beliefs of others comes across as an ego-driven, manipulative power trip.  Such disregard is rude at best, but also cruel and misinformed and can be emotionally damaging to those not good at critical thinking.

This might seem to be an overreaction to anyone who hasn’t been steamrolled by religiosity, but I have a sick kid who experiences this.  She, being a better person than me and not having experienced the steamroller, rolls her eyes and takes the good intentions. Or yells a little bit and lets it go.  Not me.

I see, at least a little bit, what she goes through; her fears and symptoms and side effects and endless appointments and medications.  The disappointment and discouragement when yet another treatment fails.  I see her absolute determination to stay as healthy and fit and positive as she possibly can despite her fatigue.  I see her siblings’ worry and fear and unwavering, astounding love.  If there is such a thing as a holy spirit, it lives in their support of each other.  I know what I go through, not just because I am heartbroken for her and would take the disease myself if it would save her from it, but working multiple jobs to pay the bills, staying in a job I couldn’t leave even if I wanted to for the medical benefits and watching my daughter ask strangers on the internet for money because I have no way of paying the deductible, despite the long hours.  I also see the resources and attention that go to this one kid, when I have others who need me, as well.  The endless fatigue and stress on us all.  If there was a god that could prevent this or take it away, and it doesn’t automatically do so, then it is evil.

I do not believe there is a being with the power to allow or disallow sickness; to cure or not cure based on variable criteria.  I understand that others do.

My problem lies with the manipulation of false hope. On the receiving end, it seems arrogant and selfish to tell a sick person that if they say the right words, they MIGHT be healed.  It feels like a head trip, a game.  Also ignorant.  If there were a kind and loving god with these capabilities, there would be no sickness.  The fact of sickness remains; therefore god is either not loving or kind, perhaps does not have those powers or simply does not exist. I assume believers have another explanation, but nothing else makes sense to me.

I prefer to rest my hopes in science; like that crazy kid from up the street who grew up to be a medical research scientist, spending his days conducting meticulous experiments in order to find another treatment or even a cure.  Do I believe my daughter’s life is worth more than those of the countless rodents under his knife? Yes.  Yes, I do.  The mice might disagree.

When my daughter was diagnosed, an acquaintance remarked that perhaps god allowed it to happen in order to get my attention.  I felt it was a remarkably unkind thing to say.  Were it true, then a nasty manipulation from a petty creature with too much power.   Since I don’t believe it to be true, I’ll go with the former, which brings me to my point. Fervid beliefs allow outrageously offensive things to be said under the guise of caring.  If I had indisputable proof that a god had made my daughter sick in order to turn me into a follower, then I would kill that creature, if possible. It most certainly would not be the recipient of my devotion but of the wrath of Mama Bear, complete with skin-ripping claws, saliva dripped fangs and a bladder evacuating roar.

My quest here is to ask those of you who read this blog and are believers in faith healing to consider another perspective. Consider that your beliefs are not factual.  You are absolutely entitled to them. No one can stop you from sharing them, either, but please consider how it feels to be on the receiving end. The idea that a person or their family member is somehow responsible for, or can effect their illness, either by disbelief or lack of proper prayer or by any other measure, is indefensible.  In response to a much more vitriolic version of this post, I heard stories from others:  someone who, when their own healing didn’t come, was told they were not right with God (they’re still sick because they’re SICK, goddammit); an elderly parent on their death bed was told to pray for healing (they died clinging to misplaced hope instead of spending their final moments in peace); another was told chronic illness plagued them because they had changed their address and cut loose toxic friends.  Another, when offered prayer for sickness, requested family members donate to stem cell research, instead and got blank looks all around.   For a person struggling with incurable illness and pain or facing death to be told they need to fix it themselves is cruel. Those words coming from a loved one twist the knife.

I realize there is likely nothing I can say, no matter how careful or loving or angry or direct or clear, to throw a faith-healing believer off the scent or knock them off their high horse.  Zealotry does that to people, however, if you are interested in not alienating loved ones who do not share your beliefs, please consider the following suggestions:

Recognize the difference between FACT and BELIEF.  Words have meanings and these things are not the same.    Fact is truth.  Facts are true whether you believe them or not. Beliefs are yours, they belong to you.  Facts belong to us all. We all have “personal truths,” based on our desires, perspectives, and experiences.  These are something less than factual and should be wielded with great care and understanding that what is true for you may not be true for others.

 

 

Fat White Royal Wally

I don’t know about you, but I didn’t sleep much last night.  More dead black men killed by police officers.  Children traumatized for life.   Five dead police officers.  Our beloved America feels like a dark, somber, hopeless place.  Now that these killings are on social media, no one can deny the problem.  Systemic racism is not new.  Overuse of deadly force against black men is not new.  The killing of police officers is not new, either.  Now we watch it happen.

While I do not begrudge anyone their personal faith, believe it or not, praying for peace is not enough.  Thoughts and prayers are not enough; not while people bleed to death on sidewalks.  Praying for peace serves one purpose:  to make yourself feel better and there is nothing wrong with that.  We would probably all like to feel better right now.  Send thoughts and prayers; by all means, do that.  And then get off your fat, white, royal wally and do something about it, because we have no right to relax.  I am speaking to myself here as much as anyone.  I have not lifted a finger to involve myself in this struggle beyond sharing stuff I didn’t write on Facebook, aka lip service.  I mean, I hardly ever even see black people in my white corner of town.  I see cops; they park outside the coffee shop in the park where I run and I feel safe and protected in case a seagull tries to snatch my hat.  Let’s be clear:  racism is a WHITE problem and will not change until white people like myself give enough of a crap to put down our phones and get to work in our communities.  It means getting uncomfortable.  It means getting political.  It means doing something.

As Trevor Noah so succinctly put it, we can, indeed we MUST, be both pro-law enforcement AND pro-black people.    It is not the job of black people to stop racism.  It is the job of white people.  In the same way that rape culture will never disappear without the direct involvement of men, racism will never be squelched without the direct involvement of white people.  It is not the job of the black community to tell us how, either, yet someone has graciously done so.   So what’s a sheltered fat-assed white woman to do?

What You Can Do Right Now About Police Brutality

15 Things Your City Can Do Right Now to End Police Brutality

I am still working my way through these.  Let’s get to work because I read somewhere that faith without works is dead.

Bob has no food.

Ode to Broken Commitments

I came across this blog post on good ol’ Facebook and it stopped me in my tracks.  So many of my own experiences and those I grew up around are piercingly described here, as is the truth their effect on young lives.  Please take a few minutes to follow the link below and read.

http://stuffapostolicslike.blogspot.com/2015/08/285-nayc2015-ode-to-broken-commitments.html

Marriage Equality

While most folks are breathing a sigh of relief at the better-late-than-never decision of SCOTUS regarding marriage equality, the reaction of some reminds me like a punch in the gut of what it really means to be fundamentalist christian. I am reminded why I fled so many years ago, to escape the suffocating judgement and infuriating self-righteousness.

It is impossible for me to comprehend the mental gymnastics required to put oneself in a positon of authority over other humans simply because one has swallowed a “belief” about who they are. There is a lot of talk about god’s wrath and judgement day, akin to a mother telling a misbehaving child “just wait until your father gets home.” Covert fundamentalists aren’t much better, with their judgement–lite attitude of love the sinner, hate the sin. It is still a position of false superiority; willful ignorance of what it means to be gay. If you are not gay, you do not understand and have no right to impose your conjured criteria on anyone. When belief and dogma come before the rights and well-being of actual people, there is no love involved. Judgement and love, like oil and water, cannot exist in the same space. Remember the story of Ruby Bridges, the little girl that federal marshals escorted into her newly integrated elementary school in New Orleans? The furious, slathering white horde screamed at her as she walked their gauntlet. Fundamentalists are the new face of that hateful crowd. They are threatened and angry and they have lost this fight just like the racists lost that one. There is no judgement day coming for gay people. It already came and they are free.

Close Call

Another new city, another new state, the third one in high school alone.  My sister had tickets to Hawaii and was taking my mother along for a vacation.  Preacher Dad took them to the airport in San Francisco, a couple of hours away.  He wouldn’t let me come along and then stayed overnight, doing whatever it was closeted gay men did in the 1980s.  That is how I found myself home alone on my 18th birthday, six weeks into a new place, knowing no one.  I had a car, a bright orange Pinto wagon that ran most of the time, and I remembered the way to the Casa Maria restaurant and bar. I was damned if I was going to sit in that house by myself, staring at the walls. Also I hadn’t had sex in three years.  I drove to the restaurant and walked in.  The bartender saw me, but before he could ask for ID, the only guy sitting at the bar said, “Come here.”  The bartender wouldn’t serve me.  We walked out together moments later, tried another bar, but I got carded again, so we cut to the chase.  We climbed in the back of the Pinto wagon, and he fucked me doggy style right there in the parking lot.  Afterwards, as I pulled myself together, he peed on the ground.  I watched the steam of urine flow underneath my shoe, a beige net peep-toe flat with a bow on the toe.  Terribly ugly.  He hopped into his sports car and drove off with Prince’s “1999” blaring through the window.  I went home to stare at the walls; the whole thing didn’t even take an hour, but I was pregnant anyway.

Back in those days, pregnancy tests were only available at doctor’s offices or clinics, nothing of the kind was sold over the counter.  The yellow pages and accompanying maps were a mystery to me.  I had no idea how to get to the free clinics in downtown Sacramento.  There was an ad for a free pregnancy test at a church nearby, so I made an appointment for 1:00 in the afternoon.  Told my mother I wasn’t feeling well, stayed home from school.  Feeling remarkably better at 12:45 as planned, I headed out to the “library.”  As I raised the garage door, I heard a voice behind me.  Turning, I saw a heavily made-up Asian woman standing on the sidewalk.  She said, “You know what means the word slut?”

“No” I responded, got in and shut the door as fast as I could; pulled the car out. She was gone.  Not on the sidewalk, not in a neighboring yard.  Vanished.  Hallucination?  Maybe.

I found the church, handed over my pee cup and was told that in exchange for the information I sought, I was required to watch an ant-abortion film.  When it started, I realized I had seen it before.  Off the hook!  My test results were negative, however it was too soon to really know for sure, she said.  I could still be pregnant and I knew it was true.  Knew that I was.

Days later, leaning against the church’s bathroom cubicle wall, twisting cramps contorting my body, I slid down the cold metal to a squat.   After catching my breath, I drove home and went to bed only to wake hours later with violent abdominal cramps.  PD was out of town. Mom called him, wondering what to do and PD instructed her to take me to the emergency room.  No questions, no exams, no x-rays later, I was sent home with possible pneumonia.

A day or so later, the cramps began again with terrifying force.  I called PD at work, “Come get me.” And he did.  We went to the nearest walk-in clinic.  There were questions this time.  The doctor said to go to the emergency room right now.  We did, I in my enormous lime green sweats that I wore to bed.  I knew this had something to do with being pregnant, but had no idea what.  While waiting for a turn in the ER changing room, Dad asked if this was the first time I had had sex.  I told him about my first boyfriend.  He didn’t say anything.

In the changing room, my head started to spin and I had to sit down, unable to undress.  The ultrasound technician came in to see if I was ready, but I could no longer stand.  She helped me onto the ultrasound table; turned the machine on.  Instantly she was on the phone, urgency in her voice; words I could not decipher.

Wheeling down the hall, operating room, bright lights, lime green sweats shredded with scissors, masked faces, count backwards.

Recovery room.  Slide from the gurney to the bed.  Really?  So far away.

Someone explained later that I had an ectopic pregnancy and my fallopian tube had ruptured.  I was lucky to be alive.  The ultrasound technician came to visit, stood at the foot of my bed, still pale and shaken, surprised I had survived.  I remember the metal staples across my lower abdomen, a sponge bath, snarky birth control comment from the nurse.  PD stopped by to read bible verses.  My sister came to see me, but not Mom.  No conversation, just a big fat Holy Shit atmosphere.  Silence.  I found out years later that PD did not tell my mother why I was hospitalized; would not allow her to see me.  He told her she didn’t need to know and forbid her to talk to me about it. I certainly wasn’t going to bring it up; I knew how ashamed they were of me.  And how angry.

Six weeks home from senior year, no one noticed when I went back. I had been a new face, anyway.

Nothing was ever said to me about what happened, except when the insurance bill came.  I needed to make monthly payments to dad for the $3000.00 deductible.  They barely got the new health insurance paperwork filed in time.  It was a close call.

Later, I asked PD why he didn’t sue the first hospital for negligence.  He said he would have if something had happened.

Silence and the Stage

Preacher Dad decided he needed to be around more.  My mom had been a good mother in our early childhood but it was time for him to take over.  Her usefulness as a parent had been served and she could step aside, he told her.  He took a job as the vice-president of Jackson College of Ministries in Jackson, MS.  This small church college was owned and operated by the local UPC pastor, Brother Thomas Craft.  If you have ever seen the movie The Apostle with Robert Duval, that’s the man.  If Mr. Duval did not study Brother Craft with a microscope in preparation for that movie, I will eat my hat and yours.

We arrived in the Deep South on a pedestal.  Big announcements were made, public introductions, etc.; PD went to work and I went to fourth grade.  Socializing at school was not allowed.  All other kids were sinners from sinner families and had to be kept at arms’ length.  I was, however, allowed to witness to them or invite them to church so that they, too, could be saved.  Knee length dresses with sleeves were required at all times; my uncut hair hung to my knees.   Television and movies were strictly forbidden.  There was no secular information of any kind in our home.  I lived in Jackson, MS in the mid-1970s and knew nothing of the civil rights movement or of Martin Luther King Jr.  A classmate made a diorama of the solar system for their science fair project; I didn’t know what it was.  Any acknowledgement offered to me at school was refused on my behalf.  When my teacher chose me to be hall monitor, an honor given to responsible kids, my mother wrote a note refusing because it would make me too bossy.  My personality just wasn’t good enough.  To be fair, mom probably did me a favor.  When the teacher told the girls in class (me) to leave our little dresses at home and wear blue jeans the next day for field day, mom wrote another letter explaining that because of religious beliefs that wasn’t gonna happen.  The music teacher asked who had seen Star Wars and everyone raise their hands.  Nope, no idea.  I had seen stars outside at night… but that wasn’t what she meant… I kept my nose in a book as much as possible.

Social ostracism deepened as my parents’ need for control grew. They were strict even by churchy standards.  Free time before and after services was to be spent on my knees in the prayer room.  Other church girls had sleepovers.  I wasn’t old enough.  Sunday afternoon play-dates between church services?  Sometimes. The only place I had any freedom was the college campus, so I hung out with the college kids.  I learned titillating things, heard scandalous gossip and wore padded bras and high heels. Made out with 18 year old boys.   It was pretty fun.  At least there people would talk to me and I learned to kiss. Well.

Dad’s explosive temper grew; triggered by any little thing.  It was always there like a scary movie soundtrack, setting the scene in the background.  I remember him yanking my sister off the couch onto her back because he didn’t like her tone of voice.  And the shocking smack of his hand on my face, again for tone of voice.  I just couldn’t see it coming because I never stepped out of line on purpose.  He had a low Slytherin-like way of reaming your ass in a pants-wetting hiss.  This was back in the days of 45 records.  My sisters had Andy Gibb, Rita Coolidge, Climax, Debbie Boone, John Denver. (Don’t you just remember every word to every song?  They’re embedded.)  So on a rare outing to the local mall I purchased, for $1, a 45 of the song A Little Bit of Soap, by Nigel Olsson.  Dad found it and made me play it in front of the entire family, then proceeded to give me a humiliating lecture on the evils of secular music and my personal shortcomings for listening to such unholy crap.  When I found the courage to speak up, I pointed out that my sisters had records, too (yes, I sold them out; yes, they were mad). Any perceived rebellion (a breath that sounded like a sigh), sitting when we were told to stand (the man of god told you to stand up), suspicion of promiscuity (being out of sight for a moment), asking a question that put him on the spot (can I go over to so-and-so’s house?), cheeks flushed with humiliation (scrub check for makeup) resulted in his seething rage.  Endless lectures on my shortcomings, which I received silently, constant fear of dad’s wrath, disdain and dismissal of my needs and feelings, evolved into my almost complete withdrawal.  To be seen and not heard, while never actually put in those terms, was the rule.   This did not go well later on.

Scrutiny was the name of the game at church also, and invisibility at school; hours of primping before Sunday night service and oddball denim skirt-centered frump on the bus left me swinging between two worlds, silence and the stage.  It is impossible to underestimate the warped nature of my development during those years.  Appearances were paramount; skirt length measured by fractions, hair length was glorified and uneven, uncut split ends were mandatory.  Any female whose hair had an even bottom edge had clearly sinned with scissors.  (A few years later, I clipped some long bangs around my face in a 15 year old bout of fuck you and was told that I had ruined my dad’s career.  The sick thing is, it really was a nail in the coffin.  Dad was an asshole but he wasn’t making it up.) Teenage girls rubbed Vaseline onto eyelashes and eyelids in lieu of mascara and eye-shadow.  Clear lip gloss was allowed, but not clear nail polish and oddly placed Vaseline was pushing it.  The youth pastor’s wife spoke against the use of Vaseline during a girls’ only service.  I asked why it was okay to put shiny stuff on your lips but not on your eyelids. She openly mocked me, but didn’t answer.  I also asked why we were not allowed to go to baseball games. (A hot new guy came to church and rumor had it he played; thus my interest.  I hadn’t heard about Title 9.) Sister Youth Pastor told me not ask dumb questions and never answered.  Maybe she didn’t know, but I never found out.  Brother Youth Pastor wouldn’t let me get off of the choir bus with everyone else because he could see my bra strap through the cap sleeve of my shirt.  He cornered me, placing full blame for my promiscuous clothing choice squarely on my inadequately covered shoulders.  I was 14.

Many years later, after Dad died, I had a series of nightmares about him that left me terrified.  I would wake up shaking, my heart pounding and sick.  I do not remember the details of those dreams.  Then one night, I stood up to him.  I faced him and, with voice quivering and knees buckling, told him what I really thought of him, how I really felt.  I never dreamed about him again.