Yesterday, I got sick. Stinging sinus pain was my first clue. By midnight, I felt like a truck was parked on my chest. I'm always remembering my childhood, and this physical illness got me thinking of how my dad would alter his whole demeanor when I was sick, taking on the role of loving caregiver. He would set me up on the couch, get me a pillow, find out what I wanted to watch on TV, and then make me a nice meal. It felt so uncomfortable. Guilt washed over me in those times, like it had been unfair of me to ever despise his presence in my life. Then, my religious training kicked in, prompting me to thank God for my father, condemn myself for ever feeling anything but gratitude for him. Tears poured down my cheeks. Looking back now, the whole thing makes me sick the other way.
It's not like I've had the worst kind of suffering in life. I've taken hot showers. Most humans have never had the experience. I only have to go without a toilet when I choose to, for fun. That idea would be absurd to most of the world. I've never gone hungry for very long. The only times I've gone without food for a whole day were self-imposed for so-called spiritual purposes. My suffering doesn't stack up as extreme outside of the first world.
I suppose the worst part of my childhood was the mind fuck. Dad professed a love for me that was more dramatic than anything I've ever been offered. I grew up miserable but just knowing for sure that he was the one person I could always trust to be there for me. Sure, he would humiliate me in front of his friends, but, if someone tried to hurt me, I knew he would step in. I sucked in my fat lips and made up excuses for black eyes. Of course I wished he would stop hitting me, but, for the most part, I believed him when he explained how it was my fault. It was bad enough that my own foolish behavior was getting me beaten. The worst part was listening to how it hurt him. I was forcing him to whip and beat me by my constant betrayal of his deep love for me, a love that was almost dead because I bought the wrong thing at the store.
I don't want to say he wasn't being genuine, but he was totally fucked up. Getting free of the guilt of not behaving well enough to compensate for his issues has required separating myself from him in my own mind. I had to give up bowing to my father before I could stand up as my own man and take care of myself. Looking back, I see that playing along with him never quite worked out.
Does all of this sound a little like Christianity to you? It does to me. They say we have a Father who loves us but just can't stand the fact that we're not all about Him. So, He has to kill us. He doesn't want to though, so He made a way for us. All we have to do is admit that we have failed Him, admit that we deserve death and Hell, agree to worship Him forever, and try to live our lives exactly like He wants. If we do those things, then He will love us and make everything better someday, you know, after we die.
My dad ran this same game on me. There was always the promise of a happy life, the life I wanted, just around the corner. I'm working hard to let go. God and my dad are still sitting on my chest like a dump truck, but I'm wiggling more. Someday, I'll feel free, long before I die. Or maybe I've just been trained to create the promise of a happy life, just around the corner, for myself. Maybe the suffering I place upon myself is the worst. Black eyes and fat lips never last. Lies are forever.
Thursday, December 19, 2013
Tuesday, December 10, 2013
The 12 Steps of Christmas
Jesus, Dad, Santa, Self, Recovery
1. We admitted we were powerless over seasonal affect disorder - that our winter moods had become unmanageable.
2. Came to believe that believing in something unbelievable could restore our happiness.
3. Conscious of the lie, we turned our lives and finances over to Santa and Christmas Spirit
4. Used Santa mythology to give ourselves and each other covert attitude guilt trips...
5. There was no need to admit anything, because Santa watches us, even while we're sleeping.
OK, this is getting creepy.
After several years of toying with the idea of writing my life story, I have to admit that such introspection feels completely unmanageable to me. My memories have been untapped, running and ruining my life, shrouded in mental confusion, and hidden from view by my instinctive urges to find distracting relief from the distress of peering into their darkness. I've known I needed help, perhaps a framework or philosophy, something. I used to think that Jesus would keep me straight. In a way, he did, but facing the visions of my traumatic childhood has proven to be too much for me without a more tangible, effective helper.
Three months ago, I decided to try the 12 steps of recovery as a way of gaining that feeling of sanity, something I've never really had except in periods of complete denial. Jesus was good for that. I knew I needed something more. Will the steps work for me? I don't know. I don't really believe any power outside of myself is going to do this work on my behalf. So, in my step work, I'm mainly trying to rewrite the 12 steps in a way that makes some kind of sense to me. Here's what I've got so far:
Step #1 We admitted that our lives had become unmanageable
I had this one down already. Hiding in my closet as a toddler, listening to my dad beating my mom half to death in the next room, I was deeply aware that serenity was out of my hands. As an adult, trying to write this story, I recycle that same feeling of powerlessness. I'll write a nice blog entry, feel the burn, and then I'll pay for it in deep mental strife for days afterward. This is when I feel driven to salve my mind with romantic preoccupation and sex. Is it healthy? Am I an addict? I don't know, but I do wish my life was operating in a more manageable range. Fair enough Step #1, fair enough.
Step #2 We came to believe that a power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity
Studying this one, I realize it's a well-worn step for me. As a child, I truly was and felt as though I was at the mercy of my mother and father. Looking to adults for salvation was reasonable and natural. "Mom, do you see me over here? Make him take the knife out of my mouth. Don't let him cook me in the oven. Please stand up with me so he stops knocking the wind out of me."
"Dad, now that you've killed my mom, please have mercy on me and stop threatening to kill me. Dad, please stop spending so many hours tearing me down verbally and physically. Dad, please stop fondling me and threatening to rape me again."
And later, "Hey pretty girl, please keep making me feel lovable. Hey pretty girl, please keep responding with love when I push you away. Hey, pretty girl, why won't you just be everything I think I need and make my life all better?"
"Hey God, how come you can't help either?" Why do I think I can't be sane without outside help? And, if I accept that, doesn't it mean that I've surrendered to the belief that I'll always be crazy? No thanks. I know I came to believe, over the course of my life, that feeling sane in my own head was outside of the grasp of my own self. I'm just not so convinced anymore that anything or anyone outside of my head has any clue how to fix me, much less the ability or willingness.
Step #3 Made a conscious decision to turn our lives and wills over to God as we understood God
Holy Fuck!!! What am I supposed to do with that? I will not turn my life and will over to someone else's ideas of the ideal for human life. Don't tell me, member of some popular religion, that turning my life and will over to the God of your understanding will help me in some way. That god hasn't healed me yet. The healing I've gotten has been the healing I pursued. It's been hard work. Honestly, if continuing with the 12 steps required standard acceptance of the Christian god, I would just hang it up right now.
So, if I won't turn my life and will over to Yahweh, how will I utilize Step #3?. If we can imagine the world of the mind as a huge thought-producing machine, my conscious awareness is a light shining on part of it. Sometimes I'm aware of the bigger picture, to varying degrees. Sometimes, the light of my consciousness is focused rather sharply on the needs or worries of the moment. Sometimes, I have little awareness outside of my anger at the driver who just cut me off. With that kind of transient awareness, it's easy, in the absence of a set structure like a god, to find myself drifting through a random sea of mental and emotional priorities in life. If I can have an idea in mind of another mind, a mind that does not shift from it's highest ideals, then that mind within my mind can be my guide into Step #4. Ok, I'll do it.
Step #4 Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves
I know I'm fighting the wording of the steps all along here, but this one presents some serious problems for me. The designers of the steps want me to look at myself, take inventory, inventory of my moral self. "Moral" implies judgment. Am I to look at myself from a place of judgment? "Fearless" is there because they knew that this step would take people like me into what is normally very frightening mental territory. No one has to be told to be fearless regarding any particular pending adventure unless fear is going to be a factor.
So, first I will acknowledge that, in looking within, fear is a factor for me. How can I fearlessly search through the feelings and coping mechanisms I carry from watching motionlessly while my dad murdered his girlfriend? How can discovering why I waited 23 years to come forward not lead me into places in my heart and soul which will be frightening? I've been feeling and facing those fears for many years now. The stories connected to them are extreme, but fear of looking within is the same for all of us.
Fear of shame keeps us from looking, keeps us making up stories about who we are, keeps us acting out coping behaviors, and keeps us from facing and accepting ourselves in a way that allows us to be transformed and truly happier. Here, a friend like Jesus can be helpful, especially if the Jesus we imagine loves and accepts us along the way. I don't like the 12-step language that makes this step into an inventory of "defects." It's important to identify shame that we have, but even more important to keep from feeling extra shame about having it. This is where a non-judgmental "higher power" to keep me company and help me remember the bigger picture can be very helpful.
I'm not going to share my 4th step work here. It's for me. For now, I just wanted to share my process in struggling with the steps themselves. This blog entry is feeling convoluted and complicated to me, but, then again, that complication accurately portrays my mental experience in regards to God and Step work. When I share my thoughts on God with people, I often illicit responses obviously designed to educate me about the nature of God which people think I have missed. The responses are canned. I've heard them before, many times over the years, repeated in sermons, songs, and shared first-hand from fellow churchgoers. Be sure of this, if you learned it in church, I've already learned it, taught it, rethought it, stopped repeating it, and, in some cases, thought out a better way to express the idea. In church, they often told me "don't put God in a box." Years of Bible reading while being beaten by an adamant believer in the angry, judgmental, murderous, insecure God in its pages will apparently cause a person to think outside of the box.
I don't believe in a god or gods actually existing as beings. I believe religious concepts are the concepts of human beings. Religions reflect us more than they reflect the mythological beings represented. Take the 12-steps for instance. They work if we work them. No matter what we think of God or his/her role in our recovery, nothing happens until we do it. Why do I bother with discussion of God when I don't even believe in one? I think the construct is useful. To understand my religious approach, consider adults who promote Santa Claus mythology even though they haven't really believed in Santa since they were kids. Christmas spirit is still considered worthwhile. That's how I am about God in my step work. I've got to keep my head when I plunge into the depths of horror in my mind. I've had to reject long-held ideas about God and myself in favor of keeping what works. That's been hard, but I believe it's what's meant by Jesus' parables about the judgment.
As far as corporate application of my personal theories of God:
People who think things will work out tend to be happier.
They also ignore that most of us are suffering.
Which is horribly invalidating to those of us who suffer.
So many things aren't working out for so many people,
and it's considered healthy for individuals to imagine
that things will work out for them even while they
participate in perpetuating the system that
produces the suffering? Is it ok that children starve as long
as you get to go to heaven when you die?
No, that's not the right
approach to happiness.
Collectively, things could work out for us. That's a better
approach. Think how much happiness is multiplied in the
face of selfless kindness. Even in our flawed social systems,
people rise to the challenges and manage to pay it forward.
I want to help move us all forward with my story. I'm just seeing
that our ideas about God, money, family, civic responsibility,
and personal happiness are all standing in the way of that movement.
So understanding God and the human condition is my chosen work.
Keep reading my blog to see if my system of thought works for me.
Take what works for you.
And, if I'm ever in a position to start the revolution, think about
following fearlessly. A worldwide, collectively approached searching
and fearless moral inventory of humanity as it is could be the thing
that saves kids like me from being tragically abused in the first place.
May it be so.
© Ernest Samuel Christie III 2013
1. We admitted we were powerless over seasonal affect disorder - that our winter moods had become unmanageable.
2. Came to believe that believing in something unbelievable could restore our happiness.
3. Conscious of the lie, we turned our lives and finances over to Santa and Christmas Spirit
4. Used Santa mythology to give ourselves and each other covert attitude guilt trips...
5. There was no need to admit anything, because Santa watches us, even while we're sleeping.
OK, this is getting creepy.
After several years of toying with the idea of writing my life story, I have to admit that such introspection feels completely unmanageable to me. My memories have been untapped, running and ruining my life, shrouded in mental confusion, and hidden from view by my instinctive urges to find distracting relief from the distress of peering into their darkness. I've known I needed help, perhaps a framework or philosophy, something. I used to think that Jesus would keep me straight. In a way, he did, but facing the visions of my traumatic childhood has proven to be too much for me without a more tangible, effective helper.
Three months ago, I decided to try the 12 steps of recovery as a way of gaining that feeling of sanity, something I've never really had except in periods of complete denial. Jesus was good for that. I knew I needed something more. Will the steps work for me? I don't know. I don't really believe any power outside of myself is going to do this work on my behalf. So, in my step work, I'm mainly trying to rewrite the 12 steps in a way that makes some kind of sense to me. Here's what I've got so far:
Step #1 We admitted that our lives had become unmanageable
I had this one down already. Hiding in my closet as a toddler, listening to my dad beating my mom half to death in the next room, I was deeply aware that serenity was out of my hands. As an adult, trying to write this story, I recycle that same feeling of powerlessness. I'll write a nice blog entry, feel the burn, and then I'll pay for it in deep mental strife for days afterward. This is when I feel driven to salve my mind with romantic preoccupation and sex. Is it healthy? Am I an addict? I don't know, but I do wish my life was operating in a more manageable range. Fair enough Step #1, fair enough.
Step #2 We came to believe that a power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity
Studying this one, I realize it's a well-worn step for me. As a child, I truly was and felt as though I was at the mercy of my mother and father. Looking to adults for salvation was reasonable and natural. "Mom, do you see me over here? Make him take the knife out of my mouth. Don't let him cook me in the oven. Please stand up with me so he stops knocking the wind out of me."
"Dad, now that you've killed my mom, please have mercy on me and stop threatening to kill me. Dad, please stop spending so many hours tearing me down verbally and physically. Dad, please stop fondling me and threatening to rape me again."
And later, "Hey pretty girl, please keep making me feel lovable. Hey pretty girl, please keep responding with love when I push you away. Hey, pretty girl, why won't you just be everything I think I need and make my life all better?"
"Hey God, how come you can't help either?" Why do I think I can't be sane without outside help? And, if I accept that, doesn't it mean that I've surrendered to the belief that I'll always be crazy? No thanks. I know I came to believe, over the course of my life, that feeling sane in my own head was outside of the grasp of my own self. I'm just not so convinced anymore that anything or anyone outside of my head has any clue how to fix me, much less the ability or willingness.
Step #3 Made a conscious decision to turn our lives and wills over to God as we understood God
Holy Fuck!!! What am I supposed to do with that? I will not turn my life and will over to someone else's ideas of the ideal for human life. Don't tell me, member of some popular religion, that turning my life and will over to the God of your understanding will help me in some way. That god hasn't healed me yet. The healing I've gotten has been the healing I pursued. It's been hard work. Honestly, if continuing with the 12 steps required standard acceptance of the Christian god, I would just hang it up right now.
So, if I won't turn my life and will over to Yahweh, how will I utilize Step #3?. If we can imagine the world of the mind as a huge thought-producing machine, my conscious awareness is a light shining on part of it. Sometimes I'm aware of the bigger picture, to varying degrees. Sometimes, the light of my consciousness is focused rather sharply on the needs or worries of the moment. Sometimes, I have little awareness outside of my anger at the driver who just cut me off. With that kind of transient awareness, it's easy, in the absence of a set structure like a god, to find myself drifting through a random sea of mental and emotional priorities in life. If I can have an idea in mind of another mind, a mind that does not shift from it's highest ideals, then that mind within my mind can be my guide into Step #4. Ok, I'll do it.
Step #4 Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves
I know I'm fighting the wording of the steps all along here, but this one presents some serious problems for me. The designers of the steps want me to look at myself, take inventory, inventory of my moral self. "Moral" implies judgment. Am I to look at myself from a place of judgment? "Fearless" is there because they knew that this step would take people like me into what is normally very frightening mental territory. No one has to be told to be fearless regarding any particular pending adventure unless fear is going to be a factor.
So, first I will acknowledge that, in looking within, fear is a factor for me. How can I fearlessly search through the feelings and coping mechanisms I carry from watching motionlessly while my dad murdered his girlfriend? How can discovering why I waited 23 years to come forward not lead me into places in my heart and soul which will be frightening? I've been feeling and facing those fears for many years now. The stories connected to them are extreme, but fear of looking within is the same for all of us.
Fear of shame keeps us from looking, keeps us making up stories about who we are, keeps us acting out coping behaviors, and keeps us from facing and accepting ourselves in a way that allows us to be transformed and truly happier. Here, a friend like Jesus can be helpful, especially if the Jesus we imagine loves and accepts us along the way. I don't like the 12-step language that makes this step into an inventory of "defects." It's important to identify shame that we have, but even more important to keep from feeling extra shame about having it. This is where a non-judgmental "higher power" to keep me company and help me remember the bigger picture can be very helpful.
I'm not going to share my 4th step work here. It's for me. For now, I just wanted to share my process in struggling with the steps themselves. This blog entry is feeling convoluted and complicated to me, but, then again, that complication accurately portrays my mental experience in regards to God and Step work. When I share my thoughts on God with people, I often illicit responses obviously designed to educate me about the nature of God which people think I have missed. The responses are canned. I've heard them before, many times over the years, repeated in sermons, songs, and shared first-hand from fellow churchgoers. Be sure of this, if you learned it in church, I've already learned it, taught it, rethought it, stopped repeating it, and, in some cases, thought out a better way to express the idea. In church, they often told me "don't put God in a box." Years of Bible reading while being beaten by an adamant believer in the angry, judgmental, murderous, insecure God in its pages will apparently cause a person to think outside of the box.
I don't believe in a god or gods actually existing as beings. I believe religious concepts are the concepts of human beings. Religions reflect us more than they reflect the mythological beings represented. Take the 12-steps for instance. They work if we work them. No matter what we think of God or his/her role in our recovery, nothing happens until we do it. Why do I bother with discussion of God when I don't even believe in one? I think the construct is useful. To understand my religious approach, consider adults who promote Santa Claus mythology even though they haven't really believed in Santa since they were kids. Christmas spirit is still considered worthwhile. That's how I am about God in my step work. I've got to keep my head when I plunge into the depths of horror in my mind. I've had to reject long-held ideas about God and myself in favor of keeping what works. That's been hard, but I believe it's what's meant by Jesus' parables about the judgment.
As far as corporate application of my personal theories of God:
People who think things will work out tend to be happier.
They also ignore that most of us are suffering.
Which is horribly invalidating to those of us who suffer.
So many things aren't working out for so many people,
and it's considered healthy for individuals to imagine
that things will work out for them even while they
participate in perpetuating the system that
produces the suffering? Is it ok that children starve as long
as you get to go to heaven when you die?
No, that's not the right
approach to happiness.
Collectively, things could work out for us. That's a better
approach. Think how much happiness is multiplied in the
face of selfless kindness. Even in our flawed social systems,
people rise to the challenges and manage to pay it forward.
I want to help move us all forward with my story. I'm just seeing
that our ideas about God, money, family, civic responsibility,
and personal happiness are all standing in the way of that movement.
So understanding God and the human condition is my chosen work.
Keep reading my blog to see if my system of thought works for me.
Take what works for you.
And, if I'm ever in a position to start the revolution, think about
following fearlessly. A worldwide, collectively approached searching
and fearless moral inventory of humanity as it is could be the thing
that saves kids like me from being tragically abused in the first place.
May it be so.
© Ernest Samuel Christie III 2013
Friday, December 6, 2013
Shame-fueled Reinactment
A few years ago, my son was doing some introspection and came to me, worried about what kind of evil might be lurking within, afraid of who he might become. In an inspired parenting moment, without hesitation, I said, "Oh, Son, there's nothing inside of you that you need to fear." That declaration has come back to me over and over since then. I think my pre-emptive acceptance has been pivotal for his happiness and self-love. I know the concept has changed my whole life.
If what I was saying was true, if there really was nothing inside of me to fear, then I should be able to look within. My son had been facing shame and found courage in my words. I had uttered the words, and had to test it. If there was something too dark and shameful to be acceptable, then I needed to find out. By my own mouth, I had chosen a course, accept myself or give up on myself, once and for all.
Life is complicated as it is. My story is not easy to tell. At 16, I thought of little else besides survival. When my dad killed Sandy, I remember feeling like my life was over, like, even if I survived, I would never really be an acceptable member of the human race. How could anyone helplessly watch while a helpless woman is murdered? I heard the black and white thinking and harsh judgments of the people in this world. We humans are quick to judge and can quite easily dismiss others as evil. I assumed I would be dismissed or dispatched by the whole world if these secrets were ever exposed. Life went on. I "put it behind me." That toxic shame slowly faded into the background, or so I thought.
At 30, I moved across the country and began to have nightmares which forced me to think about Sandy for the first time in years. Maybe the distance away from my dad allowed me to start opening up to myself. Not surprisingly, this didn't happen with happy self-awareness and joyful discoveries of my survival strength. She would be sitting in the living room, staring at me, and then gone as soon as I took a second look. I would go to work and get on with my day like nothing had ever happened. Unable to consciously face these memories, I started acting out my feelings in self-destructive ways, picking up hookers and having emotional and sexual affairs with women I knew from church. If not for that whole mess, I might never have sought this kind of self-awareness. Because of my denial, the flashbacks were always a complete surprise. It's no wonder I can barely write about her today.
After Dad died in 2006, my world began to unravel. Suddenly, I was alone with my thoughts and feelings. The shame reared its ugly head. For a couple of years I went to therapy and wavered between trying to figure out how to interact with people (a seemingly brand new task) and hiding in my closet, plotting my own end. I cried, I shook, I sat with my anger, pain, and shame.
By 2009, I was well past that dark place and beginning to have hope for the future. I had spoken to several therapists and a couple of attorneys about Sandy's death and my long held secrecy. Everyone said to forget it and move on. My own war on shame finally drove me to go forward, despite any potential consequences. I'm thankful I was not tried as an accessory to murder, but I had no assurances going in. Ultimately, going forward did for me what I had expected. Breaking my silence allowed me to see myself as a member of the human race. The secret no longer held sway over my sense of self.
I'm still battling my own demons. The consensus among my mental health professionals seems to be that, given my history, I ought to be in a padded cell, wearing a strait jacket, heavily medicated, and that 24/7.
Eh, I guess there's something to that, but life is complicated. My life included some horrific stuff, but there was more to it than that. How did I survive? I just kept moving forward, day by day, yes, but how?
I'm glad I've come forward. I try to understand the questions I've received about my years of silence. At first, I was angry and defensive. Today, I can talk about any of it, I think. My childhood almost destroyed me, but, as an adult, facing myself in the mirror and doing the hard emotional work of healing have taught me that I'm stronger than I thought.
Today, I have come to accept myself more than ever before. From not being able to identify myself to seeing and feeling good about who I am, telling my story to the world has set me free. I may still be in what feels like mental prison, a haunted, surreal prison, but we the inmates of Sam's head have more light, better communication skills, and even a developing sense of purpose for a better life and world. Prisoners need hope. Shame keeps us stuck in hopelessness. If I could pass on one message in life, this would be it: There's nothing inside of us that we need to fear.
Opening up has been hard, really hard. If I could just take a few years of beatings instead, that would be easier, but the failure-tested confidence that I'm a perfectly good me has been worth the price. I've done more than find out if people would understand and accept me. I've discovered how much we're all alike, to a degree that I never imagined. I belong, here, with all of you. If everyone knew everything about you, what's happened, what you've done, and what's been done to you, wouldn't we all understand and view you with compassion and love? Of course, we can't easily understand everything, but I'll give you the benefit of the doubt. Please give it to me, and please give it to yourself. Thanks for keeping me writing.
If what I was saying was true, if there really was nothing inside of me to fear, then I should be able to look within. My son had been facing shame and found courage in my words. I had uttered the words, and had to test it. If there was something too dark and shameful to be acceptable, then I needed to find out. By my own mouth, I had chosen a course, accept myself or give up on myself, once and for all.
Life is complicated as it is. My story is not easy to tell. At 16, I thought of little else besides survival. When my dad killed Sandy, I remember feeling like my life was over, like, even if I survived, I would never really be an acceptable member of the human race. How could anyone helplessly watch while a helpless woman is murdered? I heard the black and white thinking and harsh judgments of the people in this world. We humans are quick to judge and can quite easily dismiss others as evil. I assumed I would be dismissed or dispatched by the whole world if these secrets were ever exposed. Life went on. I "put it behind me." That toxic shame slowly faded into the background, or so I thought.
At 30, I moved across the country and began to have nightmares which forced me to think about Sandy for the first time in years. Maybe the distance away from my dad allowed me to start opening up to myself. Not surprisingly, this didn't happen with happy self-awareness and joyful discoveries of my survival strength. She would be sitting in the living room, staring at me, and then gone as soon as I took a second look. I would go to work and get on with my day like nothing had ever happened. Unable to consciously face these memories, I started acting out my feelings in self-destructive ways, picking up hookers and having emotional and sexual affairs with women I knew from church. If not for that whole mess, I might never have sought this kind of self-awareness. Because of my denial, the flashbacks were always a complete surprise. It's no wonder I can barely write about her today.
After Dad died in 2006, my world began to unravel. Suddenly, I was alone with my thoughts and feelings. The shame reared its ugly head. For a couple of years I went to therapy and wavered between trying to figure out how to interact with people (a seemingly brand new task) and hiding in my closet, plotting my own end. I cried, I shook, I sat with my anger, pain, and shame.
By 2009, I was well past that dark place and beginning to have hope for the future. I had spoken to several therapists and a couple of attorneys about Sandy's death and my long held secrecy. Everyone said to forget it and move on. My own war on shame finally drove me to go forward, despite any potential consequences. I'm thankful I was not tried as an accessory to murder, but I had no assurances going in. Ultimately, going forward did for me what I had expected. Breaking my silence allowed me to see myself as a member of the human race. The secret no longer held sway over my sense of self.
I'm still battling my own demons. The consensus among my mental health professionals seems to be that, given my history, I ought to be in a padded cell, wearing a strait jacket, heavily medicated, and that 24/7.
Eh, I guess there's something to that, but life is complicated. My life included some horrific stuff, but there was more to it than that. How did I survive? I just kept moving forward, day by day, yes, but how?
I'm glad I've come forward. I try to understand the questions I've received about my years of silence. At first, I was angry and defensive. Today, I can talk about any of it, I think. My childhood almost destroyed me, but, as an adult, facing myself in the mirror and doing the hard emotional work of healing have taught me that I'm stronger than I thought.
Today, I have come to accept myself more than ever before. From not being able to identify myself to seeing and feeling good about who I am, telling my story to the world has set me free. I may still be in what feels like mental prison, a haunted, surreal prison, but we the inmates of Sam's head have more light, better communication skills, and even a developing sense of purpose for a better life and world. Prisoners need hope. Shame keeps us stuck in hopelessness. If I could pass on one message in life, this would be it: There's nothing inside of us that we need to fear.
Opening up has been hard, really hard. If I could just take a few years of beatings instead, that would be easier, but the failure-tested confidence that I'm a perfectly good me has been worth the price. I've done more than find out if people would understand and accept me. I've discovered how much we're all alike, to a degree that I never imagined. I belong, here, with all of you. If everyone knew everything about you, what's happened, what you've done, and what's been done to you, wouldn't we all understand and view you with compassion and love? Of course, we can't easily understand everything, but I'll give you the benefit of the doubt. Please give it to me, and please give it to yourself. Thanks for keeping me writing.
Tuesday, December 3, 2013
Breaking the Cycle?
My dad killed his girlfriend in front of me when I was 16. Nineteen years later, shortly after his death, it started dawning on me that he probably killed my mom too.
Boyfriends kill their girlfriends. Husbands kill their wives. It happens every day. I would insert some statistics in here, but I got stuck on this one:
I spanked my children when they were younger. I had broken the cycle of abuse with baseball bats, rope, hammers to the skull, and death threats. It's taken me years to learn what cycles I was riding, much less how to break them. Obviously, I wasn't going to kill anyone in front of them, but I was eight years into parenting before I decided it could be done without physical punishment, 15 years in before I started seriously letting go of the idea that I knew what was best for them. Parents have a hard time letting go in general. In previous generations, beating a child was the best way to keep them from foolishly straying from the Lord. Was it not that way in your family? Oh, ok, maybe it's just me.
I realized years ago, that my children will love me, no matter what. They will want my love. They want it so badly that they find ways to be loving to me, to make me feel special and seen. Now, it's widely accepted that children are out for themselves, but, even if they are loving toward me because of love they want returned I am free to love them in return. In this world, there are people who will love me. I don't have to chase them. I'm free to trust them and just focus on being loving. Don't praise me too quickly. This is just my mindset. It's an improvement. I still fail miserably as a dad.
The only reason I'm doing this, digging into the darkness of my past, is for love. Love is hard. To love at a distinguishable level requires giving more than we get. So, to love is to feel less loved in return. If you're in it for yourself, you can't love. I think we all want to be loved, and we know it when we feel it. We all know the desire to be loved, but we also all know what it feels like when someone is kind and loving toward us. To me, it feels suspect, but I'm trying to adjust.
If watching a child watching his father beat his mother is the strongest risk factor for transmitting violent behavior from one generation to the next, what is the strongest factor for transmitting love and kindness? Do we even know? Ironically, my intention with this blog post was to focus on love and a positive approach to life. It's hard for me to do that, especially in a blog devoted to the abuse I suffered as a child.
Oh, now I remember what prompted all this. People want me to tell my stories. I suppose I want to tell them too, but I don't want to simply dump my dirty laundry on the world for entertainment purposes. I want to pull some meaning out of my experience. I want to have something meaningful to offer. It's not enough for me that I don't beat my children and kill women. That I don't is certainly a breaking of the cycle, but it's not enough for me. Love that doesn't go beyond what's fair is not the kind of love I was raised to appreciate. Jesus preached love for enemies, a transformative love. My dad certainly pulled the moral landscape down a few notches with his behavior. I was there watching it, and I feel some obligation to make up for my inaction. I feel an obligation to advance love. I don't know exactly how to do it, but I'm here, trying to figure it out. Thanks for reading.
Boyfriends kill their girlfriends. Husbands kill their wives. It happens every day. I would insert some statistics in here, but I got stuck on this one:
A child's exposure to the father abusing the mother is the strongest risk factor for transmitting violent behavior from one generation to the next. -American Psychological Association, Report of the American Psychological Association Presidential Task Force on Violence and the Family, 1996
I realized years ago, that my children will love me, no matter what. They will want my love. They want it so badly that they find ways to be loving to me, to make me feel special and seen. Now, it's widely accepted that children are out for themselves, but, even if they are loving toward me because of love they want returned I am free to love them in return. In this world, there are people who will love me. I don't have to chase them. I'm free to trust them and just focus on being loving. Don't praise me too quickly. This is just my mindset. It's an improvement. I still fail miserably as a dad.
The only reason I'm doing this, digging into the darkness of my past, is for love. Love is hard. To love at a distinguishable level requires giving more than we get. So, to love is to feel less loved in return. If you're in it for yourself, you can't love. I think we all want to be loved, and we know it when we feel it. We all know the desire to be loved, but we also all know what it feels like when someone is kind and loving toward us. To me, it feels suspect, but I'm trying to adjust.
If watching a child watching his father beat his mother is the strongest risk factor for transmitting violent behavior from one generation to the next, what is the strongest factor for transmitting love and kindness? Do we even know? Ironically, my intention with this blog post was to focus on love and a positive approach to life. It's hard for me to do that, especially in a blog devoted to the abuse I suffered as a child.
Oh, now I remember what prompted all this. People want me to tell my stories. I suppose I want to tell them too, but I don't want to simply dump my dirty laundry on the world for entertainment purposes. I want to pull some meaning out of my experience. I want to have something meaningful to offer. It's not enough for me that I don't beat my children and kill women. That I don't is certainly a breaking of the cycle, but it's not enough for me. Love that doesn't go beyond what's fair is not the kind of love I was raised to appreciate. Jesus preached love for enemies, a transformative love. My dad certainly pulled the moral landscape down a few notches with his behavior. I was there watching it, and I feel some obligation to make up for my inaction. I feel an obligation to advance love. I don't know exactly how to do it, but I'm here, trying to figure it out. Thanks for reading.
Thursday, November 28, 2013
Beatings Overview
All children go through the process of individuating from their parents, more or less, and becoming their own persons in adulthood. I am no different in that regard. Admittedly, I got a little stuck along the way; there were some speed bumps and derailments along the path of my psychological development. I think it’s that way for all of us.
We become physically separate before we are physically independent. Toddlers have strong desires for autonomy. I used to set traps for my dad. I used to plot and threaten. I don’t know what he thought. I thought I was going to kill him. After he killed my mom, I stopped fighting him, and, for many other reasons as well, he and I were stuck in a long-lasting pattern of violent, one-way engagement.
At 12, I mostly shut down while he was hitting me. I would cry about it later, sometimes, if I was alone, if it hit me.
At 14, I was making peace with a world in which each day, at some point, he was going to end up punching me in the face.
By 15, I was used to being beaten regularly, just looking, each moment, for a way to avoid it.
After he killed Sandy, everything got more serious. Each angry punishment/interrogation turned to him standing over me, debating the prudence of mercifully letting me live when I carried a secret that could send him to prison. That’s right; he was being merciful. Killing me was the only path that made sense. If he had been a monster, any less loving and human, I would have burned in that ditch, right on top of her. Well, that’s how he would present the situation. See? Things got serious.
I began to study the beatings. I was waking up, at least to my physical reality. Dissociating for the relief of pain and fear was no longer my automatic response. I could feel every blow, hear every word, and just stand there, taking it. After one three-hour evening beating with a baseball bat, Dad was surprised that I could still walk. I was starting to take pride in my strength. Yeah, I knew that was a little bit sick at the time, but I didn’t feel guilty. I wasn’t the one running the show.
Still, it was miserable to live that way. I wanted a change so desperately! I wanted to take charge of my life, but I didn’t know how to do that without his permission. I didn’t know how to do anything without his permission. He had told me, although indirectly, that he wanted me to hit him back, to stand up for myself. So, I knew that was an option. I just couldn’t do it. Whenever he was hitting me, we were already too far into my failure as a human being for me to find the will to fight back. I would just stand there, feeling completely hopeless, worthless, and ashamed of the miserable excuse for a human being that I had become.
Interestingly enough, my dad had already explained this process to me. It would take me years to connect his stories with our everyday experience. Back then, I just went through the motions of school, family gatherings, and secret abuse helplessly, hopelessly, day after day, watching the years peel away with no conceivable end in sight.
Dad had a lot of stories. One of his favorites was about an unnamed hit man who didn’t have the courage to kill. This man would befriend a target and take them for a ride in his car. He would just drive, waiting for his passenger to express curiosity about their destination. When this would-be killer started to see his victim getting nervous, fueling his courage, he would pull out a gun and gesture with it, still smiling and pretending this was only a ride. Then, as fear mounted in the car, he would set the gun on the seat between them. Once both men knew that both men knew that the passenger was too frightened to reach for the gun, our killer would have the nerve to pull over and complete his task. Dad spoke of the victim’s fear and lack of action with disdain.
I knew he was disgusted with me for standing there, arms at my side, receiving his blows defenselessly. That disgust would ramp up his intensity, often spiraling a simple grocery store mistake into a near-death experience for me, full of righteous judgment and total disregard for any human value I might have held in his eyes previously. Fear and shame angered him. He would take me to that place and then take it all out on me. I would have continued to just accept my fate, but he was making me nervous. How far would he go? Would he kill me like he killed Sandy? He might, and it might be that any one of these violent interactions would be my last. I started thinking more about hitting him back. That’s what he wanted; right? I couldn’t do it unless I could stay convinced that he wanted it.
In my senior year of high school, I went through this whole cycle with him several times. He wasn't punching me in the face every day. A totally different routine had set in, periods of calm punctuated by irregular, shameful beatings, my dad saying his worst while back-handing me repeatedly, me bleeding and crying, standing still and taking it, beating myself up inside for being unable to hit him back. I was holding onto hope that I could muster my courage while I felt the cement of his judgment curing irreparably. Would I stand up and fight back in time or become the "worthless cocksucker" he insisted I had been all along?
We become physically separate before we are physically independent. Toddlers have strong desires for autonomy. I used to set traps for my dad. I used to plot and threaten. I don’t know what he thought. I thought I was going to kill him. After he killed my mom, I stopped fighting him, and, for many other reasons as well, he and I were stuck in a long-lasting pattern of violent, one-way engagement.
At 12, I mostly shut down while he was hitting me. I would cry about it later, sometimes, if I was alone, if it hit me.
At 14, I was making peace with a world in which each day, at some point, he was going to end up punching me in the face.
By 15, I was used to being beaten regularly, just looking, each moment, for a way to avoid it.
After he killed Sandy, everything got more serious. Each angry punishment/interrogation turned to him standing over me, debating the prudence of mercifully letting me live when I carried a secret that could send him to prison. That’s right; he was being merciful. Killing me was the only path that made sense. If he had been a monster, any less loving and human, I would have burned in that ditch, right on top of her. Well, that’s how he would present the situation. See? Things got serious.
I began to study the beatings. I was waking up, at least to my physical reality. Dissociating for the relief of pain and fear was no longer my automatic response. I could feel every blow, hear every word, and just stand there, taking it. After one three-hour evening beating with a baseball bat, Dad was surprised that I could still walk. I was starting to take pride in my strength. Yeah, I knew that was a little bit sick at the time, but I didn’t feel guilty. I wasn’t the one running the show.
Still, it was miserable to live that way. I wanted a change so desperately! I wanted to take charge of my life, but I didn’t know how to do that without his permission. I didn’t know how to do anything without his permission. He had told me, although indirectly, that he wanted me to hit him back, to stand up for myself. So, I knew that was an option. I just couldn’t do it. Whenever he was hitting me, we were already too far into my failure as a human being for me to find the will to fight back. I would just stand there, feeling completely hopeless, worthless, and ashamed of the miserable excuse for a human being that I had become.
Interestingly enough, my dad had already explained this process to me. It would take me years to connect his stories with our everyday experience. Back then, I just went through the motions of school, family gatherings, and secret abuse helplessly, hopelessly, day after day, watching the years peel away with no conceivable end in sight.
Dad had a lot of stories. One of his favorites was about an unnamed hit man who didn’t have the courage to kill. This man would befriend a target and take them for a ride in his car. He would just drive, waiting for his passenger to express curiosity about their destination. When this would-be killer started to see his victim getting nervous, fueling his courage, he would pull out a gun and gesture with it, still smiling and pretending this was only a ride. Then, as fear mounted in the car, he would set the gun on the seat between them. Once both men knew that both men knew that the passenger was too frightened to reach for the gun, our killer would have the nerve to pull over and complete his task. Dad spoke of the victim’s fear and lack of action with disdain.
I knew he was disgusted with me for standing there, arms at my side, receiving his blows defenselessly. That disgust would ramp up his intensity, often spiraling a simple grocery store mistake into a near-death experience for me, full of righteous judgment and total disregard for any human value I might have held in his eyes previously. Fear and shame angered him. He would take me to that place and then take it all out on me. I would have continued to just accept my fate, but he was making me nervous. How far would he go? Would he kill me like he killed Sandy? He might, and it might be that any one of these violent interactions would be my last. I started thinking more about hitting him back. That’s what he wanted; right? I couldn’t do it unless I could stay convinced that he wanted it.
In my senior year of high school, I went through this whole cycle with him several times. He wasn't punching me in the face every day. A totally different routine had set in, periods of calm punctuated by irregular, shameful beatings, my dad saying his worst while back-handing me repeatedly, me bleeding and crying, standing still and taking it, beating myself up inside for being unable to hit him back. I was holding onto hope that I could muster my courage while I felt the cement of his judgment curing irreparably. Would I stand up and fight back in time or become the "worthless cocksucker" he insisted I had been all along?
Stand for Jesus, Part 2
But then, the LORD provided for me...
A little Baptist church, two weeks before voting day, had posted on their front yard bulletin "This house is against the amendment." I saw it and planned to attend.
Just like my dad, years before, I liked to preach Jesus to the people who would listen, people in my everyday circles, people who didn't intimidate me, but, in the months leading up to voting day, I was becoming more angry and vocal. I figured if someone was going to use a passing greeting as a window for their parroted politics of hatred, that I would feel free to detain them for a speech about hypocrisy. Usually, I still strive to be the polite boy that my church had trained me to be, but, if someone was going to present to me that they loved Jesus and also felt compelled to support laws which judged others, then I was going to tell them they were out of touch with Jesus, love, people, and common sense. I was getting some strange looks, just like my dad, years before.
So, with an amendment to our state constitution in the balance, mere weeks before the vote that everyone was talking about, my friend and I joined a small Southern Baptist congregation for their morning worship service. We were greeted warmly and took our seats in an orderly fashion, just like everyone else. True to their signage out front, these nice Christian folks seemed to be on board with making sure that no two people of the same gender ever offend their god by entering into a legal contract of marriage. The senior pastor played a video about the threat posed to that holy institution of one man and one woman by anyone who might dare to live differently. Then he drove his point home with a short speech about the "homosexual agenda."
I was boiling inside, angry, antsy, ready to scream. Still I sat, perhaps like my dad, in church, years before.
My mind was racing. Should I speak? What would I say? The questions, thoughts, and feelings were flooding my brain, making it hard for me to even think which lead me to familiar feelings of worthlessness. Of course I would just sit there, timid, ashamed, quiet. Would I always feel like a sheep?
While I was wrestling with my own self-doubts and confusion, the senior pastor introduced a guest speaker who took the podium and announced the title of his sermon with a power-point slide, something about the Hebrew meaning of the phrase translated as "Thou shalt not.."
And I was mad again, over my self-consciousness, back to caring about right, wrong, and a whole world full of people who had no interest in following these people or their god, much less in having it forced upon them by the laws of North Carolina. Away from "should I speak?" I was looking for when I would speak.
And then he handed it to me.
"We can't just sit quietly. We have to have the courage to stand and speak for Jesus!"
I stood. My hands clapped loudly down on the pew back in front of me, hushing the guest speaker mid-sentence and drawing all eyes to my conspicuous non-conformity. "I'm sorry for interrupting," I began, "but I have to stand and speak for Jesus."
"Amen!" a parishioner shouted.
I had the floor.
"We've heard, this morning, some discussion of the upcoming vote to amend North Carolina's constitution to limit marriage in this state to one man and one woman. This is an important topic. Tens of thousands of real people will be directly affected, and, obviously, this issue is important to all of you. Your sign out front declares this import. I feel like the subject warrants our attention and further discussion, and I believe God is directing me to speak today."
Whispered from the other side of the room "I think he's one of them."
"I'd like to tell you a story." I continued. "There was a man who had two sons. One son believed in following the father's rules and was sorely vexed by his brother who had chosen to live his own life by his own rules. The obedient son, so sure that he knew the father's will for himself and his brother, decided that he would travel to the disobedient son's home and physically force him to obey a particular rule, a rule which the father had not bothered to enforce. Now, when the father finds out what has happened, will he be proud of the obedient son for forcing his unwilling brother? Or, will the willfully disobedient son's forced obedience be of any value to the father? Or, could it be that the father weighs the heart and desires love and mercy over self-righteousness and judgment?" That's pretty much what I said, and then I sat down.
That little church was very quiet as eyes turned from me toward the senior pastor who was making his way to the stage. He began scolding me for rudely interrupting their service, telling me that if I had had an issue, this was not the time or the place to bring it up. I would have taken it politely, but he was pointing his finger at me and lecturing way too long. So, I stood up again and began to answer him. A woman two rows in front of me raised her hand, shouting "I move that the speaker be silenced!" I continued talking but noticed that I was being surrounded by strong men in suits and ties. None of them were as big as me, and, since I've faced much more menacing foes, I simply continued to argue with the pastor, sometimes ignoring him to speak directly to the congregation.
When I moved into the center aisle and began gesturing and speaking freely, I realized that lots of people were talking, including my friend who was very busy getting in between me and the men in suits, reassuring them that I was not a threat and that physical force was not necessary. Funny. I felt more that, if anyone was in danger of receiving physical abuse, it was me.
At this point, I must have completely dissociated. I have no memory of what happened next. My friend says that I was shouting over the congregation "You're ruining people's lives!!" while the men in suits were crowding me out the door. I only remember suddenly being on the front steps of the church, looking at the senior pastor as he leered at me with what my father would have called a "shit-eating grin."
"I see you, Mother Fucker. I see you." Those were my last words to him as he closed the door in my face.
My friend and I went and had a nice lunch and lamented that we may only have cemented that congregations bigotry and blindness to others. I don't know. My dad would have been hugely impressed with me. I felt proud, but, then, the whole experience, combined with a victory at the polls for Hate, just weeks later, left me feeling like there's something really wrong with this world we've inherited and co-created, especially among the people who think they're on the so-called "right track."
May God have mercy on us all. I don't give a shit about God or church anymore, but I'm proud I stood up for Jesus, love, and mercy. What is mercy anyway? Have homosexuals committed some sin that requires anyone's forgiveness, or should rule-oriented folks just shut up, mind their own business, and spend a little quiet time in front of their mirrors?
A little Baptist church, two weeks before voting day, had posted on their front yard bulletin "This house is against the amendment." I saw it and planned to attend.
Just like my dad, years before, I liked to preach Jesus to the people who would listen, people in my everyday circles, people who didn't intimidate me, but, in the months leading up to voting day, I was becoming more angry and vocal. I figured if someone was going to use a passing greeting as a window for their parroted politics of hatred, that I would feel free to detain them for a speech about hypocrisy. Usually, I still strive to be the polite boy that my church had trained me to be, but, if someone was going to present to me that they loved Jesus and also felt compelled to support laws which judged others, then I was going to tell them they were out of touch with Jesus, love, people, and common sense. I was getting some strange looks, just like my dad, years before.
So, with an amendment to our state constitution in the balance, mere weeks before the vote that everyone was talking about, my friend and I joined a small Southern Baptist congregation for their morning worship service. We were greeted warmly and took our seats in an orderly fashion, just like everyone else. True to their signage out front, these nice Christian folks seemed to be on board with making sure that no two people of the same gender ever offend their god by entering into a legal contract of marriage. The senior pastor played a video about the threat posed to that holy institution of one man and one woman by anyone who might dare to live differently. Then he drove his point home with a short speech about the "homosexual agenda."
I was boiling inside, angry, antsy, ready to scream. Still I sat, perhaps like my dad, in church, years before.
My mind was racing. Should I speak? What would I say? The questions, thoughts, and feelings were flooding my brain, making it hard for me to even think which lead me to familiar feelings of worthlessness. Of course I would just sit there, timid, ashamed, quiet. Would I always feel like a sheep?
While I was wrestling with my own self-doubts and confusion, the senior pastor introduced a guest speaker who took the podium and announced the title of his sermon with a power-point slide, something about the Hebrew meaning of the phrase translated as "Thou shalt not.."
And I was mad again, over my self-consciousness, back to caring about right, wrong, and a whole world full of people who had no interest in following these people or their god, much less in having it forced upon them by the laws of North Carolina. Away from "should I speak?" I was looking for when I would speak.
And then he handed it to me.
"We can't just sit quietly. We have to have the courage to stand and speak for Jesus!"
I stood. My hands clapped loudly down on the pew back in front of me, hushing the guest speaker mid-sentence and drawing all eyes to my conspicuous non-conformity. "I'm sorry for interrupting," I began, "but I have to stand and speak for Jesus."
"Amen!" a parishioner shouted.
I had the floor.
"We've heard, this morning, some discussion of the upcoming vote to amend North Carolina's constitution to limit marriage in this state to one man and one woman. This is an important topic. Tens of thousands of real people will be directly affected, and, obviously, this issue is important to all of you. Your sign out front declares this import. I feel like the subject warrants our attention and further discussion, and I believe God is directing me to speak today."
Whispered from the other side of the room "I think he's one of them."
"I'd like to tell you a story." I continued. "There was a man who had two sons. One son believed in following the father's rules and was sorely vexed by his brother who had chosen to live his own life by his own rules. The obedient son, so sure that he knew the father's will for himself and his brother, decided that he would travel to the disobedient son's home and physically force him to obey a particular rule, a rule which the father had not bothered to enforce. Now, when the father finds out what has happened, will he be proud of the obedient son for forcing his unwilling brother? Or, will the willfully disobedient son's forced obedience be of any value to the father? Or, could it be that the father weighs the heart and desires love and mercy over self-righteousness and judgment?" That's pretty much what I said, and then I sat down.
That little church was very quiet as eyes turned from me toward the senior pastor who was making his way to the stage. He began scolding me for rudely interrupting their service, telling me that if I had had an issue, this was not the time or the place to bring it up. I would have taken it politely, but he was pointing his finger at me and lecturing way too long. So, I stood up again and began to answer him. A woman two rows in front of me raised her hand, shouting "I move that the speaker be silenced!" I continued talking but noticed that I was being surrounded by strong men in suits and ties. None of them were as big as me, and, since I've faced much more menacing foes, I simply continued to argue with the pastor, sometimes ignoring him to speak directly to the congregation.
When I moved into the center aisle and began gesturing and speaking freely, I realized that lots of people were talking, including my friend who was very busy getting in between me and the men in suits, reassuring them that I was not a threat and that physical force was not necessary. Funny. I felt more that, if anyone was in danger of receiving physical abuse, it was me.
At this point, I must have completely dissociated. I have no memory of what happened next. My friend says that I was shouting over the congregation "You're ruining people's lives!!" while the men in suits were crowding me out the door. I only remember suddenly being on the front steps of the church, looking at the senior pastor as he leered at me with what my father would have called a "shit-eating grin."
"I see you, Mother Fucker. I see you." Those were my last words to him as he closed the door in my face.
My friend and I went and had a nice lunch and lamented that we may only have cemented that congregations bigotry and blindness to others. I don't know. My dad would have been hugely impressed with me. I felt proud, but, then, the whole experience, combined with a victory at the polls for Hate, just weeks later, left me feeling like there's something really wrong with this world we've inherited and co-created, especially among the people who think they're on the so-called "right track."
May God have mercy on us all. I don't give a shit about God or church anymore, but I'm proud I stood up for Jesus, love, and mercy. What is mercy anyway? Have homosexuals committed some sin that requires anyone's forgiveness, or should rule-oriented folks just shut up, mind their own business, and spend a little quiet time in front of their mirrors?
Sunday, November 17, 2013
Stand for Jesus, part 1
There's something wrong with the world today
I don't know what it is
There's something wrong with our eyes
We're seeing things in a different way
and God knows it ain't His
It sure ain't no surprise. -Aerosmith
My dad, Ernie Christie Jr, loved Jesus. You know how people say they love Jesus, but then they're afraid to stand up for their faith? Yeah, my dad wasn't like that, not like other people. Ernie was quick to let his emotions out. He would stand up for his faith. He would fight for his faith. Well, he would start swinging his fists over a joke. He would kill my pets for eating his food off the counter. But, when it came to talking about Jesus, Ernie Christie relied on his words. I watched him deliver many a sermon to many a fisherman, many a homeless drunk, and many a prostitute. He didn't seem concerned with their approval or disapproval, just the message in his heart. Some of it was a little crazy, but some of it was really insightful, forging perspectives on God that neither the church nor my rabid atheism have been able to dismantle, at least for me. How's that for a teaser? Ah, but I'm digressing. I want to highlight his impulsivity relative to his internal prohibitions and his internal prohibitions relative to his social surroundings.
Ernie was pretty bold about the teachings of Jesus with people who didn't frighten him, but I remember feeling awkward for him as I watched him ingloriously suppress himself to seem "well-behaved" in church. After he got out of prison, Grandma would encourage him to dress up and go. It only happened a few times. I remember observing him in that environment. He looked stifled and neutered, afraid to misstep. I'm sure now that he was sitting in those pews, boiling inside, yearning to regain his strength, stand tall, and turn over their idols and sacraments, all of which he considered an affront to the Jesus he loved. Dad was vocal with me about his opinions after the services. "Those people wouldn't have known Jesus if they ran over him on the way to Sunday School this morning. Damn homeless bums!"
Who doesn't stifle themselves in church? The devout may become completely out of touch with the feeling, having traded their right to fight for personal authenticity in exchange for a simple, settled false confidence or, rather, a denial of their abject submission. At 12 years of age, I had happily accepted the religious role which had been proscribed for me, already beginning to shame myself for any internal discomfort. Did I feel stifled? It must have been a weakness of my flesh. Obviously, conformity to Baptist propriety was God's will for me and everyone.
One time, Jesus drove people out of the temple, and it's still remembered. Maybe that kind of rebellion is not too common. I'll go easy on my dad for being shy. I went to church every week while my dad was in prison. At the time, I didn't understand his appreciation for the angry side of my happy, smiling savior.
I felt comfortable in church during that time in my life. It was my most comfortable social circle. Everyone loved Sammy. I could be flamboyant and speak freely. Of course, I was just really good at giving the crowd what they wanted. At age 12, I wasn't thinking for myself, so speaking freely was little more than clever parroting of what I had heard before. Dad's silent discomfort in church and angry vocal apologetics on the boat docks or at the bar were confusing for me. We just didn't feel the same way about Christianity. I loved Jesus. He loved the character in the gospels. All that whipping of people and turning over of tables in the temple made me uncomfortable.
When I was eighteen, I got him to let me attend a wednesday night Bible-study group for people my age. We met in the home of a very wonderful family. They showed me lots of love. Dad seemed suspicious, but talking about girls there that I liked seemed to ease him into reluctant acceptance.
After a few years, the group moved, trading welcoming home for cold church basement, loving family for organized leadership. When the new leader asked me to consider becoming a lay ( non-paid) leader in the group, Dad broke his silence. He thought it was wrong. The true follower of Christ wouldn't accept. "The greatest among you will be the servant of all." I argued that I would be serving.
"Then why be called a leader?" he asked.
I married a girl in that group, had children, and generally gravitated toward church service and leadership. Over the years, Dad became more supportive and less judgmental about my mainstream approach to following Jesus.
I cheated on that girl, repeatedly, and ended up leaving family and church altogether.
Years later, as a pot-smoking atheist with a girlfriend 20 years my junior, I felt the call to attend a church.
North Carolina voters were being dragged to the polls over some perceived need among believers to make sure gay people couldn't marry in North Carolina. It was already illegal, but, I guess the church needed to make it extra super bad. They were talking about it like they needed to stand up for Jesus by limiting the lives of those they judged. I had been hearing the two-faced rationale for months. It's hard to fight with folks who talk about how much they don't judge gay people when justifying their support of one man one woman marriage.
But then, the LORD provided for me...
A little Baptist church, two weeks before voting day, had posted on their front yard bulletin "This house is against the amendment." I saw it and planned to attend.
To be continued....
I don't know what it is
There's something wrong with our eyes
We're seeing things in a different way
and God knows it ain't His
It sure ain't no surprise. -Aerosmith
My dad, Ernie Christie Jr, loved Jesus. You know how people say they love Jesus, but then they're afraid to stand up for their faith? Yeah, my dad wasn't like that, not like other people. Ernie was quick to let his emotions out. He would stand up for his faith. He would fight for his faith. Well, he would start swinging his fists over a joke. He would kill my pets for eating his food off the counter. But, when it came to talking about Jesus, Ernie Christie relied on his words. I watched him deliver many a sermon to many a fisherman, many a homeless drunk, and many a prostitute. He didn't seem concerned with their approval or disapproval, just the message in his heart. Some of it was a little crazy, but some of it was really insightful, forging perspectives on God that neither the church nor my rabid atheism have been able to dismantle, at least for me. How's that for a teaser? Ah, but I'm digressing. I want to highlight his impulsivity relative to his internal prohibitions and his internal prohibitions relative to his social surroundings.
Ernie was pretty bold about the teachings of Jesus with people who didn't frighten him, but I remember feeling awkward for him as I watched him ingloriously suppress himself to seem "well-behaved" in church. After he got out of prison, Grandma would encourage him to dress up and go. It only happened a few times. I remember observing him in that environment. He looked stifled and neutered, afraid to misstep. I'm sure now that he was sitting in those pews, boiling inside, yearning to regain his strength, stand tall, and turn over their idols and sacraments, all of which he considered an affront to the Jesus he loved. Dad was vocal with me about his opinions after the services. "Those people wouldn't have known Jesus if they ran over him on the way to Sunday School this morning. Damn homeless bums!"
Who doesn't stifle themselves in church? The devout may become completely out of touch with the feeling, having traded their right to fight for personal authenticity in exchange for a simple, settled false confidence or, rather, a denial of their abject submission. At 12 years of age, I had happily accepted the religious role which had been proscribed for me, already beginning to shame myself for any internal discomfort. Did I feel stifled? It must have been a weakness of my flesh. Obviously, conformity to Baptist propriety was God's will for me and everyone.
One time, Jesus drove people out of the temple, and it's still remembered. Maybe that kind of rebellion is not too common. I'll go easy on my dad for being shy. I went to church every week while my dad was in prison. At the time, I didn't understand his appreciation for the angry side of my happy, smiling savior.
I felt comfortable in church during that time in my life. It was my most comfortable social circle. Everyone loved Sammy. I could be flamboyant and speak freely. Of course, I was just really good at giving the crowd what they wanted. At age 12, I wasn't thinking for myself, so speaking freely was little more than clever parroting of what I had heard before. Dad's silent discomfort in church and angry vocal apologetics on the boat docks or at the bar were confusing for me. We just didn't feel the same way about Christianity. I loved Jesus. He loved the character in the gospels. All that whipping of people and turning over of tables in the temple made me uncomfortable.
When I was eighteen, I got him to let me attend a wednesday night Bible-study group for people my age. We met in the home of a very wonderful family. They showed me lots of love. Dad seemed suspicious, but talking about girls there that I liked seemed to ease him into reluctant acceptance.
After a few years, the group moved, trading welcoming home for cold church basement, loving family for organized leadership. When the new leader asked me to consider becoming a lay ( non-paid) leader in the group, Dad broke his silence. He thought it was wrong. The true follower of Christ wouldn't accept. "The greatest among you will be the servant of all." I argued that I would be serving.
"Then why be called a leader?" he asked.
I married a girl in that group, had children, and generally gravitated toward church service and leadership. Over the years, Dad became more supportive and less judgmental about my mainstream approach to following Jesus.
I cheated on that girl, repeatedly, and ended up leaving family and church altogether.
Years later, as a pot-smoking atheist with a girlfriend 20 years my junior, I felt the call to attend a church.
North Carolina voters were being dragged to the polls over some perceived need among believers to make sure gay people couldn't marry in North Carolina. It was already illegal, but, I guess the church needed to make it extra super bad. They were talking about it like they needed to stand up for Jesus by limiting the lives of those they judged. I had been hearing the two-faced rationale for months. It's hard to fight with folks who talk about how much they don't judge gay people when justifying their support of one man one woman marriage.
But then, the LORD provided for me...
A little Baptist church, two weeks before voting day, had posted on their front yard bulletin "This house is against the amendment." I saw it and planned to attend.
To be continued....
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