Free thinking, Uncategorized

Terrified to have faith and terrified not to

When I was little I used to love to tell exaggerated stories. I hated to be put on the spot with a question and would be inventible I’d fib. It was a second nature. I would start with something simple like a boy kissed a girl and then next you know Jack and Jill did it greek on top of the hill and I didn’t even know what that was.

14648474-jack-and-jill-went-up-the-hill-to-fetch-a-pail-of-water-digital-render-of-child-s-nursery-rhyme

Maybe this habit formed out of boredom. I didn’t attend school or daycare. Had no cousins or family outings. There was no television or radio. Once I could read my escape was found. I could go anywhere a nonfiction book could take me. I adored books and still do. I used to fill my suitcase with more books than clothes.

book girl grass hat
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

When it’s up to the book or storytelling for entertainment you learn to elaborate. Especially once you learn how to get a reaction! We weren’t supposed to be joking and silly. Being solemn is deemed the Christian way. As a child though that’s what comes naturally. Being silly. Having fun. Laughing goofing around, being silly. We just had to do it in secret so as not to get into trouble. Don’t get me wrong, we had swings, toys, paints, and colors. No board games, sports, or other competitive or frivolous things but we did have fun. However reading was my favorite as I didn’t need a friend to escape and have a great adventure.

48550355-happy-child-little-girl-with-glasses-reading-a-books

The trouble with the nonfiction Christian books I recall having access to is that they were filled with torture, end of times before Christ second coming. Horrible pain and suffering before a life of bliss in heaven could happen. Needless to say, I was terrified into religious belief. I also learned that your closest friends and family are the ones to watch for. They will turn you in to be tortured to death to save themselves. Burning at the stake, stretched on the rack, drowned to death. So many ways the wrong religious believers were tortured and killed. Books like The Hiding Place by Corrie ten Book, Pilgrims Progress, Paula the Waldensian , novelized history of the churches persecution to bring all to the accepted faith. Terrifying stuff let me tell you. Those were some of the books I  read as a child growing up. One book I never forgot was They’re All Dead Aren’t They by Joy Swift. I read that after the loss of my father and it wrenched my pain beyond what it was to excruciating levels. I could feel what she felt on top of what I felt. The pain twisted inside sucking out all air.

500_F_213393914_JTExLacDyTCUy3TXWehDyqUu8itmvIi5

Thankfully I also had Laura Ingalls Wilder in my life and fell in love with her series. I was ten when I got my first Little House on the Praire – to give you an idea how old I was reading some of the other books.

Probably not the best way to spend your formative years. Leaves a lot of distrust in general. Needless to say, it was terryifying to have faith and terryifying not to have faith. You were damned either way.

500_F_91510527_NBhMeWl95ysgmTcU0jfAeh1v38kewvC9

childhood, Uncategorized

How could she 

So here’s the question of my mid-life emotional crisis. HOW COULD SHE???

I look at my children who are now teenagers. Gangly, pimply, know everything and nothing. Pushing me away and then needing me. Hugging me then turning away from too much contact with “mom”. How they need me and manage to admit it once in a while. The fragile grip they have on adulthood. The guidance needed to help them become confident individuals that are happy and give back to society.

So how could she let me go at 13? How could she deny me at 14 to return? I sat waiting, praying, mentally in anguish begging ‘please let them say yes’. I wanted to come home.  So I sat waiting for the staff meeting to end. Waiting to find out what their vote would be. Would I be allowed to live at home again with my mother or would I be sent away?

What I didn’t know at 13 was that if you left you couldn’t just come back even if your parents were there. I left because I was angry at the lack of understanding over my grief. I left because I was overwhelmed with loss and fear. I left because I never knew if mom would do as she said. Would I come home to an empty house? I never knew if she would be locked in the house in the bedroom in the closet with daddy’s bloody clothes. Or if she would be gone with the little ones. The rifles and ammunition gone as well. Maybe it would be their bloody clothes I would have to add to dads. She kept saying it would be easier to do that. The fear was staggering at that age. She had already proved to me once that she would take the younger ones and abandon me.

street_art_graffiti_new_york_art_wall_spray_emotion_color-687537.jpg!d

So I left. I said goodbye, got on my bicycle and peddled away. Six months later I wanted to return. I missed my siblings and mother. Mother seemed to be doing better now. It was then that I learned you can’t just move back with mom. That the commune has to vote and decide if I should be allowed home. Who fucking knew that at 13? I should have known. Even though no other child had left like I did I should have known. No other child dare ask the questions that I did. Dared to stand up when I thought things didn’t make sense or seemed odd. I didn’t realize what I pain in the ass I was to those idealists.

So some select commune leaders held a meeting to decide my fate. I sat on pins and needles. My stomach in my throat. If I chewed my nails they would have been bloody stubs that night. The unanimous decision was NO.

I was shocked. I had had a friend on my side in that meeting. I had thought she would sway their hearts and minds. I was born and raised in this lifestyle. They made me! My dad had devoted his life to this lifestyle. He had helped build the world they wanted to hide in. Yet they said NO. I was even more shocked that mom accepted their decision. What kind of mother is that? This is Christianity at it’s finest moments. The golden jewel for their crowns.

I would like to think those adults as they grew old regretted turning me away. Realize how cruel to deny a child her mother. Send her to the streets. They made me for fuck’s sake. I was born into that. It wasn’t my fault my father taught me to not be a sheep. To think for myself, to ask questions, be inquisitive. He taught me to be an individual not afraid to stand on my own. To question and learn, to try and understand.

stock-photo-thinking-women-with-question-mark-on-white-background-121961872

I know deep down those people prayed for me. Felt they did the right thing. Maybe they never gave that decision another thought. Over the years they grasped on all the fabricated juicy gossip they could. Adding to it and spreading it further. Trying to condone to themselves what they had done. I hope there is a heaven.  And I hope to hell that at those pearly gates they are reminded of the young me. The child that needed love and understanding, not the boot.

pexels-photo-1223356.jpeg

childhood, Uncategorized

So many contradictions​

When I was little I was shy and afraid. I didn’t want to draw attention to myself or be noticed as different.

When I was little I felt no fear, I could climb the highest tree, ride the fastest sled. I was invincible.

When I was little I did not know about perfection or imperfection. We were all beautiful on the inside. If not I could feel something bad when close and didn’t like you.

pexels-photo-287240

I had an idyllic childhood. Free-spirited, running wild, loved by my community family.

I had a traumatizing childhood. So many different people came and went. Some good some so very not.

I grew up in a huge family. Encircled by love, prayer, and family.

I have no family. I am an orphan. Wiped from the church records, forgotten like a mistake they don’t want to be reminded of.

As a little girl, I loved nature and would play to my heart content in the woods.

IMG_7680

As a broken-hearted girl, I wept atop a tree terrified to come down and walk the miles home thru the woods.

Loved beyond bounds, tossed away with the trash. Taught so much, yet so little. Prepared for the time of the end. Unprepared for life before the end.

These memories confuse me, amuse me, hurt me, and hug me. Maybe a thread of words will appear and find a flow.IMG_0855

 

childhood, Uncategorized

Walking in the dark

After working the late shift the other night I climbed into bed with my 16-year-old daughter to visit and hear about her day. She had to take the late bus home that day which was a first. I asked if it was dark walking home from the bus stop. ‘Yes it was scary,’ ‘did you call your brother?’ I asked.  ‘No I used the light from my phone and walked fast hoping nothing would jump out at me,’ was her response.

wood-nature-dark-forest

Her walk in the dark reminded me of the first place I lived after getting on my bicycle and riding away from the ‘farm’ at 13. That is another story for another time.  At any rate, I ended up in the same house I had lived in as a child, even had my old room back. Like that didn’t depress the shit out of me. The community school only went to grade eight so I worked at the bakery from 4 am till 1 pm Monday to Friday. The house I lived in was over a mile up a mountain. I watched the telephone poles be installed. There was no pavement, no street lights. Moonlight was my only guide if I was lucky. I would walk down the mountain using the path as a short cut. It was pitch dark usually. Occasionally the moon came out from behind the clouds illuminating the pathway. I was terrified of mountain lions, bears, and god knows what else. I have no idea how I managed to not only wake at that ungodly hour but to force myself into the cold darkness down that mountain.

pexels-photo-287240

 

One day at church the elementary school teacher was speaking about things that made her day and my morning walk was one of them. She loved to wake up hearing me sing as I skipped along the path to work. Brightened her day waking to my cheerful song. Little did she know I was singing to keep the paralyzing fear from overcoming me. I had no choice but to get to work walking that path in the dark. Fear wasn’t an option.

Funny it hits me now that in all the things I have done in life:  fear or failure was never an option.

childhood, Uncategorized

Fear or was it

I know I have been writing about my single digit years but last night I remembered something and thought to share. My teen daughter is totally loving scary movies and Insidious 4  came out recently. She just had to see it with her friend, another avid fan. As I was driving them home from the movie they talked how they wouldn’t be able to sleep a wink. That they would need large cups of coffee to start the day at school. It made me smile and also  reminded me of when I was so terrified I couldn’t even close my eyes.

I was thirteen and had just left the community. I was done with the overbearing control that was welded with the expectation that no questions would be asked. I was currently sleeping on the floor in the guest room across the hall from my aunt and uncles bedroom. Dad had been dead a few months now and life was supposed to be back to normal but I just couldn’t.

I was angry, depressed, and lost. Life didn’t matter. The world should have stopped the day that he died. Instead I was on the floor in a strange room, with a strange family that was ‘family’. My future was being discussed in hushed tones without any thought of talking to me.

My heart race as I lay on the floor in the dark, the hall light slipping in through the unlatched door. It felt as though there was a giant boulder on my chest. The weight was unbearable. It was hard to breathe. The weight of it was suffocating me. I closed my eyes hoping to sleep to ignore this awful feeling. But when I closed my eyes all I could see was my fathers body all mangled and broken. His body choking on the blood and lacerated organs. I would open my eyes wide and try to think of giant fluffy puppies. I would close my eyes and the image of his body laying there eye bulging out would pop into my mind. Like a vivid picture, as though I was there. I would gasp air trying to breath trying to think of anything but that. In exhaustion my eyes would drift closed and his body would be falling and  falling and falling crashing down. His voice calling out to me would jerk my eyes open again. There was no escape from the pictures in my mind or the weight of pain and agony on my chest.

I slept with my Bible open on my chest for months. The only way I felt remotely safe enough at night was with my Precious moments Bible on my chest. The actual weight ( in hindsight it is similar to a weighted blanket ) of the Bible eased my constricted chest. Helped me take in a breath and try to block out those horrible images.

This went on for days, week, months. My depression depended. My anger grew. No one reached out to me, instead they worried and prayed. What happens is Gods will.  As an adult with children, having made it through I just would love to go back and  shake some people and say  ‘WAKE THE FUCK UP’. Actually there is much more I would say but I will leave it at that for now.

 

childhood, Uncategorized

First scary memory

I took a self-help course and they wanted to know our first traumatizing event. What shaped us into who we are. I didn’t know what to say. My dad falling off a cliff, my mom passing away on Valentines for Pete’s sake, or maybe all those other painful moments. So I focused on the ‘first time’ of the sentence. The first time I knew fear, bone chilling, teeth chattering fear. It is also when I met my stubborn, embarrassed self. The one who has difficulty admitting the need for anything I can’t do myself.

I was maybe 5 or 6 years old. Fall had already begun. The cool chilly nights. Darkness enveloping the world by dinner time. On this particular day, a thunder and rain storm had begun to roll into the valley before we headed back up the mountain. A lightning bolt hit the mountain across the valley and started a fire. The hillside was bone dry from the hot summer. It burst into flames spreading as only fire can. My father and the other men in the car needed to go to investigate. Apparently, that could only be done by putting me in the hay barn alone in the dark to wait for their return. You can imagine how that went I am sure…

How many 6-year-olds do you know that can wait alone in the dark watching a forest fire spread. I became certain he wasn’t returning. The fire monster surely had eaten him and I needed to do the only logical thing. Walk to the nearest home to find an adult. No flashlight, headlamps weren’t even a thing yet. Barely a sliver of moonlight to guide my little feet along the lane towards the road I needed to cross to find the nearest residence. I passed various paths and lanes that led to empty homes or sheds. My eyes had adjusted enough to see the large shapes looming out of the darkness. I was terrified a cougar or other creature would jump out and eat me or worse.

As I was walking along with the fingers of fear wrapped around me I began to think. I had left the barn. I had expressly disobeyed an order from my father. That became scarier than being alone in the dark. As a child, you do not question your parents’ knowledge or authority. You blindly obey and follow with a deep love and devotion only a child feels for their parents. For our family is the center of your life. So here I was a disobedient child far from the barn, far from home and too scared to knock on the door. Scared to walk out of the darkness to the warm yellow light beckoning from the porch.

Standing in the shadows I can see my friends home. The light beckoning thru the darkness to me. Yet how could I explain why I was there. I couldn’t very well say I had disobeyed. I didn’t know what to do. I was too scared to walk back to the barn. Too embarrassed to knock on their door. So I turned away and began down their long long driveway. Cold, scared, unsure of myself, and now worried about facing my father. I had no idea now where to walk to. It was my first taste of insecurity, fear, and embarrassment. I was at a total loss as to what to do besides blindly keep walking in the darkness.

c81b0bd402a8380995690704c469852a

Once I was back on the main road I began towards an elderly ladies home. She would know what to do. As I stumbled towards her lane a car pulled up. It was my father. He was so happy to have found me that the anger at my disobedience was overruled by his joy at finding me.

I now can understand his fear. The horrible feeling you have when you think you may have lost your child. Only a parent can understand the grip of despair, the band of agony, the ray of hope that it’s not too late. That your child is safe and you just have to get to them. That fear is much worse than the fear I had as a little girl. It just would take me 30 years to realize that.