Wednesday, September 25, 2013

Post Traumatic Dreams

I wish I had the words tonight for the ghosts of my past.
Mostly, I just have pain.
And volumes to say to the people on whose deaf ears I need to say it all to the most.

It's the most frustrating thing in the world when you are happy and you still have these...moments.
Moments where you second guess yourself because of a few sociopathic encounters.

I can't feel close to people the way I used to.
If anything, I'd rather not be close to anyone.

My head is being blasted from the inside out with confusing feelings.
Tonight's not the night for it.
But no night ever is.

Fuck you, John.
Fuck you, Lily.

How dare your memories make me regret being a human.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Sunday, July 28, 2013

Transition to Stasis

It's hard to explain exactly what it means.

I mean, it's just a word.  One simple little word.

Rehired.
Reclaimed.
Good enough to come back.
Rewarded for being what was needed.

For me...reawakened.
For me...renewed.
For me...reminded...that good enough isn't a package of ingredients with things I lack.

And yet, I know that a pittance one year contract won't define my redemption.  Deep down, I still know that at a moment's notice, anything can happen, the clocks can turn back, and I can be cast aside again.  Even in a new place, a new home, with new people.

I'm wary, but at peace.

Maybe it's something about that afternoon when two other colleagues in my department took me out to lunch on the last day before our vacation, and lunch lasted from high noon to bar closing time.  Maybe it's something about standing on the edge of a cliff listening to live music and daring to sing along.  Maybe it's something about a little city you've known all your life to be "no big thing" until you walked all up in its insides.  Maybe it's the boss who heard my story and gave me a chance anyway.  Or maybe it's the retired gentleman whose seat I now replace who held my hand warmly in November and said, gently, "It's just a feeling I get with you- you're going to be just fine here- and happy- for as long as you  want to be."

Maybe there's hope.

My roots are not ready, but my heart is.
We'll see, Claudia.  Wait and see.

Monday, July 1, 2013

Dear John Doe:

John, Johnny, Jimbo. Jigga-whatever-you-have-become, whatever you are, whomever you'll be. Dear man of many stories, dear creature who longed to be a father, dear defrocked career-man, dear thinker of things to help others unthink, dear dead ex-compatriot of compassion, dear soul long forgotten, dear damaged son, dear lonely one, I write this aloud to you.

Dear Jeff, Jeffrey, JFB, Jiffy Lube, Jesus-For-Short, Jesus-You're-Not, and Jeez-What-the-Hell-Did-I-Get-Myself-Into. Dear wounded one, dear suffering spiritual soldier, dear sultry sexually sinister lover, dear creeper undercover, dear freaky cultic front runner, I sign my name as a last farewell to you.

You who both have lingered in my thoughts for years. You who have been the ink for a thousand tears stained to paper...I write this now, many years later, a few minutes wiser, a few scars less of a hater, to put words of absolution to my lips. I mean after all this time I believe your rips at my soul...were not all full of evil intention. I believe your hearts were not always hell bent on aggression, I believe the time is now for a full confession and

My.
Confession.
Is.
Forgiveness.

I forgive, because I cannot live with anything less.
I forgive your cuts, your lies, your denegrated mess.

I don't know why it had to happen today, with these words, on this blog, in this way, but all I know is that they, those, them, who would wish otherwise will turn their eyes away and it would never matter what I had to say, no matter how loud I said it. Just like no matter how many times I walked away from your foundations I regretted it, even if it was the best thing for me. I have finally emerged from the roiling sea of pain, and the only thing that keeps my boat from pitching is thinking I need to hold on. So that I do t forget that the dreams I had came from a noisy throng of extreme black-and-white songs that screamed for change. Now I know I can toss and throw away the items I gave you in exchange...the heart, the soul, the body ripped raw, are renewed and reborn, it's taken some time to heal, to get warm...but I have.

And so today in the name of everything I once stood for, I let go of the loyalties I used to make good for, and I embrace the change of the winds in my sails and I set you free. I let go of who I need you to be.

So you monster, you coward, you psycho-sociomaniac, you rapist, you fiend, I send it all back with a ribbon wrapped round the emotion that brought you. I have yelled, I have screamed, I have cursed, cried, and fought you, and discovered In all of this that no one has won. And I have no further desire to need to come undone. We are young, and our souls can change and morph and find peace.

And I need to find mine, and unbind the crease in my heart that believes that no one and nothing is good. And to do that, I must let go, and let go I should.

This is the last you will hear from me. This is the last of the past that will not set me free. This is the last dream you'll enjoy inside my head, this is the last nightmare you'll prance through my bed. I am finished. That part of my soul now lies dead and prepared to spring forth from the ashes anew. And it is my deepest wish that yours does the same too.

I hope you begin on a path of new truth, with idealism in your heart and a fountain of youth springing forth from the oceans of ideas you have. I hope you use your power with caution, humility, a laugh, and with all of the wisdom one can glean from a paradise lost in a dystopic scene.

Goodbye, J-men. Goodbye, John Does. The greatest and worst people I ever did know.


***

This letter-poem is written as an homage to a promise I have made to myself today, that I will no longer dwell on my past between my ex-cult-leader-lover and my past with an ex-therapist. I purposefully delete them from my mind with as much willpower as I can, and instead I carry with me the lessons I have learned from my experience. I no longer permit myself to hold ill will, pain, or space for feeling for/about these two people. I forgive them. I forgive myself. It is time to move on.

Thank you for reading.

***




- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Sunday, June 30, 2013

Regrets and Regression

*this entry will not make a lot of sense unless you know the tale*
*or have lived a similar one yourself*

I was a board member.

I knew damn well that I should have spoken up sooner.

The problem with having a sociopath for a friend is that, however twisted his facts may be, there ARE truths within them.

It's true that when we worked together, I bit my tongue a few times toward the end. He was so PASSIONATE about everything...the kind of passionate where you don't want to get in the way or you might get run over. You just listen. You rationalize. You tell yourself the parts that make sense. And you try to ignore the parts that don't, treat it like a handicap for a brilliant mind or something.

I shouldn't call him a sociopath. That's not fair. It might be true, but it's not my call to make. That alone could be the reason I feel sick inside. What a name caller.

Sometimes I wonder if not being able to reach him in the critical days was his way of setting me up to fail him. Or maybe it was my way. My fault, just as he says it. My "hurtful" words. I know I said some- many. I've gone back and read them. Maybe it was me.

I hardly care. But the guilt will drive you mad. Some days I wake up from a nightmare and all I want to do is stand in a confessional with every person I've ever hurt, no matter in what aspect, and pleaded for their forgiveness, and apologized, over and over and over. I could have stopped the topple. I could have saved the Center. I didn't. I sat back and watched it all melt down, watched its director melt down. I resigned. I walked away, just like I have in the past. I have never once gone "down with the ship". When the Corps leader asked me to die, I said no and I left. When the director of the Center told me to deal with it or resign, I quit that too. I'm a coward. I would believe that.

And then I read that one email I saved from the rubble. The one I put in a box away from the pissing match that said, "You've been very courageous and professional." Held onto it for dear life. From a stranger who barely knew me, those words meant more to me then and now than a thousand "I love you"s from a man who couldn't be further removed from their meaning.

What's amazing to me is that I don't miss him. Somehow, in my mind, I've learned that "him", the person, never existed. But I miss the validation. And the closeness. And the realism. I never thought you could fake those things. But you can. And lots do.

And well...I have become comfortably numb, I suppose. But you miss the human piece of it all, and it hurts sometimes.
And there's the guilt.
Because the only actions you can be responsible for are your own.
I get mad when people don't assume their responsibilities.
I'm sorry.

For whatever it's worth, for whoever you are, were, or will be, I'm sorry.
I'd give anything to have the superpower of the inability to hurt someone.
Because I understand what it's like to hurt for something. And real or imagined, everyone...EVERYONE...understands pain.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Wednesday, June 26, 2013

Sunglasses and Shame

These are the days your annoyingly cautious self warns you about. The days when you can be alone for hours at a time with that all-too-familiar person...yourself...and the wheels in the sky get to turning.

I don't know if its depression or a craving for the chaos that is decidedly absent from my life, but something in my head clicked when I got up this morning.

I had been dreaming about the Corps.
I had been dreaming that, in a twisted reunion of sorts, the leader and my ex-therapist had gotten together in a think tank and hidden their identities until my arrival at this dingy basement-place that looked like an unfurnished version of my parents' house. Demanding to know what I had been up to. Didn't I know the End Days were coming? And where in fuck were my sunglasses?

Sunglasses. That was the word. The cryptogram. I woke up with images of creepy people in sunglasses all day long.

Sunglasses were often worn by the inner circle of the Corps. There was good reason for it. Often, members of the group had to cope with some kind of trauma...real, recent real, imagined, partially imagined...of course, who knows what was and what wasn't...and it was important that no one interrupted anyone else's suffering progress. The idea was that you had to suffer through to become stronger. You could talk about it, sure, but you had to be careful to discuss it in terms of I/me and not use names or images of others. That was gossip. That detracted from the intimacy of the conversation you were having with a fellow member.

Say, for example, you had an abusive boyfriend before entering the group. You could discuss the pain you felt, the reactions you had, the general history. But you couldn't mention the abuser's name. Couldn't speak the names of the friends who helped intervene, or hurt you along the way. The only person you were permitted to talk about was you, and maybe the person directly in front of you with whom you were carrying on the conversation with. There were a few reasons for this. First, it drew you more intimately toward the member you spoke with- they were forced to limit themselves to only talking on the deepest of personal levels. Second, it heightened your empathic awareness...when someone speaks on such an intimate level, it becomes far easier to place yourself in the shoes of their suffering and offer comfort. Third, it forced everyone to come to terms with the rawness of their own personal lives and how things came to be where they were now.

But when the conversation was over, and your face was swollen from the agony of "lifting the burden", you put your sunglasses on and acted as if nothing happened. Normal people wouldn't understand. "Why are you crying?" Was really such a superficial question to the untrained eye. No one truly wanted the answer to the question, not long enough to stick around and solve it, or mitigate it, or even rationalize it. Your true kin were the people that would listen, with no judgment, and integrate your suffering into their pursuance of the path of Truth.

When I think back to my sunglasses days, I remember only a handful of times I ever practiced the doctrine. I was pretty good at ironing out the crinkles in my face from pain; I often told myself it was a divine gift that I could keep the secrets shared within the circle I belonged to. But there were days where I needed them. Like the day my leader confided in me his experience of being molested.

It was late afternoon. It was after school. We were just high school kids, barely driving age at this point. And he had been wearing his sunglasses for two weeks straight. I mean straight- unless the teacher took his sunglasses away from him, that's what you would see in class. I understood. When you suffered, you didn't want anyone else's eyes looking into yours. You were preserving the sanctity of your soul. People would stare weirdly, and I would think, "You just don't understand; if you took just a minute to ask, you'd see how beautiful the whole thing is." At least I liked to believe I thought that. But when people asked me, I would shrug, embarrassed, and walk away, caving to peer pressure and removing my glasses.

He sat me down, in a corner far from most building administration. We liked to be alone where we felt we could talk freely, and after school provided a great service in that. He held my hands as he slowly removed his glasses. He looked tired- like he hadn't slept in days. I pleaded with him to talk to me, to release some of the pain. He looked at me with his heavy, serious eyes, and said with great measure,

"If I open up to you about this, you will suffer too. What I am about to tell you will hurt you because of the love you feel for me. Please understand that I don't want to hurt you. But you will feel a lot of things, things I may not be able to help you with. I don't know how strong I can be for you. And telling anyone breaks our intimacy. You understand the burden you place on yourself?"

I nodded, swallowing hard. It was true that I loved him a great deal, would give anything for him. Now more than ever, I needed to be there for him.

He began to tell me of the molestations that took place in his home, while we had been romantically involved. He gave little detail, because with each suggestion of an act, he would grimace as if he were about to be sick. I, in turn, would hold him, rock him, rub his back and hold his hair in case he were sick. Inside, I burned crimson. Inside, I was being shredded apart. He was right. I was hurting for him.

I remember demanding names. I remember screaming all the sensible sentences in the world- "Wont you let me call someone for you? Why didn't you tell me then? Why won't you tell me who it is?!" He would laugh quietly to himself, pat my hand gently, and tell me that if I knew who it was, he feared I would kill the person. And while it was true that if I knew who it was, malicious thoughts would come to mind, I doubted very sincerely that I could ever kill someone. Still, he shook his head.

In the midst of all this, when he finally finished talking, he leaned in and kissed me, deeply. I still remember that kiss. It stung- it physically hurt to feel his lips on mine, after hearing about all he had been through, and how he had waited so long to tell me...that I might have helped him, might have stopped it, had I ever known. I felt worlds away. I felt like the enemy. And then he spoke.

"Claudia, I want to thank you. For helping me. Your beauty is in the way you suffer for others, like a great sacrificial angel. Oh, darling, don't cry. Will you always cry so deeply when I kiss you, even after the beauty we share together?"

I felt like my body was filled with guilt and anger and sickness. I felt horrible for dumping him years earlier. I felt awful for doubting his pain, his mood swings. I felt like part of the monster in the story. I continued to cry. He hugged me, tightly, nuzzling my shoulder.

"It's all right, I'm better already. It's all right. Seeing you like this helps me to know that love still exists. You are beautiful and I shall always love you too. I know it hurts. Thank you for helping me."

I wore my sunglasses for three days after that.

It would later be discovered that, in all the pain and beauty of intimate conversation we had that day, my very words on those days would be used against me. Would I be willing to suffer the ultimate of injustices to truly understand? And would it matter? And would I go to the limit and carry the burden beneath my own sunglasses?

The glasses never did go back on after that week, but I cherished the need for them. The pain of real intimacy, of truth, of the window in the eyes that lead to the bleeding soul beneath. Those same glasses would stare me in the face and ask me if I was afraid to die in later years.

And those tinted shutters that hid more than I ever imagined I'd see.
Sunglasses.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Tuesday, May 14, 2013

The Cult that Quit Culting for...Gaming?

I need to talk about it.

Slowly, casually, with measured words at first.
Then build it up into a motherfucking whipped frenzy of furious flurries of phrases that don't even make sense anymore.

I'm feeling things. I don't like feeling things. I like thinking things. I like tuning out to the sounds of a beautiful mind.

Feeling means fear. Fear is to be avoided.

But I'm angry.
And I need to talk about it.

It's a stupid reason to be angry. It's even a stupid thing to be upset about. But I'm angry anyway. And upset anyway. And I need to talk about it.

And there's no one to listen who will HEAR me.
So I'm here. Because one way or another, I. Need. To. Talk.

Because when your former cult leader disbands your cult and uses the name to create a goddamned gaming site...apparently that's what you do.

Years of my life WASTED in a group that decided that the fantasy realm was the safest place for them. Years of my life running from a death threat under this groups name, and his nefarious fake Christ leader.

I don't even know how to feel, really. I'm just shaking, or vibrating. I'm hot in my face and cold in my limbs. I'm sensitive and irritated by the little sounds around me. I'm remembering the guy that talked to my mother months ago, asking about me all creepy-like. Reading the on-screen image that he's the leader of this gaming site. In the same name as my old cult. That my old cult leader is now second in command to this guy. He's a moderator. A general. But not THE moderator, not THE general. Sensibly, I'm happy he's demoted, deflated. Sensibly, i actually hope hes just a casual gamer now. Insensibly, I'm absolutely baffled how a narcissist could stoop to being second in command.

And most Insensibly, I'm blown away that a gaming website would retain the same name and claim so much innocence to its operations. This group boasted about surviving the eventual End of Days...and its leaders are really going to pretend it's all been part of some kind of game forum?!

I feel that powerful wave of rage and doubt again, just like in the old days. I'm doubting that this website could be just what it says it is...I feel like it hides behind its guise and anyone who knew the history of V.C. Would snap this door wide open. I'm raging because if that's truly the case, people can get hurt, lead in, drawn to it under false pretenses and then manipulated until they leave the group.

And yet...what if I'M the crazy one this time?

Maybe they're not the same people. Maybe there are two people out there with the same name, the same age, and the same 1997 founding date of V.C. that they claim to have. This website started in 2012. Maybe it's all coincidence. Maybe I'm even wrong about what I believed I was a part of...

Maybe I should stop thinking about it. It's not harming me anymore, so what should I care anyway?

A goddamn gaming website. All this bullshit talk about God and the Truth and Open Honesty. And you take that name, however profane, and use it to hide behind in some fucking gaming community, mocking what little good I could have held it up to. Now you sit and drink Mountain Dew and wait for a bunch of zombies to click your little screen, either so you can pump them full of your fucked up riddles or pepper them with your game comtrollers. Either way, it's bullshit.

I'll tell you what. My experiences weren't a game. And they sure as hell weren't just some RPG shit that you talk about. I hope for your sake that you're being goddamn sincere on your site and you're not running some fucked up truth harem behind some World of Whatever goggles trying to sex your way into someone's brain. I HOPE you're actually BEING mindless. It would be a welcome change.

I'd still feel better if you didn't refer to yourselves as an army, though.

Bah. What do I care? If its not hurting me...
I'd talk about it if I knew how.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Friday, March 29, 2013

Judas, Judgements, and Juvenile Religious Education

My best friend and I used to fight over who got to be Judas in our sleepover re-creations of Jesus Christ Superstar.

You may find it strange, but a couple of 7 year olds with a video camera and a shiny LP of the London Cast recording from the 1970s was all we needed when Good Friday came rolling around.

I've mentioned before that I was raised Catholic. And my mother did a wonderful job with that- from knowing the stories to answering the questions and only ladling in the guilt when necessary. Sure, she skipped the masturbation chapters in "It's Perfectly Normal" when I hit puberty, and maybe it wasn't entirely accurate that giving a boy a hug could get me pregnant, but she was just protecting my well being. And one of the ways she taught me the church rules was through song and story.

I saw Ted Neeley (the actor portraying Jesus in JCS) live on stage at the tender age of 8. Amidst a flock of die hard Christians and die harder music theater buffs, my mother and I squealed with joy that afternoon when we saw him onstage at the local symphony hall. The story always left me with questions, and Mom always dutifully answered as best she could. It was our best bonding time. That's why I suppose it's never been a surprise that I hold a fondness for the Catholic Holy Week.

There's Holy Thursday, with its last supper and the reading of script while 12 members of the church get their feet washed (a symbolic portrayal of the apostles), and Good Friday, the day Jesus dies and the church becomes barren and empty, with barely even the sound of chanting, and Vigil Saturday where everyone gathers in hope and music and prayer into the wee hours of the night, and then Easter Sunday, when all the usual folk come out of hiding and don their bests for the big celebration at church. As a musician, Easter Sunday becomes a special heralding, a call to duty and the chance to sing gracefulness to The Lord. Gigs on Easter Sunday have always been treated with reverence in my family and I too, find peace in performing on those days. I've seen the insides of hundreds of churches this way. It's special, heartwarming.

But I digress. It was those moments I had as a child that lead me to my reverence of Holy Week, and while I completely goofed this week by eating chicken salad this morning (no meat on Fridays), I still try to choose appropriately for the high holidays.

I have morphed as a Catholic, even as a faithful person. I spent 5 or so years in a pseudo-pagan cult; I spent a few years thereafter practicing solitary Wicca, and a few years practicing nothing at all. Though I married in the Catholic Church, I am still hesitant to state that I am Catholic...I do not really represent the modern viewpoints of today's Catholic Church. I relish a woman's right to choose when to become a mother. I don't believe that responsible use of birth control will damn you to hell. I even support abortion in horrifically extreme cases of abuse or rape. Once, I wondered what my mother- my dutiful Catholic mother, would say to me if she knew all these things about me. I did a brave thing- I asked her.

"Claudia," she said, in the calmest voice I have ever heard, "no church should der provide more than guidelines, really. I raised you as a Catholic because your father and I believe in raising children to be faithful, mindful people of God. I had to get you from Baptism to Confirmation and see to it that you understand why the values I teach you are important. After that, your religion, your faith, is your path to walk and I can't walk it for you. You will have your own personal experiences with God. It's up to you what to do with them."

I was stunned. With all the years gone by, here stood my mother, the dutiful Catholic, telling me to forge my own spiritual path.

"Why didn't you say this after my confirmation, or when I was 21 and having my spiritual crisis, or any of those things?" I asked, a little frustrated in this new approach.

"Because everyone's relationship with God is personal. Influencing it is unfair. You are an adult, whether I like it or not, and the best I can hope for is that you have a good relationship with God. That I've taught you to have a good relationship, and that you won't be easily swayed into pain or harm or malice."

Shame suddenly filled my face, but she was kind and aware, and added, "And that you know that even the best relationships have rocky moments and painful experiences. What matters is the connection."

Mom does not regularly attend church as she used to. She doesn't go to Holy Week masses any more, and she doesn't even force the family to go to Mass on Sundays. But I know she prays. And I know that every Good Friday, I can expect her to watch Jesus Christ Superstar on her TV as a reminder of the faith she was raised in, the faith she raised me in. I know she still carries God with her every day, praying and following in her own way. Because it IS personal.

My best friend and I are no more than Facebook acquaintances today, but we can still remember our Judas vs. Jesus rock opera battles and laugh. And my mother and I can smile over our sympathy for Judas in his plight to protect Jesus from sounding too much like a cult leader. It is immaterial to anyone else, but for us, it is special.

And for me, it is redeeming. That after so many years of questionable religious experiences, I can still find enough common ground in the simple things to declare that I know that divine must exist. It is enough. The old makes way for the new, and each year, while I may not worship the death of Jesus, I find my sins washed away in the subtle experiences of those old traditions around me.

Catholic, or whatever I may be, I am freed from my chains, and it is a Good Friday, indeed.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Saturday, March 16, 2013

Forgiveness, Survival, and Enigmas

"Kent was working in my building this week."

Mom spoke quietly, but with weight, as we sat at her dining room table exchanging notes for a class. I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck raise, my hackles aligning for battle, my heart beginning to thump lousy in my chest. I did the only thing I could think of. I deflected.

"I didn't realize mind warriors could actually hold real world jobs," I chided nonchalantly, trying to shake off the cold that was filling my gullet.

Kent was a dear friend and neighbor for much of my childhood life. We attended school together, shared a mutual group of acquaintances, even protected each other in a manner of respects. In our early teens, he wrote me a lengthy, pained letter about why he had wanted to end his life, and for a few days, I suspect he survived on our letter exchange alone as I pleaded with him not to give up. Kent was a kind and complex creature for much of my childhood and he always seemed to understand me, at times better than I understood myself. We also shared a mutual best friend...and lover...the leader of V.C. The cult we both belonged to.

Kent, being soft spoken and sweet, fit into the V.C. dynamic pretty well. He was one of perhaps 3 or 4 total men in the cult, and one of our leader's inner circle, like me. His role seemed to be that of an enigma, in that he was part of the group, but no one fully understood why- or to what extent- his involvement was, except to occasionally pontificate on issues at hand. He and I had been involved in V.C. since the beginning, really. After all, Kent had been one of the first to experience a level of initiation with our leader.

And of course, when I say initiation, what I mean is sexual awakening.

Kent had, at one point or another, served a key role in what our leader and my then boyfriend had called a "period of experimentation". I often wondered if perhaps Kent's suicidal outburst to me had stemmed from a deeper, more painful emotional current that came from his being intimate with this man, although he never confessed any romantic feelings for him, and only ever confessed to having a "mild crush" on me.

Kent, however, for whatever reason, had sworn alliance so strongly to our leader that he quickly became his right hand man. I never really understood what that meant, since Kent was never much involved in our meditations or training. For a while, he was bait for one of the newer girls in our group...but not willingly. The girl sought him, felt an attraction, and pursued...but in the end, Kent was uninterested. Shortly thereafter, I experienced my meditation assault by her and the leader. I never told Kent, and to this day, I'm unsure what Kent knows of it. What I do know is that Kent was always well aware of my own feelings about anything that happened in V.C. In retrospect, I suspect it is altogether possible that Kent had become a trained informant in the later years of V.C.

Mom fidgeted uncomfortably in her seat at my blatant statement before she put down her pen and looked up at me.

"He asked a lot of questions about you. It was really unsettling. I just want you to know that I didn't share anything with him."

You have to understand, dear reader, that in this context, those statements from my mother meant the world to me in that moment. When our leader turned to threatening my life in 2007, my mother was the last phone call I made that evening. I was terrified to breathe so much as a word to my family about my involvement with V.C.- indeed, I had kept it a secret for most my entire involvement, and I had kept it well. To tell her at 3 o'clock one April morning that someone she only knew as an "ex" was explaining his plot to end my life was...well, there aren't words for it. She had brushed me off, reassuring me that college kids say stupid things when under the influence, and that was probably what had been going on. I remember tearfully begging her to believe me- "You don't understand, Mom, this is more real than I can possibly even tell you. I'm not overreacting- I KNOW he's not drunk. Mom, PLEASE. I'm so scared. I don't know what to do."

In the end, a long and arduous, unsuccessful attempt at filing a restraining order began the following day. I still remember my poor father driving me back and forth between the college town I resided in and the town from which the threat was issued- each department bouncing me back to the other, stating that there was dubious credibility for the threat because it was issued online, and more nonsense. It was as if no one would understand or even listen- but my father did. In one particular drive, he had calmly asked me, "Suppose you tell me exactly what has lead up to all of this that has you more afraid than you would usually be. This sounds like more than just a case of a bad ex boyfriend." I remember breaking down. I remember telling him, in small, translucent chunks, that there was a "spiritual" aspect to these threats- and that it wouldn't be likely for him to act alone. I felt sick and crazy. Every word I spoke, I was damning my spiritual path that I had somehow managed to stumble this far upon with V.C. Dad, however, in his kind and gentle dad way, had squeezed my shoulder gently and said, "It sounds like you're dealing with a crazy person. I know how much that probably hurts to hear right now, but you have to know that it's time to really cut this guy off for good. Mom and I have been getting the creeps from you mentioning him for years. I'm really not trying to sway you, but if this is what it takes to get him out of your life, I can't say we are disappointed. He was a lousy boyfriend to you- I think anyway. You tell me what you'd like to do- and, well, put it to you this way- if the bastard is stupid enough to come near you, I'll kill him myself. All right?"

With no police office willing to put the paperwork through because the threat was issued "online" (yes folks, in 2007, there were still police officers who didn't put any stock in the shit you say in cyberspace), I returned home angry and frightened- truly frightened. One night, while sleeping in my parents house, I heard gunfire in our backyard- just 3 days after the threat had been issued. I leapt from the couch and locked myself in the basement, huddled in a survivor position on the stairwell until my father came back from scouting out the backyard with the dogs and my mother on the phone with police to investigate the disturbance. I didn't move for a few hours, despite repeated coaxing from my parents that it was all okay- some kids we didn't know had been playing paintball past curfew was all. I didn't sleep that night.

But back to Kent. Kent's unique role in all of this mess was to "check in" periodically just to chat, as if he were removed from the situation, even from the group. Kent often appeared when I was feeling distraught after a training or meditation, though he never showed up after the assault I had endured in 2004. In fact, Kent had appeared to be uninvolved for a while until a few weeks after the threat when he called to "just say hi". I remember trusting him- I actually remember that conversation being the last one I ever had with him. He had asked me about the usual chit-chat type things, as if we were old friends again, the neighbors who used to walk to each others' houses and play around in the pool together. He was so warm and kind, the sweet boy I remembered who had tearfully and angrily told me all the things in his life that had made him want to wrap his neck in a noose, and wishing that he could think of anything but that one thought. He was gentle, a listener, someone who could vilify your emotions in a matter of seconds because he had been there. And I had confessed that I had still been involved in V.C., but that I wouldn't be any longer. I made a huge mistake. I told him, vaguely, what had happened.

He had paused on the phone when he heard about the death threat before quietly saying, "Do you really suppose he meant it? I mean, I totally get how shaken you are, but he can be really intense sometimes when it's time to learn a lesson. Are you sure you didn't misinterpret the message?"

Suddenly, I wasn't sure. He had a good point. Our leader was indeed unusually intense at times. And that evening of the threat, I had even received an email with the words, "I'm not going to kill you. Idiot. Thank you for proving how worthless you truly are." Plus, a voicemail, two weeks after the incident, that had said "I'm sorry that I frightened you." Maybe Kent was right. Maybe I had been overreacting.

This mindfuck of a phone call prompted my old survival instincts, and I decided to finish my conversation with Kent and not talk to any of them any more. I didnt think that this would spur more check up phone calls...but they did. And rsther than be sucked in a second time, i finally heeded the warning bells I had been hearing in my head, that it was too odd for Kent to be checking in with me without an ulterior motive. It was the right choice. In the next two years, I would receive a handful of phone calls from our leader and a couple of my old group friends, but I would become stronger each time, resisting sharing any information. It was clear to me now. Kent had been planted to determine my whereabouts. But he'd never get any further than, "Sorry, but I'm very busy right now. Talk to you later." In 2009, I delivered the final blow. I received one last phone call- from the leader himself- declaring "I miss you." It was enough. In that moment, as I held the phone in my hands backstage before a major performance, I lowered my voice and evened my breath, carefully measuring every word.

"I am finished with you and all of your people. It is time for you to move on. And if you ever, ever call this number or my new boyfriends number again, you will have more than the police to deal with. Do I make myself clear? Get lost and stay lost, because this is no threat. It is a promise."

I never heard from or about any of them again.


Until today.
Mom twisted her rings on her fingers uncomfortably. We were silent for a little while before I spoke up again.

"Mom?" I asked quietly. I was afraid of her reaction to continuing the conversation. During my time with V.C., the barriers I had thrown between her and I were nearly impenetrable. At times, it appeared as if I had divorced my own mother from my life. Mom had spied on me early on in my involvement with the leader and with V.C. She had even read my diary aloud at the dinner table once, a sin that took me nearly ten years to forgive her for. Now, we were on the mend. This was dangerous, treacherous territory. She looked up from her test booklet, eyes filled with the same warmth and hint of fear we seemed to carry for each other from those years.

"Did you know? Did Dad ever tell you the whole story? About him and the group...and J?"
"He told me enough. I will never share anything with that...boy. I promise. I'm not the only one in the building that senses he's fishing for something...someone. It's easy to see him as just polite and quiet if you dont know. I'm sorry I even confirmed for him that you had recently been married. I'm sorry, sweetie. I've asked my coworkers not to discuss you in any detail with him."

My eyes filled with hot tears. It needed no explanation- all the years of lies, deceit, and pain, and Mom knew the story, and she understood.

"I'm sorry I lied to you so much," I sputtered, unable to say much more.
"I understand why, and it doesn't matter any more. Okay? I'm keeping my eye on him. You will be okay."

And I believe her.
I believe that I am wiser. Stronger. Less afraid. More prepared to defend and protect myself and those that I love. Less guilty. More loved.

And forgiven.
Forgiven.
The Excalibur of spiritual abuse.
The juice that makes me stronger, more aware.
And more allied with those that truly love me.

I will be okay.
I am already better than I once was.

Like the core I build in my abdomen during martial arts class, I am stronger every day. And that strength can only grow.

I have begun to transcend survival.
Today, I embrace the story and accept it as it is, as part of me.
Today, I embrace the ability to THRIVE.



- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Wednesday, February 27, 2013

The B Word

It is perhaps one of the earliest fears I attained...and the longest in my life history, save for spiders and tornadoes and rabid animals. It's a four letter word that makes my stomach do more than somersaults. It's an uncomfortable topic of discussion.

Baby.

Before I continue, let me assure you, dear reader, that I am not pregnant.

But I think, at my tender age, this fear might be one I need to revisit. The fear of having a baby. Of motherhood. Of any sort of maternal moment or connection. That's striking, odd even. Kindergarten and elementary students throw themselves at me regularly, loudly proclaiming "I wish you were my mom!" And while this is high praise from a six or seven year old, in my mind I find myself thinking, "I am glad I'm not!" The thought of having a child of that age whom I could potentially fail to be a great parent to is terrifying...too terrifying to even begin to understand or rationalize.

I suppose if I were seeing a therapist, he'd ask me where I think these feelings come from, and I'd ramble off a bunch of reasonable suggestions. I tormented my mother in my teenage years. My parents helped me pay for college. I wanted for very little in my life. That's hard to compete with, when you have an excellent upbringing with few blips in the road. I only seem to have just begun making mistakes. My first few failures in life didn't occur until I was out of the nest and out of mommy and daddy's care. How in hell would I care for a little one, then?

And let's not forget the other factors at hand. I'm a husky woman, and husky women have terrible times with pregnancy- my mother told me so. She says I will be miserable and a constant risk to an unborn child with my obesity. She also frequently tells me that having a child is the wrong decision for my life- my father reaffirms this. There is no discussion of grandchildren in the family house. My parents have affirmatively stated that they are not interested in becoming grandparents. Any time a discussion heads even an inch toward children, my parents remind me that raising a dog is a lovely alternative.

Pregnancy is something to be feared, and something that can happen at any moment through any form of sexual contact. Children are nothing but growing burdens. Labor can result in an audience watching you soil yourself in a birthing room.

So clearly, you would think my mind is made up.
Well, it was, until a couple weeks ago.

You see, in order to improve some of my other health conditions, I removed myself from prescription birth control. No one tells you, of course, that most/all birth controls also tone down your hormones, libido, and other such things, so when I started having regular, non-drug-induced periods, things got a little wacky. I suddenly became a horny teenager again. I was on predictable roller coasters of emotion. And something else clicked off in my body, too.

I felt my biological clock make its first tick.

I don't know how you really explain it. One afternoon I was walking through the mall and a woman was pushing her adorable infant, who looked up at me with big smiley eyes and I just...melted. I like kids, mind you- even love them at times- but this was very different. This was a big swell in my chest, a little flutter in my stomach, and a genuine reaction of "Oh...I want one!" This from the girl raised to understand that sex is dirty, babies are leeches, and pregnancy is scarier than tarantulas in your duvet.

Naturally, I desperately shrugged it off as a day I might have forgotten to take my meds.

But then I spent a day with my best friend and her 3 week old daughter. And I held this tiny thing as it stretched, smiled, cooed, and snuggled into my chest to sleep. I watched in amazement as my friend told me she was glad that baby was so comfortable with me. The little one slept soundly in my arms for an hour before waking abruptly and planting a strong open-mouthed kiss on my clothed bosom. And rather than be horrified by this breast contact, I just laughed, repositioned her, and handed her back to her mother.

I wasn't breast fed as a child, and my mother confesses that she finds it horrifying, so you would think that I'd be horrified too. And I have been. For many years. But when I held this little one, there was that inescapable feeling again, that flutter about having a child. I've been trying to stuff it ever since.

What's happening to me? I was only just starting to get used to being married!


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Tuesday, February 19, 2013

The Catholic Guilt

For all intents and purposes, it can be said that I left the Church at the age of seventeen. I had begun to confirm it in my mind by sixteen, a mere few days after my confirmation into the faith.

The whole story of what I have come to believe now, may never be complete, because even as I type this today, God is a being I have little grasp of understanding. The human condition, perhaps. What I remember now is even hazy, but I will try.

I was a model Catholic. I am not sure what made me so, but from my very early years, I loved church, loved Mass, admired and even coveted the role of the priest, simply because he could be so close to God. I strived each day to be as close, even if I did not pray daily. I offered up my music as a holy communion to The Lord, a reciprocation of the gratitude I felt for the gift I had been blessed with. My spirit soared in all that I did.

During the challenging teenaged years which lead to my confirmation, a priest appeared in our ministry who would solidify in my mind the true meaning of spirituality. His name was Father D, and his story would change my life...perhaps not then, but certainly now.

Father D was young for a priest, all things considered. He was attractive and intelligent, had a stunning voice and a heartwarming approach to people, but was so dedicated to the masterful craft of Mass that it seemed he could hypnotize a flock if he so chose to. But Father D was most decidedly human, and in love with humanity. He wore it in plain sight upon his face.

When the Church first met the Father, I never expected the story he told. A PhD of science, of astronomy, turned priest from a single experience. A calling. A hunch. One minute he is staring directly into the face of the heavens and the next into the face of God, perhaps. But he said it wasn't like that, wasn't so grandiose. It was simple. Man, science, faith- all of these are intertwined, interrelated. One could know and learn all he could and still be one of Gods most faithful. One could seek knowledge and still be one of Gods chosen. It was beautiful. It was like nothing any other priest had said before. And it reached me. I began to spend more time in church and more time honing my skills and gifts.

And I sought out the Fathers guidance. I studied books on Creationism for the creation vs evolution debate in our biology class. I remember seeking him out for study materials- I had been assigned the creation side of debate and I hated losing. I had also been designated team spokesperson, and engaged in a battle of wits with the school genius. Father was very amused at my gumption, but reminded me that there was truth in both sides, and that the key to winning the argument was to expose that there can be no argument without all the facts...that the very proof of God would be necessary to complete the story, and no mortal has yet provided that proof. "Why do you believe, then?" I had asked him. "What do you believe?" I don't remember his words but I remember the feeling when he spoke: peace. The mind and the heart could indeed work in tandem. Creation and evolution could both be correct. Man is not the carrier of all answers, after all. It is the mysteries of life that are most sacred- but that doesn't mean we should not explore them, question them, find what is true to us. I left my debate not needing an answer or a winner. Acknowledging fairness in each side was enough.

When I was chosen for vocation discipleship, it was among the highest honors one could receive in the church. Here, I had not even attended Catholic school, and now, at the crux of confirmation, I was being blessed by the Diocese, recognized as a servant of God before man. I took it very seriously. When the nuns started sending invitations to me for membership, I was flattered. My mother was horrified. I felt a calling. I was certain of it.

Still, I had my doubts. Catechismic classes weren't answering questions any longer...they were planting seeds of doubt. It began with a discussion inside an enormous mansion that our teacher called his home. Eight of us in class, and seven of us, boys, including our teacher, who was a dedicated parent in church. Teenage boys only want to discuss one thing. You know. So we addressed the loopholes of sin. And one afternoon the question fell upon us...is masturbation a sin?

This seems like a ridiculous thing to spend two and a half hours discussing, but for a group of 16 year olds, this was important stuff. And yet, the more we addressed it, the worse I felt. Masturbation, according to the church, is a sin, and a very grave one. It removes you from God because it hooks you to pleasure when sex should only be for procreation and union with your future spouse. In essence, each time you masturbate, you are being unfaithful to your future husband or wife, and adultery is a cardinal sin.

I don't think I have to tell you that this didn't sit well with any of the boys, either. But no gray area was offered, and at one point we had all resigned ourselves to seek out Father D after class and find out for certain if an orgasm every now and again would truly ruin our relationship with God and/or a boy/girlfriend. None of us dared ask him, though I certainly considered it. I think we all knew that if the answer was what our CCD teacher was telling us, we didn't want to hear it. As one of our classmates, Kevin, calmly put it, "Well, either we are all going to hell, or some of us are and the rest of us are going deeper because we are lying to ourselves about it. And Claudia will end up in the deepest pit because she's a woman." (Yes, ladies, the clitoris is simply a doorbell that you ring before baby juice is inserted by your husband. Try telling that to a 16 year old girl today.)

Still, no one was going to convince me to confess to the carnality explorations I had done in my bedroom. Why ask for forgiveness for something I was truly not sorry for? And why COULDN'T a little pleasure connect me to God, if approached with enough humility for the grand design of the human body? What was so wrong with the idea? I dismissed the debate from my mind and swore off carnal pleasure for a while. Maybe I'd figure it out later on in life. Meanwhile, it wasn't exactly a necessity. I wasn't even interested in sex, to be honest.

So when I reached confirmation, I felt relatively pure. I made other appropriate confessions and dutifully committed myself to my patron, Saint Cecelia. Meanwhile, I frequently discussed and debated ideas with my classmates and friends, along with an ex boyfriend who had his own attachment to the divine.

My ex had been my best friend for as long as I could remember, and my first kiss. He had been raised Catholic too, though he no longer practiced. He was more fascinated in what the rest of the world believed- whether it was Tao, Buddhism, Wicca, or other persuasions of faith. Still, it was clear to me that his connection to God was strong, and that he recognized the presence of God in all things, all faiths. We began to study these things together. We grew and learned, debated, and learned and grew some more.

To be honest, I'm not sure when it snapped, but suddenly, church as an institution didn't make sense any more. Somewhere around my confirmation, the biggest allegations of rape by priests were coming forward. There were rapists within our own diocese, even. But I wasn't fazed much- none of these guys had ever been in our church, so I had no reason to turn away from the faith.

Still, something was eating at me. Maybe it was that other debate about false idols that I had been struggling with. I was excited about my commitment to St. Cecelia but remember being told that I should not become idolatrous and put her above my commitment to God. Just what did that mean anyway? Was she not a follower?

One afternoon, I decided to try a "guided meditation" with my ex and a girl friend of mine. I didn't see much harm in the idea- meditation was much like prayer- so I was excited to have a spiritual experience with the two of them. I had a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach when they arrived after school, came into my empty house and sat with me on the couch. I shrugged it off as butterflies- they never really went away during interactions with my ex, but I learned to ignore them. I should have listened to my gut. I should have done anything but what I did.

I'd like to tell you that what happened next was an hour of meditation, but that wasn't what happened. And I'd like to tell you that I resisted valiantly, but that wasn't what happened either. I'd even like to tell you that saying no to people you trust works every time- but it didn't. All I remember thinking was, "You have to preserve your virginity. No matter what happens, you must preserve your virginity, or your soul is dead." I was clever. I was lucky. And I was ashamed.

The word "assault" is both misleading and loaded with controversy. To be assaulted insinuates something of a violent nature, something harmful. But no one walks away with a bruise necessarily in a case of sexual assault. And you can't call it rape if it isn't penetration, so that's not an accurate word either. And it can't be either of those things if your mouth said no but your body said something else. After all, I invited them over. We hugged each other. What's a step or two beyond that? Permissible, right?

No one- no school or church- teaches you that it is possible to be in a situation where your declaration of "no" can be manipulated. I said no. I meant no. No stopped nothing. By the time I said no, it was too late- by the time I realized that the hands rubbing my back to soothe me were also undoing my bra, I was trapped. There were four hands on my body, and all I could do was will my limbs and nerves to shut down to make it end.

After they left, I spent the afternoon vomiting. I felt sick, dirty, but not because of them- because of me. Because I had tarnished a relationship with God. It didn't matter what the ulterior motives of others were- I should have known better than to trust. I should have seen this progression of events coming. I should have known that no 17 year old calls a meditation session. Ignorance was not an excuse. Though I had preserved my virgin self, on the inside I was a whore, because I let it happen. I let it happen and God saw through all weakness. Otherwise He would have intervened.

I continued exploring alternate spiritual paths after this. I couldn't go back to church- in my heart, I wasn't entirely worthy. Truth was, I was convinced that my ex was making some strong point or example about spirituality and that I would have to stay the course to see what he meant. In time, there were more strange experiments and experiences, and then dreams and prophecies. By the time I knew where I was and what I had gotten into, I was ensnared by a cult leader, one who manipulated women into handing over their v-cards for a chance at enlightenment...and I had escaped the deflowering.

But I had also believed in him, learned a lot from him, even come to justify his prophecies. From the afternoon of meditation, three and a half years passed before I decided he was a fraud and that perhaps our meditation experience wasn't my fault. The sudden ability to demand that one take responsibility for ones own actions was freeing, and confusing, and damning all over again. And then the clincher- his vision that he was to be the next Christ. It was enough. I snapped.

When I read it all back to myself, I get angry at how stupid I was to believe that had a realm of possibility. Maybe I was just Stockholm syndromed. Maybe it was something else. But for the next three years of my life, there was no God...because if there was, I was pretty sure I wanted nothing to do with him. If there was, he supported rapists and manipulation, mind control and death threats, and if hell kept that away from you, I was glad to be headed there.

And yet it's now been five years since I left his grasp, and I've since married, consummated, therapized through what I can now recognize as a brief sexual trauma. But God is still removed from me. The sun is a bit less bright. The skies are a bit less blue. And no religion or ritual fits any more, and yet I want it to now more than ever. I hold God blameless, but I fear my soul may never be repaired. It is permanently unworthy of the holy love I once received from Him, because I turned my back in the Church and explored the spirit with s man who was truly not of God. But how was I to know. How many requests for forgiveness does it take to make one feel whole again? And will I ever? Could I perhaps turn back time by asking forgiveness in the church, from the priest who taught me? It wasn't his fault I left. What's to be done now? Who rehabilitates the soul? And must I acknowledge that other spiritual leaders have lead me astray since the experience with my ex?

I never should have left the Church. It's been nothing but cults since I left. Imagine that.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Sunday, February 17, 2013

The Upgrade

Today, my hard earned paycheck went to the purchase of an iPad.

I have decided that it needs a real keyboard.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Tuesday, January 29, 2013

Blueberries and Cyanide- A Rant.

Some days, I think you worse than my almost rape.
Some days, I find I can forgive a boy with an over active imagination and sex drive- over a man with a penchant for fucking the mind without a rubber.

There's no question that you planted a seed. Metaphorically speaking. Everyone would expect you to. You were a therapist, and I took the risk of blurring the boundary. Daring to call you a friend. Daring to trust you outside the safe zone where a payment is a promise that you won't be hurt.

Or is it? Just how many people have you hurt behind your mask? And gotten paid to do it?

Dual relationships of any kind are dangerous, but yours was a special kind of sick. You took the lack of daddy issues in a young woman and perverted them. You made me feel like loving my own father was a crime. My father, a man who never so much as blinked violence at me, became a temporary monster...all because you couldn't handle your relationship with your own.

After all the lies that have come out of your mouth, I don't care any more. I don't believe you ever were a victim. But I believe you make false ones everywhere. I believe you turn healthy people away from important relationships to make them codependent upon you, and that's how you get your fix. You say your daddy fucked you? Even if that is true, take a good goddamn hard look at yourself. Whether you penetrate with a penis or a twisted mind, you're no better. You are no better. The rapist lives on in your genes and you feed him every day with your narcissistic lies.

No. You're far worse than my would-be rapist.
Because unlike him, you won't grow out of your sick ways. You've fertilized them for nearly sixty years. You'll just rationalize it all away.

You penetrate the minds and soul wombs of those already raped empty, and you fill them with hope and paranoia and a world of paradox they will never escape. You shatter trust like the hymens of prepubescent girls. And you don't care. You won't answer to it. You're too much of a coward, too much of a sociopath, too much of a monster, to ever know the word redemption.

You couldn't even show your face at a fucking hearing.
I hate you. I hate that I ever trusted you with anything. I hate that I'll always mistrust myself because your bullshit only reaffirms that I get myself into these situations.

You owe me so many apologies. I'll never hear a single one.
There is no justification for your mind games.
No reason to plant false memories.
No fucking point to shredding another's sanity with your manipulative banter.
You belong in jail.
Not for wielding a dick or a knife- for wielding pure evil.
Maybe someday you'll finally end up there. Where all the evil goes.
For the kind of mental abuse no one ever talks about.
 You are the monster you claim you fear.
Too bad you're such a lousy actor when it comes to looking fearful about it.
Who knows how many people you've fed that line to?
Just to get a paycheck and a narcissistic fix.
Yes, it's healers like you that make me believe in lobotomies.
Fortunately for me, I knew better than to swallow your cyanide laced "blueberries".
But I can still hurt from the offer.