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
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
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
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
I have decided that it needs a real keyboard.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
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