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
Friday, March 29, 2013
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
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
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