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.



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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!


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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.


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The Upgrade

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

I have decided that it needs a real keyboard.


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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.

Rebel Without A Cause

So I've found myself on the other side of my intended profession, blacklisted by a former employer with nothing better to do than to smear me.  Lots of options lie ahead...lots of thinking...lots of ways to deal and cope and whatnot.  But, of course, you know me.  I'm never in the present sort of mindset.  I'm always looking five years ahead or five years behind, either to recover or discover.  I really should stop that.  (I'll let you all in on the secret when I figure out how.)

Yet, tonight my mind is in a very unique place.  A place it doesn't care to go too often.  It reaches out into the spiritual ethos and asks itself what it believes in, what it holds its dreams in.  And it asks:

Where are you now, Claudia?  Who are you now, Claudia?  And what will you do with that identity?

I'm no stranger to shifts in identity- I've met quite a few chameleons in my day.  But for myself?  Much like priding myself on fighting for my virginity (literally), I have also always prided myself on fighting for my identity.  I haven't changed much for other people.  I haven't wavered in my wants or desires or felt I needed to give anything up.  But now, I'm holding on to something so painful, it hurts to touch.  I lived out my childhood dream when I went to college.  I wanted to be a big shot, knew where I wanted to be, how I wanted to get there, do it all.  Then I did it.  And somehow, unfortunately, I ran smack into a wall of abuse...abuse that brought my dream crashing down from the sky.

I suppose it isn't unlike other similar moments in my life- I had dreamt of being spiritually enlightened, and then figured out I was in a cult.  I like to think I realized that dream, but I'm noticing the patterns are ending in pain...really traumatic pain.  If you achieve your dream, it shouldn't destroy you.  Perhaps my dreams have been unrealistic...or something in their attainment has been.

I often wonder about my fellow cult survivors, if they go through this sort of thought process.  At first when all this happened with my career, I thought God was punishing me- not for leaving the group, but for walking away from spirituality altogether.  This was his way of saying, "Fine, then I'll take something else away from you."  It certainly explained why I had this deadly fear that something would happen to my husband before I could be with him as his wife- and why after I lost that job, I packed up everything and moved an entire region away from where I was- just so I could be by his side.

The funny thing is, I never saw that as a romantic thing.  I saw it as running away.  As soon as I landed on his front doorstep, I started the search again, determined to get back to that "career".  I was so driven, so insanely driven to rise above the failure, it was as if it became another crusade, another spiritual quest, upon which I could not give up.  I lost sleep.  I had trouble eating.  I cried a lot.  My husband knew what had happened and while he was soothing and supportive, struggled with my need to succeed, my need to be cared for and loved for what I do and not who I am.

What if the problem was, all along, that I equated who I am with what I do?

What if the problem...is...that I equate who I am with what I do?

I can't remember the last time I played my instrument because I enjoyed it.  I can't remember the last time I taught someone something because I simply wanted to share knowledge.  Fulfillment only seems to come when I've reached the pinnacle of success, achieved the perfect job. 

I wonder...if it's possible...could I perhaps...attain fulfillment outside of a career?

Everything in my body tells me no way...I'd be nuts to think anything is more important than employment and a career.  And yet...thinking that certain employment options are the only way to be fulfilled is a really unhealthy thought process.  When I lost my job, it was as if my whole world went up in flames.  I spent months in bed hoping I'd wake up dead.  (That's a horrifying thing for a fiancee to face, but my husband did a splendid job helping me out of that hole.)  I truly thought my entire life was over.  It's not.  In fact, I have been careerless for a while now.  I've gotten married.  I've found things I enjoy.  It's not overwhelmingly uplifting or some kind of super psyched-up high, but you know, maybe I've had enough spiritual fulfillment for one lifetime.  Maybe I just need to embrace what is rather than weep for what isn't.

I often feel that me on the inside that hungers for another cause...kinda like a justice league member who never made the cut just itching to get out and save the world.  I hate that little bugger sometimes, but I have to laugh when I think about it now.  What exactly would he fight for?  I haven't got a sustaining career or much faith in humanity.  Just what is he gonna crusade for now?  He's just a rebel without a cause.

Maybe that'll give him some time to settle in and have a cup of tea for a change.  Maybe he could get used to not having a cause or a crusade or a whatever.  Maybe he could learn to come out to renaissance faires with my husband and I and learn to be not such a rabid part of me.  Maybe if someone let him know that he didn't have to keep his super-cape on all the time, he'd feel like he could hang it up once in a while.

Maybe if I let myself not worry about rescuing or even being rescued, that little justice-leaguer could start to learn all those things.

Maybe I could adopt a new slogan.  Something like this:
I am on the other side of the fence now.
I am the rebel.
Fuck the cause.

But that's just not me. 

Maybe I'm neither.
But that doesn't mean I'm nothing.
Maybe just nothing special.

Shit.  Maybe Mom was right- the world actually doesn't revolve around me.
Maybe I was right too- the world can use a brain like mine...in more than one way.

I don't know.  I'll give it some time.
But for now, I'm hanging up my fix-it belt and my super-cape.

Salt in the Wound

I can't sleep.  I'm too angry. 

Too disgusted with the human race tonight.  Too infuriated by political agendas, legal loopholes, and people who dodge the responsibility to be decent fucking human beings.  Too much.  It is too much tonight.

It's a night where I'm glad I sit alone in my bedroom and have nothing better to do then write in this stupid blog. 

Injustice makes me insanely angry.  I believe in unfaltering fairness- something that I know doesn't exist in this world.  But I believe in it all the same.  I try to practice it daily.  I own up and take responsibility when I fail or neglect to be fair.  So it would make sense, I think, to expect that of others.  That whole golden rule thing comes into play.

But life is not fair.  And neither are the people in it.

You know how I know this?  Because over a year ago, I worked in a town where I was chased out of my job.  I got reprimanded almost daily.  I was punished for being ill at work.  People called my home and harrassed me, leaving voice messages and ringing me in at all hours of the night.  Support groups in place for my position suddenly dropped their funding and pointed their fingers at me.  People began making up accounts where I had said something or done something inappropriate, and anyone who defended me suddenly became silent.  The lawyer I was appointed was batting for the other team because I was young enough to not need protection, or rather, not require the kind of protection I needed.

I experienced workplace abuse in the worst possible way- the kind where they can hide it in legal documents, claim hearsay, and state that everything "was documented".  Nothing was ever questioned.  I was never supported or protected.  I was burned at the stake.

And now, almost a year and a month later...I find out that this same place...has been defaming me to future employers.  And there's nothing I can do about it, because "good faith" practice dictates that they have the right to speak what they believe is the truth.

And it's bullshit.

I applied to over 70 jobs in the last 6 months.  I had at least 6 interviews.  I received a lot of "2nd place" phone calls.  And in my last interview, I found out why.  I had been charged with "unprofessional conduct" by my previous place of employment.  And only one person remains in that locale.  Only one that would even know my name well enough to speak ill of it.  And it was the man who was hell-bent on destroying me.  Either I would quit or I would be fired.  And he knew I had to stay to collect unemployment.  So he browbeat me until I collapsed- and then, when I did, he found a loophole in the contract that gave him grounds enough that a lawyer wouldn't push it too far- and fired me.

But I was supposed to have a neutral recommendation. 

Society dictates that if you tell a prospective employer not to contact a previous employer, that sends a red flag and shuts down any possibility of being employed anyhow.  Naturally I didn't want to ruin my chances.  So I trusted that the settlement that was agreed to by my lawyer and that town would be honored.

What a fucking moron I was.

My lawyer- surprise, surprise- is suddenly unreachable.  The people who are her closest contacts are some of the people who I later found out, destroyed me.  Half the district's evildoers have higher positions now.  And the monster?  Still gloating.  Apparently to everyone in the state.  So that's it.

Cornered doesn't begin to describe it.  Angry doesn't graze the surface of it.  Betrayal is so deep that you could drop a penny into the pit and never hear it hit bottom. 

And unjust.  Oh, GOD, the injustice. 

The central abuser is a pillar of society now.  Surrounded by his damned minions and his pen-and-paper accusations.  All I wanted to do was move on.  I thought if I let them dismiss me, it would finally be over.  I thought that if I left town and never spoke of it again, I'd be all right.  I'd find work again.

But people are evil.  And they like to chase others.  And watch them crumble.

And all I can do is hope and pray that someone does the same thing to them.
Only with ten times the ferocity.

This is where the human mind finds the word revenge appealing.  When something or someone acts in such a way that it destroys your way of life, instinct kicks in- fight back.  Unfortunately, fighting back has repercussions, and if you're a good citizen, well...you figure out pretty quick that fighting back will only hurt you again.  But some people ignore that.  I wish I could be one of those people.  But I'm not.  I like being a good citizen too much.

But this is the last smackdown from "the system" that I can take.  And I don't know how, or with what means, but I will work and live and thrive outside of large public corporate structures if it kills me.  I will trust no one and no thing, and no system and no place, and no belief and no "mindset", and if anyone or anything demands that of me, I will run, as fast as I can, in the opposite direction.  (I might make an exception for my husband.)

Rest in peace, trust.  Rest in peace, respect.  Rest in pieces.  I'll miss you.  I'll miss the faith I had in the judicial system, in the system of checks and balances within a workspace...I'll miss feeling like I could finally have some normalcy in my life.

Because as long as I live, I will never go back to working in that part of the public sector.  Ever.  Again.
I'd like to keep my soul while it's still battered and breathing.
If it is, anyway...


Motherfuckers.