Dear Dad and Mother,
Why didn't you ever tell me that I could actually succeed at a relationship? I have now spent the last 13 months in a relationship that was not the best relationship for me to be in. The relationship was emotionally abusive for me, but I was out to convince myself that I could actually succeed at a relationship. You always told me that without Christ, a relationship would never last. You told me that without my parent's blessing, a relationship would never last. You told me that without a marriage certificate and a Church wedding, a relationship would never last. You told me that without courtship, a relationship would never last. You told me that unless I followed your perfect formula that doesn't even work in this world, a relationship would never last.
I threw all of those values out of the window as I matured. I don't know if I'm a Christian or if I believe in God. I don't believe I need your blessing or that I even need to be married. I don't believe in courtship or even waiting until marriage. Somewhere deep down in my unconscious, I thought that with throwing all of those teachings out of the window, I was also throwing out any chance of succeeding in a relationship.
You were wrong. I can succeed in a relationship. I can have a great relationship. I can be happy. I can have a great life without following your formula.
Why didn't you teach me that instead of all these other insignificant things? Teaching me self-worth would have helped me so much better in this life. Actually valuing myself would have helped me to make well better choices. All your teachings and rules only made the road to happiness and relationships even longer and more painful. You hurt me instead of helping me. There are just so many things I wish learned at a younger age. I wish I could know then what I know now.
Another Invisible Daughter
Monday, September 8, 2014
Thursday, July 24, 2014
I'm not Invisible Anymore
I grew up invisible. That is why I chose my blog to be called "Another Invisible Daughter." I was a middle child. I was a girl. I was quiet and followed the rules. I did my work and I stayed out of sight. I grew up knowing that the only time I would be thought about was if a chore had not been completed or if I was seen. Looking back, I think one of the best things that could have happened in our growing up years is our family moving to a farm. Once we were on the farm, we could disappear into the fields and woods for hours at a time, often beyond our mother's voice range. When we were out of sight, it was way less likely that Mother would lash out on us.
Some of my other siblings did not take so quietly to the abuse and this drew the attention away from me. Until I was a teenager, I was my parent's easy child. But I also knew that I was completely invisible. I was four years old the first time I started planning on running away. I made plans many more times over the next years. One thing that I never thought about was that my family might notice I was gone. I figured they wouldn't notice.
At church, I was never one of the popular girls. I considered myself lucky if I got to hang out with the group of girls my age. My family was a little to strict to make friends, so I only had shallow friendships. I was so invisible that other mothers wouldn't even consider me for babysitting. All my other friends got to go help new mothers but I was never considered.
When I was older (my mid-teens), we met a wonderful family that realize the pain us siblings were in and reached out to help the older siblings. I, however, did not quite make it into those lucky ones who got the counseling and the friendships. I didn't get to go out clothes shopping with the "older" girls (although one was only a few months older than me). I was completely forgotten. My siblings and this family would have "dreams" and "revelations" about all the wonderful things that were going to happen in their lives and about how godly and spiritual they were. Not a single one of those "dreams" and "revelations" contained a single thing about me. I was hurt so deeply. I cried every day because I was not a good enough person to be considered for a friend. I repented of every sin I knew of and constantly beat myself up over not being spiritual enough to be considered for all the great things God was going to do through my siblings. In fact, I still hurt now when thinking about the pain and the rejection of those years.
Being an invisible child and young adult had an effect on me that I didn't even realize until the other day. I still consider myself invisible but I'm actually not. I think that no one will ever think about me or talk about me. I think that I can go through my day without leaving a mark on those around me. I think that no one will remember me or what I've said or mention me to another person.
You see, I am a liar. A chronic liar. An impulsive liar. I lie about everything to everyone, even those closest to me. I try to hide everything in my life. I make up stories for even no reason at all. If I were invisible, then lying would be of no consequence. However, I am not invisible. I am another person that other people know and talk about and care about. When you're a real person, it hurts other people when you lie. When you are a real person, lying matters. Now I just have to remind myself that I am a real person. I am not invisible.
Some of my other siblings did not take so quietly to the abuse and this drew the attention away from me. Until I was a teenager, I was my parent's easy child. But I also knew that I was completely invisible. I was four years old the first time I started planning on running away. I made plans many more times over the next years. One thing that I never thought about was that my family might notice I was gone. I figured they wouldn't notice.
At church, I was never one of the popular girls. I considered myself lucky if I got to hang out with the group of girls my age. My family was a little to strict to make friends, so I only had shallow friendships. I was so invisible that other mothers wouldn't even consider me for babysitting. All my other friends got to go help new mothers but I was never considered.
When I was older (my mid-teens), we met a wonderful family that realize the pain us siblings were in and reached out to help the older siblings. I, however, did not quite make it into those lucky ones who got the counseling and the friendships. I didn't get to go out clothes shopping with the "older" girls (although one was only a few months older than me). I was completely forgotten. My siblings and this family would have "dreams" and "revelations" about all the wonderful things that were going to happen in their lives and about how godly and spiritual they were. Not a single one of those "dreams" and "revelations" contained a single thing about me. I was hurt so deeply. I cried every day because I was not a good enough person to be considered for a friend. I repented of every sin I knew of and constantly beat myself up over not being spiritual enough to be considered for all the great things God was going to do through my siblings. In fact, I still hurt now when thinking about the pain and the rejection of those years.
Being an invisible child and young adult had an effect on me that I didn't even realize until the other day. I still consider myself invisible but I'm actually not. I think that no one will ever think about me or talk about me. I think that I can go through my day without leaving a mark on those around me. I think that no one will remember me or what I've said or mention me to another person.
You see, I am a liar. A chronic liar. An impulsive liar. I lie about everything to everyone, even those closest to me. I try to hide everything in my life. I make up stories for even no reason at all. If I were invisible, then lying would be of no consequence. However, I am not invisible. I am another person that other people know and talk about and care about. When you're a real person, it hurts other people when you lie. When you are a real person, lying matters. Now I just have to remind myself that I am a real person. I am not invisible.
Friday, June 27, 2014
I am Superior Because I Believe Differently Than You?
Recently I've become obsessed with researching polygamy in the United States in the religion of Latter Day Saints. With the new season of Sister Wives starting this month, I have had a renewed interest in the show. I started watching some of the previous seasons on Netflix but quickly found that I couldn't watch too many seasons before both becoming bored (I actually find the show extremely boring) as wall as depressed about the conditions that the "wives" were living in. Despite the best efforts of TLC and the Brown family, I felt that the sadness, loneliness, and jealousy still showed through. I also started reading things about the Brown family online and saw many people mention that the book they have written shows a lot more of the sadness of their lives. I went online to Amazon and read the sample of the book. Unfortunately, the excerpt I read with Kody writing was too much selfishness for me so I did not purchase the book. However, there were other books suggested that also talked about polygamy. Over the last week, I have poured myself into reading multiple stories about women living in Mormon polygamy.
You can do your own research into the history of polygamy in the Mormon church. Polygamy is not accepted now in the mainstream Mormon church. Only the fundamentalist Mormons still practice polygamy. While reading the books, I started realizing there were so many similarities between Mormon and Christian fundamentalists. They all claim that you have to live a superior life to make it to heaven while the rest of the world is going to hell in a handbasket. They believe in suppressing women. They believe that children don't really matter except for advancing the gospel or out-populating the unbelievers. They believe the American government is the devil himself and that Christ will someday pour out all kinds of judgement for all the evil things the government has done.
Growing up, I was taught that the unbelievers (all people who did not live their lives exactly as we did) were empty and soulless. I was taught that their lives felt pointless and that they were never truly happy. I was taught that they had a huge gaping hole in their heart that could only be filled by the god. Although many things that I was taught growing up never came with real life examples and thus evidence for me, this was one thing I thought my dad was an authority in because he had been an unbeliever up until his late teens.
I have been questioning many things about the god recently. I have found that I can't really believe that he is there, at least the way the Christian world paints him. Sometimes I have become jealous of people who have grown up in normal homes because they can go to Church without questioning all the horrible lies the church teaches them. One of the things I've been questioning is the whole theory of the emptiness of unbelievers. One night as I climbed into bed with my partner, I looked at him and realized he was one of those people who my dad taught me had a deep emptiness and could never truly be happy. That's when I realized that my dad was just plain wrong. My partner does not have a hole in his soul. He's not always turning from one bad thing to another to fill that "hole". He's not unhappy. In fact, I think he's happier than my dad. I think his life is way more fulfilling than my dad. I think he feels his life has more purpose than my dad thinks about his own life.
The next day as I was driving to work, I started looking at the people in the cars next to me. I realized that all of my life I had been taught I was superior to them because I knew the "gospel". I had been taught that I was privileged because I had been taught religion from my youngest age. I was taught that I was superior to them because I actually did believe in what our religion said while all the other people didn't. These people aren't any better or worse or different than me. We all feel the same things. We all are trying to achieve what we think is the most important in our lives. We are all doing what we feel morally obligated to do. I'm not any better than them. I am not more enlightened than them. I am not holier than them. I hate that I was taught these awful lies while growing up. I hate that I was taught that our way was better and the only way. I hate that I was taught that other people had something fundamentally wrong with them just because they didn't believe the same as I did. I hate that I was taught the only way to happiness was through believing everything my parents told me.
You can do your own research into the history of polygamy in the Mormon church. Polygamy is not accepted now in the mainstream Mormon church. Only the fundamentalist Mormons still practice polygamy. While reading the books, I started realizing there were so many similarities between Mormon and Christian fundamentalists. They all claim that you have to live a superior life to make it to heaven while the rest of the world is going to hell in a handbasket. They believe in suppressing women. They believe that children don't really matter except for advancing the gospel or out-populating the unbelievers. They believe the American government is the devil himself and that Christ will someday pour out all kinds of judgement for all the evil things the government has done.
Growing up, I was taught that the unbelievers (all people who did not live their lives exactly as we did) were empty and soulless. I was taught that their lives felt pointless and that they were never truly happy. I was taught that they had a huge gaping hole in their heart that could only be filled by the god. Although many things that I was taught growing up never came with real life examples and thus evidence for me, this was one thing I thought my dad was an authority in because he had been an unbeliever up until his late teens.
I have been questioning many things about the god recently. I have found that I can't really believe that he is there, at least the way the Christian world paints him. Sometimes I have become jealous of people who have grown up in normal homes because they can go to Church without questioning all the horrible lies the church teaches them. One of the things I've been questioning is the whole theory of the emptiness of unbelievers. One night as I climbed into bed with my partner, I looked at him and realized he was one of those people who my dad taught me had a deep emptiness and could never truly be happy. That's when I realized that my dad was just plain wrong. My partner does not have a hole in his soul. He's not always turning from one bad thing to another to fill that "hole". He's not unhappy. In fact, I think he's happier than my dad. I think his life is way more fulfilling than my dad. I think he feels his life has more purpose than my dad thinks about his own life.
The next day as I was driving to work, I started looking at the people in the cars next to me. I realized that all of my life I had been taught I was superior to them because I knew the "gospel". I had been taught that I was privileged because I had been taught religion from my youngest age. I was taught that I was superior to them because I actually did believe in what our religion said while all the other people didn't. These people aren't any better or worse or different than me. We all feel the same things. We all are trying to achieve what we think is the most important in our lives. We are all doing what we feel morally obligated to do. I'm not any better than them. I am not more enlightened than them. I am not holier than them. I hate that I was taught these awful lies while growing up. I hate that I was taught that our way was better and the only way. I hate that I was taught that other people had something fundamentally wrong with them just because they didn't believe the same as I did. I hate that I was taught the only way to happiness was through believing everything my parents told me.
Friday, June 20, 2014
Day Six: Day Five and Meeting Guys Continued
This is a continued story of my sexual experience as a young adult in a patriarchal home. This second part is hard for me to write about because I feel great shame about my actions. Sometimes I want someone to tell me that what I did doesn't make me a bad person, but deep down I still feel like my sexual history makes me an awful person. What is hardest for me is that at the time it never crossed my mind that what I was doing wasn't honorable. I didn't value my body or my life. I treated myself like trash because I really thought I was trash. I was never treated as someone valuable, outside of my ability to produce godly children. Because I had started to reject all christianity, I rejected everything that I had been taught was valuable about me.
If you thought my first post was bad, just wait until the second part of my story. That's when my life started really unraveling. That's when it starts to show that I had no idea what morals even were. At the time, most of what I did didn't bother me or even strike me as wrong or even abnormal. I thought I was finally having a normal experience. My perception of the real world was so skewed. I thought I was just fitting in. Writing this second part is really baring my soul for the first time. There is not a single person that I have told my sexual story to, not even my partner. This is the first time my complete story has ever been told and it's scary for me.
I ended my last post with me loosing my virginity to Guy1, who was dating Girlfriend1. I still had a twisted idea of sex and love and relationships all being linked. Guy1 was "safe" for me because he wasn't in a relationship with me, but I also deep down wanted a relationship with him. I longed for a real boyfriend. I remember about a week after I lost my virginity to Guy1, Girlfriend1 (who was still my friend) called me and told me that Guy1 said he wanted to marry her. I was crushed and confused. How could he want to marry her while he was sneaking off to meet with me almost every night? This strange new world just didn't make sense to me. To add to my confusion, we continued messing around but Guy1 also tried to hook me up with other guys.
Within a month of loosing my virginity, I started messing around with Guy2, who Guy1 had hooked me up with. Within a couple weeks of meeting each other and the first time we were alone together, we had sex. I barely knew the guy. The next week or so I showered him with my loving and texts and thought I had forever with him. Honestly now looking back I am still embarrassed with myself for how fast I moved. Then one day he announced that he couldn't be in a relationship with me. I don't really remember all the reasons he cited to me but one that I remembered very well was that he knew my parent's wouldn't let that happen.
Guy2 had broken off any chance of a relationship with me but I was still desperate for attention. I was broken and took it really badly. However, Guy2 also had a drinking problem. The next weekend he got drunk and he decided he wanted to hang out with me. I felt obligated to give him sex because he was willing to hang out with me. I remember several occasions I did not want to have sex with him but had sex anyway because I thought he'd never hang out with me again if I didn't have sex with him. Over the next several months things continued the same. We weren't in a relationship but we'd hang out together and I'd give him sex. During these months, I began messing around with Guy1 again. I loved Guy1 more, but I knew Guy2 was more available.
I remember one day I really wanted to meet up with Guy1 but he was busy so I went with Guy2 instead. I strictly only wanted to hang out with Guy2 and not have sex. However, by this time Guy2 was used to our routine of hanging out and then having sex. I was laying in his bed with him when he started making sexual advances. I fought off his advances but they were of no avail. I don't know if he took me fighting off his advances as a game or if he really didn't care about me. My fighting off his advances didn't stop him. He was stronger than me. That day was the first time I truly felt myself dissociating. He did his thing while my mind left my body so not to feel the searing pain in my chest. That night I cried and cried and cried. Despite the experience, I didn't stop seeing Guy2 or even stop having sex with him. I think at that point the consensual part of the sex was out of the window with Guy2, though. He and I both didn't care if I wanted to have sex or not.
A couple months after loosing my virginity and loosing Guy2, Guy3 became single. I wrote about Guy3 before in some of my journal entries. Guy3 was one of the first guys I had a crush on and he was really close to me. When Guy3 became single, we started talking for real and especially talking about starting messing around. However, my parents had scheduled me to leave town for a couple weeks to help out some family members. These weeks fell right after Guy3 and I started talking about starting messing around. I left to the family member's house and before I came back Guy3 was dating another girl. I was crushed beyond measure. I didn't even know I was competing with another girl. I had thought he was truly interested in me. I took this rejection as sealing that something was wrong with me. When I came back, there was still a sexual charge between us and I ended up having sex with him despite his girlfriend.
Now enters the man who flirted with me during my tryouts for the activity. He started pursuing me again and somehow got my number. I still loved him flirting with me and it gave me a high. I thought we were going to be a relationship. We talked and texted and talked about meeting up. Then one day he posted pictures on Facebook of the girlfriend he had told me he had broken up with. I was devastated once again. I felt so tricked and disillusioned. During this time I was still keeping up with Guy1, Guy2, and Guy3.
My TV show is on now so I'm going to finish this another day. To be continued...
If you thought my first post was bad, just wait until the second part of my story. That's when my life started really unraveling. That's when it starts to show that I had no idea what morals even were. At the time, most of what I did didn't bother me or even strike me as wrong or even abnormal. I thought I was finally having a normal experience. My perception of the real world was so skewed. I thought I was just fitting in. Writing this second part is really baring my soul for the first time. There is not a single person that I have told my sexual story to, not even my partner. This is the first time my complete story has ever been told and it's scary for me.
I ended my last post with me loosing my virginity to Guy1, who was dating Girlfriend1. I still had a twisted idea of sex and love and relationships all being linked. Guy1 was "safe" for me because he wasn't in a relationship with me, but I also deep down wanted a relationship with him. I longed for a real boyfriend. I remember about a week after I lost my virginity to Guy1, Girlfriend1 (who was still my friend) called me and told me that Guy1 said he wanted to marry her. I was crushed and confused. How could he want to marry her while he was sneaking off to meet with me almost every night? This strange new world just didn't make sense to me. To add to my confusion, we continued messing around but Guy1 also tried to hook me up with other guys.
Within a month of loosing my virginity, I started messing around with Guy2, who Guy1 had hooked me up with. Within a couple weeks of meeting each other and the first time we were alone together, we had sex. I barely knew the guy. The next week or so I showered him with my loving and texts and thought I had forever with him. Honestly now looking back I am still embarrassed with myself for how fast I moved. Then one day he announced that he couldn't be in a relationship with me. I don't really remember all the reasons he cited to me but one that I remembered very well was that he knew my parent's wouldn't let that happen.
Guy2 had broken off any chance of a relationship with me but I was still desperate for attention. I was broken and took it really badly. However, Guy2 also had a drinking problem. The next weekend he got drunk and he decided he wanted to hang out with me. I felt obligated to give him sex because he was willing to hang out with me. I remember several occasions I did not want to have sex with him but had sex anyway because I thought he'd never hang out with me again if I didn't have sex with him. Over the next several months things continued the same. We weren't in a relationship but we'd hang out together and I'd give him sex. During these months, I began messing around with Guy1 again. I loved Guy1 more, but I knew Guy2 was more available.
I remember one day I really wanted to meet up with Guy1 but he was busy so I went with Guy2 instead. I strictly only wanted to hang out with Guy2 and not have sex. However, by this time Guy2 was used to our routine of hanging out and then having sex. I was laying in his bed with him when he started making sexual advances. I fought off his advances but they were of no avail. I don't know if he took me fighting off his advances as a game or if he really didn't care about me. My fighting off his advances didn't stop him. He was stronger than me. That day was the first time I truly felt myself dissociating. He did his thing while my mind left my body so not to feel the searing pain in my chest. That night I cried and cried and cried. Despite the experience, I didn't stop seeing Guy2 or even stop having sex with him. I think at that point the consensual part of the sex was out of the window with Guy2, though. He and I both didn't care if I wanted to have sex or not.
A couple months after loosing my virginity and loosing Guy2, Guy3 became single. I wrote about Guy3 before in some of my journal entries. Guy3 was one of the first guys I had a crush on and he was really close to me. When Guy3 became single, we started talking for real and especially talking about starting messing around. However, my parents had scheduled me to leave town for a couple weeks to help out some family members. These weeks fell right after Guy3 and I started talking about starting messing around. I left to the family member's house and before I came back Guy3 was dating another girl. I was crushed beyond measure. I didn't even know I was competing with another girl. I had thought he was truly interested in me. I took this rejection as sealing that something was wrong with me. When I came back, there was still a sexual charge between us and I ended up having sex with him despite his girlfriend.
Now enters the man who flirted with me during my tryouts for the activity. He started pursuing me again and somehow got my number. I still loved him flirting with me and it gave me a high. I thought we were going to be a relationship. We talked and texted and talked about meeting up. Then one day he posted pictures on Facebook of the girlfriend he had told me he had broken up with. I was devastated once again. I felt so tricked and disillusioned. During this time I was still keeping up with Guy1, Guy2, and Guy3.
My TV show is on now so I'm going to finish this another day. To be continued...
Wednesday, June 11, 2014
Day Five: My Teen Years and Meeting Guys
One of the things that has caused me the most shame in my life is my sexual history. I am starting to believe that there is a reason for my actions. That there was some kind of deep psychological issue the compelled me to do the things I did. I'm not sure if there is or if I'm actually just a slut. I might be. But I believe patriarchy made me into a slut. That is probably a very controversial statement but wait while I tell you my story...
My story begins when I was sixteen. By the time I was sixteen, my family had gone through some really really rough times. We were financially devastated, emotionally exhausted, and our family relationships had long gone down the drain, through the sewer, and out into the ocean. My parents had left many churches over the last couple years and moved us around the country repeatedly. I was left questioning everything I knew. My parents seemed to believe one thing at one church and then when they would leave they would tell us that they expected us to "discern" what was the truth (or what my dad thought was the truth). I hadn't had friends in years. Every time I had gotten close to any friends, we would have to move again. The only person I was really close to was my next older brother and he was having serious issues with "rebelling." He had actually left home for a bit and gone to a different state. By the time I was sixteen he had moved back in, if nothing else because he was broke. When I was sixteen, my dad finally got a semi-permanent job and we started to settle down and not move quite as much.
Although I loved the stability of actually having a home, I was bored out of my mind. My parents were on their no-churching streak so they viewed going to church as wrong. So we didn't go to church. The homeschool group in that area was too secular, so we didn't get involved in it. We didn't get involved in anything. The highlight of my day was being allowed to walk to the end of the driveway to get the mail and paper and then doing the Sudoku. The only time I left the house was to go grocery shopping with my mother or going to the library once a month. However, I was fed up with the library because I had read through all the books that my mother had approved and I was tired of having my mother tell me that the book I chose was no appropriate for me.
My brother found an extracurricular activity outside of the home that we will call "team building" to help protect my identity. He loved this activity and would be gone several days a week participating in it. I missed him terribly. I would literally cry and wait up for him at night because I was so lonely. One day, my brother decided that it would be great for me to try out for the activity as well. It took my parents forever to deliberate on whether it was appropriate for a girl to do an activity outside of the home. I remember writing multiple journal entries wondering if it was god's will that I do the activity. My parents decided that that activity was appropriate for me and I went one evening to try out for it. That evening would change me forever.
That evening I had something stirred in me that had never been stirred before. A guy flirted with me. I had no idea what to do and it made me blush and giggle. All the people at the activity were amused by my reaction.
That night, I wrote a really long journal entry about what I would do if this man asked me to be his girlfriend. A little bit of an overreaction? Now add to that that his man was probably 8 or 9 years older than me, which would have made any relations illegal. I didn't know how to control my emotions and I was feeling something I had never felt before. I was on a high and I was getting a sexual satisfaction over thinking about that one time the guy had flirted with me. I remember from that journal entry that I concluded that yes I could morally be his girlfriend. Now I realize how I think all my parents teaching never sunk in to me. Already at 16 I was willing to date instead of court and even date someone who was not a Christian! I don't think I ever bought my parents ideas, honestly. I think never buying into my parents' ideas was part of why I lacked morals overall. My parents never let us question anything and I knew that they weren't looking out for the best for us, they were only looking out for the best for their reputation. All moral teaching I was taught, I just combined with the other bullshit teachings and threw them all out the window.
I did make the tryouts for the activity and a few months later I was fully participating in it. I quickly made friends with those who were around my brother's and my age. I loved that time. I was learning for the first time how to be a friend. I was finally accepted for who I was. But I was also learning how socially awkward as well as innocent I was. I was hearing people talk about sex for the first time in my life. I still only knew the very basics of sex that my mother had told me: "the penis enters the vagina." I remember hearing one girl talking about how a piercing on a guy had torn her up inside by the movement and I was so curious as to how there was movement during sex. In fact, I didn't realize how there was movement in sex until the night I lost my virginity. I strictly thought the penis entered the vagina and bam sex was done. After only a couple months participating in the activity, I wanted boys' attention and I wanted to be less innocent.
Here's a few of my journal entries from around that time:
Within about a month of the time of that entry I had had my first kiss. Once again, I don't think I was really attracted to the guy or even really liked him. I saw it as a great honor for any guy to pay any attention to me. I was so nervous about the kiss that I threw up afterward. That night, I don't think I daydreamed about the guy. Only that I finally had had a kiss. I still saw myself as so undesirable that I thought after that night the guy would never talk to me again.
The journal entries stop for the most part there for the next couple months. Over the next couple months, I started texting Guy1 long into the night. Finally one thing led to another, and we had sex one night. I lost my virginity the first night I saw a real human adult penis. I lost my virginity without ever having kissed the guy. I lost my virginity to Girlfriend1's boyfriend. She was also my friend. I wrote about the night that I lost my virginity but I don't think it's very appropriate for anywhere except a porn site. I'll put one thing I wrote: "It made me feel like I was worth something a special to have him looking at me." I thought I was using him. I thought I was using him because I was willing to finally break my innoncence. My innocence was something my parents protected so strongly but was something I saw as a curse. I thought that was what made me so different from everyone else. I thought I wasn't worth anyone's time, much less love. I knew he loved someone else and I knew it was wrong. I think there was something in me that thought he was "safe" because he wouldn't love me. I wouldn't have to go through the pain of rejection because it was only physical.
To be continued.
My story begins when I was sixteen. By the time I was sixteen, my family had gone through some really really rough times. We were financially devastated, emotionally exhausted, and our family relationships had long gone down the drain, through the sewer, and out into the ocean. My parents had left many churches over the last couple years and moved us around the country repeatedly. I was left questioning everything I knew. My parents seemed to believe one thing at one church and then when they would leave they would tell us that they expected us to "discern" what was the truth (or what my dad thought was the truth). I hadn't had friends in years. Every time I had gotten close to any friends, we would have to move again. The only person I was really close to was my next older brother and he was having serious issues with "rebelling." He had actually left home for a bit and gone to a different state. By the time I was sixteen he had moved back in, if nothing else because he was broke. When I was sixteen, my dad finally got a semi-permanent job and we started to settle down and not move quite as much.
Although I loved the stability of actually having a home, I was bored out of my mind. My parents were on their no-churching streak so they viewed going to church as wrong. So we didn't go to church. The homeschool group in that area was too secular, so we didn't get involved in it. We didn't get involved in anything. The highlight of my day was being allowed to walk to the end of the driveway to get the mail and paper and then doing the Sudoku. The only time I left the house was to go grocery shopping with my mother or going to the library once a month. However, I was fed up with the library because I had read through all the books that my mother had approved and I was tired of having my mother tell me that the book I chose was no appropriate for me.
My brother found an extracurricular activity outside of the home that we will call "team building" to help protect my identity. He loved this activity and would be gone several days a week participating in it. I missed him terribly. I would literally cry and wait up for him at night because I was so lonely. One day, my brother decided that it would be great for me to try out for the activity as well. It took my parents forever to deliberate on whether it was appropriate for a girl to do an activity outside of the home. I remember writing multiple journal entries wondering if it was god's will that I do the activity. My parents decided that that activity was appropriate for me and I went one evening to try out for it. That evening would change me forever.
That evening I had something stirred in me that had never been stirred before. A guy flirted with me. I had no idea what to do and it made me blush and giggle. All the people at the activity were amused by my reaction.
That night, I wrote a really long journal entry about what I would do if this man asked me to be his girlfriend. A little bit of an overreaction? Now add to that that his man was probably 8 or 9 years older than me, which would have made any relations illegal. I didn't know how to control my emotions and I was feeling something I had never felt before. I was on a high and I was getting a sexual satisfaction over thinking about that one time the guy had flirted with me. I remember from that journal entry that I concluded that yes I could morally be his girlfriend. Now I realize how I think all my parents teaching never sunk in to me. Already at 16 I was willing to date instead of court and even date someone who was not a Christian! I don't think I ever bought my parents ideas, honestly. I think never buying into my parents' ideas was part of why I lacked morals overall. My parents never let us question anything and I knew that they weren't looking out for the best for us, they were only looking out for the best for their reputation. All moral teaching I was taught, I just combined with the other bullshit teachings and threw them all out the window.
I did make the tryouts for the activity and a few months later I was fully participating in it. I quickly made friends with those who were around my brother's and my age. I loved that time. I was learning for the first time how to be a friend. I was finally accepted for who I was. But I was also learning how socially awkward as well as innocent I was. I was hearing people talk about sex for the first time in my life. I still only knew the very basics of sex that my mother had told me: "the penis enters the vagina." I remember hearing one girl talking about how a piercing on a guy had torn her up inside by the movement and I was so curious as to how there was movement during sex. In fact, I didn't realize how there was movement in sex until the night I lost my virginity. I strictly thought the penis entered the vagina and bam sex was done. After only a couple months participating in the activity, I wanted boys' attention and I wanted to be less innocent.
Here's a few of my journal entries from around that time:
"August 18 2008
"I am an average height 17-year-old with medium long black hair and brown eyes.
"At this point in my life I am about the happiest I have ever been, at least most of the time. Sometimes i think this is also the saddest time of my life. I certainly cry alot.
"But never before have I had friends I am so close to and who I can talk so freely with. Never before have I had friends who would stand by me in all times and who also need me at times. Often I can't even believe it. And yet sometimes it seems like they also bring heartache. I have come to believe every true friend will make you cry at some point, at least if you are a girl.
"I still often feel awkward and out of place with alot of people, but things are getting better. I still want to cry when I see boyfriends with their girlfriends, but I am starting to get over it. I have to be content the way I am before things can change. I still feel unattractive and uninteresting. I still long for a boyfriend but i am starting to wonder if I will ever have one. I have just had to be honest with myself with that one. The way I grew up totally f*cked my younger years up. Because of that I am often stupidly ignorant. Who wants to date an ignorant girl? Mother and Dad say they would let me love someone, but in practice they really wouldn't. Who wants to have to deal with my parents? No one so far. Between that and learning how innocent I am, no one wants to love me or anything like that.
"I wonder what most people would think if they learned that I have never been kissed? I mean, I think most people can tell. I'll never forget the night Guy3 told me to call him. Mother and Dad were out of town so when I got home I called him. We talked about our day and and then he asked me if I had ever been kissed. When i told him no he was very surprised. He couldn't believe it. That night he was telling me how he wished he could have a backrub. He jokingly told me I should walk to his house. I now know what he wanted. I really can't believe I. I can't believe he actually liked me that much. I think the fact that I had never been kissed before kinda scared him off. I really can't believe either that he would have cheated on Girlfriend2. He loves that girl so much. Oh god I want to cry even now when I think of the chance I passed by. Why didn't we go through with it? Why was I stupid and shy? Why do I still have to be so f*cking innocent? Oh god will I ever have a chance again? I haven't since then and there is no chance in the near future except maybe with J*** and I certainly don't want that! Today as I realize more and more what J*** wanted and what a one in a million opportunity I had, I just want to go crazy. I am about to cry because now he has Girlfriend2. Now neither him nor I would ever do that to her. No girl with any self respect could let her friend's boyfriend cheat with her."I saw any guy paying any attention to me as a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I sincerely thought that I might NEVER have a chance again with ANY guy.
Within about a month of the time of that entry I had had my first kiss. Once again, I don't think I was really attracted to the guy or even really liked him. I saw it as a great honor for any guy to pay any attention to me. I was so nervous about the kiss that I threw up afterward. That night, I don't think I daydreamed about the guy. Only that I finally had had a kiss. I still saw myself as so undesirable that I thought after that night the guy would never talk to me again.
"August 28, 2008
"So Guy1 is telling me that I need to find someone that can give me what I need. He says it doesn't have to be anything serious. He says it will help me. I totally agree at least in theory, but my question is who would be willing to give me what I need? Who on earth would be willing to put up with my stress and drama? And my clingy-ness? Oh god I wish I knew what to do!""Who would be willing to give me what I need?" I had so little respect for myself that I though I would be lucky if I could even get one guy to break my innocence. I wasn't even looking for a guy to be my boyfriend or to love me. I thought I was unlovable. I thought no one would ever love me. I doubt I even knew what love was at that point. My parents "loved" me and I wanted as far away from that as possible.
"[No date]
"No one cares. No one really wants to be my friend. Why did I ever think that they would? Why did I think I was good enough for them? No I'm just a f*cking homeschooled brat who needs to go back to her shell and not feel anything. Not care if she is treated like nothing. Not care if she's ignored. Why did I think they were my friends? They don't care for me. They don't care if I never come back. They don't care if they never see me again. Why did I ever come out of my f*cking shell? Why? Why? They don't care for me. They abandoned me the first chance they got. But the facts are the facts and I need to accept them and move on. If they don't really care, then I need to tell them f*ck you and find some others. I need people! I need someone!I honestly don't know what happened that prompted that journal entry. Obviously, it was a very emotional outburst caused by something that had really hurt me. I still can remember the searing pain of those years. I mentioned there how I had finally opened my shell a little. Being turned down for me was the end of the world. I didn't know how to control my feelings. I didn't know how to express my feelings to others. I didn't know how to tell them that my feelings were hurt without lashing out on them and trying to burn all bridges. I was so emotionally dysfunctional and it was so extremely painful for me.
The journal entries stop for the most part there for the next couple months. Over the next couple months, I started texting Guy1 long into the night. Finally one thing led to another, and we had sex one night. I lost my virginity the first night I saw a real human adult penis. I lost my virginity without ever having kissed the guy. I lost my virginity to Girlfriend1's boyfriend. She was also my friend. I wrote about the night that I lost my virginity but I don't think it's very appropriate for anywhere except a porn site. I'll put one thing I wrote: "It made me feel like I was worth something a special to have him looking at me." I thought I was using him. I thought I was using him because I was willing to finally break my innoncence. My innocence was something my parents protected so strongly but was something I saw as a curse. I thought that was what made me so different from everyone else. I thought I wasn't worth anyone's time, much less love. I knew he loved someone else and I knew it was wrong. I think there was something in me that thought he was "safe" because he wouldn't love me. I wouldn't have to go through the pain of rejection because it was only physical.
To be continued.
Saturday, June 7, 2014
A Week of Memories Day Four: Coming Out about Sexual Abuse
I’ve come to the realization that I cannot write about a new
memory/issue every day. It’s just too triggering and traumatic for me. I now
have three or four different memories that I’ve started writing about but just
couldn’t finish. Most of the time, by the time I got as far as I did, I was
experiencing a very bad headache and was in a very bad mood (both signs of a
lot of triggering going on for me).
My mother realized that from an early age I was easily controlled by fear. This was a huge break for my mother who is extremely manipulative and she will probably use that technique over me for the rest of my life. I've grown a tougher skin to my mother's manipulation and have realized how really outlandish her ideas are. I strongly disagree with the means my mother used to manipulate me with fear. One fear she played on me was my fear of sexual assault. Lately I have been trying to come to terms with the question on whether or not I've been sexually abused. My sexual abuse is not something clear-cut and easy to define. My brain has done a wonderful job of blocking many painful memories. And on top of all that, we were repeatedly taught we were raised in a sexual safe haven.
However, I have come to believe that I was sexually abused as a daughter in a fundamentalist homeschooling movement.
One of my first memories of my life (and of my sexual abuse) is on a sweltering hot day. That day one of my brothers needed to go to the doctor because he was sick. That was back when my parents still took us to the doctor when we got sick. Mom left us in the car with all the other siblings because she didn't want to make a scene in the doctors office because we were always too noisy. I remember being covered in sweat and wanting to step out of the car just for a few minutes of fresh air. I also remember I was wearing my favorite grass-green skirt. I was playing with one of my brother's match-box cars in my lap when my mother came back. When my mother came back, she accused me of "playing with myself" (playing with my private parts). I don't know if I was innocently masturbating or really just playing with the car in my lap. I remember being confused because whatever I was doing I didn't think anything was wrong with it. She told me that if she caught me again doing that, she would take me right into the doctor's office and have me checked out for what was wrong with me.
From that interaction, I learned that someone seeing my privates was an extreme humiliation and also could be used as a means of punishment. I learned that I didn't have control over my own body. I learned that if I was doing something that my mother did not like, she could have another person take advantage of my body and violate me. I learned the doctors could be used as a form of punishment. I also learned to be terrified of touching myself, even in ways that I thought were totally appropriate.
Around that time, my brother and I started doing our own exploration. This brother is barely older than me and we went through many stages of our mental development together. We hit a phase of curiosity at the same time, so we turned to each other for answers. We had a game where we would play "penis and bottom." This went on for probably awhile. We would play it whenever we could find some time where no one would interrupt us. I don't remember all that went into the game, but I remember we would draw bottoms and penises and vagina's. I'm pretty sure that's where I learned the name "penis." We would also take turns urinating into the baby's diapers we had stolen from the baby's dresser. Pretty much, we were doing what typical children do when exploring sexuality and sexual differences. But then we got caught. We had gone into my bedroom and locked the door. We thought the family was busy with other things but our dad decided to come get us for some chores. He found the door locked and when we let him in he pretty quickly figured out what was going on. I got a huge spanking from that, got all sweets taken away for a month, and we could never play behind closed doors again. My natural curiosity was met with so much anger and shaming that once again completely confused me.
I think a practice that is common among many fundamentalist families is what my family called bare-bottom spankings. Depending on how bad the infraction was, we had levels of nakedness for our spankings. We would either be spanked just bending over the bed, or we had to pull our dresses up and be spanked with just our underwear on, or we had to pull down our underwear as well to be spanked without any protection while bending over a bed. I don't know if there were any of the popular child raising experts promoting this practice. At some point I'm sure I'll look it up but at this point I know that looking it up will probably trigger me to the point where I won't finish this post, so I'll put looking it up off for now. This whole practice screams inappropriateness to me now. I strongly believe the only time that a child should be seen naked is when he wants to be and is being helped by his parent. For example, help with bathing. By they time the child minds his parents seeing him naked, he is usually bathing by himself. I strongly believe that even if spanking is used, the child should never have to remove clothes to have the spanking performed.
Making a child remove clothes to receive corporal punishment is sexual abuse.
To add to wrongfulness of making children undress to receive punishment, there is the double standard, there is the extreme secretiveness of the children's bodies. We could never talk about our bodies. I remember getting spanked (bare-bottomed) for talking about with my friends what color my underwear was. It was extremely shaming for me to be taught that even talking about the color of my underwear was so extremely inappropriate and yet my dad could deem at what time it was appropriate for him, a man, to see my underwear. Girls are taught such extreme modesty in that culture, and yet at 12 or 14 years old their dads can decide they need to take off their underwear and bend over a bed in front of them?!
I believe that my dad never had an sexual meaning to this practice, but added on top of the extreme modesty culture and my mother's sexual threats, these actions were sexually abusive to me. I believe my mother, however, had full knowledge of the sexuality in these actions and loved to add to the shame by announcing to my friends mother's, in front of my friends, all of my wrong-doings and exactly how they were punished. Once again, she was sexually shaming me and showing me that she had no respect for my body and that my sexuality could be used as a punishment against me.
In the midst of my mother's sexual shaming, I was immersed in a culture of sexual suppression. I was taught that if I did not go to my marriage bed a virgin, it would be the ultimate shame and I could never have a happy marriage. I was taught that no man would ever want me if I was in any way "impure." I was taught that the most important thing I could do before I was married was to remain pure. I was also taught very little on what exactly was remaining pure, since even knowing about sex was not appropriate. I had to keep my body covered at all costs.
When I hit my early teens, I had an issue with bed wetting. I'm not sure if the bed wetting was a result of the sexual abuse or of something else. However, my mother decided that I needed to go to the doctor about it. At this point, we basically never went to the doctor. In fact, I think that was the only time I went to the doctor in about a ten year stretch. Remember back to when my mother used exposing me to the doctor as a punishment? I cried and dreaded the appointment for weeks but nothing I could do could convince my mother to not take me. I went and was forced to have a pelvic exam. I thought I was forever violated. I thought I now had no hope of ever getting a husband. I had been violated, I had lost my purity, all against my will. I had disappointed my mother and she had chosen to have me exposed to the world. I was shamed and permanently scarred.
All throughout these same years, my mother would force me to change my clothes in front of her. I was a good little fundamentalist daughter who was very protective of anyone ever seeing my body. I had learned my lesson and never talked about the color of my underwear. And yet, here my mom was often coming into our room when I was changing. Making my try on different bras in front of her and in front of my older sisters. She once again taught me that I had no control over my body. That my body was something she could use for her every whim.
I think this is probably one of the most disjointed posts I've written, but I think it's because all of these memories are so painful for me. I am proud that I have gotten through this blog post but I don't think I'll be able to read over it for grammar checking so you'll have to excuse the sub-standard writing. I am fully convinced now that between my mother and the cultural body-shaming I experienced, I was sexually abused as in my home. To this day, I experience the symptoms of sexual abuse. To this day any mention of sexual abuse is extremely triggering to me. Maybe one day I'll even have the nerve to ask one of my older sisters if they think they were sexually abused in our home as well. One day I'll even write about how my childhood sexual abuse led to sexual abuse in my adult life. But for now, I've talked about it as much as I can take without having another breakdown.
Thursday, May 29, 2014
A Week of Memories Day Three: My Changing Body
For over a week now I've been trying to write the day three post. Today, I've decided to move on from that post for now and write about it another day. I am realizing that I am not ready to start talking about that issue yet. We'll call it the dark issue and I promise I will return to it as I feel more able to address it in my own life.
Warning! This post is not for those queasy, faint of heart, or shy of talking about women's cycles, women's puberty, or sexual issues.
Today, I am thankful for all the Midol I can take, chocolate, and a wonderful partner who is understanding of me. "That time of the month" is what it was called in my family -- or my mom and dad since no one else in the family talked about it. Calling the mother's cycle this and tracking it on the family calendar seems to be something that at least a few fundamentalist families have in common. Apparently several of the big leaders in that world even encourage it, including Gothard and Pearl. Tracking their cycles has never really bothered me that much, but all the other things I was taught (and not taught) about my cycle have had a lasting effect on me.
For the record, apparently it's not always only fundamental families that track the woman's cycle because I found out my partner tracked my cycle for awhile when we first got together. His reason for tracking my cycle was not for the same reason these other men do it, however. He tracked my cycle so he would know if I missed a period since he was slightly paranoid about me getting pregnant at the start of our relationship. I don't know if that was wrong of him, but it doesn't and didn't bother me so I just let it go. In fact, I've dated other men that were also terrified of me getting pregnant and constantly bugged me with questions about whether or not I was regular. Plus, he doesn't do it anymore.
I was told very little about my body. As a young teenager, I started developing. Coincidentally, I noticed the tenderness and growth just a few months after my grandmother had been diagnosed with breast cancer. I was told that breast cancer can be genetically inherited, so I concluded that I must have had breast cancer. I cried so hard for literally weeks. I never thought to talk to my mother about it. I had learned from the struggle with my bed-wetting that my mother could not be trusted with my medical issues and would only use them to further abuse and humiliate me. After awhile, my mother noticed I started developing because I wore plain-fronted, one-layer dresses. She pulled me aside into her bedroom and close the door. I was terrified because being with my mother behind closed doors always meant something bad. That's when she told me about developing. She also told me that I would be getting something called a period and I would see blood in my underwear. She explained that a period happened when the lining of the woman's uterus sloughed off after the woman failed to get pregnant. She then told me that she would show me where the "supplies" were when I started my period. She then said that this was something that I absolutely should never talk about to my friends. That was the extent of the talk and my education about my body.
She decided that my bra band size was probably around the same as her so she gave me some of her old bras. I hated those damn things. I was not the same band size as my mother. In fact, I am still many band sizes smaller than those bras she gave me. And I still haven't even grown into the cup size of those bras. They were far more annoying than helpful by a far shot. To add to the embarrassment, my mother decided I had not developed enough to need aprons or vests -- the way woman covered their breasts in our church. I was forbidden to put an extra layer on up top. My unobservant mother had noticed I was developing, how could everyone else not notice? I was so bitter about the lack of covering for my poor chest. The bras she gave me only lasted about a week before I gave up wearing them. I went the next several years not wearing any support. Finally, I discovered that by wearing one of my younger sister's undershirts, they were tight enough to keep from bouncing too much and also provided that extra layer I wanted so badly to hide things. I loved those undershirt tank tops because they finally helped relieve so of the pain.
I started my period late, probably around 16. This was extremely embarrassing for me and my mother made it even worse. My mother has a strange notion that a girl is not a woman until she started her period. In that culture, the girl is taught that being seeing as a woman was an ultimate goal and if you were seen as a woman, you were superior to other more girlish girls. Thus, my lack of period made me feel inferior and also gave my mother more ammunition to point out things wrong with me. My lack of a period also became a very public matter. I know my dad knew all about it and even worried about. I wouldn't be surprised if my brothers even knew, which is really weird based on the total secrecy surrounding puberty and bodily functions in that culture. But my mother did not keep this only within the family. It was often discussed between her friends as well. To add to my shame, all of my sisters started at a much younger age.
My mom never told me about cramps. I had absolutely no idea they existed. I'm sure my mom would try to explain it away by saying that I should have picked up from the conversations around me. I had an older sister who had awful cramps, but I still didn't pick it up. According to my mother, I was also supposed to pick up what sex was too because apparently it was talked about all around me. I don't know if I lived under a rock mentally to the adult conversation around me, but I never remember hearing about sex or cramps or periods. My mom accused me of lying because I told her that I hadn't heard about sex before she had the talk with me, but I really couldn't remember.
My first period was light and I remember being so happy that it finally came. It took me until the next day to get up the nerve to finally tell my mother that it had started. She gave me a half-used box of her pads, congratulated me on being a woman, and went on to spread the happy news to the rest of the family (while I died of embarrassment).
I was not so lucky with my second period. The flow was awful, I had no idea how to handle it, I was extremely embarrassed, I had no privacy to try to hide my period, and the cramps were awful. Being the kid of a local leader, I had to always put up a perfect front when we were in public. I remember having to go to a picnic while in terrible pain. The pain was made worse because I was terrified because I had no idea what was happening. I was worried that I had a serious medical issue and was going to die. I was later scolded for not being friendly enough and setting a good example to the others who attended to picnic.
The next disaster came when I ran out of the pads my mother had given me for my first period. My mother never thought on her own that I would need more. I was way too shy to ask for more as well as guilty about costing my parents more money. I was always taught that kids didn't have needs beyond what the parents always provided for. Asking for things beyond what was needed (and thus automatically provided) was selfish and not godly. The next laundry cycle my mother noticed my panties, bought more pads, and scolded me for not talking to her about it.
Despite my crash course in surviving my period, I still had no idea what cramps were or what was happening to my body. One day my cramps hit while I was helping a young mother with her annual spring cleaning. They were back cramps so I thought I was having some kind of severe back pain. Based on my description of my symptoms the young mother recognized I might be having cramps and asked me if I was on my period. I was shocked and embarrassed. How did she know? She then went on to explain about cramps and that I could even take ibuprofen to help relieve them! I was in love with ibuprofen for years afterwards because it finally gave me so much more relief.
Warning! This post is not for those queasy, faint of heart, or shy of talking about women's cycles, women's puberty, or sexual issues.
Today, I am thankful for all the Midol I can take, chocolate, and a wonderful partner who is understanding of me. "That time of the month" is what it was called in my family -- or my mom and dad since no one else in the family talked about it. Calling the mother's cycle this and tracking it on the family calendar seems to be something that at least a few fundamentalist families have in common. Apparently several of the big leaders in that world even encourage it, including Gothard and Pearl. Tracking their cycles has never really bothered me that much, but all the other things I was taught (and not taught) about my cycle have had a lasting effect on me.
For the record, apparently it's not always only fundamental families that track the woman's cycle because I found out my partner tracked my cycle for awhile when we first got together. His reason for tracking my cycle was not for the same reason these other men do it, however. He tracked my cycle so he would know if I missed a period since he was slightly paranoid about me getting pregnant at the start of our relationship. I don't know if that was wrong of him, but it doesn't and didn't bother me so I just let it go. In fact, I've dated other men that were also terrified of me getting pregnant and constantly bugged me with questions about whether or not I was regular. Plus, he doesn't do it anymore.
I was told very little about my body. As a young teenager, I started developing. Coincidentally, I noticed the tenderness and growth just a few months after my grandmother had been diagnosed with breast cancer. I was told that breast cancer can be genetically inherited, so I concluded that I must have had breast cancer. I cried so hard for literally weeks. I never thought to talk to my mother about it. I had learned from the struggle with my bed-wetting that my mother could not be trusted with my medical issues and would only use them to further abuse and humiliate me. After awhile, my mother noticed I started developing because I wore plain-fronted, one-layer dresses. She pulled me aside into her bedroom and close the door. I was terrified because being with my mother behind closed doors always meant something bad. That's when she told me about developing. She also told me that I would be getting something called a period and I would see blood in my underwear. She explained that a period happened when the lining of the woman's uterus sloughed off after the woman failed to get pregnant. She then told me that she would show me where the "supplies" were when I started my period. She then said that this was something that I absolutely should never talk about to my friends. That was the extent of the talk and my education about my body.
She decided that my bra band size was probably around the same as her so she gave me some of her old bras. I hated those damn things. I was not the same band size as my mother. In fact, I am still many band sizes smaller than those bras she gave me. And I still haven't even grown into the cup size of those bras. They were far more annoying than helpful by a far shot. To add to the embarrassment, my mother decided I had not developed enough to need aprons or vests -- the way woman covered their breasts in our church. I was forbidden to put an extra layer on up top. My unobservant mother had noticed I was developing, how could everyone else not notice? I was so bitter about the lack of covering for my poor chest. The bras she gave me only lasted about a week before I gave up wearing them. I went the next several years not wearing any support. Finally, I discovered that by wearing one of my younger sister's undershirts, they were tight enough to keep from bouncing too much and also provided that extra layer I wanted so badly to hide things. I loved those undershirt tank tops because they finally helped relieve so of the pain.
I started my period late, probably around 16. This was extremely embarrassing for me and my mother made it even worse. My mother has a strange notion that a girl is not a woman until she started her period. In that culture, the girl is taught that being seeing as a woman was an ultimate goal and if you were seen as a woman, you were superior to other more girlish girls. Thus, my lack of period made me feel inferior and also gave my mother more ammunition to point out things wrong with me. My lack of a period also became a very public matter. I know my dad knew all about it and even worried about. I wouldn't be surprised if my brothers even knew, which is really weird based on the total secrecy surrounding puberty and bodily functions in that culture. But my mother did not keep this only within the family. It was often discussed between her friends as well. To add to my shame, all of my sisters started at a much younger age.
My mom never told me about cramps. I had absolutely no idea they existed. I'm sure my mom would try to explain it away by saying that I should have picked up from the conversations around me. I had an older sister who had awful cramps, but I still didn't pick it up. According to my mother, I was also supposed to pick up what sex was too because apparently it was talked about all around me. I don't know if I lived under a rock mentally to the adult conversation around me, but I never remember hearing about sex or cramps or periods. My mom accused me of lying because I told her that I hadn't heard about sex before she had the talk with me, but I really couldn't remember.
My first period was light and I remember being so happy that it finally came. It took me until the next day to get up the nerve to finally tell my mother that it had started. She gave me a half-used box of her pads, congratulated me on being a woman, and went on to spread the happy news to the rest of the family (while I died of embarrassment).
I was not so lucky with my second period. The flow was awful, I had no idea how to handle it, I was extremely embarrassed, I had no privacy to try to hide my period, and the cramps were awful. Being the kid of a local leader, I had to always put up a perfect front when we were in public. I remember having to go to a picnic while in terrible pain. The pain was made worse because I was terrified because I had no idea what was happening. I was worried that I had a serious medical issue and was going to die. I was later scolded for not being friendly enough and setting a good example to the others who attended to picnic.
The next disaster came when I ran out of the pads my mother had given me for my first period. My mother never thought on her own that I would need more. I was way too shy to ask for more as well as guilty about costing my parents more money. I was always taught that kids didn't have needs beyond what the parents always provided for. Asking for things beyond what was needed (and thus automatically provided) was selfish and not godly. The next laundry cycle my mother noticed my panties, bought more pads, and scolded me for not talking to her about it.
Despite my crash course in surviving my period, I still had no idea what cramps were or what was happening to my body. One day my cramps hit while I was helping a young mother with her annual spring cleaning. They were back cramps so I thought I was having some kind of severe back pain. Based on my description of my symptoms the young mother recognized I might be having cramps and asked me if I was on my period. I was shocked and embarrassed. How did she know? She then went on to explain about cramps and that I could even take ibuprofen to help relieve them! I was in love with ibuprofen for years afterwards because it finally gave me so much more relief.
Monday, May 19, 2014
A Week of Memories Day Two: Domestic Abuse
Last night I watched the Billboard Music Awards. Even though I am still pretty clueless about a lot of popular culture, I do enjoy music a lot. I love being exposed to new music. Sometimes it is still awkward to me to have someone bring up music that would have been popular in my middle school or high school years and have to admit to them that I have no idea what they are talking about. Now I seem normal enough that people are often floored that I have no idea who Ricky Martin is or can't recognize Jenifer Lopez in a music video. For me, it is very awkward but sometimes there is no one fast way to catch up on years of lack of exposure to the culture. I feel like I've been transported from a rural tribe in Aftrica that has never had internet access.
I remember back in 2008 I created my first MySpace account. Anyone who was really into MySpace while it was still popular should remember the profile playlist that played whenever someone went to your page. After a couple months of not have any songs on my profile playlist, my friends started commenting on my lack of music on my profile. I remember one day I decided it was time to fix the problem. I sat down at the computer and tried and tried to think of a song. I finally posted the only song that came to my mind: Carrie Underwood's All American Girl. I remember thinking even at that time that I lacked all personality. Not only was a culturally and socially stunted, I also had not developed a personality. I had no idea who I was or what I liked. Back to my rural African tribe analogy, I think that person would at least know who they were. What made them laugh.What they enjoyed. My brother listened to country music so the only music I even had an idea about was country music. But I still knew that there was music that was truly me.
I think fundamentalist homeschoolers (especially girls) are brainwashed into not have any personality. They don't have the option of ever voicing their opinion. In fact, usually voicing your opinion, even on such things as food you don't like, is seen as "rebellion" and can come with severe consequences. Poor Hana Williams was left outside in the cold until she finally died of hypothermia because she was "rebellious." Many quiverfull daughters have so little voice that they will not even choose the man they marry (if they follow their father's will). Many of these girls may even go to their wedding night without ever having been alone with the man that they are now married to. Without having any say in anything in their lives, quiverfull girls do not develop any kind of personality. Developing a personality would only mean more pain when any dreams or hopes they have are smashed into a million pieces as their fathers make all the choices with their lives, treating them like they aren't even a human with feelings.
Over the next couple months after posting my first MySpace song, I did learn more about the music of the time and posted songs that were more personal to me. Over the next six years, I have learned a lot about myself and about the modern culture. There are many parts of this transition that have been very painful for me, but recently I have found a great joy in realizing the person that I really am. I like the fact that I know what type of food I like. I have a color I like. I even now have a better idea of what type of job I enjoy working in. I like knowing who I am. I am very happy to finally have started to find myself. I don't know if everyone is 23 years old before they find who they are and what they like. I have a feeling they are usually more young, but I often see myself as being born six years ago when I was finally allowed some exposure to the outside world.
Now back to the Billboard Music Awards Last night. While watching the awards last night, I saw some clips of Rhianna. Seeing Rhianna brought back some memories for me. This memory was in 2010. I was in a dark place in 2010. I had had two unsuccessful relationships but I was still very emotionally hung up on both of the men. I felt completely trapped in the house by my parents. My depression was very bad. I was still recovering from the incident with my parents (I'll write another time about the incident). My parents didn't trust me at all. They watched my every move. They went through my cell phone routinely. They had the passwords to all my email accounts (that they knew of). They completely controlled every aspect of my life, even though I was legally an adult at that time. I couldn't even leave the house without someone accompanying me. I was in a really dark place at that time and I felt so used by both my parents and my most recent boyfriend. I started hearing Eminem's Love the Way You Lie, and I identified so much with the song. My parents were just standing there watching me die inside and go through so much pain. My recent boyfriend was turning his back completely on me, once again not caring about what I was going through with everything. I loved that song. It was a way to let out my emotions. It actually made me feel better and stronger when I listened to it. One especially bad night, I decided to post some of the lyrics on Facebook. I woke up the next morning to a scathing Facebook message from my mother -- who was a stay-at-home-mom in the same house as me so she could have just waited until I woke up to confront me about it, but that goes with my parent's passive-aggressiveness. The message read: "That song glorifies domestic violence. Why would you post/like it?"
I was seething after that message from my mom. I deleted the post because I wanted to make a point about how much her criticism annoyed me and to also keep from any further discussion about it. I also sent back, a short, cold message: "I'm sorry. Didn't realize it." Of course I knew what the song was about, but I was so angry that my mother had no idea why I would want someone to listen to me about domestic violence. Did she not see the pain I was going through under her own roof. Of course she had no idea how my boyfriend was treating me because she didn't know about my boyfriend. But even now, I think if my daughter were to post something like that my first instinct would be to try to help her. Try to find out if someone is mistreating her. Not immediately jump to how she shouldn't be posting about domestic violence. My parents hotly deny any kind of abuse in their home. They will always say that homeschooling is the best way and that we had the best home. They will never admit that they stood there and watched and even poured gasoline on the fire while we burned. Seeing Rhianna brings up so much pain because it always reminds me of that song and my own personal cry for help. That post was a cry for help from me. I wanted someone to pay attention. I wanted someone to help. I wanted someone to care about the pain that I was in. I wanted to be rescued from the nightmare of domestic violence that was going on that no one knew about.
I remember back in 2008 I created my first MySpace account. Anyone who was really into MySpace while it was still popular should remember the profile playlist that played whenever someone went to your page. After a couple months of not have any songs on my profile playlist, my friends started commenting on my lack of music on my profile. I remember one day I decided it was time to fix the problem. I sat down at the computer and tried and tried to think of a song. I finally posted the only song that came to my mind: Carrie Underwood's All American Girl. I remember thinking even at that time that I lacked all personality. Not only was a culturally and socially stunted, I also had not developed a personality. I had no idea who I was or what I liked. Back to my rural African tribe analogy, I think that person would at least know who they were. What made them laugh.What they enjoyed. My brother listened to country music so the only music I even had an idea about was country music. But I still knew that there was music that was truly me.
I think fundamentalist homeschoolers (especially girls) are brainwashed into not have any personality. They don't have the option of ever voicing their opinion. In fact, usually voicing your opinion, even on such things as food you don't like, is seen as "rebellion" and can come with severe consequences. Poor Hana Williams was left outside in the cold until she finally died of hypothermia because she was "rebellious." Many quiverfull daughters have so little voice that they will not even choose the man they marry (if they follow their father's will). Many of these girls may even go to their wedding night without ever having been alone with the man that they are now married to. Without having any say in anything in their lives, quiverfull girls do not develop any kind of personality. Developing a personality would only mean more pain when any dreams or hopes they have are smashed into a million pieces as their fathers make all the choices with their lives, treating them like they aren't even a human with feelings.
Over the next couple months after posting my first MySpace song, I did learn more about the music of the time and posted songs that were more personal to me. Over the next six years, I have learned a lot about myself and about the modern culture. There are many parts of this transition that have been very painful for me, but recently I have found a great joy in realizing the person that I really am. I like the fact that I know what type of food I like. I have a color I like. I even now have a better idea of what type of job I enjoy working in. I like knowing who I am. I am very happy to finally have started to find myself. I don't know if everyone is 23 years old before they find who they are and what they like. I have a feeling they are usually more young, but I often see myself as being born six years ago when I was finally allowed some exposure to the outside world.
Now back to the Billboard Music Awards Last night. While watching the awards last night, I saw some clips of Rhianna. Seeing Rhianna brought back some memories for me. This memory was in 2010. I was in a dark place in 2010. I had had two unsuccessful relationships but I was still very emotionally hung up on both of the men. I felt completely trapped in the house by my parents. My depression was very bad. I was still recovering from the incident with my parents (I'll write another time about the incident). My parents didn't trust me at all. They watched my every move. They went through my cell phone routinely. They had the passwords to all my email accounts (that they knew of). They completely controlled every aspect of my life, even though I was legally an adult at that time. I couldn't even leave the house without someone accompanying me. I was in a really dark place at that time and I felt so used by both my parents and my most recent boyfriend. I started hearing Eminem's Love the Way You Lie, and I identified so much with the song. My parents were just standing there watching me die inside and go through so much pain. My recent boyfriend was turning his back completely on me, once again not caring about what I was going through with everything. I loved that song. It was a way to let out my emotions. It actually made me feel better and stronger when I listened to it. One especially bad night, I decided to post some of the lyrics on Facebook. I woke up the next morning to a scathing Facebook message from my mother -- who was a stay-at-home-mom in the same house as me so she could have just waited until I woke up to confront me about it, but that goes with my parent's passive-aggressiveness. The message read: "That song glorifies domestic violence. Why would you post/like it?"
I was seething after that message from my mom. I deleted the post because I wanted to make a point about how much her criticism annoyed me and to also keep from any further discussion about it. I also sent back, a short, cold message: "I'm sorry. Didn't realize it." Of course I knew what the song was about, but I was so angry that my mother had no idea why I would want someone to listen to me about domestic violence. Did she not see the pain I was going through under her own roof. Of course she had no idea how my boyfriend was treating me because she didn't know about my boyfriend. But even now, I think if my daughter were to post something like that my first instinct would be to try to help her. Try to find out if someone is mistreating her. Not immediately jump to how she shouldn't be posting about domestic violence. My parents hotly deny any kind of abuse in their home. They will always say that homeschooling is the best way and that we had the best home. They will never admit that they stood there and watched and even poured gasoline on the fire while we burned. Seeing Rhianna brings up so much pain because it always reminds me of that song and my own personal cry for help. That post was a cry for help from me. I wanted someone to pay attention. I wanted someone to help. I wanted someone to care about the pain that I was in. I wanted to be rescued from the nightmare of domestic violence that was going on that no one knew about.
Sunday, May 18, 2014
A Week of Memories Day One: Stressed about Money from Day One
Today I think about my extreme fear for lack of money. I try to save all the money I can. I have trouble spending money on buying anything beyond groceries -- including clothes. In fact, I think it's been over a year since I've purchased anything from a mall. I constantly worry about money and that at some point in the future I won't be able to make ends meet.
This fear for lack of money has gone on since before I can remember. In fact, I've had an extreme poverty mentality all of my life. Sour cream is an expensive addition that all meals can go without. In fact, how dare I ask for more than a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and thus cause my parents more money? I don't think it is healthy or normal for a child to constantly worry about money. I would watch how much each tank of gas cost my dad and feel guilty that I had cost my dad that much money. I felt guilty for years after my dad bought me a cup of hot cappuccino at a gas station. I felt guilty for two reasons. First, I had cost my dad money and second, none of my other siblings got to share in the treat.
Now looking back, I have come to think that in a healthy family a child should never feel guilty about the money they cost their family. Especially when it's such things as shoes once a year after your shoes have holes in the sole. The parents should feel guilty if they cannot provide for all of their children but the parents should never make the children feel guilty about how much the parents have to pay to raise the child.
I'm sorry, but just because you pay the money for that child to live, does not indebt the child to you at all. You were the one that made the child. You were the one the (supposedly) made the decision that you could take that child into the home and support them and raise them. Now I know that with many fundamentalist/quiverfull families, they believe that God directs how many children you have and will always provide for however many children "He" gives you. I wonder where in the world they came up with the idea that limiting or planning for the number of kids you have is a sin? I think of the argument that many kids are a blessing. Isn't money a blessing as well? And obviously, many of the families in those movements do not have that blessing, so why should they have all blessings. Yes, sure, you can indulge in that blessing, if you can support the blessing. Even if your theology is that God gave you that kid, it still is not the kid's fault that you cannot support them. Stop blaming your kids. Stop making your kids feel like trash.
I wish I could have had a childhood where I did not constantly feel guilty about the amount of money I caused my parents. I wish I could have had a childhood where I was not stressed out about money -- to the point of giving me heartburn.
This fear for lack of money has gone on since before I can remember. In fact, I've had an extreme poverty mentality all of my life. Sour cream is an expensive addition that all meals can go without. In fact, how dare I ask for more than a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and thus cause my parents more money? I don't think it is healthy or normal for a child to constantly worry about money. I would watch how much each tank of gas cost my dad and feel guilty that I had cost my dad that much money. I felt guilty for years after my dad bought me a cup of hot cappuccino at a gas station. I felt guilty for two reasons. First, I had cost my dad money and second, none of my other siblings got to share in the treat.
Now looking back, I have come to think that in a healthy family a child should never feel guilty about the money they cost their family. Especially when it's such things as shoes once a year after your shoes have holes in the sole. The parents should feel guilty if they cannot provide for all of their children but the parents should never make the children feel guilty about how much the parents have to pay to raise the child.
I'm sorry, but just because you pay the money for that child to live, does not indebt the child to you at all. You were the one that made the child. You were the one the (supposedly) made the decision that you could take that child into the home and support them and raise them. Now I know that with many fundamentalist/quiverfull families, they believe that God directs how many children you have and will always provide for however many children "He" gives you. I wonder where in the world they came up with the idea that limiting or planning for the number of kids you have is a sin? I think of the argument that many kids are a blessing. Isn't money a blessing as well? And obviously, many of the families in those movements do not have that blessing, so why should they have all blessings. Yes, sure, you can indulge in that blessing, if you can support the blessing. Even if your theology is that God gave you that kid, it still is not the kid's fault that you cannot support them. Stop blaming your kids. Stop making your kids feel like trash.
I wish I could have had a childhood where I did not constantly feel guilty about the amount of money I caused my parents. I wish I could have had a childhood where I was not stressed out about money -- to the point of giving me heartburn.
Saturday, May 17, 2014
A Week of Memories
I've decided to try doing a week of memories this coming week, starting tomorrow - Sunday. I'm not exactly sure what will come of these writings, but I hope that by doing the writings I can start to work through some of my memories and also hopefully bring up some more memories.
One difficult part about dealing with my childhood is that there are huge gaps that I really cannot remember. Sometimes if I do managed to remember, it is so traumatic for me that I'll get flashbacks, break down, or have nightmares. My anxiety has gone through the roof over the last six months or so that I've been coming more to terms with the fact that I was abused as a child. I don't know what all kinds of abuse I experienced. Physical abuse was there a little, but not an extreme for me. There was definitely spiritual abuse, emotional abuse, and material abuse.
One difficult part about dealing with my childhood is that there are huge gaps that I really cannot remember. Sometimes if I do managed to remember, it is so traumatic for me that I'll get flashbacks, break down, or have nightmares. My anxiety has gone through the roof over the last six months or so that I've been coming more to terms with the fact that I was abused as a child. I don't know what all kinds of abuse I experienced. Physical abuse was there a little, but not an extreme for me. There was definitely spiritual abuse, emotional abuse, and material abuse.
Thursday, May 15, 2014
Today I'm Angry
I wish someone had called CPS. I wish CPS could have
done something. We were always taught that CPS was the worst thing that could
happen to a family. But now in my mid-twenties I wish they would have been
called. I wish they would have removed us or at least given us more hope.
Growing up, I always wished I could have grown up in
a different home. I didn’t know why I had to be born into our home. At the time
I accepted it as my fate.
Now I cry at the thought that I COULD have had a
better childhood. I could have had hope. I could have had friends. I could have
felt loved. I wanted to get married at 14 just so that I could have someone to hug me every morning. I might not have even had the feeling of an empty hole of emotion in my soul
If I grew up in a different home, could I have
enjoyed growing up? Could I actually have been happy? Could I have felt normal?
Could I have had people who actually cared about me? Would I have feared my new
parents as much as I feared (and still fear) my real parents? Could I have known
what it was like to actually feel my
parents loved me and trusted me?
Could I have had the money to actually buy something I wanted? Could I have had
a better start to an adult life?
My grandfather may have actually called CPS. I don’t
know and he’s passed away now so I’ll never be able to ask him. But we very
suddenly moved to another state in the early 90’s, when CPS couldn’t really go
from state to state, and even at the time I knew it had something to do with my
grandfather. After that, we had very restricted access to our grandparents and
we were to NEVER mention anything that happened at home.
I love my parents, but mainly because I feel like I
have to because they were the ones that gave birth to me and paid all the money
to raise me. I love my parents, but I wish I could have grown up with others.
Is it ok to not love your parents? Why am I afraid
of saying that I don’t love my parents? Because it sounds like I am awful
person? Because I am afraid that maybe one day it won’t be true? Because I feel
that my true feelings are not validated? Because I don’t want to cause the hurt
to them that they caused to me? Because I don’t want it to be just me trying to
get back at them for the way they treated me? Am I obligated to love my parents
because they are my parents and because they raised me and because they didn’t
kill me? When is it ok to not love your parents?
Many people tell me I should not hold it against my
parents for what they did to me because they were doing the best they could and
only hurt me by following a cult that hurt children. But I disagree. At no
point did the thought ever cross their mind, hey this stuff is crazy and my kids aren’t happy? Even from a young
age, I remember thinking that I existed purely for my parent’s pleasure. A kid
does not exist solely for their parents’ pleasure, and there was something wrong with my parents, and
not only the system, to think that I existed only for their pleasure. Sure,
kudos to my parents for me wanting to have a better life than them, but did
they really think that what they were doing would give a better life for
me?
I was doubly hurt. I was hurt by a messed up system
of a homeschooling, purity cult. But I was also hurt by selfish, self-centered,
and abusive parents who had to prove that they could beat the laws of this
universe and after super perfect children (children more perfect than the
perfect homeschool family). I was hurt by both. And right now I choose to hold
it against both. Yes, I do have a lot of bitterness in me right now. But
sometimes I can’t believe that nowhere inside of my parents a small voice
didn’t speak up and say they should think a little about ME and my future. They
took from me many years of my life. They shattered my sense of self-worth. They
did so much to hinder me in my life. So here I am, in my mid-twenties, trying
to put piece my life together. I “succeeded” in school and even managed to
excel in college but once I got out of college, I fell to pieces. Now I’m
trying to pick up those pieces and right now there is no room for a
relationship with my parents. And I’m being told I’m wrong because they were
only following a hurtful system and they didn’t do anything personally wrong.
I believe every single parent that buys completely
into a system that does not consider for one second the child they are
controlling is also personally wrong. It’s not just the system. It’s the
parents too.
First Post
I've had the vision for this blog in my mind for some time now. I personally don't think I am a great writer but there are so many things brewing inside of me that I need to get out. For now, I wish to blog anonymously for several reasons. First, I know most of my family browses the internet extensively and I'm not ready for them to see many of my feelings as well as know about all the things I've done and experienced in my life (most of the things I'm not very proud of). Second, I think any attacks would be less personal if I was anonymous since what I want to get off my chest is very personal for me.
This blog will more be about my ramblings and my working through emotions. Right now, I do not see a therapist but I do know that that would probably help me tremendously. But seeing a therapist is something the terrifies me on many levels. I'm scared that the therapist won't actually help me. Or tell me that all my pain isn't real. Or judge me.
This blog will more be about my ramblings and my working through emotions. Right now, I do not see a therapist but I do know that that would probably help me tremendously. But seeing a therapist is something the terrifies me on many levels. I'm scared that the therapist won't actually help me. Or tell me that all my pain isn't real. Or judge me.
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