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.

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.

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.

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.

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.