Nightmares

I had nightmares this morning. I’ve been awake for 90 minutes, I’m at a coffee shop, but they still feel real.

My friend Scott was there, driving a giant truck. He arrived to my parents house, where I was living. It was his job to sell the house. He’s a realtor.

Somehow, a giant snake the size of a dragon, the length of a football field, with the head of a python, was after me. Scott was helping me get away. We ran through the garage, into a closet-like entry into the house. We held the double doors shut as best we could while the snake plunged its head through the opening. We were panicked. Terror filled my body. It was an emergency.

Everytime the snake used his violent determination to make space between the doors, we scrambled for locks and wood pieces to jam in the weak spots. We were children with feeble limbs trying to outwit the strength of a full-grown reptile with decades of hunting experience.

I escaped into another hallway and locked the door behind me, leaving Scott to manage the serpent-split doors while I sought help. Scott was bigger and stronger than me. He was like an older brother. He was my older brother.

In the end, I just kept exiting one hallway into another, meticulously locking and unlocking doors as I went. It was as if I was burrowing a tunnel to nowhere. I was a rabbit trying to escape a hungry monster by excavating the earth, one deadbolt at a time. There was no end. The ground goes on forever. There are always more doors.

I woke up that way - in the chase.

Now that I’m awake, I have to keep reminding myself I’m not being chased today. I’m not in danger. The “shoulds” aren’t gonna come get me and rip me to shreds. There’s nothing to survive. I’m out of the house. The serpent is dead.

Yardwork

I saw him doing yardwork this morning. He was handsome. He is handsome. He is the strength I crave when I feel weak and the consistency I lack. He is the understanding parent I never had and the provider ever child wants.

I saw him doing yardwork this morning. His name is Bob. He is my former husband. He is my friend. I miss him terribly.

I don’t like the word ex. Ex-husband. Ex-girlfriend. It sounds so rejecting. So contaminating. So sharp. Bob is not an ex.

Former: having previously filled a particular role or had been a particular thing. This is more accurate. He previously filled the role of Spouse and had been the rock that kept this high-flying kite grounded to the earth. He was the yang to my yin until he wasn’t. Until he couldn’t. Until my history broke us.

My history is a lot to take. It’s been an expensive project. Psychiatrists and sex therapists aren’t cheap. Depression and unemployment don’t look good on anybody. Bob did good. He hung in as long as he could. Everybody has a breaking point. Everyone cries uncle once fear and pain outweigh courage and hope.

Toward the end, I felt like he was waiting for me to end it. I felt like he was wanted an out. I held out for a few weeks after treatment. I wanted him to want it to work, but I could see he was tired. I wonder if he’d say the same about me.

I told myself we didn’t work because he was exhausted. He told himself we didn’t work because I couldn’t heal next to him. I suppose both were true. And not true.

He was exhausted. And I couldn’t heal from the trauma transferences so long as his frustrations were apparent. They expressed themselves without his permission. It was the small things: tone of voice, facial expressions, general avoidance, silent tension. I felt guilty, ashamed. I feared punishment from a man who would never.

In order to heal I needed to develop a sense of independence and autonomy, but I didn’t want to divorce. I think watching my independence and self-advocacy made him anxious and frigid. I think he thought I’d leave him once I was strong. I think he thought it’d be hard forever if I didn’t. Maybe it would’ve been - I don’t know.

I think a lot of things, but don’t know. I don’t know what could have been if I hadn’t said uncle. I said it because he couldn’t. We were both pinned to the floor. I cried and cried and cried and cried and cried.

I don’t know what could have been because it’s not.

I don’t know anything, really. All I know is that yardwork looks good on him.

Neither of us know anything about us. We both know a lot about the land.

Working

Today I went to work at a coffee shop. It was really, really, really hard. It reminded me that my marriage is all over…that my previous life is all over…that I’m on a different track.

I’m no longer on the track of a philanthropic house wife. I got used to it. I really did. I have shame about that. I’m embarrassed about not-working. I was really good at it.

I went to work today and it was humbling. Staring at my peers from behind a restaurant counter with a drive-thru headset on levels the ego. Not being twenty and in college sets me apart from the other baristas. This makes me feel like a loser. Like I’m supposed to be a receptionist even though it pays less.

Whatever I focus on gets bigger. Today I will focus on the space the happened after work. When I got clocked out and got to my car, there was a flood of relief. “It’s over,” I thought. “It’s finally over. It lasted forever. It was never going to end, but it finally ended.” There is some trauma transference happening on the job, but I don’t know what it is. I don’t know why I feel trapped when I’m there. I don’t know why everything gets foggy and my brain freezes up.

Don’t you know I’m a hairdresser? A wedding photographer? The founder of a non-profit? Don’t you know how important and capable I am? Why am I stuck here? Why am I pinned underneath it? What is it, anyway? Why won’t it go away? Why does it keep me down? When will it be gone? I want to be free.

That’s what I’ve wanted from the beginning - to be free. Anytime I’m anywhere I want out. How do I teach my body I’m unbound?

My Dad is a Pedophile

Hi. My name is Rachel Curry.  My father is a pedophile.

Yup, my father is a pedophile. He’s a well respected doctor, the head of toxicology department for Banner Health.  He brilliant professor of University of Arizona’s medical school.  You can see his bio here.

My immediate family still lives in the fog of denial. Their reality reminds me of a snow globe. The figurines are fixed in place, everything looks pretty from the outside.  They don’t mind being submerged underwater in a glass bubble of artificiality.  They don’t mind drowning, as long as they keep up appearances. They don’t mind the life-shattering shake up of earthquakes and hailstorms, or surviving in a sea of disruptive white, winter dots.

They just model plastic grins and sing musical pleasantries that feel cozy, like nap time. The lyrics go like this:

“Nothing. Nothing to see here. Everything’s fine.  Rachel was always a challenge.  Don’t believe what she says.  Something happened after age 10, and she broke. We don’t take Rachel seriously - she’s unstable.  She suffers from false memory syndrome.  Pray for her.  It’s such a sad story.  Now, pass the potatoes.  Smile for the camera.  How was Erika’s baby shower last Sunday?”

This is the story of my life. It is not the story my family wants you to know. It’s the story of a girl who was molested, raped, and quietly drugged to preserve the ego of a sociopath.  It’s the story of an admired man in political positions of power.  It’s the story of religion gone wrong and memories forgotten.

I’m telling my story to the world to validate my truth and restore my dignity.  To give my painful experiences purpose and create meaning for my life.  More importantly, I’m telling my story to offer hope to others who have been the victims of chronic psychological violence and sexual abuse, or silenced by family members who choose to ignore life-altering facts so they can bask in the comforts of their esteemed reputations.

If you keep forgetting how to remember, I completely understand.  Denial is a hard drug.  The detox is brutal. 

. . . . . . . . . . 

People who know my dad would be the last to peg him as a pedophile. He’s not a scraggly creeper who patrols school yards and parks.  He’s a church-going family man who restores radios on the weekends.  He’s the humorous favorite among his colleagues and invites lonely interns to family dinners at holiday time.  His wife is a beloved mom who bakes cookies for bible study and volunteers at the homeless shelter.  She dresses herself in brand name clothes, freshly applied lipstick, and Christian charms dangling from her bracelet.

“They’re such a nice couple - Steve and Ann.  They have such well-mannered children in that mountainside mansion up on Horseshoe Road.”

They are such a nice couple.  My dad is easily bored, but charming.  He’s mischievous, but subtle.  He’s impulsive, but publicly diplomatic.  They are such a nice couple.  That is, until you stand outside the glass bubble and wake up from their dream.

If you are born to the king of a religious island and spend your whole life drinking Kool-Aid, you don’t recognize the sweetness.  “Kool-Aid? What’s that? Oh, this?! This isn’t Kool-Aid!” you say. “This is water. It’s just water. It tastes like regular water to me.”

Suddenly, a lucid part of your spirit responds to your own brain. It says “but it’s red. Isn’t that strange? The water you’re drinking is red.“ And you say back to yourself, “But Rachel, everyone around here drinks red water. The King says the water has always been red.  Mom doesn’t seem to notice. None of the villagers speak of the redness. My life would be easier if I stopped making such a fuss about the water.  I wouldn’t get in so much trouble.  They’d stop getting my vision checked and sending me to doctors.  My mother would be happier. My brother would be safer.  The King said so.”

And after a while, your mind does the work of brainwashing itself so your pedophiliac dad doesn’t have to.  It shoves everything into a little black box and “forgets.”  It forgets so the bubble doesn’t break, the water doesn’t spill, and the glass doesn’t shatter.  It forgets so you can live a semi-normal life in a Jesus-loving community of likeminded snowglobers.

I used to call it the Caucasian Country Club for Jesus.  Yup, that’s what the community was like.  I went three times per week, and never missed summer camps or winter retreats.  We wore WWJD bracelets and made Christianity cool by hiring worship leaders that wore berets.  Everything we did was either “Christian,” or “not-Christian” based on the religious proclamations of capitalist business owners.  For example: Chic-fa-let? Christian.  McDonalds? Not-Christian.  Hobby Lobby? Christian, and thus approved.  Michaels? Not Christian, and less preferred.

In the culture I came from, you are in or you are out. You are saved, or you are not-saved.  You are an obedient follower of the King, or you have fallen away and threaten to contaminate the purity of the community.  You are part of the narrative that preserves the glass house, or you are an outsider from whom the house must be protected.

It’s easy for pedophiles to hide in glass houses.  These structures look fragile, but they’re actually built on the pre-existing illusions of thousands of people.  The bullet proof glass was installed by generations of men that came before them.  It’s kept in place by an unspoken agreement to keep the secrets locked up and the system alive.  But it’s not unspoken, is it? It’s actually spoken over and over and over again:

“Don’t betray your parents.  Don’t betray the church. Don’t betray God.  You’ll suffer if you do.”

. . . . . . . . . . 

It took me years of therapy to undo the damaging effects of my fundamentalist upbringing.  To say I was sheltered is the understatement of the century.  I’m a 36-year-old woman and didn’t believe in evolution until my second year of college.  My high school sex-education was basically a homemade experiment organized by sexually repressed moms.  It was held in a Sunday School classroom, and filled with video clips of overly remorseful teenage girls who had abortions just miliseconds before accepting Jesus as their savior.  The film was periodically interrupted with graphic images chronicaling the developement of facial STDs and the dangers of porn addiction.

I attended public school but was guarded inside a cocoon of Scottsdale evangelicals.  My church youth group was comprised of at least 300 kids at any given time.  We were subgrouped according to school district so our commitment to biblical “truth” wouldn’t be deluded by the secular teachings of unbelievers.  I suspect Scottsdale Bible Church was one of the biggest mega churches in the nation throughout the 1990’s.  It was filled with weekly activities rich with patriarchal dogma that supported traditional gender norms and republicanism.

Coincidentally, the SBC youth group was run by Les Heughy, another recently accused pedophile who was protected by the glass walls of denial for decades.  Like my dad, he was a charming, outgoing man with a off-beat sense of humor.  Most of us would describe him as a grandiose prankster who was obsessed with his musical work.  His family looked like mine - mostly perfect, closed doors, clean laundry, happy pictures.

Why am I telling you so much about the religious community that molded my childhood? 

. . . . . . . . . .

Together (a poem)

When I Was 20

When I was 20, I came to.  I had many head wounds.
A tribe of villagers gave me Band-Aids and aerosol antiseptic.  “Addiction.”
Their god bless them.

Oh, The Great Hollowness.  It was so vast.  Eroded self like the Arizona Canyon.
I was looking for Her, but didn’t know.
Food, sex, drugs, dreams...is She in there?
I was two people in one spirit; I was the lost and the seeker, the watcher and the doer.
But, of course, I didn’t know.
“She exists?  Who is this She?  I am right here.”  But I wasn’t.

When I was 20, I used to watch movies like “Requiem for a Dream” and let music pulsate through the orifices of my being.
When there is no Core, there is a vacuum inside the gut.
The music gets it’s claws in you.
Vibrations expand inside the Great Hollow and make the body it’s puppet.
The witch doctors call it mania, depression, disassociation.
They’ve believed it for years, the witch doctors.  Since I was Child.  Since I was She.  Since She was ten.

“Was it like ‘being asleep in a dream?’”  The villagers don’t understand the music.
No, it was like being the dream itself.
Lonely and scary and thrilling and fast and vibrant and high...
...and dangerous when everyone else is awake.
“But no more head wounds,” the villagers are so satisfied.  Their god bless them.
So many Band-Aids.
They're free.

I Saw Her Once

When I was sober, I met Her once.

I would dissolve into the music.  It would infuse my psyche.
Sometimes I would lose myself because She was a still, small inkling in a big, vast world.
But when She was strong, and we held hands, the dancing was beautiful.
We moved together.  Sanity and art together.  The colors were beautiful.
When She was strong, I didn’t know it was Her.
Magnificent and adrift.  She really was.
I was.  We Are when we're united.
Wonderful.  Touch and go.
I was 25. 26. 27. 28 years old.
Until I lost her. 

PTSD

When I was 29, we played hide-and-seek, She and I, in love.
We were in the middle of the game, She’s so clever.
We were in the middle of the game, She was hiding.
We were in the middle of the game, and the sores appeared.
What is this?
Dormant injuries now fresh.
In my joints.  In body.  In my sleep.  In my brain.
Throbbing.
What happened?
I don’t know.

I needed to find her.  She was still hiding.
Now hiding from the soreness.
But I didn’t know that part.

“What will bring Me back to Myself?” 
So many villagers. So many witch doctors.
So many books. So many plants.
So much unknown. Their gods bless them.

Deadly Saintliness

Maybe purity will take the sores away.  Will perfection bring Her back?
Try harder.  Hurry Up.
Meditate. Become Nothing.
There can be no sound without silence.
There can be no noise without sound.
There can be no pain without noise.
Zen.  Tao.  Hmm.

The sores come and go like waves in the ocean.  They ooze.
Mostly because She’s gone. But I didn’t know that part. 
She doesn't know, either.

“Maybe the gods want more from me."
"Maybe, if I give up everything to the gods, She will find me.”
I thought this, but didn’t know I thought this.
Naked.  Clean.  Empty.  Nothing.  No blocks.
I’ll be nothing for the glory of their gods. Just like before.
Just like before, when I remember being Her.
So long ago.  When I was ten.

So I said “no more music.”
And my life lost a little color.
And that was sad, but it was safe.
And of course, when the music went,
The dancing went.
Because to what is there to dance
If not the dreams of melodic energy?
Harmonious collision of cords crisp with poetry.  

So I said, “no more dancing.”
And I cried and cried and cried.
And my life lost a little aliveness.
And that was sad, but it was safe.

I was doing it for Her.  Where was She? 

And when the dancing died, the bravery shrunk.
Because nothing requires more courage than dancing.
Touring the foreign terrain of unfelt beats.
Skin stretched to the sky...
Stepping, sinking, splitting, ssaaaaaa...
Pirouettes colliding into cords crisp with poetry.
“Oh, what dreamy melodic energy.” 

So I resigned to no more newness.
And my life lost a little inspiration...
...and beauty.
And It was sad, but It was safe.

Boxed in world for you, my Dear...Hello?
Hello-Ooo?
Where are you? 

Reflection in the Desert.

Hindsight 20/20.
Today is June 24th, 2018.

When the bravery shrunk, I lost my Self; She hid Her All from me.
She was small, and I was blind without the art to help me see. 
She escaped my grip so wisely; She was total honesty.
She was the life around my bones; She was the Babe that kept me free.

I didn’t know the music was Her lifeline to my conscience.
I didn’t know She was allergic to my brainy gridded nonsense.
Although I made the grids to shrink the wounds inside my brain,
I didn’t know they fed them.  And grew them.
Poor Girl.

She’d been fading for a while, long before the music was removed,
Her missingness made worse the famine; tragedy ensued.
She was my stability - She’s what kept me feeling full.
She used to warm me from within my womb.
I warmed her back in wool.
I used to wrap her in the blanket of my fleshy diaphragm.
“Rachel - the name - means sheep,” they say.
I am the lion, She’s the lamb.

“If She’d been hiding and been dying for the past two thousand days, how come it took so long to notice, and to find her?”  They are such simple villagers.

I didn’t know that she’d been dying; I was busy drawing lines
Around the pain inside my brain, planted with IED land mines. 
Karen calls it post traumatic stress and pain delayed.
The Christians say it must have been because I disobeyed.
There was no time to see it or to face or be free.
I was 20.  I came to in a million pieces;
Put your life back together, Rachel.
One piece at a time.

I was busy getting Band-Aids from the villagers and witches.
I was busy with addiction and then fixing it with stitches.
I was busy with photography and boys and making wishes.
I was busy getting better from the illusions of the past.
I was busy getting better from my not-Self.

But then...
The sores happened.
Sanctification gone wrong.
Be small. Boxed. In.
Until I came to.  Just like before.
Empty.  Oh, the Great Hollowness.

My Darling Lamb, I now see how you’d been withering away.
Soul of prism kept in prison, black and white and shades of gray.
Ritualistic repetition, done to keep danger at bay.
Refuge from the noise carried a price too high to pay.

But I didn’t know.  I’d wish I’d known.
Oh, my Darling Lamb, I’m so sorry.

She gave me all the warnings; I felt the cold of spaciousness inside.
The more I chased away the pain, the more her vitality died.
And though she didn’t fully pass away, her Child Spirit cried and shied.
Until, of course, it didn’t.
“Too numb to know,” I lied.

And when She went into hiding, my Life Blood disappeared.
I couldn’t hear Her anywhere because Great Deafness filled my ears.
With no inner-notes to guide me, and a world mute of sound,
I lost Her when I thought it best to burry song into the ground.

When I couldn’t hear Her in my gut, arose my Lioness, the Mother.
Violent, roaring, searching for the Young that silence sought to smother. 
There were many years of hunting for the Baby birthed Within.
There were many years of scouring the pasts of history and kin.
There were many years of stepping stairs with humans void of gin.
There were even times Miss Lioness tore away her very skin,
Hoping Lamb - her babe - be underneath...

...but Nothing.

It was a land of nothingness, no aliveness, void of Us.
It was a land that I’d lived so many years; timeless dawn to dusk.
It was a land of dry and achy bones, eroding slowly into dust. 
It was the very barren land of being empty, sad, and safe.

Heal Thyself

Perseverance. 
I am a fuckin’ courageous Mother Lion.

My Lion made a candle from this dry and crusty land.
She asked the gods for fire sprung amongst the arid dessert sand.
“Put me in your brain,” replied the flame she held in hand.
“Set your brain on fire.”
And so she did.

And the IEDs inside her skull erupted with a vengeance!
The candle said the end would be eventual transcendence.
So she leaned into the mirror with a spirit of dependence,
In the name of finding the lion Cub she’d lost so long ago.

The fire and her brain - they used her memories as fuel
For the holocaust of blazing thoughts that made prison so cruel.
They were tangled lovers filled with hate and trust and frienemies in school.
The smoke made shapes like elephants...
And nakedness...
And cribs...
And sin...
And me. 

“You found her?” The villagers don’t understand.
No.  I surrendered.  She will find me. 

So there I am, the Lioness.  No longer searching for my young.
Instead, I’ve set myself on fire.  EMDR has just begun. 
My body finally owns the past,
Black clouds start filling up my lungs,
Until I breathe the hurt concealed once by rituals undone.

And when the burning turns to embers just as hurricane to rain,
Once I’ve faced the crevices of fear and pain and shame inside my brain,
I find the courage that was sacrificed for boxes made of lines
Containing things now burned away by mind and Lion Soul combined.
And when the smoke has left the scene of mind,
And all that’s left is mirrors,
I see surviving Lamb waiting for me;
I love Her. 

Oh, relief.
“Oh,” we wail together.

Finally. 

My Love Song

Since I’m so many years older, I embed You in my chest.
Hunching closer with my shoulders, just so You can get some rest. 
I wrap You tightly in the wool You once knew from my womb.
I hear Your screams of panic, stuck inside this lonely room.
Exposure to the cold and to the damp and to the moon,
I rescue You,
I sway You to sleep,
I clutch You so tight.

Relax.  You can relax now.
Rest.  You can rest now.
Sleep.  You can sleep now.

You’ve known such isolation, I’m so sorry for your tears.
I can’t believe you’ve wrestled in the crib for all these years!  
I keep you deep inside my body where it’s safe now; it’s protected. 
My flesh was made for you, my Dear, with all of us collected.
And I know we’ve been divided, felt forever disconnected,
Once inspected and corrected and infected and neglected.
But no more.
Oh, never again.

I am bigger than the god that told them what to do.
I am bigger than the god of blackened air; the lens they saw you through.
I am bigger than the helplessness of Pavlov’s wooden spoon word cue.
I am bigger than the egos of the loud and hungry few.
I am bigger than the poison of concepts since proven untrue.
I am your Mother, Child Lioness...
I am Me and I am You.

I am bigger than the choicelessness of food or sex or drugs.
There were reasons touch resembled giving serial killers hugs.
And I’m bigger than their feelings and their glances and their words.
I am your Great Supplier, your shield.
I am so much bigger now.

Nothing can get you.

I collapse my skin around yours.
Be enveloped.
You’re inside me.
I’ll tell you over and over.  I promise.
"Nothing can get you.  You are safe.”
We Are. 

My skin is your great protector - it is lion-like and strong.
You are warmed forever by my tissue, soothed with heartbeat’s vibrant song.
You are welcome to my lungs, roaring all their days for you...
For you, my precious Daughter.
My Lion Cub, my Lamb, my Self. 

I love you so much. 

There is so much color now.
All because of you.

And I can stretch now.
All because of you.

And I am brave now.
All because of you.

You are so precious and majestic.
I make poetry about having found you.

But for now, just be.
Rest. 

Reprieve (a poem)

A poem about the pervasive Black Cloud (OCD, depression, “God,” rumination, past pain, anxiety, shame), the stress and limits of scrupulousness, feeling powerless, and eventually learning to contain it.

——————— 

Reprieve

I can see today.
It's June seventeenth, 8:12am. 

Yesterday I couldn’t. 
Oh, how blinding those boxes were. 
The lines drawn everywhere... 
They were never ending lines. 
"Never enough, more, more, further...” they said. 
Insatiable, heavy boxes made of mind-drawn, hand-drawn, mind-drawn lines.

Demanding as the gods, confining as prison,
I’m so glad it’s over.
I’m so glad I’m free. 
I’m so glad there’s space. 
Today.  Right now.  This moment.
It’s June seventeenth, 8:12am.

The lines that draw the boxes -
The Buddhists call it Vritti.
The hipsters call it Ego. 
The doctors call it Mental Illness. 
The Christians call it Sin. 
The drunks call it Alcoholism. 
All of them call it a disease. 
Am I dirty?

Oh, how tiring anorexia was...
So much math to stay clean.

The boxes and lines and numbers -
They’re like pressured speech in my body that can’t get out. 
Explosive. Implosive. Failure to thrive.
They are like concrete poured on my chest, holding me helpless.
Tired but wired. 

"How do other people do it?” I wonder.
"How do they handle these heavy, heavy lines?” 
I see them walk around with lightness.
“Are they delusional or free?  What about the boxes?  Where are their boxes to carry?”

The Have-To’s and the To-Do’s and the Should's and the Don't's.
Purpose and Meaning and Death and What For?
The Vastness of Pain and Children's Tears.
The Measuring Sticks.
You-Should-Have-Known-Better.
Done Better.
Been Better.
Don’t Mess-Up or Forget or Run-Out-Of-Time.
Hurry.
It’ll Get You.

These are all in the boxes.
The Black Cloud. 

Sometimes the boxes tell you they’re God, and you get confused.
They are very tricky.
They have lots of clothes.  And a sewing machine.
They play dress up and don’t wear name tags.

Yesterday I couldn't see -
They were pervasive and expansive as the universe.
All the boxes melted together.  Broken lines like iron spaghetti. 
So I slept under the weight. 
Concrete on my chest, in my lungs.  Remember?

All my senses muddled with darkness.
What else is there to do but surrender?
Nihilism. 

Today is June seventeenth.
A crack in the concrete, 8:09am.
God disappeared, because he never was.
And it was “god” -
Like a word in my hand.
Suddenly it’s not The Black Cloud.
It’s "the black cloud" - 
Like a thought in my brain.

So I put lines around the black cloud. 
The lines made a box. 
The black cloud was trapped, contained. 
Ah-ha. 

I picked up the box and put it in a bucket. 
And it shrunk to the size of a pebble. 
And I am me again now. 
And it can’t get me today.
Ha.

It's June seventeenth, 8:13am...

Mom Baggage #2

In my previous post I wrote:

My mom can’t see me, really.  I think I came to accept this back in my early teens.  Maybe age 12?  I think that’s when I stopped trying.  This was upsetting to her, and we lost most of my teen years to power-struggles.  My apathetic rebellion clashed against her controlling demands of obedience.  Having an unmanageable daughter isn’t good for image, you know. There were times, however, when I’d discover my mother’s love in hindsight.

I proceeded to describe the move in 5th grade…

I recently thought of another example of discovering my mother’s love-disguised-as-negligence. Many times, as a sixteen year old, I’d stay out past curfew.  We didn’t have cell-phones then, so I’d call from a pay phone and say I was somewhere I wasn’t.  I also knew my mom did her research...she was quite obsessed with catching me in lies; it was one of her secret pleasures.  I’m not even kidding, by the way.  On a walk last Christmas, she told me, “It’s not good for kids to get away with things.  When you were kids, I used to pray [pray!] that you’d get in trouble if you were misbehaving...otherwise you wouldn’t learn your lessons.”  She used to smell my clothes for cigarettes even though I never smoked and check my room for condoms even though I never had sex.  But I can see why; I lied a lot.  I lied about who I was with, and where I was located, and whether I was passing or failing my classes.  I hated myself, and hated myself for being such a lying schmuck.  But postponing punishment - as opposed to staying home, that is - was the only reprieve I had from their hyper-critical management, their exceedingly-high standards, and chronically feeling like a failure of a human being.

Well, there was a time when I spend the night at a guy friend’s house.  Not a boyfriend’s house, a friend-who-happens-to-be-a-boy’s house.  But I knew my parents would never trust the idea of a teenage boy not having predatory sex with their virginal evangelical daughter.   So naturally, I lied about it.  And they found out.  And I was grounded for a few months.  Until a few years ago, I assumed my mom delighted in finding something to “get me” for.  But (in my adulthood) I ran into a friend’s mother who said she remembered a phone call from my mom back then.  “Yes, both our kids were teenagers...you guys were in high school.  She was scared, very scared.  And we prayed together on the phone because she worried about you.  She felt hopeless and didn’t know what to do.”

This shot through my gut like a bladed spear.  Whoa, I thought, my mom never showed me her fear or her sadness.  All I ever saw was anger.  Competitive anger.  But she was scared?  Concerned?  Wow, I’ve never seen her cry before.  Maybe she really wanted me.  Yes, she must’ve really wanted me, I concluded, even though she’d never let herself say it.

These “figuring out you mom actually likes you” moments are number enough that I...think...I’ve...actually...listed them all.  Yup, two.  The move, and the case of the missing daughter

Mom Baggage #1

I’m typing this in a blog post because I feel like I can’t write it with pen and paper...things take too long and get too real.  I need some distance.

Basically, I finally got in touch with the loss of my childhod.  I got to see it first hand, in action.

On Mother’s Day, my mom was out of town.  So I sent her a “Happy Mom’s Day” text, and made a fuss of it on Facebook.  No reply, but no expectations.  I know she’s busy, I’m not concerned.  She’s in New York, enthralled with her family of origin, so I go on with my day.

Then my brain started up: Wait, what if she thinks I’m a bad daughter?  What do I do when she feels unloved and it’s my fault?  What do I do when she tells me a story about what her friends’ daughters did for THEM for Mother’s Day?  So I decide to call her on the phone with my real-live voice.

”I can’t talk, I’m with Daddy,” she replies.

Daddy is her 86-year-old father, my grandfather.  When my mom is around her parents - which is often - it’s as if she’s frozen in time, and has the same inflexible role she had as a child.  She is number one daughter.  First born.  Loyal to the end.  I respect “the trance.”  It’s bigger and more powerful than me.  In this Unconscious Regressive World, there’s not room for her to be both a daughter to her parents and a mother to me.  I accept this a deeper level than I accept my life’s pleasures...not because her inaccessibility is pleasant, but because fighting it isn’t.  I came to accept this a long, long time ago...after years of experimentation and passive-aggressive resistance. I told her I loved her and wished her a fun dinner.  And we hung up.

My mom can’t see me, really.  I think I came to accept this back in my early teens.  Maybe age 12?  I think that’s when I stopped trying.  This was upsetting to her, and we lost most of my teen years to power-struggles.  My apathetic rebellion clashed against her controlling demands of obedience.  Having an unmanageable daughter isn’t good for image, you know.

There were times, however, when I’d discover my mother’s love in hindsight.  For example, I was bullied in school after we moved.  I was in 5th grade, and our new house was just a few miles down from our previous home.  For two years I begged my mom to let me go to the school my friends attended.  She gave no explainations for insisting I stay put, but focused solely on the principle of “sticking it out.”  Although I unknowingly harbored the seeds of an eating disorder, the school bullying helped it blossom into an insatiable, depressive monster.  But mom never wavered - she believed “letting kids win” teaches them they “have the power.”  And so - in a strange way - she was winning while I was dying.

Well, in my mid-twenties, after a good deal of therapy, I casually mentioned that “the move” may have been a little traumatic for me.  To my complete astonishment, my mom chimed in, “Oh, absolutely it was traumatic!  You were traumatized!  It was awful...”  Hearing this was sort of incredible.  It was validating.  Based on my mother’s “scatter-brained-Martha-Steward” personality, I assumed she’d deny any mention of dysfunctional behavior, and claim I was “being dramatic.”  She continued, “...but I called your old principal a month after the move.  He said you’d adjust, most kids adjust, so I just decided to let you figure it out.”  Mom was very into the “she’ll figure it out,” approach.

You might think this new information would make me angry - how could your mom let you suffer for years based on statistical generalizations of an uninvolved man?   I’d never met my old principle - he didn’t even know my name or what I looked like.  But considering the emotional negligence I was accustomed to, it was a glimmer of care.  She cared enough to make the call?  I thought.  Wow, she saw me.  She saw I was suffering, and she asked someone about it.  This was enough...it was more than I’d expected.

Ok, back to modern times.  I followed up our phone call by texting her a picture of the flowers and card I got her with a caption:

My text: Let me know when you get back in town if you’d like to celebrate.

Her text: 

My text (3 hours later): Hey Mom, when do you get back to town?

Her text: Friday. 

My text: Sounds good! 

Her text: 

I suspect she flashed the photos to her sisters, ensuring the clan she’s a worthy woman with a diplomatic child...but I can’t be sure.

I realize these gestures - my effort to send her love - didn’t really mean much to her since she was very into being her Mother’s daughter this Mother’s Day.  But I do them anyway because they make me feel like I’m a good daughter and am living according to my own values.  I also do them so she can’t say I didn’t do them.  I don’t really feel the need to celebrate Mother’s Day; the urge to reach out is just an instinct...like, an empathy response.  If I were a mom, I’d want my kid to think of me.  So I feel like it’s my job to be the kind of daughter I would want to have.  It’s my duty.

I reached out again on Saturday.

My text: Hey Mom, hope your flight was safe!  I still have your flowers and card - let me know if you’d like me to bring it by for a belated Mother’s Day.

Her text: Call you when I’m home.

A few hours later, I took her the flowers and card.  And it was then I realized what was happening...

I was taking care of her - scratching her back and asking her questions about her life.  I was inquiring about photos from her trip, while she trailed off about an array of interests concerning family I’ve never met.  When there were long silent pauses, I would compliment her outfit or talk about the roses in her backyard.  And then she’d get chatty about how she went to a restaurant in New York with beautiful roses when she was with “Mom and Daddy.”  And I’d smile and watch her critiquing her own memories with perfectionistic self-loathing.

Her: When we were there (she’d say, with a softening whisper of guilt) we did all the bad things. 

Me: What does that mean, Mom?  What bad things?  Did you go to the casino? (She knows I know she’d never).

Her: No, no, no (rolling her eyes).  But we ate all the fattening sugary stuff that’s just so badddddd.  (She says this in the same way one would, in a public place, disclose being molested).

Me: Mom, food is neutral.  Eating fattening foods doesn’t make you evil.   You just enjoyed yourself - good for you!

Her: I know, I know.  But it was so good, and...well, today’s a new day.  And I’m back to being good again. 

She trailed off about the family recipes her sister mastered, about how she wished she still cooked like Susie, but she can’t because it’s all just “so bad.”   Opened up like a teenager gossiping about girlfriends at school, she told me what her cousins were up to.

I played my role and laughed and blocked out any lingering emotional needs...or differing opinions...or current information about my life that might take away from her moment of happiness.  And I played my role and realized it’s to be her supporter, the obedient female off-spring that anticipates her needs and disappointments...because this is what she is to her parents.  And I play my role because I am to her what she is to them...except I rest in the background of her life, while she rests in the foreground of theirs...and for some reason, this year, it was painful.

Before I left the house, my dad came out to see his 35-year old daughter.  That’s me. 

”Bye Dad, love you,” I said.  I gave him a hug.

“Remember to edit that photo I sent you.  I need it.”

”Got it, maybe by Tuesday.  Love you, Dad.”

“10-4,” he says...

...And then slaps my ass.   Twice.  It was sort of a “pat-slap” - the same type of pat you might give a two-year-old after changing their diaper and watching them run off to play; the type of pat a husband might give his wife before she leaves for work.

You may have noticed that my dad can’t say he loves me.  And he didn’t come to visit the entire hour I was at the house with Mom.   But before I left, he made a point to come out of his room and pat my butt.

It never occurred to me before this Mother’s Day moment that (1) this butt-patting thing happens, (2) this butt-patting has been happening for the last three decades, and (3) this butt-patting is very uncomfortable...and inappropriate...and gross feeling...I mean, since I’m 35 years old, and the guy touching it is my Dad...and never happens when my husband is with me.  I sort of feel like he should know he shouldn’t touch my private parts.  

The whole thing - the whole event - it all made me sad...because the dysfunction was so undenaiably real.   I finally realized that other kids don’t grow up this way.

I got sad for the kid I was...the one that grew up without an available mom, and without a conventional dad.  The one that grew up with caregivers that were emotionally inconsistent and boudariless.  And I grieved for her...

...I’d never done that before...

...I cried for a few hours...and then went numb again. 

Fox Puller

I don’t think I can do the AA culture anymore.  I’m not talking about the 12-Step program;  I’m talking about the AA Fundies (fundies, short for fundamentalists).  It has something to do

You know Emmet Fox?  You know how he wrote Sermon on the Mount?  Basically, he interpreted bible scripture as metaphor for all sorts of lessons about our thinking.  Lots of Christian mystics did this in earlier centuries.  Fox focuses on the power of repetitive thought, the purity of our intentions, and the natural consequences of harboring negative emotions.  I dig the Fox.  You know why? Because he took an amazing historical document and said to himself: taken literally, this is a bit too bogus and a bit too limiting.  But I can make it make sense because I’m a badass.  There’s some truth in here, the authors were on to something, and I’m gonna not gonna throw out the baby with the bath water.

Whether or not Fox’s interpretation of the New Testament is totally irreverent.  What matters is his ability to say, “Nah, I think it means THIS instead.  So there.  Now watch me fine with my damn self and market this thing like a capitalist.”  Fox is the reason I can “technically” call myself Christian-ish if I need to appease my husband in certain republicany social circles.  I proudly “water down the message” so I can reap the benefits of Christmas and peaceful family gatherings.  When I was an evangelical, I hated people like me.

Well, I guess I’ve come to a place in my life where I’m gonna start pulling Foxes with AA. Yup, that’s a thing now - pulling foxes - because I decided so right now.  Pulling a Fox means blurring the intended meaning of a book by changing the words to fit your needs so you don’t have to tell your friends you’re abandoning their faith.  Yup, definitely doing that with AA.  Fox puller right here, baby, that’s me.

So, here's how I see foxify the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous:

Step 1: Stop lying to yourself and accept reality as it actually is; you can't stop doing something you say you wanna stop doing, and this fucks up your life on accident.   If you aren't convinced you're as miserable as everyone says you are, then make a list of all the things that you don't like about yourself, your life, or the person you're sleeping with.

Step 2: Have hope that progress is possible.  If you don't have hope, then just pretend until you're in a better mood.  Everyone else has it for you, and there's no way you have the only brain in the world that can't benefit from some cognitive behavioral therapy (which is science talk for doing these steps).

Step 3: Trust that, if you stop trying to control shit, bad things will probably happen less.  Instead of trying to manage the entire universe, judging everyone else's business, and control people's feelings, realize how not being in control drives you crazy because you're addicted to it...you crazy dictator, you.  If you happen to believe that Nature or Science or The Life Force a religous diety is running the planet, that's good, too.  Whatever gets you to let go and chill the fuck out.

Step 4: Write out all your deepest, darkest secrets on a piece of paper.  Write down all the things you wish had never happened to you when you were little.  Then, write down everything you hate about the people close to you (or not close to you).  If you have a bad feeling about any institutions - like the Mormon church or the Democrat Party or Scientology or Amway or that one company you worked for that never appreciated how special you are - write those down, too.  And write down all the things you hope will never happen but secretly fear might happen.  Oh, and lastly, write down everything you don't like about yourself.  PS: Use organized columns so you can find some patterns (like low self-esteem, an insatiable need for validation, self-imposed loneliness, and the ways you lie without "lying").  You can use this link --> (link coming soon)

Step 4.5: If you left something out, go write it down.

Step 5: Tell someone absolutely everything you wrote down.  Make sure they're not a meanie and - more importantly - make sure they have no agenda for your life.  Don't tell you spouse or your mom or your kid.  That would be totally inappropriate and fuck things up more.  No one cares how enmeshed you are - this is not the time to spill the beans.  A therapist is a good person if you don't know a single person on the planet you can trust.

Step 6: Take a look at all the ways you benefit from your negative behavior.  No really, there are perceived benefits to stretching the truth and gossiping and drowning in your own self-pity.  There are emotional or mental benefits, or else you wouldn't be doing it anymore.

Step 7: Make a commitment to do your best to change your thoughts and actions for the better now that you can see them clearly.  And if you believe in a divine diety or Spirit Animal, ask it for help if you'd like.  Also, let everything go and stop shaming yourself - shame never helped anyone with anything.  In fact, it's probably the reason you got started in the first place.

Step 8: Find out who you need to apologize to...this includes telling the truth to people you lied about.  Put a star by their name.  Don't leave anyone out to save your ego or pride or reputation.  That's what got you here in the first place.

Step 9: Say your sorry and tell the truth to the people with stars by their name.  If they're dead, send a letter or do something ritualistic to signify your apology.

Step 10: Make time to reflect on your thinking and correct it when it's all wrong on a daily basis...especially when you have that hurried/rushed/adrenaline sensation going on.  For example, if you falsely believe that getting a raise will solve all your problems and complete your life, and if you start being an asshole to your coworkers while you work over-over-over time to compete for a promotion, this is an indication of messed-up thinking.  Why do I "have to have" this raise so bad?  What am I afraid of?  What do I think it will mean about me if I don't get it?  Is getting a promotion more important than my integrity?  Can I like myself without it?  Have a lied to anyone while trying to chase down the money and importance I seek?  Can I let go of the results and trust my life will not be over if I don't manipulate this outcome?  After you catch yourself, call someone and tell them what happened or what you realized.

Step 11: Meditate on good things and foster gratitude a few times per day.  Train your brain to be calm and to pause when you're all riled up about something.  If you need to repeat a mantra or prayer to retrain your brain, then do it.  Fan the flame of happiness within you so your peace of mind (emotional stability) isn't contingent on things going exactly the way you want them to.  This is 2017, people, there is more mindfulness shit out there than we know what to do with.

Step 12, Part 1: When you find other people that want to stop suffering, let them know this 12-Step process helped you when you felt the same way.  If they don't want help (or they don't want your help), then leave them alone and don't push them into changing like a televangelist.  Come on, dude - be normal.  If they do want your help or advice, then show them this process.  But don't be bossy or try to make them your slave.  And don't try to convert them or tell them how experienced you are for fucking up your life just a few years before they fucked up theirs.  When they call you freaking out about their boss or their girlfriend's phone or suffering from a mental feedback loop of self-hate, just be a person who says, "you're Ok and things will work out and you did the right thing be calling someone and I'm glad you're experiencing this because it means your not dead."  And ask probing questions if they want you to.

Step 12, Part 2: Be nice to people and develop a humble perspective; look at things from the perspective of being one contributing member of society instead of the center of universe.  The boogeyman doesn't exist, so enjoy the freedom of being a temporary fleck of sand in this grand ocean of timeless life.

Craig’s Battered Woman Syndrome - Garbage Writing for No Reason

Today’s “I’m not actually going to post this on Facebook” status: When you change your tampon in your car because you are a disgusting person, but not as disgusting as the Circle K bathrooms in south Phoenix. 

My therapist gave me an assignment - it was a like a trauma history timeline thingy. And I was like “Whoa.” when I did it.

In a podcast, I learned that dogs find safety in the humans they bond to, and cats find safety in the places they bond to.  Upon hearing this, I realized I'm a cat trapped in a human body because I bond to places instead of people...and this must be why I don't like going anywhere but the coffee shop by my house even if my best friends invite me and try to bribe me with free stuff.  I think this spacial ritualism is technically called "agoraphobia," but I don't like labels.

To end today's meaningless post, does anyone think this picture is sort of strange?  I took it on the road on my way to school.  Here we have a bumper sticker that reads “in God we trust,” and the word “REPENT” in giant lettering across the back windshield.  Craig M. trusts in an authority he must also repent to if he doesn’t want to get blown into pieces, which (to me) sounds sort of like battered woman syndrome.  Oh, Craig, it’s better to put your trust in less abusive things...like puppies.  Here Craig, have a puppy for heaven’s sake.