The next day was the first day of a new school year for me. I am in college, and was excited to be taking an acting class, though a little nervous.
I wanted my hair to be a lighter shade of blonde, so I asked my mom to help me dye it.
"Change into a shirt you don't mind ruining," she said.
So I dug around in my room, and found a hand-me-down from my mother's cousin, a shirt that read "Jesus, Lion of Judah."
My mom gasped in apparent shock. "It's blasphemy! You're trying to bleach Jesus!" she whispered, absolutely "horrified."
"Nuh-uh. We'll put a cloud here, so it'll be like heaven."
"Yeah, whatever, you heathen."
Luckily for my soul, I didn't spill hair dye on the Savior. But in my defense, he is sometimes drawn as Caucasian, so I'm not the first one to bleach him.
"What are you going to wear tomorrow?" Mom asked me later. "You should wear these!" She held up my newest thrift-shop treasure, a pair of red-and-black striped pants with skulls on the back pockets. "Where's your Billy Idol shirt? Want to wear my leather jacket?" she asked.
I imagined the subject somehow coming up, and having to tell people I was an atheist while dressed like a punk-rock-goth princess. It wasn't exactly the "wholesome atheist" image I was going for, especially since I wished to start a secularist club on campus if I could.
"You're going to give me a bad reputation," I said.
"Girls with bad reputations have more fun," she answered. "You know what Joan Jett says."
"Yeah, I guess so." I did like to wear outrageous pants. Maybe it didn't matter so much what I wore, or what others thought.
"You'll do great in that class tomorrow," she said, seeing as I was a bit nervous. "Just go in there and have fun, and don't be self-conscious, and just enjoy yourself and throw yourself into it all semester. You'll do fine; after all, you acted like a Christian for a long time."
"I tried to be one. Really hard," I said.
"I know," she said. "I know."
I didn't know what she wished to call herself, but I knew she was a very pragmatic person and had had (at least) almost as many doubts as me.
"Here," she said, digging in her purse and giving me a handful of change, "Look for wheat pennies, then put the rest in my change box."
As I sorted through the coins, I pushed aside a very filthy dime. Then I noticed how small and thin it was, and took a closer look. 1941? I thought. Is that what it says? This eagle--is it soviet or something? What the fuck--is that a--
Mom was on the phone to her credit card company when I screamed, "HOLY SHIT, IT'S THE THIRD REICH!"
I rushed to the computer, and found out that the Vile Farthing was worth exactly $3.25 in U.S. dollars.
Hitler's Penny had turned up on the very night that I had dyed my hair to look more blonde, more...Aryan? The very night that I had tried to bleach Jesus (a Jew!), and on a shirt that emphasized his very Jewishness.
My grandparents picked me up the next day and started talking about my mom's "new" van, which she was terribly excited about. "Her car's been nominated to go to Springfield," my grandmother said as we pulled away. She was talking about a town about two hours away from us.
"Oh, really?" I asked. "How come?" I thought it would be some kind of tournament, as my cousin is very involved in sports.
"'Cause we're going to Hobby Lobby!" she announced happily. "Your aunt says they're the best."
Knowing my aunt, I would have been surprised otherwise. I suspected she liked them for many reasons. (Other than my mother, my family does not yet know that I'm an atheist, and pro-birth-control, or at least...pro-choice.)
"What do they have there?" I asked.
"Oh, all kinds of things. They're better than Michael's."
"I didn't know we had them this far west," I said, trying to keep my tone neutral. "Do you know if they still have Ben Franklin's?"
"I don't know. We used to go there all the time..." she began, and to my relief, the subject of political issues never came up.
Hobby Lobby...I should have known, by Hitler's Penny...
I guess I can still act like a Christian, or at least someone who is ignorant of politics.
My mom later said that she didn't trust the twenty-year-old van on long trips. I guess that's good, because I'm not sure I trust myself at a Hobby Lobby. I might buy some beads and feel like an asshole, or feel like saying something, but know that the poor employees shouldn't be blamed for their bosses' behavior.
Later that day, in my class, I learned that my teacher is in love with The Glass Menagerie by Tennessee Williams. I ended up playing Amanda Wingfield, probably the most interesting character in the play and...a Christian. Not only is she a Christian, but also a nagging, worrying mother who tries to control her grown children's lives, lest they make the wrong choices. In other words...a tyrant!
I should have known this would happen when I inherited some Nazi's pocket change. I guess I shouldn't have tried to bleach Jesus.
Send me an email at: atheistjourneysblog@gmail.com
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Sunday, October 26, 2014
Saturday, October 18, 2014
"Coming Out" Atheist And Taking Things Personally, Or Shit Gay People Say
(Here is part two.)
I am in college, and this is already turning out to be a very interesting school year. Just the other day, in fact, I heard a gay man say that LGBT people "take things too personally" when it comes to hate speech.
(Such a conversation came up seemingly out of nowhere. I was thrilled to be talking about something so important with people whom I had only known for three weeks. In this class, Beginning Acting, I find a very different dynamic from any other classes I have taken. Perhaps because the students are very involved in working with each other, or perhaps because my teacher loves her job, my class is one of the friendliest, most supportive places I have ever seen. Though all schools are unique, I would highly recommend an acting class to someone who is thinking about it, or wants more confidence in "real life.")
"I've heard that people hate me because I'm gay, but it hasn't really affected me all that much, them hating me just because I suck cock," this young man, whom I'll call Harrison, mentioned. "I mean, I've had stuff yelled at me, but it hasn't really made me feel bad about myself. I guess people take things too personally."
"Well, I'm bi," a girl I'll call Debbi answered, "and it's not really a problem for me, except that I live across the street from a militant Christian," she said tiredly.
"Oh," Harrison nodded knowingly.
"I think that a lot of people's problems comes from their families," I remarked. "For example, my family are conservative Christians, and I don't believe that God is likely to exist. I'm an atheist. But I don't tell them that because of how they'd react to it."
I tried to be light and casual about it, but at the same time I was telling them a secret, something my family didn't know. I shrugged as I said it, saying the word "atheist" with a fake grimace. I acted this way in the hope of trying to appear friendly and not confrontational or militant. But I thought that being gay and bi, they would be less likely to be shocked.
This struck me as a very important milestone. It was the first time I had told anyone other than my mother that I was an atheist and didn't believe. I considered it the first step on my way to being fully..."out." I was quite proud of myself.
"Well, I could picture gods," Debbi said thoughtfully. "But not the Christian god."
"Yeah, that's pretty extreme," I nodded.
"And the Christian religion we have today isn't even the same as what it originally was," Harrison added. "The bible, for example..."
Thus began a long discussion about mistranslations, omissions, and appropriation of pagan symbolism for holidays. Though I can't quite recall everything that was said, I learned that "Eve" meant "one who completes a person," but was mistranslated as the word "helper."
Debbi eventually drifted away, and another student, John, came in. John is fascinated by everything, and expounds on everything from crossbows, to burial practices, to genetically modified plants. I try to come early to school, to hear his "lectures" and watch his face light up in excitement.
Oh boy, I thought, as he started in on the Christian Apocrypha. We just made his day!
Later I was thinking of Harrison's and Debbi's reactions, wondering if I had been correct in my assumption that they wouldn't be shocked.
In an improvised skit last week, I had seen Harrison walk into a "KFC" and try to give his scene partner, the "cashier," a Christian pamphlet. "What is this? I will not worship your chicken-god!" he shouted indignantly. "Big Bird did not die for your sins!" Afterwards another student demanded to know if he had accepted Colonel Sanders as his lord and savior. He shook his head, smiling. I had wondered at the time if he had had experience with taking crap from Christians.
During our conversation he had not said anything about his own family, or mine. I wondered if his family was supportive of him, or if he had some painful memories too. I know for me that my family are the only ones I fear can hurt me, and not by becoming angry, but by my causing them pain.
I guessed that Debbi was a pagan or Universalist of some kind. I hadn't had the chance to tell her that I loved the Wiccan concept of the Earth Goddess, Mother Gaiea, I just didn't want to believe in something for the wrong reason, just because I wanted it to be true.
Harrison talked of the inaccuracies of the bible and the Christian religion. Was he agreeing with me, sharing an interesting fact...or perhaps trying to make me see that god himself wasn't so bad? Was he "witnessing" or trying to "plant a seed?"
My companions might have had some misconceptions about atheists or atheism, but I didn't think either of them was very shocked. I couldn't think of a way to "soften the blow" anymore than I did, either, so I concluded that my method of delivery was effective.
I thought a lot about what Harrison had said, though, about taking things too personally. I strive to be as emotionally strong as he seems to be, but I didn't think that that sentiment was very compassionate to those who were hurting. Was he basically telling them to "get over it?" Did I just need to "get over it" when something hurt me?
Wait a minute, I thought. Am I...taking this personally?
Who was I to say that he was being too insensitive, presuming to know more about the gay community than he did? And yet I thought that I had experienced something at least a little similar to what some LGBT people went through. I had been made to feel bad before when I didn't agree with something a youth pastor or Christian school teacher had said. I knew something about being sensitive, about "taking things personally."
You cannot tell someone not to take something personally, or how to feel. Some people are still getting over indoctrination or brainwashing or dysfunctional family dynamics. Some people are not strong enough yet to not be hurt, at least on some level.
And some people need to recognize that they're hurting, and choose to love themselves anyway. You can't even tell yourself how to feel, so why not love yourself, every part of yourself...even the part of you that is hurting, that is causing you pain?
But there is a kernel of truth to what he had said: In a strange way, it isn't personal. No one can look into your soul and know everything about you. No one can know everything about your character. No one can judge you as a whole, only bits and pieces. Who you have sex with, or how you view god, is only one part of you.
When someone takes that part of you, and makes it all of you in their mind, yes, it hurts, because it's a form of objectification, and it especially hurts if it's someone you trust. But their views of you cannot be accurate, because one act, or one activity, or one part of you, does not make you or break you. To be human is to be a mixture of "good" and "bad" traits.
In other words, other people cannot accurately judge your "bad" traits, because they are not you.The people who judge you are not you, and your "bad" traits are not you either.
And the people who judge you cannot speak for god, because an omnipotent god could very easily find a way to speak to you directly, and not use fallible humans who would be insensitive and only hurt you, thereby making you less likely to receive the message.
So I guess I learned something useful (which I could keep in mind when my family finds out how I really believe), even from someone whom I at first thought was too "insensitive." And ironically, what I learned makes me feel a whole lot better, even if it's normally very hurtful to imply that someone needs to "just get over it."
If I could say anything to those who are hurting from someone else's words, it would be this: You will feel better in your own time, but know that the thing they are judging you for is only one part of you. They cannot judge accurately because they don't know your motivations, and they can't see the whole.
(Here is a sequel to this post.)
Send me an email at: atheistjourneysblog@gmail.com
Follow or tweet me here: https://twitter.com/atheistjourneys
I am in college, and this is already turning out to be a very interesting school year. Just the other day, in fact, I heard a gay man say that LGBT people "take things too personally" when it comes to hate speech.
(Such a conversation came up seemingly out of nowhere. I was thrilled to be talking about something so important with people whom I had only known for three weeks. In this class, Beginning Acting, I find a very different dynamic from any other classes I have taken. Perhaps because the students are very involved in working with each other, or perhaps because my teacher loves her job, my class is one of the friendliest, most supportive places I have ever seen. Though all schools are unique, I would highly recommend an acting class to someone who is thinking about it, or wants more confidence in "real life.")
"I've heard that people hate me because I'm gay, but it hasn't really affected me all that much, them hating me just because I suck cock," this young man, whom I'll call Harrison, mentioned. "I mean, I've had stuff yelled at me, but it hasn't really made me feel bad about myself. I guess people take things too personally."
"Well, I'm bi," a girl I'll call Debbi answered, "and it's not really a problem for me, except that I live across the street from a militant Christian," she said tiredly.
"Oh," Harrison nodded knowingly.
"I think that a lot of people's problems comes from their families," I remarked. "For example, my family are conservative Christians, and I don't believe that God is likely to exist. I'm an atheist. But I don't tell them that because of how they'd react to it."
I tried to be light and casual about it, but at the same time I was telling them a secret, something my family didn't know. I shrugged as I said it, saying the word "atheist" with a fake grimace. I acted this way in the hope of trying to appear friendly and not confrontational or militant. But I thought that being gay and bi, they would be less likely to be shocked.
This struck me as a very important milestone. It was the first time I had told anyone other than my mother that I was an atheist and didn't believe. I considered it the first step on my way to being fully..."out." I was quite proud of myself.
"Well, I could picture gods," Debbi said thoughtfully. "But not the Christian god."
"Yeah, that's pretty extreme," I nodded.
"And the Christian religion we have today isn't even the same as what it originally was," Harrison added. "The bible, for example..."
Thus began a long discussion about mistranslations, omissions, and appropriation of pagan symbolism for holidays. Though I can't quite recall everything that was said, I learned that "Eve" meant "one who completes a person," but was mistranslated as the word "helper."
Debbi eventually drifted away, and another student, John, came in. John is fascinated by everything, and expounds on everything from crossbows, to burial practices, to genetically modified plants. I try to come early to school, to hear his "lectures" and watch his face light up in excitement.
Oh boy, I thought, as he started in on the Christian Apocrypha. We just made his day!
Later I was thinking of Harrison's and Debbi's reactions, wondering if I had been correct in my assumption that they wouldn't be shocked.
In an improvised skit last week, I had seen Harrison walk into a "KFC" and try to give his scene partner, the "cashier," a Christian pamphlet. "What is this? I will not worship your chicken-god!" he shouted indignantly. "Big Bird did not die for your sins!" Afterwards another student demanded to know if he had accepted Colonel Sanders as his lord and savior. He shook his head, smiling. I had wondered at the time if he had had experience with taking crap from Christians.
During our conversation he had not said anything about his own family, or mine. I wondered if his family was supportive of him, or if he had some painful memories too. I know for me that my family are the only ones I fear can hurt me, and not by becoming angry, but by my causing them pain.
I guessed that Debbi was a pagan or Universalist of some kind. I hadn't had the chance to tell her that I loved the Wiccan concept of the Earth Goddess, Mother Gaiea, I just didn't want to believe in something for the wrong reason, just because I wanted it to be true.
Harrison talked of the inaccuracies of the bible and the Christian religion. Was he agreeing with me, sharing an interesting fact...or perhaps trying to make me see that god himself wasn't so bad? Was he "witnessing" or trying to "plant a seed?"
My companions might have had some misconceptions about atheists or atheism, but I didn't think either of them was very shocked. I couldn't think of a way to "soften the blow" anymore than I did, either, so I concluded that my method of delivery was effective.
I thought a lot about what Harrison had said, though, about taking things too personally. I strive to be as emotionally strong as he seems to be, but I didn't think that that sentiment was very compassionate to those who were hurting. Was he basically telling them to "get over it?" Did I just need to "get over it" when something hurt me?
Wait a minute, I thought. Am I...taking this personally?
Who was I to say that he was being too insensitive, presuming to know more about the gay community than he did? And yet I thought that I had experienced something at least a little similar to what some LGBT people went through. I had been made to feel bad before when I didn't agree with something a youth pastor or Christian school teacher had said. I knew something about being sensitive, about "taking things personally."
You cannot tell someone not to take something personally, or how to feel. Some people are still getting over indoctrination or brainwashing or dysfunctional family dynamics. Some people are not strong enough yet to not be hurt, at least on some level.
And some people need to recognize that they're hurting, and choose to love themselves anyway. You can't even tell yourself how to feel, so why not love yourself, every part of yourself...even the part of you that is hurting, that is causing you pain?
But there is a kernel of truth to what he had said: In a strange way, it isn't personal. No one can look into your soul and know everything about you. No one can know everything about your character. No one can judge you as a whole, only bits and pieces. Who you have sex with, or how you view god, is only one part of you.
When someone takes that part of you, and makes it all of you in their mind, yes, it hurts, because it's a form of objectification, and it especially hurts if it's someone you trust. But their views of you cannot be accurate, because one act, or one activity, or one part of you, does not make you or break you. To be human is to be a mixture of "good" and "bad" traits.
In other words, other people cannot accurately judge your "bad" traits, because they are not you.The people who judge you are not you, and your "bad" traits are not you either.
And the people who judge you cannot speak for god, because an omnipotent god could very easily find a way to speak to you directly, and not use fallible humans who would be insensitive and only hurt you, thereby making you less likely to receive the message.
So I guess I learned something useful (which I could keep in mind when my family finds out how I really believe), even from someone whom I at first thought was too "insensitive." And ironically, what I learned makes me feel a whole lot better, even if it's normally very hurtful to imply that someone needs to "just get over it."
If I could say anything to those who are hurting from someone else's words, it would be this: You will feel better in your own time, but know that the thing they are judging you for is only one part of you. They cannot judge accurately because they don't know your motivations, and they can't see the whole.
(Here is a sequel to this post.)
Send me an email at: atheistjourneysblog@gmail.com
Follow or tweet me here: https://twitter.com/atheistjourneys
Friday, October 10, 2014
How My Faith Was "Broken"
I learned many painful lessons in my teens that I believe my parents learned at the same time. To this day, I look back on "our life."
When my parents and I moved to our new house in the country, we befriended the next-door neighbor, who often invited my mother on trips to the lumber store, to go get hay, or to horse shows. She helped us with our many building projects (horse shelters, etc) as we helped her with hers.This woman was very generous, and willing to help.
Her husband was away, and she often looked to my mom for companionship, and they were good friends. As I was home-schooled at the time (and my mother and I were both anxious if I was left home alone), I had to go along with them on their trips and help with their projects most of the time.
There was just one problem with all of this: The neighbor was loud and dramatic, and often did things to get attention ("performed," I guess). She had a screeching voice that scared me, and when laughing, would laugh at the top of her lungs, prompting our neighborhood flock of wild turkeys to answer her. I hated when she screeched at the sight of a snake or yelled at her dog. I was quiet, reserved, an introvert, and painfully shy at that age (about thirteen), so I would often cringe at the unpleasant loudness.
We saw her every day, and she often wanted to take my mom (and me, because I was an appendage) on trips that would last for hours or all day. My mother and I both got tired and longed for the comforts of home after a few hours in town or hauling hay.
But we (my mom) almost never said "no" to her. We had to always be good Christians and "help her out." Basically, this woman who tired us out with her unpredictable drama, who was very different from us, who wanted a life very different than the quiet one we wanted, was controlling our lives.
Complicating things was the fact that we loved her baby as our own, and were basically raising him (he being at our house about five days a week, normally), but had no legal claim on him whatsoever. If we said no to her often enough, or made her mad at us, we were afraid we wouldn't see him ever again. The only comment I will make on her parenting style is to say that he and his older brother were both very small, and that her now-ex-husband has custody of them ("Cody" is now eleven and is still very involved in our lives, happily).
When Cody was almost two, the worst thing that could happen, happened: His mother decided that we would never see him again.
A friend of hers had said that my mother had spoken badly about her behind her back. I could never imagine my mother doing this, but she believed her friend, and said that we would never see her or the baby again.
I prayed the hardest I had ever prayed in my life. I was constantly desperate, anxious, insecure about myself as a Christian, as a good daughter, good "witness" for Jesus, good person, etc. These were all tied up together, and they all pointed to me being bad or inadequate, or not loving God enough.
Months later, my family was involved in a custody battle over her divorce. We were scared, terrified, for so many reasons. The newspaper at that time was full of stories of small children being raped, sexually abused, or even killed by their mother's boyfriends. We had...seen things. We knew that she befriended...everyone. Not a comforting thought, to say the least.
I was hurting so very badly at that time. My family was going through financial difficulties, and I thought we would lose our house. My parents were fighting at the time, and my mother talked about the possibility of divorce.
I begged God for some kind of sign that things would be all right. I prayed so hard for peace. I heard a song at that time, "Sometimes He calms the storm, other times He calms His child." I wished it were true. I wondered if I was really his child.
After a while, I felt numb. I couldn't feel anymore. I couldn't pray. I couldn't read my bible. I couldn't go to church, and look around me at all the people who were twice, three, even four or more times my age, and know that most of them had never been through something as painful as this, or had forgotten. I couldn't say anything, knowing that "grownups," just because of my age, would give me platitudes that meant nothing to them, and that were useless to me. That they would use my youth to boost their egos and pass on their "wisdom."
My faith was broken.
"A bruised reed he will not break." But something did break me, break it. He had allowed it to happen. For years afterward I could not bear to hear any bible verse, any Christian song, anyone praying or talking about god. It was too emotional, for so many reasons. I got rid of everything that even remotely reminded me of god or Jesus or Christianity.
My faith was broken, and it's never been the same.
Once or twice over the years, I've had my "revivals." I've tried it again, "rededicated" my life to Christ, committed myself to praying and reading my bible. Once I even went over a year without masturbating, trying to dedicate my space and body to god and trying to remain "pure" and get rid of all of the "sin" in my life. I took it up again on purpose, after thinking things through and deciding that going my whole life without any kind of release was ridiculous.
But I had learned some things, even in my "revivals." I wasn't groveling anymore. I wasn't begging god to show me a sign of his presence, or even thinking that he ever would. I wasn't expecting that he would give me a sense of peace, that everything would work out.
I wasn't as naive as I was before.
And I've learned some things, through all of that:
1) I learned was that I needed a place where nobody knew my mother. I needed a place where I was not somebody's daughter, but me. I needed to be my own person, at least somewhere.
2) I learned that God will not give you peace, no matter how hard you beg for it. For whatever reason, he just doesn't do it.
3) I learned that you can "get saved" or "rededicate" as many times as you want to, but after a while, you get tired of it, and you know that this time won't be any "different."
4) I learned that people don't want to hear about your pain or doubts, especially Christians. They will try to "comfort" you, but really they're just trying to shut you up. They don't want to deal with your bothersome emotions, else they might have to deal with their own.
5) I learned that you HAVE to say "no" to people sometimes. Fuck being a "good Christian." You can't help everyone, and sometimes you shouldn't. You have to look out for yourself (and your own) and set boundaries. You cannot live in fear of people taking something away from you (a baby, for example) or live in fear of others. Look out for your own safety, but don't live in emotional blackmail, even to your own family.
6) Almost all Christians have NO CLUE! All people unintentionally hurt others, but Christians are some of the worst. They are emotionally invested in believing fanciful things (and in you believing them), they believe in thought crimes and are afraid of committing them, they put people into boxes of "saved" and "unsaved" (and often don't consult you about what box you're going in). They want to shut down your doubts, as swiftly as possible, often using whatever means necessary. They often simply try to tell you "the way it is." If they hear the word "atheist", or that you don't believe, they will often stop listening altogether (after all, how can they listen? They're too busy imagining you in hell!). In other words, religion can bring out the worst in people. There's a reason people say, "The Christian army shoots its wounded."
7) The ONLY acceptable thing you can say to someone who is hurting is, "I'm sorry." Don't try to tell them it will be all right, that this person lived a good life (if they've lost someone), that God has a plan, etc. If they're not ready to "look on the bright side," they will always remember how much you hurt them when they were down. The only thing that should be added is an offer to help.
8) I learned that I have a need to vent my frustrations (even with God), my doubts and anger and despair. If I have to hold it all in or not think about it, in order to keep myself in line, avoid hurting someone's feelings, or "be a good witness," I will die inside.
9) Divorce is never an "easy way out." Though it may be difficult to keep a marriage together, it can be even harder to break it up. Going through, of all things, the neighbor's divorce, was one of the most difficult things to ever happen to my family and me.
But through all of that, the most important thing I learned was this:
10) It will be all right. You will not die, you will not "lose" your salvation. No matter what happens, you will move on, even if you're not even trying to. It is okay to have doubts, and it is okay to be honest with yourself and others about those doubts. My atheism is just an extension of those doubts, of that same honesty. There is nothing wrong with you, or whatever you are. Everything is going to be all right.
I learned this about myself, and you might learn this about yourself too.
And I can say this from experience, that I will move on, and I can hurt alongside those who are hurting, without trying to talk them out of their hurt.
I know that, no matter what happens, there is life after it. I will move on, without even meaning to. My life will not end up as "God plans," or even as I planned (I never, ever planned to be an atheist), and not even as it's "meant to be," but I can carve out a little happiness, a tiny bit of peace, even in the most chaotic, uncertain or unhappy circumstances.
In a way, I was very lucky to have my faith broken. It worked out in the end. I am finally free.
Send me an email at: atheistjourneysblog@gmail.com
Follow or tweet me here: https://twitter.com/atheistjourneys
When my parents and I moved to our new house in the country, we befriended the next-door neighbor, who often invited my mother on trips to the lumber store, to go get hay, or to horse shows. She helped us with our many building projects (horse shelters, etc) as we helped her with hers.This woman was very generous, and willing to help.
Her husband was away, and she often looked to my mom for companionship, and they were good friends. As I was home-schooled at the time (and my mother and I were both anxious if I was left home alone), I had to go along with them on their trips and help with their projects most of the time.
There was just one problem with all of this: The neighbor was loud and dramatic, and often did things to get attention ("performed," I guess). She had a screeching voice that scared me, and when laughing, would laugh at the top of her lungs, prompting our neighborhood flock of wild turkeys to answer her. I hated when she screeched at the sight of a snake or yelled at her dog. I was quiet, reserved, an introvert, and painfully shy at that age (about thirteen), so I would often cringe at the unpleasant loudness.
We saw her every day, and she often wanted to take my mom (and me, because I was an appendage) on trips that would last for hours or all day. My mother and I both got tired and longed for the comforts of home after a few hours in town or hauling hay.
But we (my mom) almost never said "no" to her. We had to always be good Christians and "help her out." Basically, this woman who tired us out with her unpredictable drama, who was very different from us, who wanted a life very different than the quiet one we wanted, was controlling our lives.
Complicating things was the fact that we loved her baby as our own, and were basically raising him (he being at our house about five days a week, normally), but had no legal claim on him whatsoever. If we said no to her often enough, or made her mad at us, we were afraid we wouldn't see him ever again. The only comment I will make on her parenting style is to say that he and his older brother were both very small, and that her now-ex-husband has custody of them ("Cody" is now eleven and is still very involved in our lives, happily).
When Cody was almost two, the worst thing that could happen, happened: His mother decided that we would never see him again.
A friend of hers had said that my mother had spoken badly about her behind her back. I could never imagine my mother doing this, but she believed her friend, and said that we would never see her or the baby again.
I prayed the hardest I had ever prayed in my life. I was constantly desperate, anxious, insecure about myself as a Christian, as a good daughter, good "witness" for Jesus, good person, etc. These were all tied up together, and they all pointed to me being bad or inadequate, or not loving God enough.
Months later, my family was involved in a custody battle over her divorce. We were scared, terrified, for so many reasons. The newspaper at that time was full of stories of small children being raped, sexually abused, or even killed by their mother's boyfriends. We had...seen things. We knew that she befriended...everyone. Not a comforting thought, to say the least.
I was hurting so very badly at that time. My family was going through financial difficulties, and I thought we would lose our house. My parents were fighting at the time, and my mother talked about the possibility of divorce.
I begged God for some kind of sign that things would be all right. I prayed so hard for peace. I heard a song at that time, "Sometimes He calms the storm, other times He calms His child." I wished it were true. I wondered if I was really his child.
After a while, I felt numb. I couldn't feel anymore. I couldn't pray. I couldn't read my bible. I couldn't go to church, and look around me at all the people who were twice, three, even four or more times my age, and know that most of them had never been through something as painful as this, or had forgotten. I couldn't say anything, knowing that "grownups," just because of my age, would give me platitudes that meant nothing to them, and that were useless to me. That they would use my youth to boost their egos and pass on their "wisdom."
My faith was broken.
"A bruised reed he will not break." But something did break me, break it. He had allowed it to happen. For years afterward I could not bear to hear any bible verse, any Christian song, anyone praying or talking about god. It was too emotional, for so many reasons. I got rid of everything that even remotely reminded me of god or Jesus or Christianity.
My faith was broken, and it's never been the same.
Once or twice over the years, I've had my "revivals." I've tried it again, "rededicated" my life to Christ, committed myself to praying and reading my bible. Once I even went over a year without masturbating, trying to dedicate my space and body to god and trying to remain "pure" and get rid of all of the "sin" in my life. I took it up again on purpose, after thinking things through and deciding that going my whole life without any kind of release was ridiculous.
But I had learned some things, even in my "revivals." I wasn't groveling anymore. I wasn't begging god to show me a sign of his presence, or even thinking that he ever would. I wasn't expecting that he would give me a sense of peace, that everything would work out.
I wasn't as naive as I was before.
And I've learned some things, through all of that:
1) I learned was that I needed a place where nobody knew my mother. I needed a place where I was not somebody's daughter, but me. I needed to be my own person, at least somewhere.
2) I learned that God will not give you peace, no matter how hard you beg for it. For whatever reason, he just doesn't do it.
3) I learned that you can "get saved" or "rededicate" as many times as you want to, but after a while, you get tired of it, and you know that this time won't be any "different."
4) I learned that people don't want to hear about your pain or doubts, especially Christians. They will try to "comfort" you, but really they're just trying to shut you up. They don't want to deal with your bothersome emotions, else they might have to deal with their own.
5) I learned that you HAVE to say "no" to people sometimes. Fuck being a "good Christian." You can't help everyone, and sometimes you shouldn't. You have to look out for yourself (and your own) and set boundaries. You cannot live in fear of people taking something away from you (a baby, for example) or live in fear of others. Look out for your own safety, but don't live in emotional blackmail, even to your own family.
6) Almost all Christians have NO CLUE! All people unintentionally hurt others, but Christians are some of the worst. They are emotionally invested in believing fanciful things (and in you believing them), they believe in thought crimes and are afraid of committing them, they put people into boxes of "saved" and "unsaved" (and often don't consult you about what box you're going in). They want to shut down your doubts, as swiftly as possible, often using whatever means necessary. They often simply try to tell you "the way it is." If they hear the word "atheist", or that you don't believe, they will often stop listening altogether (after all, how can they listen? They're too busy imagining you in hell!). In other words, religion can bring out the worst in people. There's a reason people say, "The Christian army shoots its wounded."
7) The ONLY acceptable thing you can say to someone who is hurting is, "I'm sorry." Don't try to tell them it will be all right, that this person lived a good life (if they've lost someone), that God has a plan, etc. If they're not ready to "look on the bright side," they will always remember how much you hurt them when they were down. The only thing that should be added is an offer to help.
8) I learned that I have a need to vent my frustrations (even with God), my doubts and anger and despair. If I have to hold it all in or not think about it, in order to keep myself in line, avoid hurting someone's feelings, or "be a good witness," I will die inside.
9) Divorce is never an "easy way out." Though it may be difficult to keep a marriage together, it can be even harder to break it up. Going through, of all things, the neighbor's divorce, was one of the most difficult things to ever happen to my family and me.
But through all of that, the most important thing I learned was this:
10) It will be all right. You will not die, you will not "lose" your salvation. No matter what happens, you will move on, even if you're not even trying to. It is okay to have doubts, and it is okay to be honest with yourself and others about those doubts. My atheism is just an extension of those doubts, of that same honesty. There is nothing wrong with you, or whatever you are. Everything is going to be all right.
I learned this about myself, and you might learn this about yourself too.
And I can say this from experience, that I will move on, and I can hurt alongside those who are hurting, without trying to talk them out of their hurt.
I know that, no matter what happens, there is life after it. I will move on, without even meaning to. My life will not end up as "God plans," or even as I planned (I never, ever planned to be an atheist), and not even as it's "meant to be," but I can carve out a little happiness, a tiny bit of peace, even in the most chaotic, uncertain or unhappy circumstances.
In a way, I was very lucky to have my faith broken. It worked out in the end. I am finally free.
Send me an email at: atheistjourneysblog@gmail.com
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Wednesday, October 1, 2014
Poultry, Prophylactics And Creepy Clothing
The last time I had been in the vet's office with my rescued kitten,
Marshmallow, the receptionist had told me to turn in my resume with
them, as she needed a part-time replacement. That was on a Friday. My
dad helped me make one up over the weekend, and I was sure to include my
stint as a volunteer at my little brother's preschool, where I "cleaned
up vomit" if one of the children got sick, because "the teacher had a
weak stomach." Fortunately the little girl in question had only been
eating popcorn, but I had cleaned up much worse at home from my own
cats, and figured that would be a useful skill in a vet's office.
For once, I was really excited about applying for a job. I liked the staff and doctor, and thought I could learn much about taking care of animals. So that Monday I drove for the first time by myself, as I had gotten my license about a week before.
My parents told me not to worry too much about looking professional, but the vet had on one of the earlier visits thought that I was eleven (a twelve-year difference, which is a personal record), so I figured I could not look too old or too competent. I wore black slacks, a red blouse, and put my hair in a bun. I noticed that the receptionist always had her hair done up in a fancy style, so I added a large metal butterfly clip in the back.
"The kitty's fine," I explained. "I'm just dropping off my resume."
I was surprised at how easy it was to do once I got there, but even more surprised at how normal it seemed to be driving by myself. I felt that I was constantly tempting fate, but somehow that was okay.
The last thing I wanted to do afterwards was to go home, and I decided I had errands to run. There was something I had wanted to do for a long time now.
I remembered the last time I had been in this particular store, only a few days after getting my license, hearing the song, "Jesus Take The Wheel."
I bought an ice cream bar, dark red lipstick (hoping I would look professional and competent wearing it) and, though I was somewhat nervous, condoms.
I had found them right next to the diapers, which in a funny way made perfect sense. It was like they were sending a deliberate message: "If this doesn't work, you're gonna need this."
I was surprised that I didn't have to show ID to get them, but I didn't question it.
On the way home I passed a church sign saying, "Worried about where your soul is going after you die? Call this number to find out." It was a local number, meaning some pastor or other resident decided to post his number in public, potentially exposing himself to prank calls or atheists looking for trouble. It was a bit tempting, though I didn't want to get a headache from aggravation or look like an asshole.
I was feeling judgmental. Those baby chicks should be in a pen, I thought, driving by the church. I don't care how good a mom that hen is, that's just irresponsible. I prefer to lock my baby animals up until they're fully grown, just to be safe.
I thought of stealing the whole family, PETA-style. After all, I have a coop, and I could be saving their lives. But I didn't think I could catch them all, or do it without being caught.
I fantasized about the note I would leave:
"Dear Bible-Thumpers,
Next time buy a fucking coop! No matter how great a mom she is, the babies could still get run over, or eaten by a cat or a hawk. Life is precious, as it's possibly the only thing we have, the only chance there is.
Sincerely,
A Concerned Atheist Chicken-Thief (Who Has A Goddamned Coop)
P.S. I'm going to bring those babies up right, and teach them that there is no god. Hope you like chickens to fry!"
Then I would go to their church the next Sunday and see if they condemned my love of animals as thievery or called animals their property. That is, if the chickens were even owned by the church and not by one of its neighbors. If only I wouldn't be caught...I sighed.
Pulling onto my road, I was thinking about my blog, and the "next step" in my atheist activism. I hoped I would get the chance to debate theists someday, though that would involve "coming out" to my family about my non-belief and my blog activity. I planned to join my college's debate club at the start of the term, and hoped I could get enough signatures to start an atheist/humanist/secularist/freethinkers club. Thirty student signatures were required, though some classes typically had less than ten students (I was even once in a class in which there was only one other student). If I could only get it going, in spite of whatever opposition we had, I was sure somebody from the bible study club would love to debate us.
My thoughts were stopped short when I noticed two forked-horn deer next to the road. Next to them were a mama and two babies, still with their spots. I stopped, staring at them in awe, wishing I had something to feed them. I stayed there for about ten minutes, watching them eat fallen apples from the neighbor's front yard, making the neighbors think I was creepy, I'm sure. But I didn't care. One of the bucks stared at me curiously, and I pretended to chew my cud, causing him to relax again. I watched them until they all leaped away.
How can God possible disapprove of my life? I thought. If He is real, and I was just thinking about what I would do next to promote atheism...or at least change people's minds about atheists...
I guess even as an atheist I still sometimes see God in the beauty of nature. I'm still not certain that that's real evidence, though, and I don't think a theist would like my interpretation of His messages.
The next day I got the condoms out from where I had hidden them in my backpack. I did something long denied to me as a home-schooler, and something I had always wanted to do: I rolled a condom onto a banana. I've finally joined the rest of the normal world, I thought. Is this really how big a penis is? Surely not as big as the banana? And how am I supposed to feel these "ribs" when they're so tiny? Oh well, I guess they're better than nothing.
And now I can be sexually active, I thought. I wonder if I'll meet someone I like?
I thought of Ben, the innocent Christian boy whom I haven't seen in a while, and whom I haven't gotten over. The phrase "I have condoms" would probably have scared him away. He was probably too "pure" as well to say yes. But there wasn't anyone I wanted to fuck more.
I put the remaining condoms away, sighing. I wondered if I would use them by their 2018 expiration date (which sounded a little dangerous to me, as I had heard condoms expired within six months). I wanted them to be more than water balloons, but only if I was in love.
That night my mother ran into my room, excited. "Look what was in that box of clothes my cousin sent us!" she said. She held up a t-shirt promoting her cousin's high-school volleyball team. It looked like this:
I laughed uncomfortably, struck speechless. Even without believing in Him, "God" still occasionally creeps me the fuck out.
Send me an email at: atheistjourneysblog@gmail.com
Follow or tweet me here: https://twitter.com/atheistjourneys
For once, I was really excited about applying for a job. I liked the staff and doctor, and thought I could learn much about taking care of animals. So that Monday I drove for the first time by myself, as I had gotten my license about a week before.
My parents told me not to worry too much about looking professional, but the vet had on one of the earlier visits thought that I was eleven (a twelve-year difference, which is a personal record), so I figured I could not look too old or too competent. I wore black slacks, a red blouse, and put my hair in a bun. I noticed that the receptionist always had her hair done up in a fancy style, so I added a large metal butterfly clip in the back.
"The kitty's fine," I explained. "I'm just dropping off my resume."
I was surprised at how easy it was to do once I got there, but even more surprised at how normal it seemed to be driving by myself. I felt that I was constantly tempting fate, but somehow that was okay.
The last thing I wanted to do afterwards was to go home, and I decided I had errands to run. There was something I had wanted to do for a long time now.
I remembered the last time I had been in this particular store, only a few days after getting my license, hearing the song, "Jesus Take The Wheel."
I bought an ice cream bar, dark red lipstick (hoping I would look professional and competent wearing it) and, though I was somewhat nervous, condoms.
I had found them right next to the diapers, which in a funny way made perfect sense. It was like they were sending a deliberate message: "If this doesn't work, you're gonna need this."
I was surprised that I didn't have to show ID to get them, but I didn't question it.
On the way home I passed a church sign saying, "Worried about where your soul is going after you die? Call this number to find out." It was a local number, meaning some pastor or other resident decided to post his number in public, potentially exposing himself to prank calls or atheists looking for trouble. It was a bit tempting, though I didn't want to get a headache from aggravation or look like an asshole.
I was feeling judgmental. Those baby chicks should be in a pen, I thought, driving by the church. I don't care how good a mom that hen is, that's just irresponsible. I prefer to lock my baby animals up until they're fully grown, just to be safe.
I thought of stealing the whole family, PETA-style. After all, I have a coop, and I could be saving their lives. But I didn't think I could catch them all, or do it without being caught.
I fantasized about the note I would leave:
"Dear Bible-Thumpers,
Next time buy a fucking coop! No matter how great a mom she is, the babies could still get run over, or eaten by a cat or a hawk. Life is precious, as it's possibly the only thing we have, the only chance there is.
Sincerely,
A Concerned Atheist Chicken-Thief (Who Has A Goddamned Coop)
P.S. I'm going to bring those babies up right, and teach them that there is no god. Hope you like chickens to fry!"
Then I would go to their church the next Sunday and see if they condemned my love of animals as thievery or called animals their property. That is, if the chickens were even owned by the church and not by one of its neighbors. If only I wouldn't be caught...I sighed.
Pulling onto my road, I was thinking about my blog, and the "next step" in my atheist activism. I hoped I would get the chance to debate theists someday, though that would involve "coming out" to my family about my non-belief and my blog activity. I planned to join my college's debate club at the start of the term, and hoped I could get enough signatures to start an atheist/humanist/secularist/freethinkers club. Thirty student signatures were required, though some classes typically had less than ten students (I was even once in a class in which there was only one other student). If I could only get it going, in spite of whatever opposition we had, I was sure somebody from the bible study club would love to debate us.
My thoughts were stopped short when I noticed two forked-horn deer next to the road. Next to them were a mama and two babies, still with their spots. I stopped, staring at them in awe, wishing I had something to feed them. I stayed there for about ten minutes, watching them eat fallen apples from the neighbor's front yard, making the neighbors think I was creepy, I'm sure. But I didn't care. One of the bucks stared at me curiously, and I pretended to chew my cud, causing him to relax again. I watched them until they all leaped away.
How can God possible disapprove of my life? I thought. If He is real, and I was just thinking about what I would do next to promote atheism...or at least change people's minds about atheists...
I guess even as an atheist I still sometimes see God in the beauty of nature. I'm still not certain that that's real evidence, though, and I don't think a theist would like my interpretation of His messages.
The next day I got the condoms out from where I had hidden them in my backpack. I did something long denied to me as a home-schooler, and something I had always wanted to do: I rolled a condom onto a banana. I've finally joined the rest of the normal world, I thought. Is this really how big a penis is? Surely not as big as the banana? And how am I supposed to feel these "ribs" when they're so tiny? Oh well, I guess they're better than nothing.
And now I can be sexually active, I thought. I wonder if I'll meet someone I like?
I thought of Ben, the innocent Christian boy whom I haven't seen in a while, and whom I haven't gotten over. The phrase "I have condoms" would probably have scared him away. He was probably too "pure" as well to say yes. But there wasn't anyone I wanted to fuck more.
I put the remaining condoms away, sighing. I wondered if I would use them by their 2018 expiration date (which sounded a little dangerous to me, as I had heard condoms expired within six months). I wanted them to be more than water balloons, but only if I was in love.
That night my mother ran into my room, excited. "Look what was in that box of clothes my cousin sent us!" she said. She held up a t-shirt promoting her cousin's high-school volleyball team. It looked like this:
 | |
| I was flabbergasted. |
Send me an email at: atheistjourneysblog@gmail.com
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Wednesday, September 24, 2014
Mommy-And-Me Sodomy
My mother and I had errands to run and goats to feed, so we climbed into our old truck for a day of pushing around awkward sixty-pound hay bales.
"We have to buy cat food first," she said. So that's just what we did.
I was idly perusing the chip aisle when I slowly became aware of the background music. There was something a little disconcerting about it...
Wait, I thought, This song sounds familiar. Could it be...?
Sure enough, there was the chorus: "Jesus Take The Wheel..."
This song has always made me laugh. My cousin used to sing it in a high-pitched falsetto whenever his dad drifted in the lane. (Even while getting the link for this article, I heard the verses for the first time: A woman hits a patch of ice, her baby in the back seat, and literally throws her hands off the steering wheel while screaming the chorus. This is the exact opposite of what you're actually supposed to do: steer into the skid, with your hands on the wheel, and chant "Hail Satan, Lord of Darkness" six times fast. There is also usually an "end" to the skid too, meaning Jesus didn't have to actually do anything to save her.)
But this time it was even funnier, because I was an atheist and I had just gotten my driver's license only a few days before, after years of not thinking myself capable of getting it.
This wasn't some Christian-charity-owned thrift shop, but a real store which I assume was playing a country music or easy listening station. Since realizing I was an atheist, seeing "God" in things seems much more frequent, and more amusing, than ever before. I think God is most likely not to exist, but occasionally I get a feeling like I saw something out of the corner of my eye, and I don't know if it's really there, or an illusion.
I cracked a smile and shook my head at thought of God nagging me. "You can't drive without Me!" I imagined him saying, "You can't drive."
"I can do a lot of things that I didn't know I could," I would lift my head and proudly say, "Things that are 'dangerous.' You have to go to your own 'death' sometimes to even live. You have to make foolish choices, do stuff you think will kill you, you have to risk terrible consequences. I'll run the risk of your hell, if it means my freedom, and I will drive wherever I please, even if I crash!"
"Foolish girl!" God thundered like a supervillain. "You will pay for your insolence! You will paaaaaaayyyyyyyy.....!"
As "God" was banished into the furthest recesses of my mind, I grinned and reached for a box of crackers.
Our next stop was getting the hay for our goats.
"Climb up there and push the bales down," my mom said, as we loaded it into the back of our truck. As I scrambled up, she gave me a push on the buttocks to help me up.
Afterwards, as we drove down the highway, she asked me to get her purse and find one of her supplements. "Can you find my 'thymus?'" she asked.
I leaned over and pointed to her sternum, where I have read all mammals have their thymuses. "It's right here," I said, helpfully and cheerfully.
"Hey! You touched my boob!" she feigned offense.
"I did not, and you touched my buttocks without even saying, 'Here's your anus,'" I tried to reason with her.
"Fine," she said, pointing to an invisible point in the air, "Here's your anus!"
"Don't sodomize me with your finger!" I shrieked. "Why do I have to say that to my own mom?"
We laughed hysterically and had the "you're sick--no, you're sick," argument that is sadly typical of our relationship.
"Want to stop at a couple of thrift shops?" she asked.
We parked the truck and walked down the street, arm in arm, enjoying each other's company.
"Do you think people think we're lesbians?" she asked contemplatively.
"I don't know." I recalled the time we actually had been mistaken for a lesbian couple. Walking out of a restaurant, holding hands, in a nearby city known to be quite liberal, a teenage boy in the parking lot had shouted, "I spy, with my little eye, someone gay! I spy, with my little eye, someone gay!"
At first I had thought he was playing some weird little game with his own boyfriend. It took us both a minute to realize that he was talking about us. My dad was even with us, though walking a few feet ahead, and he hadn't figured it out.
At that moment, years later, we were both thinking the same thing, and said it in unison:"I spy, with my little eye, someone gay!" We shared a laugh at the fond memory.
"I'll be a lesbian with you," she said affectionately.
"Okay," I agreed. We already had everything but the incest.
Send me an email at: atheistjourneysblog@gmail.com
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"We have to buy cat food first," she said. So that's just what we did.
I was idly perusing the chip aisle when I slowly became aware of the background music. There was something a little disconcerting about it...
Wait, I thought, This song sounds familiar. Could it be...?
Sure enough, there was the chorus: "Jesus Take The Wheel..."
This song has always made me laugh. My cousin used to sing it in a high-pitched falsetto whenever his dad drifted in the lane. (Even while getting the link for this article, I heard the verses for the first time: A woman hits a patch of ice, her baby in the back seat, and literally throws her hands off the steering wheel while screaming the chorus. This is the exact opposite of what you're actually supposed to do: steer into the skid, with your hands on the wheel, and chant "Hail Satan, Lord of Darkness" six times fast. There is also usually an "end" to the skid too, meaning Jesus didn't have to actually do anything to save her.)
But this time it was even funnier, because I was an atheist and I had just gotten my driver's license only a few days before, after years of not thinking myself capable of getting it.
This wasn't some Christian-charity-owned thrift shop, but a real store which I assume was playing a country music or easy listening station. Since realizing I was an atheist, seeing "God" in things seems much more frequent, and more amusing, than ever before. I think God is most likely not to exist, but occasionally I get a feeling like I saw something out of the corner of my eye, and I don't know if it's really there, or an illusion.
I cracked a smile and shook my head at thought of God nagging me. "You can't drive without Me!" I imagined him saying, "You can't drive."
"I can do a lot of things that I didn't know I could," I would lift my head and proudly say, "Things that are 'dangerous.' You have to go to your own 'death' sometimes to even live. You have to make foolish choices, do stuff you think will kill you, you have to risk terrible consequences. I'll run the risk of your hell, if it means my freedom, and I will drive wherever I please, even if I crash!"
"Foolish girl!" God thundered like a supervillain. "You will pay for your insolence! You will paaaaaaayyyyyyyy.....!"
As "God" was banished into the furthest recesses of my mind, I grinned and reached for a box of crackers.
Our next stop was getting the hay for our goats.
"Climb up there and push the bales down," my mom said, as we loaded it into the back of our truck. As I scrambled up, she gave me a push on the buttocks to help me up.
Afterwards, as we drove down the highway, she asked me to get her purse and find one of her supplements. "Can you find my 'thymus?'" she asked.
I leaned over and pointed to her sternum, where I have read all mammals have their thymuses. "It's right here," I said, helpfully and cheerfully.
"Hey! You touched my boob!" she feigned offense.
"I did not, and you touched my buttocks without even saying, 'Here's your anus,'" I tried to reason with her.
"Fine," she said, pointing to an invisible point in the air, "Here's your anus!"
"Don't sodomize me with your finger!" I shrieked. "Why do I have to say that to my own mom?"
We laughed hysterically and had the "you're sick--no, you're sick," argument that is sadly typical of our relationship.
"Want to stop at a couple of thrift shops?" she asked.
We parked the truck and walked down the street, arm in arm, enjoying each other's company.
"Do you think people think we're lesbians?" she asked contemplatively.
"I don't know." I recalled the time we actually had been mistaken for a lesbian couple. Walking out of a restaurant, holding hands, in a nearby city known to be quite liberal, a teenage boy in the parking lot had shouted, "I spy, with my little eye, someone gay! I spy, with my little eye, someone gay!"
At first I had thought he was playing some weird little game with his own boyfriend. It took us both a minute to realize that he was talking about us. My dad was even with us, though walking a few feet ahead, and he hadn't figured it out.
At that moment, years later, we were both thinking the same thing, and said it in unison:"I spy, with my little eye, someone gay!" We shared a laugh at the fond memory.
"I'll be a lesbian with you," she said affectionately.
"Okay," I agreed. We already had everything but the incest.
Send me an email at: atheistjourneysblog@gmail.com
And follow or tweet me here: https://twitter.com/atheistjourneys
Wednesday, September 17, 2014
The Ragged Dick, Struggling Upward: A Sexual Horatio Alger Story
(For those unfamiliar with Horatio Alger, he was a nineteenth-century novelist, who wrote about poor boys finding success through hard work and perseverance; and a suspected pedophile. Here are links to the stories I'm referencing. They're also available for free download here and here.)
This is the story of a good Christian boy I knew who managed to break free of his super-strict upbringing, with an interesting (sexual) twist at the end. I'll call him Peter. My parents went to church with and were friends with his parents since he was a fetus. When he was born, I've heard, his dad asked the doctor to "make her tight again," which caused difficulties in subsequent pregnancies. That probably should have been a sign as to what kind of man was raising him.
I was basically brought up with Peter for a few years. I am told that I once refused to share my can of peas with him, shaking my head emphatically and saying, "Uh-uh! Uh-uh!"
We watched Power Rangers at his house, played with his castle and soldiers, and once I ran out of his bedroom shouting, "Mommy, I'm peeing my pants!"
"I tried to warn her, but she wouldn't go!" Peter said, following me. I really hope he doesn't remember this incident, though every time I meet one of his friends, I imagine him secretly telling them, when I'm gone, "She peed all over my bedroom."
He is about a month older than me, and my mom has a picture of me kissing him on the lips when we were three. I've heard that our moms bathed us together, which surprises me now, considering the way his parents were many years later.
When I was about five, his parents started going to a new church, and pressuring my parents to go. When my parents stayed at their current church, they stopped being friends with my parents.
Years later, my mother and I ran into his mother and him in town. His mom kept using the term, "my husband," rather than her husband's name, even though we knew him quite well. I also noticed that every time I saw her, she was wearing a skirt.
Sarah (not her real name) mentioned that they had a teenage girl living with them who had a bad home situation and needed them. She and "my husband" had sat her and their son down and told them that "we trust you, but something could happen, so you two aren't allowed to be alone together." I'm not sure how that worked, given that they lived in the same house.
They lived in the country and had goats, like us. My mom mentioned that she had some leftover fencing, and invited her to our house to come and get it. About a week later, she showed up with her three boys (who were home-schooled, like me, and so went with her everywhere).
I invited Peter to a swing-dancing class I was taking, but his mom said, "Sorry, he's not allowed to touch girls."
Touch girls? I was taken aback. She had somehow managed to make dancing from the fifties into a creepy juvenile feel-fest. She apparently had a very dirty mind.
There didn't seem to be a problem if I went somewhere alone with him at my house that day. Somehow we managed not to rape each other, and they went home. A few days later, my mom said that she had tried to call Sarah to get together again, but she wasn't answering her phone. "I feel like she just wanted the fencing, and now she doesn't want anything to do with me," she said.
We chanced to see his parents again during this time. "Our boys aren't allowed to date anyone until after college," Sarah bragged, obviously proud of herself.
"But you have to trust your kids until they prove untrustworthy," my mom reasoned.
"I would trust her," M.H. said, meaning me, "but not the boy. There's nothing preventing them from finding somewhere to park." He said "park" like he was saying the word "fuck."
"But I'm sure some boys aren't like that," I said, trying to be respectful to my elders but frustrated at his ridiculousness. "There are nice boys..."
"Listen! If any boy, including my son, takes you on a date alone, he's only after one thing," he replied, intensely.
I was too shocked to say anything. That he would not trust his own kid...I hadn't heard that the kid had done anything, and I thought what M.H. had said was the saddest thing I had ever heard.
A few years later, my mom called Sarah to catch up. She talked to both his parents, and they seemed glad to hear from her, less judgmental. "So how's Peter? I heard he got married," my mom said casually.
"Oh," Sarah said in a strange voice. "Peter left the family. We haven't heard from him in years."
"Sarah, I'm so sorry," she said. Then later, to me: "How can someone 'leave the family?' That's impossible! I'll bet they disowned him." She had always told me that I was her kid no matter what.
A few days ago we saw Peter and his wife in the grocery store. They mentioned that they had been married almost three years now, and were thinking about having kids. He looked very happy, happier than I'd ever seen him.
The next day my mom got curious and typed his name into Google. "You've got to see this!" she said. He was on a dating website, looking for a "third person" for his marriage, a girl who "wants to be loved by two people, not just one." He listed his religion as Wiccan.
"Hey," Mom suggested, "why don't you do it?"
I had thought about it for a second, but I didn't find either of them sexually attractive. Wicca is my favorite religion, though, with the earth goddess, and being one with nature, and casting spells for peace and prosperity. Too bad I don't believe in it.
I am really surprised that he reached escape velocity from his religion and sexual hangups. I guess this story goes to show that, even if you have the shittiest parents or family imaginable, you can still end up with a wonderful life, full of love and happiness and magical three-ways.
What do you think of this? Leave a comment below, or send me an email at: atheistjourneysblog@gmail.com
Follow or tweet me here: https://twitter.com/atheistjourneys
This is the story of a good Christian boy I knew who managed to break free of his super-strict upbringing, with an interesting (sexual) twist at the end. I'll call him Peter. My parents went to church with and were friends with his parents since he was a fetus. When he was born, I've heard, his dad asked the doctor to "make her tight again," which caused difficulties in subsequent pregnancies. That probably should have been a sign as to what kind of man was raising him.
I was basically brought up with Peter for a few years. I am told that I once refused to share my can of peas with him, shaking my head emphatically and saying, "Uh-uh! Uh-uh!"
We watched Power Rangers at his house, played with his castle and soldiers, and once I ran out of his bedroom shouting, "Mommy, I'm peeing my pants!"
"I tried to warn her, but she wouldn't go!" Peter said, following me. I really hope he doesn't remember this incident, though every time I meet one of his friends, I imagine him secretly telling them, when I'm gone, "She peed all over my bedroom."
He is about a month older than me, and my mom has a picture of me kissing him on the lips when we were three. I've heard that our moms bathed us together, which surprises me now, considering the way his parents were many years later.
When I was about five, his parents started going to a new church, and pressuring my parents to go. When my parents stayed at their current church, they stopped being friends with my parents.
Years later, my mother and I ran into his mother and him in town. His mom kept using the term, "my husband," rather than her husband's name, even though we knew him quite well. I also noticed that every time I saw her, she was wearing a skirt.
Sarah (not her real name) mentioned that they had a teenage girl living with them who had a bad home situation and needed them. She and "my husband" had sat her and their son down and told them that "we trust you, but something could happen, so you two aren't allowed to be alone together." I'm not sure how that worked, given that they lived in the same house.
They lived in the country and had goats, like us. My mom mentioned that she had some leftover fencing, and invited her to our house to come and get it. About a week later, she showed up with her three boys (who were home-schooled, like me, and so went with her everywhere).
I invited Peter to a swing-dancing class I was taking, but his mom said, "Sorry, he's not allowed to touch girls."
Touch girls? I was taken aback. She had somehow managed to make dancing from the fifties into a creepy juvenile feel-fest. She apparently had a very dirty mind.
There didn't seem to be a problem if I went somewhere alone with him at my house that day. Somehow we managed not to rape each other, and they went home. A few days later, my mom said that she had tried to call Sarah to get together again, but she wasn't answering her phone. "I feel like she just wanted the fencing, and now she doesn't want anything to do with me," she said.
We chanced to see his parents again during this time. "Our boys aren't allowed to date anyone until after college," Sarah bragged, obviously proud of herself.
"But you have to trust your kids until they prove untrustworthy," my mom reasoned.
"I would trust her," M.H. said, meaning me, "but not the boy. There's nothing preventing them from finding somewhere to park." He said "park" like he was saying the word "fuck."
"But I'm sure some boys aren't like that," I said, trying to be respectful to my elders but frustrated at his ridiculousness. "There are nice boys..."
"Listen! If any boy, including my son, takes you on a date alone, he's only after one thing," he replied, intensely.
I was too shocked to say anything. That he would not trust his own kid...I hadn't heard that the kid had done anything, and I thought what M.H. had said was the saddest thing I had ever heard.
A few years later, my mom called Sarah to catch up. She talked to both his parents, and they seemed glad to hear from her, less judgmental. "So how's Peter? I heard he got married," my mom said casually.
"Oh," Sarah said in a strange voice. "Peter left the family. We haven't heard from him in years."
"Sarah, I'm so sorry," she said. Then later, to me: "How can someone 'leave the family?' That's impossible! I'll bet they disowned him." She had always told me that I was her kid no matter what.
A few days ago we saw Peter and his wife in the grocery store. They mentioned that they had been married almost three years now, and were thinking about having kids. He looked very happy, happier than I'd ever seen him.
The next day my mom got curious and typed his name into Google. "You've got to see this!" she said. He was on a dating website, looking for a "third person" for his marriage, a girl who "wants to be loved by two people, not just one." He listed his religion as Wiccan.
"Hey," Mom suggested, "why don't you do it?"
I had thought about it for a second, but I didn't find either of them sexually attractive. Wicca is my favorite religion, though, with the earth goddess, and being one with nature, and casting spells for peace and prosperity. Too bad I don't believe in it.
I am really surprised that he reached escape velocity from his religion and sexual hangups. I guess this story goes to show that, even if you have the shittiest parents or family imaginable, you can still end up with a wonderful life, full of love and happiness and magical three-ways.
What do you think of this? Leave a comment below, or send me an email at: atheistjourneysblog@gmail.com
Follow or tweet me here: https://twitter.com/atheistjourneys
Tuesday, September 9, 2014
Driving: A Tale Of Fear
My greatest fear, my biggest dread, for many years was taking the test for my driver's license.
I was afraid of being embarrassed. I found it embarrassing to be in there, when I wasn't sixteen and I wasn't sixty-five. I was "old" and potentially a bad driver (I'm twenty-three). I worried that people would find out, and judge me. Driving was such a basic life skill, and I was failing at it.
I was afraid that, if anyone were to find out, they would lord it over me, that they had their licenses and I didn't, or that it took me so many times and so many years, and it was probably easier for them. I have known people who have had weird relationships with driving. One man I knew always had to drive when traveling with someone, but was once asked by his small nephew, "Why are all the jerks on the road when you drive?"
I thought of how I would feel when I finally got my license. I will finally be able to breathe, I thought. Though I knew it was an unhealthy attitude, I wanted nothing more than to "stop being a failure."
I found some measure of relief when I realized that my biggest fear was being embarrassed by failing the test. I was still afraid of embarrassment, I still felt completely unprepared, but I did not feel the same degree of panic that I had felt before. I didn't fear the physical danger of being in a wreck. I only feared the humiliation of having to be told not to turn, scaring the tester, seeing her scribbling on her clipboard, or crying when being told I had once again not passed.
Can I control my emotions? Am I going to panic? I wondered. When I've failed so many times, and hated myself for it...? I knew that my real victory would be concurring the unhealthy thought patterns of my insecure past.
The answer for me was not being "tougher" or "stronger," not being more positive, not fighting in vain to control the chaotic storm inside me. The answer was not making myself bigger, but making the problem smaller.
I have taken my driving test seven times. Twice I almost didn't "left turn yield to oncoming traffic," once the lady told me that I needed more practice to become more confident, the first time I was inexperienced and had a cocky, sarcastic tester who thought he was funny ("You can ask where we're going all you want to, but I'm not going to tell you, ha ha ha!").
Once I had another lady who made me nervous, mixed up the route she had to take me on, asked me if I had the chance to get a lot of practice, then got worked up after the test talking about all of my mistakes, including not letting someone across a crosswalk (the pedestrian was on the side of the road and was not in danger). I sat there and said, "Yes, ma'am" a lot, feeling weak and swallowing bile. She wrote the word, "Fail" with a flourish, as if in a self-righteous huff.
Another time, the lady said, "Okay, unfortunately, you didn't pass this time..." This one was nice, but I don't remember much after that.
The seventh time I took my test, last Thursday, I finally passed. I had felt totally unprepared and at a loss for what to do until about halfway through the test. Fortunately the lady didn't take off points for going below the speed limit, as the angry woman who had mixed up the route had.
After the test I wanted to keep it a secret. I wanted to lure people into underestimating me, then whip it out and shout, "Be proud of me, motherfuckers!" (though maybe not the last part, as most of my family doesn't think profanity is funny like my mom and I do). I have a perverse love of shocking people with my accomplishments, but my mother was so excited she made me call my dad, then my grandparents.
"We should have a party!" my grandmother said.
"Say, 'Are you going to buy me a car?'" my mom whispered in my ear. "Say it! Say it!"
"Are you going to buy me a car?" I asked.
"Uh...I don't think I can right now," she answered.
"You can buy me a Matchbox car," I said.
"Yeah, I can do that. What do you want, a sports car?"
"I don't care. Surprise me."
My grandfather's reaction took a more spiritual turn. "I was praying you would, Baby. I guess God answered my prayers!"
"Well, I did a little of the work too, Papa," I couldn't help but softly saying. I was a little irked, that I had almost died of fright, and God got all the credit. My family doesn't know I'm an atheist, but I try to be honest about my feelings and beliefs in a way that doesn't cause them grief.
"Yeah, you did, and I'm proud for ya," he said.
That night I got calls from an aunt and an uncle, asking what exciting news I had to tell them (my grandmother's doing). So much for stealth accomplishments.
I hadn't realized how much my worries had weighed on me. I have been more relaxed than I have in years. I had thought it would take months or years to get my license, and now, barring crashes or head injury, I may never have to take the test again. Everything seems easier to do, decisions don't seem overwhelming anymore, I feel like a whole new person. Friday I lay in the sun and took a catnap, for the first time in years. If I was in a rut before, I feel like I'm on top of a mountain now. The one thing that kept "defeating" me is now defeated.
I have learned that nothing weighs on a person more than something you want to do, feel you have to do, but makes you afraid of the consequences. Sometimes you have to go to your own death, so to speak, in order to make your life better.
I'm not sure what could have cured me of my anxieties and stress before this point, or if I will have to go through it all again for the next major goal that scares me. I have a feeling that there are lessons in all of this that I am missing, but I'm not sure if I am ready to learn them right now. I hope at least that someone out there will take something useful from my story.
What do you think of this? Leave a comment below, or send me an email at: atheistjourneysblog@gmail.com
Follow or tweet me here: https://twitter.com/atheistjourneys
I was afraid of being embarrassed. I found it embarrassing to be in there, when I wasn't sixteen and I wasn't sixty-five. I was "old" and potentially a bad driver (I'm twenty-three). I worried that people would find out, and judge me. Driving was such a basic life skill, and I was failing at it.
I was afraid that, if anyone were to find out, they would lord it over me, that they had their licenses and I didn't, or that it took me so many times and so many years, and it was probably easier for them. I have known people who have had weird relationships with driving. One man I knew always had to drive when traveling with someone, but was once asked by his small nephew, "Why are all the jerks on the road when you drive?"
I thought of how I would feel when I finally got my license. I will finally be able to breathe, I thought. Though I knew it was an unhealthy attitude, I wanted nothing more than to "stop being a failure."
I found some measure of relief when I realized that my biggest fear was being embarrassed by failing the test. I was still afraid of embarrassment, I still felt completely unprepared, but I did not feel the same degree of panic that I had felt before. I didn't fear the physical danger of being in a wreck. I only feared the humiliation of having to be told not to turn, scaring the tester, seeing her scribbling on her clipboard, or crying when being told I had once again not passed.
Can I control my emotions? Am I going to panic? I wondered. When I've failed so many times, and hated myself for it...? I knew that my real victory would be concurring the unhealthy thought patterns of my insecure past.
The answer for me was not being "tougher" or "stronger," not being more positive, not fighting in vain to control the chaotic storm inside me. The answer was not making myself bigger, but making the problem smaller.
I have taken my driving test seven times. Twice I almost didn't "left turn yield to oncoming traffic," once the lady told me that I needed more practice to become more confident, the first time I was inexperienced and had a cocky, sarcastic tester who thought he was funny ("You can ask where we're going all you want to, but I'm not going to tell you, ha ha ha!").
Once I had another lady who made me nervous, mixed up the route she had to take me on, asked me if I had the chance to get a lot of practice, then got worked up after the test talking about all of my mistakes, including not letting someone across a crosswalk (the pedestrian was on the side of the road and was not in danger). I sat there and said, "Yes, ma'am" a lot, feeling weak and swallowing bile. She wrote the word, "Fail" with a flourish, as if in a self-righteous huff.
Another time, the lady said, "Okay, unfortunately, you didn't pass this time..." This one was nice, but I don't remember much after that.
The seventh time I took my test, last Thursday, I finally passed. I had felt totally unprepared and at a loss for what to do until about halfway through the test. Fortunately the lady didn't take off points for going below the speed limit, as the angry woman who had mixed up the route had.
After the test I wanted to keep it a secret. I wanted to lure people into underestimating me, then whip it out and shout, "Be proud of me, motherfuckers!" (though maybe not the last part, as most of my family doesn't think profanity is funny like my mom and I do). I have a perverse love of shocking people with my accomplishments, but my mother was so excited she made me call my dad, then my grandparents.
"We should have a party!" my grandmother said.
"Say, 'Are you going to buy me a car?'" my mom whispered in my ear. "Say it! Say it!"
"Are you going to buy me a car?" I asked.
"Uh...I don't think I can right now," she answered.
"You can buy me a Matchbox car," I said.
"Yeah, I can do that. What do you want, a sports car?"
"I don't care. Surprise me."
My grandfather's reaction took a more spiritual turn. "I was praying you would, Baby. I guess God answered my prayers!"
"Well, I did a little of the work too, Papa," I couldn't help but softly saying. I was a little irked, that I had almost died of fright, and God got all the credit. My family doesn't know I'm an atheist, but I try to be honest about my feelings and beliefs in a way that doesn't cause them grief.
"Yeah, you did, and I'm proud for ya," he said.
That night I got calls from an aunt and an uncle, asking what exciting news I had to tell them (my grandmother's doing). So much for stealth accomplishments.
I hadn't realized how much my worries had weighed on me. I have been more relaxed than I have in years. I had thought it would take months or years to get my license, and now, barring crashes or head injury, I may never have to take the test again. Everything seems easier to do, decisions don't seem overwhelming anymore, I feel like a whole new person. Friday I lay in the sun and took a catnap, for the first time in years. If I was in a rut before, I feel like I'm on top of a mountain now. The one thing that kept "defeating" me is now defeated.
I have learned that nothing weighs on a person more than something you want to do, feel you have to do, but makes you afraid of the consequences. Sometimes you have to go to your own death, so to speak, in order to make your life better.
I'm not sure what could have cured me of my anxieties and stress before this point, or if I will have to go through it all again for the next major goal that scares me. I have a feeling that there are lessons in all of this that I am missing, but I'm not sure if I am ready to learn them right now. I hope at least that someone out there will take something useful from my story.
What do you think of this? Leave a comment below, or send me an email at: atheistjourneysblog@gmail.com
Follow or tweet me here: https://twitter.com/atheistjourneys
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