tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-65375318676619168312024-03-13T23:35:39.845-07:00 SementiferaAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15122390145621532041noreply@blogger.comBlogger15125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6537531867661916831.post-18670184467431924212014-05-09T07:17:00.001-07:002014-05-09T07:17:31.495-07:00I'm my own mamaMy mom said she is proud of me for knowing how to call a taxi. That's right folks, I can magic taxis out of thin air with my cell phone.<br />
<br />
Sometimes I am so angry at how poorly my parents prepared me to function as an adult in the world. It can feel like they intentionally made me ignorant to control me. But you can't teach people stuff that you yourself don't know.<br />
<br />
I am now the person in the relationship who knows how to do grown-up things, simple and complex, transactional and relational.<br />
<br />
It's something to think about when Mother's Day rolls around and I am expected by my family and society to be full of genuine gratitude. (My dad texted to remind me to acknowledge the holiday. No sense that this might be asking a bit much.) Of course I am tired of pretending with my parents that I didn't have to step in and fill a large gap of knowledge about how to interact with the world and be well in it. I have had to learn to mother myself. It was hard work. It is hard work.<br />
<br />
But it was nice of her to acknowledge that accomplishment in a small way, and feel that she was impressed.<br />
<br />
Happy Mother's Day to me, for all the ways this year that I have been a good mother to myself. <br />
And Happy Mother's Day to my mom, who is really trying.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15122390145621532041noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6537531867661916831.post-26729509268305439312014-04-19T06:50:00.000-07:002014-04-19T06:50:08.696-07:00Asking for help is generousI just want to say that giving people a chance to be in your life, especially when you are down and needy, can be a gift to them.<br />
<br />
This week someone I barely knew committed suicide. We only had one interaction, but we had a lot of mutual friends, and I feel like I can see her story clearly because we shared some similar life experiences.<br />
<br />
I am going to resist turning her story into a neat narrative or object lesson. She was in pain, that makes me sad. Maybe I know some of the reasons, maybe I don't. She didn't want to share that with me and that's her right. But I feel sad about all the barriers that made it difficult for her to talk about her pain. Maybe it felt like an imposition. A lot of people would have related to her story of pain though, whatever it was.<br />
<br />
This week a person reached out to connect to me through my blog. She had questions and needed a community to support her, and luckily we were able to quickly connect her with that. She and I both have had bad things happen in our lives, but it makes those experiences feel meaningful that I can help even a little bit.<br />
<br />
Every single person alive has asked for help before and will do it again. All you are doing, when you ask, is saying: "We are connected."<br />
<br />
Connection is a gift that anyone can give.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15122390145621532041noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6537531867661916831.post-62367199627866182822014-04-12T06:44:00.003-07:002014-04-15T19:55:45.241-07:00Recovery, Then and Now<b><br /></b>
<b>Before, recovery meant focusing on all my mistakes. </b><br />
<br />
As a result of being homeschooled, indoctrinated and sheltered, I saw my poor life skills result in real world consequences. Starting from the day I left home, I lost friends, I misinterpreted situations and conversations constantly, I lost professional development opportunities and distanced potential allies and mentors, I despaired at the complete lack of romantic interest from anyone. Most people were too baffled by my all-consuming incompetence to care about whether I had good intentions (here are some of the gruesome details <a href="http://sementifera.blogspot.com/2014/01/im-proud-im-lucky.html" target="_blank">if you're curious</a>).<br />
<br />
When painful rejections happened, I carefully analyzed what I was doing wrong and tried to fix it. I learned to constantly monitor my performance, to slap my own wrist and adjust course. It was a way to survive, but in the process I started to be cruel to myself. I was constantly telling myself that my appearance and personality and feelings and insights were not good enough. At first this message was reinforced by rejections from people around me. Over time my relational and life skills improved, but my self-perception didn't.<br />
<br />
<b>Now, recovery means learning to be kind to myself. </b><br />
<br />
I have successfully learned how to make friends, be polite, play respectability politics when useful, even appear professional for short bursts of time. I have to say, I learned a lot of this with the help of Mean Sara. I'm not angry at her, she was doing her best. But it's time to retire Mean Sara. I've learned everything I could from her. <br />
<br />
Mean Sara won't be happy with me until I'm perfect. I'm not perfect, and I never will be.<br />
<br />
I will always mess things up. But I have survived some pretty colossal screw-ups, and I will survive my future screw-ups too. Luckily, my mistakes now are usually not so extreme and costly. My life is actually a lot less destroyed than it could be by growing up super-sheltered and controlled by fundamentalist ideas. I have a job I like, a caring spouse and friends. I am doing ok.<br />
<br />
But I think kindness and patience is what I always deserved, even in the beginning when I was screwing everything up right and left.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15122390145621532041noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6537531867661916831.post-18239037052593976482014-03-30T14:18:00.003-07:002014-03-30T14:20:00.084-07:00Wanting schoolI read a great story today about a homeschool mom whose kids asked to go to school. She took the time to find out what they felt they were missing and let them try it out. She made sure her kids got to feel like they had a choice in what happened to them. <a href="http://homeschool-open-source.com/want-school/" target="_blank">What a great mom.</a><br />
<br />
That was not my experience. When I was twelve or thirteen year old homeschooled kid, I told my mom I wanted to go to boarding school.<br />
<br />
It seems likely that my inspiration came from British fiction, but also boarding school seemed like the only option because my parents always talked about how the local public school wasn't academically challenging. Come to think of it, most of the things I wasn't allowed to have were described as "not good enough," including friends. And we lived an hour away from any reasonable private school.<br />
<br />
My mom was immediately angry and responded that "Boarding school is where people send kids that they don't want."<br />
<br />
And I just stared at her and wondered how not being wanted felt any different from my experience of being ignored and isolated and dismissed every day, until she walked off in a huff. And we never talked about it again.<br />
<br />
There was no curiosity about what I might be feeling (insane loneliness for one thing), no concept that I had any stake in my education and daily experience, no discussion of why they made this choice, just angry silence.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15122390145621532041noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6537531867661916831.post-16352719776200368382014-03-23T16:16:00.001-07:002014-03-23T16:29:29.162-07:00Sunday is the day I play Dungeons and Dragons!Sunday is no longer the day I go to church. Sunday is the day I play Dungeons and Dragons!<br />
<br />
My first exposure to RPGs was in an Adventures in Odyssey radio show designed to scare good Christian kids into avoiding them, presenting the games as gateways to Satanic Worship. It sounds fringe, but the radio show, produced by James Dobson, was syndicated to a bunch of Christian radio stations. All my friends growing up listened to it. (Did you?)<br />
<br />
You can actually listen to a recording of the two-episode segment <a href="http://oldguygaming.com/castles-cauldrons" target="_blank">here</a>. It even has a special introduction from James Dobson warning parents that the content may be too scary for children, but explaining that the dangers of seductive RPGs are so pressing that it's worth frightening little kids. The show doesn't depict a realistic game of D&D, because how boring would it be to listen to a group of young adults having slow-paced, harmless, nerdy fun? So of course they make up a sinister plot with eerie supernatural tones, imply that the gaming leads to a nefarious end for a family pet, a candlelit ceremony that is straight out of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and all in all it is a very silly exercise in attacking a straw man.<br />
<br />
Here are the REAL reasons that my corner of Christianity* was not open to D&D:<br />
<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
<b>1. Fear of the relatively new/modern, and love of "simpler times"</b><br />
<br />
D&D presents a multi-racial world, a world with multiple gods, and a world that implies that females can be adventurers. It is inherently in conflict with fundamentalist values before you can even think about picking a character class with magical powers.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
The way I grew up, board games were good, video games bad. I Love Lucy and Andy Griffith were good, Sesame Street and Bill Nye the Science Guy were bad. To be fair to my mom, our family's daily media censor, I think harmless nostalgia accounts for some of her knee-jerk bias. Dungeons and Dragons was simply unfamiliar to her and she preferred to imagine us liking the shows she liked. <br />
<br />
But, this warm fuzzy view of certain moments in the past connects to a clear trend among fundamentalists and the politically conservative of idolizing "simpler times" in history. The simpler times they highlight turn out to all be imaginary moments when set gender roles were embraced by all, and diversity of culture and race were not threatening "our way of life." These "simple times" of cultural and racial uniformity never existed. Andy Griffiths' fictional world is mysteriously lacking in representation of African Americans, for example. These depictions of "simpler times" are comfortable and uncontroversial precisely because they reinforce patriarchy and white supremacy.<br />
<br />
Fantasy where women guard the home front and the bad guys all happen to be dark-skinned - like Lord of the Rings? Safe. Open-ended fantasy worlds reflecting real-life complexity and moral ambiguity and where women attempt difficult missions - like D&D? Dangerous.<br />
<br />
<b>2. Fear of anything outside the approved cultural content</b><br />
<br />
Like any subculture, there is a shared library of reading and viewing for Christian subculture. There's a lot of C. S. Lewis and Tolkien being read, for example. My experience was that women in this group have annual re-viewings of the Anne of Green Gables series or the same favorite Jane Austen movies. People in Christian subculture also seem oddly obsessed with content created for children, and things that are PG. Science fiction or speculative fiction are less common interests. We have adult friends who still spend their time rewatching Disney and don't feel comfortable watching HBO shows because of adult content. Obviously I'm just observing trends among the people I know, but basically venturing outside the set library or safe genres will raise a flag.<br />
<br />
Exploring mainstream adult media and culture is not modeled or encouraged, and is sometimes actively criticized. Things that are "for adults" are automatically suspicious. Conformity is the rule, not to just for moral standards but for cultural experiences.<br />
<br />
We've mentioned to some of our fundamentalist relatives that we play D&D, and they were wary about it even as adults. They aren't familiar enough with mainstream cultural references to identify it as a harmless nerdy pastime.<br />
<br />
<b>3. Fear of what creativity and imagination might lead to</b><br />
<br />
Growing up female in a conservative Christianity community, I was actively discouraged from imagining a future for myself as anything other than a wife, mother and full-time domestic. I got this message from my family and from my community - through a lack of any female role models with jobs or in any kind of leadership positions, and through regular discouragement or undermining from my parents in attempting to excel or lead. They literally took away <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/My_Side_of_the_Mountain" target="_blank">books </a><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Indian-Captive-Story-Mary-Jemison/dp/0064461629" target="_blank">that I loved</a> about young people living independently, or living in new cultures, because me imagining that possibility of independence or non-conformity was threatening.<br />
<br />
My dad gave a graduation speech to me and the other homeschooled kids encouraging all of us not to dream big but instead to aspire to live a normal life. To dad, our normal youthful ambition to have success in the world or experience it at all was unsettling, not inspiring.<br />
<br />
When there is only one acceptable life path for women or young people, creativity or imagination about life choices is disruptive, even if it takes place in an alternate universe.<br />
<br />
<b>4. Fear of Magic</b><br />
<br />
The same subculture that rejected the Harry Potter series as dangerous would also have a problem with the idea of role-playing a mage or druid. Yes, I think the non-denominational corner of Christianity that I grew up in believed that the occult was real and powerful and that the devil could influence day-to-day reality. Yes, the church we went to tried to exorcise a teenage boy who dressed kind of goth to cast out the spirit of witchcraft. (And then my parents finally showed some sense and ditched that cult.) Yes, ouija boards and getting your palm read and celebrating Halloween were also off limits. So maybe there was some fixation on the magical content.<br />
<br />
But actually I think the first three reasons that Dr. James Dobson needed so desperately to reach out and warn me about D&D as a child are more crucial to understanding fundamentalism and also more devastating to a young person's growth and development. Rejecting D&D on the basis of magical content is really a shorthand for <b><i>complicated cultural boundary enforcing</i></b>, especially for women, that begins in childhood but becomes ingrained for many adults.<br />
<br />
<b>What I get out of D&D</b><br />
<br />
I don't take my D&D too seriously, but I think it's been a healthy addition to my life. Maybe I'm playing a Druid who has a deep natural connection with my hawk animal companion, which for the record I use for prosaic scouting and NOT for summoning encounters with dark forces. Or maybe I'm a high-elf martial arts performer and bard, who adventures in a no-mans land between warring nation states, to pay off some debts I incurred while being trained and then living the high life as a lauded performer of battle epics in the capital city.<br />
<br />
No matter who my D&D character is, I get to be someone that wasn't welcome in the community where I grew up: <b><i>a woman who can fight and adventure and lead, a woman who can imagine a different self, a woman who can make infinite choices to change my situation in life</i></b>.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
*Several of the people I play D&D now with are practicing Christians of various stripes, so obviously not all Christians have the same issues with RPGs. But the fundamentalist homeschoolers influenced by James Dobson definitely did. It's possible that you grew up something like me but still had a different experience. I'd love to hear what your experience was like, so leave a comment!Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15122390145621532041noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6537531867661916831.post-45968055472997614652014-01-26T15:25:00.001-08:002014-01-26T15:26:41.777-08:00I'm proud, I'm lucky<div class="MsoNormal">
I am so fucking proud of myself for graduating from college.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This week my spouse is going to be at a conference. He is
about to meet an acquaintance I barely knew in undergrad. The acquaintance was a
super nice person and I never had any unpleasant interactions with him. But
just because he knew some of the same people that I did back then, he is a
witness to a difficult time in my life. A humiliating time. I went straight
from remembering how nice he is, to being afraid that he remembers some of the
lowest points in my life, to feeling those low points like they are still
happening.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thankfully therapy has somewhat prepared me for these times
when a trigger brings back a flood of dark feelings. Those feelings are real,
but they aren’t the whole story.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I overcame unusual obstacles in college and was able to
achieve academic success and grow as a person in spite of them. I am so proud
of that.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here’s a little overview of what I was up against when I
showed up as a freshman: When I arrived in class my first day, I didn’t know
that I should bring paper and writing utensils.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
I didn’t know how to cross a
quiet town street safely on my way to class, and would wait until there were no cars in sight
before trying to cross, partly because I didn’t have the spatial intelligence
to estimate how quickly they were moving. My mom insisted that I bring a
rolling backpack to school. I quickly attracted open mocking to my face, and I
have to assume, lots of gossip behind my back, for dressing unattractively and
having the social skills of a middle school kid. I stayed in my room every
night and studied. I didn’t know that everyone wasn’t doing that. I started
having nightmares about navigating the hallways of the school and especially of
entering the cafeteria. I developed intense anxiety and a sleep disorder that
made me stay silent and/or fall asleep in class, so my professors assumed I was
bored or irresponsible. I didn’t know how to write a paper without moralizing
everything. At least writing bad papers was something I had in common with the
other freshmen.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And class was the part of college that went the best. I
found small, predictable classes where I could make up for my gaping gaps in my
knowledge by preparing thoroughly for every class, and got mostly As. The major
I ended up in was not a strategic long-term choice, but it was the safest place for me at
the time. Even when one of the professors in the small department took an
active dislike to me. I’m sure I did something annoying that set that off, but
who knows what it was…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My personal life was the real shit-show. Where to begin? I
understood almost no social cues. It was probably a little like being autistic,
except that as I began to learn social skills, I then reevaluated previous social
interactions in the light of my new knowledge and usually discovered something
shitty like, oh, that person had been mocking me and I didn’t see it at the
time. So I was regularly taking emotional hits for things that happened in the past.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I did understand when people told me directly, “Go away.” Which
happened. I alienated even patient, kind potential friends by just really not
getting it at all ever. Like when I told a person who was anorexic that her
problem didn’t make sense to me because I was skinnier than her. There were a lot of
various forms of rejection. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then, heaven help me, I fell in love regularly. But of
course no one was interested in me and I didn’t know how to play it cool so it
was this several year extended public agony. This happened to some of my
homeschooled friends at college with me too. It was a small consolation to not
have suffered through that alone, I guess... but we hurt for each other too.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Our school had no resources for someone like me. I wasn't referred to counseling when I would break down crying in office hours. I don’t think the school even had any professional counselors.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I remember two explicit pieces of advice from my parents to ‘prepare’
me for school:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My dad: “What you might think of as being frugal could be
perceived as being stingy – it’s hard to make friends if you’re stingy.” Thanks
dad, after living with no allowance ever and not being allowed to have a job
and make my own money, explicitly because I am female, and also without
receiving any clear indication from you about how much money I would be getting
to buy stuff at school or when I would get more, I’m sure that I’ll be
perfectly prepared to handle money responsibly and also be generous with
friends. Oh good, in the middle of my first semester I am surprised to receive
a guilt-soaked letter from my mother rebuking me for not being grateful about
the money you gave me and needing more to pay for basic expenses like books and
shampoo. I’m sure I won’t find it confusing when during my junior year you both
berate me for not getting a part-time job already, after being told for years
that it wasn’t ok for me to have a job.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Did you not realize that as a freshman I didn’t even know
how to fill out a check? Seriously, you decided that I shouldn’t be raised in such a way
that I could possibly find this advice applicable. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My mom’s advice (written in a card that was decorated with Noah’s
ark artwork): “God made everyone, all shapes and sizes.” And some note about
being willing to be friendly to everyone. I found this advice from her ironic
at the time, even before I ever learned how fundamentally great real diversity of experience
is. She was the person who taught us that we should pray for our own Christian
relatives because they were in the wrong denominations to be real Christians. My
whole upbringing taught me to be afraid of everyone who was different from me
in any way, including gender. Even if she had started to reject that crippling idea, the damage could not be repaired with a greeting card.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Also, if that message was a reference to how you, my mom
perceived my personality as defective, shy or unfriendly? I was an outgoing, happy,
irrepressibly chatty kid before I spent ten years in the solitary confinement
of homeschooling. Shame on you for trying to blame my social and emotional difficulties
on me like they are a character flaw or personal failing, instead of the
natural result of painful isolation and harmful ideologies that you inflicted
on me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was so unprepared - academically, socially and emotionally
- for college, and for life. Yes, I’m lucky to be a white girl whose parents paid
for her to go to college. Lucky that in the case of college, their desire to
conform to the middle class code of conduct over-ruled their isolationist
religious zeal and patriarchal gender norms. I see how others are struggling to
move forward years later because their parents didn’t give them that support,
and I don’t want to take that gift of college tuition for granted.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I’m still really proud of myself for sticking it out and
working insanely hard to persevere through the repeated failure and rejection.
I am proud of myself for growing into a person who can give and receive love in
spite of painful relationships and interactions. I am proud of myself for
accepting gawky, needy, hurting young me as well as grown-up, put-together me.
I am proud of me for continuing to do the hard work that it takes to be well
and keep learning. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To get through college I had to overcome a lot of obstacles,
and there is nothing embarrassing about that.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15122390145621532041noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6537531867661916831.post-9819820958810857982013-11-27T07:28:00.001-08:002013-11-27T07:28:14.655-08:00Found a happy memoryI found a happy memory of my mom, sister and me. We were in kitchen doing dishes and mom taught us to sing "I've been working on the railroad." Then we started singing it in harmony.<br />
<br />
It became a little thing that we did every now and then.<br />
<br />
I was surprised to find a happy memory of being together. The moment of remembering it literally felt warm and fuzzy. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15122390145621532041noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6537531867661916831.post-76168901399274856242013-11-24T08:21:00.001-08:002013-11-24T08:41:27.728-08:00I remember all of themPeople who tried to help? I remember all of them.<br />
<br />
1. My aunt is a nurse. She gave us vaccinations in the living room at my grandmother's house when she found out that we weren't getting them. She tried to reinforce basic health information for us like washing your hands after you use the bathroom. The way she did it, though, was to catch us and ask on the way out of the bathroom in front of everyone, not to tell us before we went in. Maybe she didn't realize until then that we didn't know. She would tell us very pointedly that she loved us every time we saw her, but then we wouldn't see or hear from her for 11 months out of the year. Probably because she was single mom with four kids and had her own shit to worry about. My mom hates her.<br />
<br />
2. There was some kind of counselor who attended our church and worked with prisoners. I was at an alternative Halloween party where Christians gave candy to Christian kids so they wouldn't go out trick-or-treating. He noticed that I was just kind of standing there, probably overwhelmed by all the bustle and not knowing anyone, and started gently checking in with me.''What's your favorite part of your day?" I didn't even understand the question at first, so he had to explain what he meant. "I dunno, lunch I guess." I was noncommittal in my answer because at the time there wasn't really any good part in my day. He followed up: "So does your family all have lunch together and take a break from school?" And I honestly explained that lunch was me scrounging food by myself, by myself just like the rest of my day. And that there wasn't anything cooked for us or any food that was designated for lunch like the ingredients for sandwiches. I didn't add that after lunch sometimes we would arbitrarily get chewed out by my mom for eating "dad's tuna" or "too many bagels."<br />
<br />
I think this person may have later encouraged my parents to attend parenting classes at the church, but that's just a guess. Certainly they wouldn't have gone without some social pressure. The class was based on the Ezzo's "Reaching the Heart of Your Teen" and so it was problematic, but honestly it could have been a big improvement in my life because of the sheer lack of any attention before. The main thing I remember coming from that class was this conversation with my mom:<br />
<br />
Mom: "So, what love language do you think is your main one?"<br />
Me: "Quality time." (I had realized that when she told me she loved me I didn't believe it, and that I didn't feel cared for when she hugged me, so I assumed the form of love I wasn't getting must be the one I liked best.)<br />
Mom: "Ooooohhh, you picked the hardest one."<br />
<br />
3. Doctors. The tiny local Christian school let homeschoolers join their sports teams. This was one of the only ways I socialized in high school, in a structure sports practice girls-only Christian-only environment. The school required two sports physicals for me. My mom insisted in coming into the exam room with me and the doctor the first time. He was nice to me and told me I had good ankles for cross country. He also made sure we talked about my nascent sexual development and even birth control, though my mom tried to blow him off. She changed doctors. The next lady, a nurse practitioner, didn't let my mom in the room. Points for her. She didn't believe that I wasn't sexually active so she used her hands to feel my abdomen and make sure I wasn't pregnant and made me give a urine sample, but she didn't try to talk to me to find out if I was safe. I never saw her again either.<br />
<br />
4. Mrs. Uber-mom. There was a very generous nurse mom in our church who also homeschooled. She was constantly adopting strays, including letting a women with cancer die in her home. She was one of the only people who was kind to me. She told my mom that she had to take my brother to the doctor after his foot was broken for three days. My mom fought with this friend and stopped seeing her, like she eventually does with all her friends. It wouldn't surprise me if some of this was related to her opinions about my parents choices. Now Mrs. Uber-mom is going through a hard time and I really wish I could be there to help.<br />
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There are some others - the babysitter who noticed I couldn't see without glasses, the friend who helped me stage a conversation in front of my parents about a health problem, so that they would be embarrassed and take me for needed treatment. (It worked.) The dentist who confronted my mom about our obvious neglect. By the way, all this medical neglect happened while we lived in the nicest house of anyone I knew at the time. It wasn't about poverty, it was about shitty priorities.<br />
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I am thankful that there were some people around who noticed that my siblings and I needed help. But I also wonder what stopped them from doing more. I want to ask them to explain to me what was more important to them than protecting children. We were a mess, clearly, visibly.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15122390145621532041noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6537531867661916831.post-28232139538627664432013-11-16T15:08:00.003-08:002013-11-16T15:08:41.714-08:00I'm still leavingIt takes years to leave fundamentalism, and more years to recover from an abusive or neglectful family of origin.<div>
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I am still susceptible to narratives that offer to provide the "one right way to live." For instance, orthorexia. If you just eat these foods you will be perfectly healthy and your life will be great and it will solve all your problems! Which means you should eat only a few bites of the homemade strawberry ice cream your friend made, and give up bread. Following our rules will fix your pain or keep things from going wrong in the future. </div>
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It will not. </div>
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There are things that reasonable people do to avoid the likelihood of suffering, but in the end we all have to accept the lack of control we have over what happens to us.</div>
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And it seems so natural to me to stay in all types of relationships where I am doing all the work to make the thing go, and my needs are secondary. When you have been neglected as a kid, it feels normal for you not to matter. Old friends who never calls you back, a parent who never calls or answers the phone?</div>
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I always feel that this is my fault. Maybe this time they will respond with affection. The message I learned was that I wasn't worthy of love, I didn't deserve people's time. That's a hard one to get rid of.</div>
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It is not my fault. </div>
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I have real friends who don't treat me like that, and I don't need to suffer through that again and again.</div>
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These poison messages have continued to cost me relationships and career progress and made me live with a devastated view of myself. I'm still trying to leave them behind.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15122390145621532041noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6537531867661916831.post-31733139010618313562013-11-09T05:13:00.001-08:002013-11-09T05:13:24.644-08:00Declaration of InterconnectednessAn assertion of independence. Whether it's careful planned or quick and dirty, I'm realizing that this is a very American way of dealing with cultural tensions. We value freedom of expression and chosen communities built around commonalities. But when you find yourself unintentionally on the fringe of the community that was your childhood home, you realize there are some downsides to this way of doing things. <div>
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I've spent a lot of time thinking about leaving the community my parents chose. Why don't I just broadcast my disapproval? For years I've fantasized about this and also hesitated to pull the trigger. I've already moved away and stopped attending church and being homeschooled. I'm already out of the environment to all appearances. So I guess I think more about publicly realigning my cultural allegiance.<div>
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No one I know would ever ask someone from another culture to completely reject their culture of origin out of hand because of its problems. But people don't know how to deal with the real value conflicts that arise between cultures. Especially not when the "other" culture is inhabited by people who don't look "other". That makes it so much easier to reject their religious practice and weird social structures. </div>
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Fundamentalist communities are fully formed cultures, with traditions, mythologies, social structures, and varying degrees of synthesis with American culture. Until I was an adult I knew no other way of living or relating to the world. It was a painful environment for me to grow up, because I was constantly hearing that it was not ok to be me, and I would love to take that painful experience away from other kids. But I don't believe any culture is wholly good or bad, including the one I came from.</div>
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So many traditional cultures around the world are toxic to women or oppress people with differences, but also have strong values of responsibility to family and community that are protective. What do you do with that mix of bad and good? People are going to deal with it in different ways. That's fine. Staying connected might allow you to save important relationships. On a practical level, I think that entirely unplugging from the community puts you in a very difficult rhetorical position to change the community. </div>
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At some point there might be a tipping point where it's hard to be in the community and ask for change, and then you go. </div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15122390145621532041noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6537531867661916831.post-37400134072786947942013-10-31T18:50:00.003-07:002013-10-31T18:50:47.006-07:00Carrying around a big storyMy neighbors are super friendly. Most people would consider that a plus, but it's a little scary for me. Getting to know new people still seems dangerous, except in certain safe contexts. I'm always ready for the rejection, for my difference to be too great, so I preemptively stay in the polite acquaintance zone. <div>
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Tonight I tried to hang out and engage in spite of my fears.<div>
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"How did your family celebrate Halloween?"</div>
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A totally natural question, but I didn't quite see it coming, didn't have the quickness to laugh and just deflect it. </div>
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The too long pause, the awkward laugh. Feeling like I gave away my big story.</div>
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"We didn't really do Halloween."</div>
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And they are kind people and so they politely moved the conversation along and pretended to take no notice.</div>
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Sometime I would like to take a break from wearing that big story. It is heavy.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15122390145621532041noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6537531867661916831.post-74510643465921301882013-10-29T14:42:00.000-07:002013-10-29T14:42:56.174-07:00Things that helpI have been listening in to the stories at<a href="http://homeschoolersanonymous.wordpress.com/stories/" target="_blank"> Homeschoolers Anonymous</a> and other blogs of former students of homeschooling and children of fundamentalism. It seems like a lot of us have had to struggle through processing painful memories and experiences alone, at least for part of our stories.<br />
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The things that are helping me the most are safe relationships and therapy. But I know that those resources aren't always the most accessible thing for everyone. Just in case it helps, here are some other <span style="font-family: inherit;">resources or tools that I found useful:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">1. <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Legacy-Heart-Spiritual-Advantages-ebook/dp/B00B3L7FU8/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1383052906&sr=8-1&keywords=legacy+of+the+heart+the+spiritual+advantages+of+a+painful+childhood" target="_blank">Legacy of the Heart: The Spiritual Advantages of a Painful Childhood</a> by Wayne Muller</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I would translate the author's use of "spiritual" here to mean something like personal strength - there's some </span>inspiration here from many religious traditions without dogma<span style="font-family: inherit;">. This reads like a hug. It was the right thing for me when I was feeling overwhelmed by grief about my experiences. </span>It also has some guided meditation practices that you can try or just skip over.<br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">2. <a href="http://www.jackkornfield.com/2011/02/meditation-on-lovingkindness/" target="_blank">Lovingkindness meditation</a></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Fill up your days with more thoughts of kindness to yourself and people you love. I found this to be true:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"> "<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; line-height: 18px;">Expressing gratitude to our benefactors is a natural form of love. In fact, some people find lovingkindness for themselves so hard, they begin their practice with a benefactor. This too is fine. The rule in lovingkindness practice is to follow the way that most easily opens your heart."</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">3. </span>Exercise<br />
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Reaching fitness goals and feeling physically stronger for the first time had a surprising impact when I first started on my journey, and still makes a big difference. Partly because it can help lift my anxiety and depression, but also because I am focusing on what my body is able to do in the world instead of how well I appear to be filling a feminine role. Training for my first race was also probably the first time that I changed my fundamental idea of myself. I went from non-athlete to athletic like magic. (Ok, there were some very non-magical moments along the way, but you get my idea.) In a very concrete way it increased my sense of agency and opened the door for other efforts at attempting new things and trying on new identities.<br />
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Running is free, and there are also some free yoga resources - this site has a free full length weekly <a href="http://www.yogatoday.com/" target="_blank">yoga </a>video, or Tara Stiles yoga stuff is also good. <br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Your turn - what helps you?</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15122390145621532041noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6537531867661916831.post-6518425945496686302013-10-26T06:56:00.003-07:002013-10-26T06:56:48.587-07:00Progress is showing up to the pageSilence used to control me. It's hard to explain how much, but imagine that every word and action was monitored for years, until I didn't need to be monitored anymore - until I was the monitor.<div>
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You lose your voice and personality. <div>
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I agreed with the community that rejected my experiences, from the smallest emotions to the largest questions. I remained silent, because I agreed that my story was not allowed. I was afraid of rejection. I was afraid of hurting vulnerable people.<div>
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I am still afraid. I feel weak for not being able to speak under my own name. But I am clearing my throat, I am beginning to speak. For now, progress is showing up to the page.</div>
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What feels true today:</div>
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The first ones to tell the story take a bigger risk, and deserve our gratitude.</div>
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The threat of rejection means that your story is powerful. </div>
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There can be a strong bond between you and the few people that you trust with all of your story, and I am grateful for that.</div>
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There will always be uncertainty when you tell the story for the first time to a new audience, when you are waiting for a voice to answer back.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15122390145621532041noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6537531867661916831.post-53563658752740558202013-10-12T13:58:00.000-07:002013-10-13T08:00:18.384-07:00Homeschooling and Mental Illness<br />Isolation was the constant experience of my ten years of homeschooling. A lot of this had to do with the fact that the adult presence in my daily life, my mom, was unpredictably angry, sad, or completely unavailable, and as time went on she increasingly avoided social situations.<br /><br />It didn’t help that no one was good enough to be our friends. <br /><br />After being pulled out of the fourth grade for a job change and move, my dad decided that my mom should homeschool us against her will. We suddenly spent most of our time at home and basically left the house once a week to go to church. A little non-denominational church that confirmed my parents in their belief that people outside of their own flavor of church weren’t really christians, including anyone who used the public school. <br /><a name='more'></a><br />My dad’s growing attention to the writings of Douglas Wilson and my mom’s anxiety lead my parents to also isolate us from dangerous influences like the kids who went to our own church’s youth group, awana, and my own cousins. Repeatedly they would try to make friends with other families, but then essentially discard them as unworthy.<br /><br />My mom couldn’t handle suddenly having us home with her all the time, and began to spend her time in other rooms away from us. When she was feeling ok, she left us alone while she cleaned and talked on the phone. When she was not feeling ok, she left us alone while she cried, filled notebooks with cryptic spiritualized laments modeled on the Psalms, or pounded on the piano without acknowledging us if we tried to talk to her. She would throw a fit if we wanted to leave the house. My sister and I stopped asking to go anywhere, my brother started sneaking out at night.<br /><br />I spent a lot of my time alone in my room trying to avoid anything that might set her off. We all felt guiltily relieved when another sibling was attracting the negative attention. <br /><br />Homeschooling went mostly unsupervised, enforced only by our lack of freedom to do anything else. We were given screened books to read, many of them inappropriately difficult, but went for weeks without having a real conversation with anyone. I completely lost myself in books and gained a huge vocabulary, but could barely follow the rhythm of a basic conversation. My little brother went for years without direct instruction, and then my parents straight up told him he was stupid because he didn’t spontaneously educate himself. That still just kills me.<br /><br />As things got worse, we stopped going to even the occasional homeschool gym days and coop classes. Anything could trigger angry words that only stopped when we were in tears. The constant message we got from her was that we were in the way, we were a burden, we should do everything we could to avoid having feelings and needs.<br /><br />When I was the first kid to hit puberty, the very existence of my body became a personal affront. My mother’s illness crescendoed around this time, her personal body image issues projected onto us daily. Our medical care was neglected, only the most egregious oversights like broken bones and dental emergencies were noticed by other church families and taken care of. I punished my blemished skin compulsively. Food was an area of contention, just like everything else. My sister started making herself throw up in secret.<br /><br />Growing up in this environment was a catalyst for my own anxiety and depression. I went from being an incessantly chatty queen bee elementary school kid who knew everyone at my school to someone who only ocassionaly saw one of three or four girls my age and who was afraid to use a telephone to talk to a librarian. I started to zone out so completely while reading that I didn’t hear people talking to me, and began sleeping as a safe pastime. My voice shrank to something nearly inaudible. I started talking to myself to keep myself company and replaying my few conversations with others in my head over and over. I embarrassed the whole family, including my siblings, by constantly crying “without reason,” sometimes at church.<br /><br />They didn’t know the half of it. For years, every night I wept alone in my bed at night, silently.<br /><br />Mom explicitly said that “sadness” was a sign of spiritual disorder, a “heart issue.” That phrase was her favorite way to threaten and punish me (and herself) for feelings that tarnished the family’s public image. <br /><br /><br />When I was 12 or 13, I remember steeling myself to leave my room and interact with my mom, and having an epiphany. I suddenly knew at that moment that I had not done anything wrong to cause her to be angry, even that her mood existed without being caused by any immediate person or event. I didn’t have the vocabulary to describe mental illness, but I knew it wasn’t my fault. Remembering this moment makes me sad for all the time lost before that realization, for the child who felt that I was to blame for what was happening to me. <br /><br />As an adult I see now the pressures that my mom was under, how trapped she must have felt. She lost all her friends and freedom in one move, and must have felt powerless to actually change her situation. She religiously believed that my dad had the right to make unilateral decisions, that what should change about her situation was her own feelings, so she waged battle with her feelings every day. Intellectually, I understand and want to forgive....<br /><br />But for now this is all I can do:<br /><br />Say that these things really happened to me, and it was not ok.<br /><br />Say that these things are still happening to other kids, and it is not ok.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15122390145621532041noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6537531867661916831.post-37729876799836892542013-10-12T13:55:00.002-07:002013-10-13T08:02:12.773-07:00Post Flammas Germino<br />Post Flammas Germino - After the flames, I come to life.<br /><br />I was a child of fundamentalist parents who home-schooled me and my sibilings. This blog is a platform for me to interact anonymously with anyone who wants to understand my story.<br /><br />I'm taking my theme from the fire pines that respond to forest fires by releasing their seeds. Serotinous pinecones have adapted to survive fires, and when the time is right they are ready for growth and life. They are sementifera - they are carrying seeds that will grow in spite of their destructive environment.<br /><br />I'm still finding my voice, and I plan to discuss difficult relationships with people I care about. So, I'm using an alias to help me control the timing of my self-disclosure. I'm a real person and I'd love to chat with you.<br /><br />Feel free to send me email at sementifera@gmail.com.<br /><br />Sara TinousAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15122390145621532041noreply@blogger.com0