self-advocacy for trauma-informed care

I’ve been working for the last couple of years to get my ducks in a row regarding medical care. For the last 6 months I’ve had a better paying job that has enabled me to pursue the healthcare concerns that I was pushing to the back burner in favor of you know, paying rent or buying groceries. Just minor roadblocks, right? In this pursuit of health I’ve learned a lot. I’ve learned that I must aggressively self-advocate. Especially if the care required will brush up against trauma triggers. Because I was raised in patriarchal evangelicalism and then spent 10 years in an authoritarian style cult, my default (triggered) disposition is to give over my autonomy to people I perceive as “authority figures.” I will slip into people-pleasing mode so fast I won’t know what hit me.

I came across a tiktok recently (@healwithruby) that put it perfectly, “When your basic needs were not met as a child you learned from your early care takers that you were not important. Unconsciously you decided to mimic them by abandoning yourself as well, causing your personality not to develop. You learned to survive by pleasing others and mirroring everyone around you, as a result you feel unworthy without outside validation. So here you are discovering who you are at 33… anyone else?” Me. Hi, I’m the problem, it’s me. Sidenote: mental health tik tok has been so enriching and validating to me.

I went through a few Drs, mentors, and even a couple of therapists before I found a therapist who refused to accept my autonomy when I served it up on a trauma-dump-platter. Some previous practitioners were all too eager to take up the mantle of “wise one” and dole out directives to “live my most healed life in 12 easy steps.” I usually ended up terminating those professional “partnerships” after my boundaries (which I didn’t know I was allowed to have) were violated. So when my current therapist and I were getting to know one another, I found it particularly frustrating that she didn’t roll out a 10 point plan to get me “fixed.” I couldn’t believe that when I didn’t know what to do to feel better, sometimes she didn’t know either. She just consistently stayed present with me in the places of pain, reassuring me I was not alone and empowering me to find my way through. She holds up a mirror to show me I have what I need most already within me. And because she holds that space for me I’ve learned that I have autonomy with authority figures. I’m allowed to have needs, to make them known and ask directly for what I want out of my relationships – especially the ones I’m paying for.

After some medical mishaps where my providers dropped the ball in some big ways (failed to give me diagnosis and treat me for over a year) I took my healthcare back into my own hands. The night before I went to see a new provider last year I wrote out a 3 page “Medical Manifesto” that detailed what I needed them to know about me and my history and what I expected out of medical care. I took a friend with me for moral support to make sure that I had someone who could speak for me if I got triggered or too emotionally flooded to communicate effectively. I got lucky with the Doctor I saw that day and she was an absolute DREAM. She set the standard for what I expect in terms of collaborative care. She wasn’t “trauma-informed” but she was sensitive to my concerns and eager to learn how to best support me.

That being said, I’m perpetually suprised to discover how many people who work in medicine of one kind or another get a deer-in-the-headlights expression when you ask them if they are trauma-informed. As a massage therapist we had a whole unit of training in how to navigate caring for traumatized clients. If they’re teaching us these principles in trade school, one would hope that medical professionals are getting more than a units worth of education… but apparently not?

So I continue to self-advocate and even educate. Which, lemme tell you, is exhausting as hell. I’ve had some more emergent dental issues pop up recently. I learned the hard way that the first dental office where I tried to establish care could not accomodate me and that professional tie was severed swiftly. So I kept looking. I found a Dr who ticked all my boxes; all female staff, sensitive to anxieties, didn’t approach me from behind or touch me without explanation or permission. Consent is sexy, no matter the context. But I quickly learned that my issues couldn’t be handled by that office and was referred out to a male Dr. I didn’t know whose office I hadn’t vetted. I’m in a debilitating amount of pain and didn’t want to extend the timeframe for relief any more than necessary, so I complied, putting my misgivings to the side. Pain will turn a chooser into a beggar real fast.

I will be the first to admit that my threshold for challenging situations is considerably lower when I’ve been in pain for a week. I started crying almost as soon as they brought me to the exam room and didn’t stop until I got home. My intake paperwork disclosed that I have PTSD and detailed a couple of specific, relevant triggers they should be aware of. Despite that disclosure I was triggered right away and realized I’d have to ask for more accomodations more clearly. When I asked the nurse not to approach me or address me from behind, I had to further justify that request and inform her that if she were to stand behind me – even silently – it would increase my anxiety. Then I had to explain to the Dr. – repeating myself three times because he didn’t believe me the first time – that they don’t just hand out xanax to people anymore, regardless of how often they have panic attacks. At least in the state of Tennessee… Oh, and then he had the audacity to ask me the source of my PTSD. I was dumbfounded. It took me a moment to gather myself enough to say I wasn’t comfortable disclosing that information… he clarified that he was trying to find out if my PTSD was sourced in medical settings. I told him no, but that I had been re-traumatized by practictioners who refused my requests to stop or take a break when I needed it. It’s a valid question with the qualification but a horrendously inappropriate question otherwise.

Five years ago I didn’t have the language to articulate what I needed in medical settings or why. I generally avoided going to the Dr or the Dentist unless I was having an emergency. I made the very wrong assumption that all gynelogical practices would at least be trauma-informed; they are not. Knowing I would have to face triggers that could cause flashbacks and re-traumtization were huge barriers to me receiving preventative care. If I could have expected Doctors and their staff to be trauma informed, I might have sought care sooner and wouldn’t be in the position of now having to undergo oral surgery and create more of a burden on the healthcare system. To date the only place I’ve received trauma-informed care was Planned Parenthood. God bless Planned Parenthood for doing the bare minimum and still setting the highest standard.

All of this to say that I don’t find it very fair that the impetus is on the trauma survivor to self-advocate and educate medical staff on trauma-informed care. But then, what about being a trauma survivor is fair anyway? I share this experience because I know I’m not the only one with it – not by a long shot. And I want to brainstorm ways to fill the gap. What can we do as survivors to break down the trauma-specific barriers to getting the help we need to be healthy? Can we have a seminar? Can I create some kind lunch-and-learn resource that is easy to use and have sexual trauma resource centers sponsor lunch-and-learns at medical offices? I’ll create a couple of pages with infographics and good rules-of-thumb for interacting with known or unknown trauma survivors. I’ll make a power point. If I can’t make inroads with medical offices, how can I help other survivors to self-advocate? Can I create a resource for us? What would you need to prompt your own “Medical Manifesto”?

I’m tired of medical staff either patronizing me or acting afraid of me when I disclose my PTSD status and ask for reasonable accomodation. I deserve healthcare. And I deserve to get it in a fashion that won’t override my autonomy, neglect my consent, cause me to be re-traumatized and set me back on my road to recovery. I refuse to diminish myself any longer so that medical staff are not inconvenienced. It’s the least they can do.

Who’s with me? Share your thoughts and ideas.

What no one tells you when you’re no longer alone.

I think there are seasons in most everyone’s life where we suffer alone. Sometimes due to circumstances; moving or job changes or any number of disruptive events. Sometimes we are alone because isolation initially feels like the least-stressful option. It should be wide knowledge at this point that the phrase “let me know if you need anything” is one of the most frustrating refrains for someone in the thick of it. Sometimes we are alone because we can’t bear the thought of being misunderstood while trying to let people in. Sometimes we are alone out of self preservation or the need to stay safe. And when you’re finally ready to let people in, there’s no roadmap. It can take a while to learn how-not-to-be-alone anymore.

I spent 3 years after I left the cult in a state of self-imposed, semi-isolation. I knew how vulnerable I was and how susceptible to giving over my autonomy to others. I needed to learn how to stand on my own. I needed to learn to trust myself again. To trust that I was the only one who knew what was best for me. I needed that time to get to know myself after spending more than a decade burying her in favor of being the perfect christian woman.

In that state of self-imposed isolation, I suffered the most intense post-traumatic stress. As soon as the Jesus band-aid was ripped off the hurricane of memories roared through. I woke up bathed in sweat from nightmares and held myself through panic attacks every day before I even knew what they were. I drove winding back roads too fast, my eyes blurred with tears. That was the only place I could feel, the only place I could let go. I turned the music all the way up, rolled down the windows and opened the sunroof – no matter the weather- put my foot to the floor and screamed until I ran out of air. I’ve never told anyone this. I was ashamed that “normal” (aka christian woman appropriate) coping mechanisms weren’t working for me.

[[TW: suicidal ideation ]] I day dreamed about driving away. Missing my exit and disappearing. Turning my phone off and sleeping out of my car until my bank account dried up. I even started that journey a few times. I’d get across the river and drive the delta highway headed west until the last bit of pink disappeared on the horizon. Then the fear would creep in. I couldn’t let my co-workers down. What would happen to my sister?So I’d turn around and go home with the windows down and the radio up. If someone noticed I wasn’t home yet, I’d make up an excuse about how I lost track of time on a prayer walk and assure them I’d be home soon. It was partially true. I was praying. Usually screaming, crying, pounding the steering wheel, too. But the less they knew…

There were so many days that I lay in bed at 3:00am, paralyzed by the nightmare playing on a loop in the darkened room. Tears falling down my face while I wished I could reach out to someone to hold onto. How many mornings I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, braced on the vanity telling my reflection, “you’re okay. You’re okay. You’re okay.” I put my shaking legs into pants and shoes and promised myself it would be better at work. I learned how to hyperventilate silently so other bathroom attendees would not suspect. I grounded myself in the large corner stall, my body pressed against the cold tile wall and floor. I worked as hard as I could to pray the pain away so no one would be inconvenienced by it.

So many times I imagined someone holding my hand, reminding me to breathe, talking to me until I came back to reality. I thought it would be easier if only… But I pushed away anyone and everyone who saw me and tried to meet me there. Women from the writing group I was in. People at the church where I would come in late and leave early from the back pew. Co-workers who saw through my excuse of a poker face. And even the friends who “kept in touch” were kept effectively at arms length. They only knew what I wanted them to know after the worst was over and I’d learned whatever lesson I imagined god was teaching me.

By the time I’d quit my job and practically moved to Switzerland I was desperate to be known. “What does it mean to be known?” – the first question I asked at a formal lunch. I knew after that discussion a few people saw me. And I saw them. New friendships began to form but I had no idea how to let anyone in. But a chalet shared with 30 other people doesn’t have much in the way of hiding spots where you won’t be found and have answers demanded of you. So I took walks. I gave my lungs good reason to burn by hustling up hills until I could smell blood in my nostrils. I’d sit next to little alpine waterfalls and talk myself down. Eventually I would wander back to the little farming town and take refuge in the chapel that was often open and empty.

There on those unforgiving pews I prayed to a god I no longer knew. I cried. I stomped my feet in anger. I composed myself enough to go to dinner. Until I was invited out to a bench to share some wine with new friends. We told each other things we’d been scared to say elsewhere. And for the span of a conversation we knew we were not alone.

It took some practice. And some time. Ironically it was helping a younger friend through cycling panic attacks that made me feel safer to ask for help. The panic got worse before it got better. My nervous system had to learn that people cared and could be trusted. I cannot overstate the difference it made to be loved with a love that didn’t want me to change. I’m still not the same because of those people who loved me imperfectly perfect. Im the first to tell you I got lucky with great people at L’abri. But even with all the ways I grew, the manifestations of PTSD and my clumsy attempts to ask for help crippled to exhaustion at least 2 relationships in those first couple years back stateside.

Now, many years later I am known and loved by a circle of people I never could have dreamed into my life. They speak the language of trauma while maintaining personal boundaries, no one is in a position to rescue anyone. But that doesn’t minimize the level of support offered. They acknowledge the impact of my past experiences while reflecting back to me frequently the ways I’ve grown through and past those experiences. They celebrate with me the ground I have earned by dancing wildly with me on it. They have held my hand, made space for my rage, supplied tissues and never turned down a #kitchentherapy meal.

I’m not going to say that this week has been the hardest of my life. Reflecting on the last 10 years makes me aware I’ve faced much bigger monsters by myself. But I am here to acknowledge that having people you love and trust hold your hand through the hard shit is painful in ways I never saw coming.

No one tells you that panic attacks feel longer when your friend is asking you to “try to breathe.” And you tell your brain to take in air but when you open your mouth your lungs just.won’t.fill.

No one tells you that you’ll feel a flashback more vividly because you are out of your body watching your partner sit helpless as you shrink away. It doesn’t make sense. You want their presence and comfort. You don’t want to face this alone! But every time they touch you it feels like you’ve been burned. You finally lie down, exhausted and spent. Crying yourself to sleep next to the person you love will feel so much more lonely than sleeping alone.

No one tells you that when people ask, “what do you need right now? How can I help?” You should have an answer ready. Because trauma brain still defaults to “you’re on your own.” All you’ll be able to think about is escaping. But your brain is trying to learn new ways forward without going back there. This way forward requires some hard conversations and strategies formed with clearer heads.

No one talks about the oppressive shame that descends when you wake up flailing from a nightmare or come back to the present after a dissociative episode. You open your eyes and realize that the inky tentacles of trauma are leeching towards the ones you love. This pain is not only yours anymore. But there’s nothing you can do about it right now. So you hang on tight and trust them to tell you when they need a break. What other choice do you have? The toothpaste won’t go back into the tube.

No one talks about this unique, privileged pain. The way your heart will break every time someone responds appropriately to your fear, pain and distress. It’s the most beautiful thing to see yourself through someone else’s eyes. No one tells you that the mirrors they hold are not magic. They do not erase the injuries or ugliness. Instead, they help you see from new angles the places that need more tending and healing. And the best ones roll up their sleeves (alongside qualified medical professionals) and help you reach the tender spots you couldn’t get to on your own.

To adopt a word from Glennon Wambach-Melton, this is a “brutiful” place to be. Brutally beautiful. I know someday it will heal. Someday soon I will be able to think past and plan beyond surviving the next few hours. I will take comfort in the knowledge that if I survived suffering alone, I can damn well survive with support. And maybe even learn how to ask for it.

Protected: A Letter to my Father

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Unfrozen

Did you ever play freeze-tag on playgrounds as a kid? I remember this game vividly. I was terrible at it because I never had much stamina to chase after other kids. But I found great relief in it because I was often “tagged” and forced to freeze in place where I could catch my breath… until a free agent would touch-and-run yelling “unfrozen!” in triumphant defiance of the chaser who’d inflicted my frozen state.

Indulge my appreciation for a good metaphor for a few minutes. I feel as thought I’ve been playing a never-ending and exhausting game of freeze-tag with my rational mind, emotions, memories and present triggers as key players. I’m being chased by old coping patterns that sneak up on me and try to take away my mobility and progress by causing me to “freeze,” only to have my rational mind “unfreeze” me with a breath-taking kick to the gut that leaves me wrecked instead of able to run away. So I am frozen again. And stuck.

I haven’t been sleeping much/well lately (hence the mid-night writing) so my emotional tolerance is worn too thin. The callouses that take difficult customer calls in stride have been stripped away and my once-thick-skin feels paper thin and fragile. A few frustrated customers and I am frozen and overwhelmed with emotion. It welled up today after I took a difficult call – well actually a series of them. Instead of maintaining composure, expressing empathy and deflecting their frustration, I froze. I didn’t even realize I was doing it. Each time the person I was speaking with jolted me back to the present with harsh inquiries, fearing the line had gone dead. I suddenly recognized the manifestation of an ageless trauma response.

In the face of anger, I freeze. The fight/flight was conditioned out of me by good old 90’s evangelicalism. Our actions were meant to serve as our only defense. Consistent gentle behavior would overcome in the end. I was to allow others to say whatever they like without speaking up in my defense, follow the example of Jesus who “like a sheep before his shearers is silent, he did not open his mouth” {at his trial before Pontious Pilate}. I wonder how many of us who grew out of this widespread, toxic theology have defaulted to freeze/fawn in places of discomfort?

I learned well how to be silent in the face of criticism during my teenage years in many inquisition-style confrontations as part of an evangelical cult. This was reinforced in my home where I was made to submit to “family-meetings” during which my mother paraded out my faults/shortcomings and told me I should be grateful we live in the 21st century because the bible gave her permission to have me stoned. She threatened to kick me out countless times for the heinous sin of questioning her authority and/or meager attempts to defend myself. I learned that silence and agreement was my only ticket to safety or any kind of security.

These are patterns I have brought with me into workplaces, friendships, and relationships in some form or other. Freezing and fawning have not served me well as forms of conflict resolution. And yet, I don’t know how to stop reacting this way. I don’t know how to keep my blood from running cold, my chest from tightening and tears from spilling out of my eyes. I know my emotional response is irrational and often disproportionate. But I don’t know how to stop it.

All I know to do is feel it. I spent literal decades building a dam to hold back my emotional response. I’ll be damned if the first brick is laid upon another in reconstructing it. I have earned the right to feel and feel deeply. I’ve earned the right to be sad that these small, every-day pin pricks are letting loose flashbacks and memories of trauma. I’ve earned the right to sleepless nights spent processing things I’ve rarely spoken about.

So maybe I do know what to do. Maybe I just lean in and feel it. Let myself be sad. Let the tears fall and stop trying to sleep them away. Take comfort in the animals pressed up against me and the partner who allows me the space I need.

And maybe someday down the road these little botherances won’t impact me so deeply. Hopefully soon I won’t freeze and fawn as an automatic response to anger. I can only hope. It is, after all, still my middle name.

Dear Lee: My Favorite First Kiss

We met online, as most people do these days. It was right after Valentines Day, and I was back on the wagon after dodging a bullet in the form of my mechanic I’d been a little too quick to hit on. I remember having come across your profile once before and “swiping left” because it said something about moving around a lot and doing a cross-country RV trip. I’d had enough of the long-distance thing. But for some reason the app I was using put you back in front of me… and this time I couldn’t pass you up. It wasn’t just how adorable you were. It was the apparent intelligence and interest you had in people. I “swiped right” and I’ve never been sorry.

I immediately got a message from you and we started texting into the night. The next morning I had a text from you before I even got out of bed. I’d been up for a while to feed the kitties but after we started talking there was no going back to bed for me. I got up and walked to my favorite cafe for a coffee and pastry. We texted the whole time; I was conspicuously aware of how I kept grinning at my phone while sitting at the espresso bar. Mondays have a bad reputation but this one was shaping up nicely.

I appreciated the raw and honest way you spoke of yourself, being careful not to overshare but not glossing over or minimizing your hardships. You showed interest in and appreciation for me right away. There was no guesswork and we started planning to meet up later that week. Tentatively we set a date for Thursday. We didn’t make it until then. Neither of us could wait that long and you agreed to meet me for tea on Wednesday after my work shift ended.

It was a rainy and cold night. You watched me from a seat at the window while I parked my car and waited in line behind an old couple who couldn’t figure out the meter machine. You hugged me wholeheartedly when I came through the door and I was warmed in a way that had nothing to do with the heat of the room. That first conversation was like watching color wash into the outlines of shapes you’d drawn for me of your life. We drifted back and forth from serious to light topics. Tea very soon was not substantial enough to sustain the conversations we wanted to keep having so we made our way to a restaurant around the corner. We shared a pizza and I told you stories and watched your face as you tried to read mine.

The restaurant was closing and you walked me back to my car, protesting that my sweater was too thin and adjusting it up to my shoulder when the wind blew it off. My skin zinged at the light touch. You got something out of your truck when we got back to the lot and I was disappointed that the night may end without a kiss. But you were just grabbing a jacket and paused to introduce me to the squeaky toys (Hugo and Tilly) who called the dashboard home. I got to see that Peter Pan streak and I was delighted. You insisted on walking me to my car even though it was only a few spaces over. We lingered there, chatting about cars until silence danced between us. I leaned on my the closed driver side door, in no hurry to leave. You shuffled your feet and giggled, admitting you were nervous, you hadn’t done this in a while.

“May I kiss you?” you asked.

“Yes, please.”

…and then you did. Pulling your hands from your pockets and placing them gently on my face. Your lips gently touched mine, pulling them in. When you pulled away your eyes fell on mine and your expression was so full of desire. I didn’t want to be anywhere else in the world. Your face flushed and you giggled again. We kept talking, this time much closer, our lower bodies brushing against each other. I reached for the ties of your sweatshirt and twirled them in my fingers, pulling your face close to mine with a boldness I didn’t know I had. All I knew is I wanted more kisses like that one. And you didn’t disappoint me.

Reluctantly we let each other go so you could safely drive home across the mountain. As I drove the mile back to my apartment I squealed and sent voice memos to my friends about the best first kiss I’d ever had.

Who knew then I’d be so lucky to keep kissing you? When you kiss me now I still see that same desire written all over you face and I feel it in the way you pull me close. It is a gesture and expression that is fully naked with vulnerability. Seeing it, feeling it, stirs me on every level. These days the overwhelming feeling it produces is one of deep gratitude for the life we have together. Thank you for this life, my darling Lee. I can’t wait to tell the world more of our stories.

Love,

your Honey

 

 

Levee Break

I have felt the waters rising, threatening to break the levee.

A couple of weeks ago I was interviewed for a podcast about my journey out of faith. I only got through the first part of the story, summarizing over 25 years in about 90 minutes. It went live over the weekend and listening back to the story is an eerie experience. There are pungent pauses, ripe with dissociation. Nervous laughter and a lightness in my voice that is reflective of a lifetime spent laughing over things more deserving of tears. I don’t know how else to tell it.

Lately I have felt numb, distant. My parents visited last week. Overall it wasn’t a bad time. I cooked for us, I gave them massages, we watched movies and drove through the glorious Blue Ridge Mountains in the fall. They respected the boundaries I put into place on what was/was not up for discussion. But the passive aggressive comments left me feeling drained.

I find myself drifting away into thoughts and memories while I’m at work. At home, I’m tired of feeling numb. I’ve tried to find things to break the floodgates of feeling, but all I’ve managed to manufacture is a headache.

Until today. I joked with someone about their mother sending them home with cookies, spoiling them. They retorted that they got cookies AND banana bread. I know this person well. Their relationship with their parents isn’t perfect by any means. Regardless, I felt the familiar pang of jealousy for a mother I never had.

I was sitting in a parking lot, running errands. The tears welled up before I could stop them. I held it together long enough to do what I needed and now I’m home. The levee has broken. Once again I find myself grieving for what never was.

I think of how I have mothered myself. I grieve for the little girl in me who was loved conditionally. Is still loved conditionally. I think of the people who have stepped into my life during one period or another as ad-hoc parents. People who have no obligation to me, no blood relation, who have filled the role of supporter and counselor, mentor. People who have given me a safe place to land when I needed it most. My parents are not that place. They have never been that place.

The physical distance has done much for our relationship. Things stay cordial because we only speak on birthdays and holidays now. My “lifestyle” is an abomination to them. One that they wish to see me delivered from. One that brings them grief and limits our safe topics of conversation, keeping our phone chats brief and surface-level. For this reason, I thought maybe this visit would be different. I thought we’d be able to make some nice memories together on neutral ground.

It wasn’t all bad. But there were many moments I turned my focus to my breath to ward off the panic bubbling up. Familiar patterns of judgmental speech, racist, mysoginistic, trans-phobic comments littered our encounters. And I’ve learned at this point to keep my mouth shut as much as possible. Just move on, change subjects, hope it stops.

And in so doing, I put up the barriers around my heart to keep the emotions well contained. All I could manage were incredulous conversations over the absurdity of some of my mothers comments with my best friend and my niece. I knew I wasn’t okay. But the coping mechanisms were locked in and there was nothing I could do about it.

But today I feel raw, exposed. I feel like a small child again, fending for myself and not quite knowing how. So I’m caring for that little person today. Baking her favorite cake, snuggling up with candles and blankets and cocoa. Letting her cry, comforting her and reminding her she is loved and cared for and safe. SO safe now. No one is going to subject her to love with strings attached, love with qualifications.

My parents do love me. In their own way. My dad and I bought groceries together. It was fun. They gave me Christmas presents: cookware, fuzzy socks I sincerely love, an electric blanket I’m cuddled under right now. I have small tokens of their love all over my little home. But love without acceptance? It feels hollow in a way I don’t know how to express.

I have a handmade banner hanging in my living room, handcrafted from watercolored gingko leaves, reminding me that I am so loved. Underneath it are notes, photos, and mementos from my chosen family. People who love me without qualification. These things aren’t hidden away. They’re on display. Daily reminders. I am loved. I am worthy of love. I am not an abomination. I am not destined for damnation.

Dear God – A Lamentation

Oh, you thought this was over with the unanswered questions? Far from it. The day after I wrote out my questions I sat down to write a lament at the suggestion of a lecturer L’Abri hosted that week. The following letter is the result of that exercise.

Before you tell me that my anger towards and address to “God” proves his existence in my own mind, let me assure you that I no longer hold belief in the existence of the Christian god or any other. However, my anger still burns white hot in the direction of the cruel construct of god that is upheld in many Christian circles (I’m looking at you, Evangelical Fundamentalism). For many years that construct gaslit me into believing I was nothing; a worthless worm, unworthy of love and the recipient of it only by undeserved favor. The construct of the Christian god as father meted out cruel love through castigation. My mind and heart still bear those scars. I reserve the right to be angry at this construct. This lamentation was my first act of rebellion towards it. No words have ever come to me with such inspired clarity.

I wrote this on December 4, 2015. This date and this letter is known to me now as the last time I prayed to a god I no longer believe in. 

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Dear God,

I’m mad at you. I imagine this comes as no surprise. I’ve been told all my life that you are all-knowing. You know my thoughts. You see everything. Not even a tiny bird falls to the ground out of your sight. Isn’t that true? I don’t find that comforting. If that is true and you see it all, I don’t understand why the world is not flooded with your tears. How can you watch all the suffering? How can you stand the way we harm and steal from one another? If you are all-powerful, orchestrating the details of our lives, then why do you allow senseless things?

A few months ago it brought me comfort to think you arranged things perfectly so I can be where I am. I thought I saw your hand everywhere, evidence of your love. But now, if I apply that logic to other areas of my life {I’m afraid to say this} I can’t believe your power is only limited to the good without acknowledging that you have some involvement in my suffering. How can you have power over one part but not the other? Is it a matter of consciously yielding to you or asking for your intervention? Because that’s hardly fair to a 6 year old little girl. Is it a matter of your approval or allowance? Because I’m not sure I can imagine a good god putting a stamp of approval on the rape of a child.

Is it about your glory? Perhaps the sustainment of my life is supposed to be some kind of trophy in a hall of heaven I don’t know about. Am I surviving and learning to live just so you can add another point to the scoreboard in your triumph over evil? Am I just a pawn? Or is it more personal than that?

I don’t understand you. If you are unlimited in your power, why. If you limit yourself, why. If this is all about redemption, okay. What is that and what does it look like? How do I recognize it when I see it?

Yes, God, I’m angry at you! I was told you would comfort me, shield me, protect me. None of those things have been a reality for me. I don’t feel comforted! Christian teaching tells me I should feel guilty for that because you’re apparently not enough. The problem is with me, not The Perfect One–right? Who am I to question you? My expectations are too high. But who set them? Your damn people. Your “word” which is apparently valued above your name. I don’t buy it anymore.

Who the hell are you? I don’t know who to trust or which image of you to give credit to. If it’s the image painted by most American church people and even the scriptures then I am frightened by how severely I want to distance myself from you.

I don’t know what else to say. Your turn.

Why I No Longer Believe

I wrote down and wrestled with these questions nearly 4 years ago. I was desperately trying to hold onto some kind of faith. I spent months after writing these questions searching scripture and supplemental texts for answers at Swiss L’Abri. I studied theodicy like a rabid animal. I sat down with biblical scholars and asked hard questions only to be told, “We don’t have a satisfying answer.” My heart broke when I realized I couldn’t believe any longer. I wanted to. I wanted to find a way to believe in a good god. When I finally stopped believing I felt I could take a full breath for the first time in forever. My brain could take a rest from the mental gymnastics I had to do to make sense of scripture. I began to grieve the loss of a faith I once held dear. And I couldn’t do that with an audience.

I didn’t share these things publicly at the time because they were too raw. I knew the pain in my unanswered questions would hurt people – other believers – who love me and whom I love. I wasn’t prepared to witness their grief while I was carrying my own. I wasn’t prepared to hear Christian cliche’s troped out as a solution to my sorrow. I wasn’t prepared to explain why every answer was unsatisfying. I wasn’t prepared to tell them I no longer wanted answers.

But now… These questions don’t feel so energized. They are valid and they remain unanswered. That silence is no longer painful, but peaceful. My story doesn’t need to make sense inside the Christian narrative. It wasn’t until I stopped trying to make my story fit that I began to heal, to integrate. I stopped wishing that god would somehow wipe my memory clean. Now I’m doing the hard work in therapy, showing up for myself and processing my story with the professional help I’ve always needed but felt guilty asking for because I thought Jesus should be enough. He wasn’t. Because he wasn’t real. He was a coping mechanism that I needed until I was ready to face my pain on my own. I am grateful I had that. But I don’t need Jesus anymore. I’m finally ready to say that, publicly.

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I spent the first 10 weeks of my time at L’Abri in 2015 allowing my questions to surface. One of the last days of my first term I sat down and wrote them out. These are the questions that surfaced and the answers I found in myself before I even got up from the table. I know I am not alone in asking them.

Is God just? Is he good? Is he holy?

How valuable is his glory? Is he all powerful? Does he limit himself? Do we have free will or has he pre-determined everything and is he just pulling on our puppet strings?

Do I think I can do a better job at being god?

Who is in control? Am I fighting for it? Is he in control?

What does it mean when it says he is redeemer? Is that only regarding our redemption from permanent death? Or is there redemption in this life that he has a hand in?

{I answer some of these questions even as I ask them.}

Can I ask any question that is not self-centered? Am I even capable? If he is the center of my universe, if that is even possible to cognitively achieve, then am I allowed to ask questions?

Does making him the center rob me of my humanity?

Why was I raped in a church at 6 years old? Is this all part of a cosmic lesson I’m supposed to learn? How does that make any sense? I was so little.

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December 3, 2015

There will never be a satisfying answer to that last question. There is nothing that could ever make it okay. There is no theology that makes sense of it. I don’t really want to know why. I don’t care why, no answer would be enough. I don’t want to know when it will feel okay. I don’t want revenge or even redemption. I don’t care if my abuser goes to heaven or suffers in hell. That doesn’t make things any better for me. What I really want is for it to have never happened at all. Total obliteration. I want the acts to be reversed. Or at the very least, I want the messages in my nerve endings to be completely re-written, for my body to be a safe place to dwell.

Death is a part of life I have come to accept with some amount of peace. Is evil and violation just something I have to accept in the same way? Death seems a kinder alternative than living with some of this at times.

But, DAMN IT! No, really, DAMN the violation! I am living the hell out, out of my life in spite of it. My life, joy, vitality, is smacking the hell out. Eradicating it. Little shards of light in every choice to hold on to a hand or accept a hug or calm my startled heart when I would rather run away.

I don’t know how to address God in this. Can I bring myself to level the accusations that have been bubbling up for weeks? They have fueled my questions. I feel them close, within reach.

I have permission to be angry.

If I don’t really want to know why, then I want to know who he is and what position he takes in light of this. Does he only have the power to heal what is already broken? Why then would he not have the power to prevent? Who are you?

 

For the Daughters

I’m not sure why I haven’t written about this before. Perhaps I was afraid it would somehow get back to my mother. But I doubt she will ever read this. I sent her a link to a blog article I wrote once. She opened it on her iPhone but couldn’t figure out how to scroll down so she never read the whole thing. It’s comical, but a little sad, too.

Mother’s Day has been a difficult holiday for over a decade. It wasn’t until I moved out of my parents home at 19 that I began to wake up to the abusive nature of my relationship with my mother. It wasn’t until I had friends look at me and say, “You need to get out.” that I realized what I was enduring wasn’t normal.

I don’t remember the first time she said it. I know I was young, maybe 5 or 6 years old. My strong-willed personality was beginning to show. I was bossing my little sister often and speaking up for myself more than any “gentle, quiet spirited” Christian little girl should. The first time I remember her saying it was after I was released from children’s church. I navigated the mingling post-church adults until I spotted my mothers floral skirt. I skipped up to her-perhaps too eagerly-and wrapped my arms around her legs. She was clearly put-off by my interruption and apologetically indicated to the family she was talking to… “and this is Rebekah, all of my worst qualities glorified!” They laughed together, and I tried to hide behind her skirt.

It wasn’t intended to be a slight, I don’t think. It was meant to poke fun at the idea that god gives you children like yourself, to show you what you need to work on. But over the years it became the mantra she held over my life, introducing me in that way to friends and strangers alike. My father even adopted the phrase, often reminding me when I “misbehaved” that I was just like my mother and the devils greatest tool against us was each other. I was to always remember that I was the child and therefore my opinions and defenses were irrelevant. Total submission and obedience was required. These were the boundaries of our relationship. Anything less was rebellion, bordering on witchcraft. I was to remember that in biblical times, I would be stoned for defending myself to my parent. It was only the mercy of God that afforded me a safe place under their roof.

I moved out at 19 and took my 18 year old sister with me. I worked full-time to support us while she worked part-time and attended college. We stayed close by our parents and maintained a relationship as best we could. Things seemed to improve with a little proximity. But mothers day? It became a painful obligation.

I knew the consequences would be severe if I didn’t give some acknowledgement of the holiday. We’d already set the precedent of giving gifts and cards, sharing lunch, going to church together, and various and sundry small celebrations. If we’d suddenly ceased because we realized the relationship was abusive, it only would’ve become moreso with my long-suffering father caught in the crossfire.

I vividly remember standing in the greeting card aisle of a drugstore, reading card after card and putting each one back after skimming just a few lines of admiration and generalized happy reflection. My heart felt like it was breaking and bleeding all over the polished linoleum. None of the heartfelt sentiments applied to me or my mother. Gradually, I would wander toward the comical section of cards or the discount ones that didn’t say much. Since that day in CVS, selecting a Mothers Day card has always been an intensely painful experience.

This year there was no time or emotional energy for a card. Instead, I sent a text before work and made a phone call after work, both of which have gone unanswered. And while in some ways it’s a relief not to have to talk to her, it also twists the knife just a little bit. Especially when I scroll through social media today.

I’m known as the mom-friend, the “mother hen” among my friends. I’m the one who will ask you over and cook you dinner, or show up when you’re having a bad day with little sources of comfort. I will massage you, encourage you to take care of yourself, drink water, get lots of rest, help you see a Dr. if you need one. I didn’t get this way by accident. I was raised by my older sisters until I was 8 years old, but then I had to raise myself.

So today I am thankful for all the friends who remind me that I am not the worst parts of my mother. I am thankful that they hold for me a different mirror. And this is for the daughters. For those who feel motherless, who have had to raise themselves, teach themselves how to navigate the world, how to show empathy and compassion to others when the opposite was demonstrated for them. Here’s to you, warrior women. Your heart will mend. But today, it’s okay if it breaks a little. Hold yourself closely. You are worthy of mother-love.

My Own Independence Day

Three years ago this month I wrote my own Declaration of Independence. I threw a ring with a religious symbol off the side of a Swiss mountain in a snow-storm and let these words ring out.

“I, Rebekah Hope, hereby declare myself independent from any religious domination system. The death of Christ does not demand anything from me. I am free from cycles of religious obligation. I do not have to serve God because I am afraid of what will happen if I don’t. I am free from the requirements of public confession and restitution. I am free from the scrutiny and criticism of those still under religious domination. I am free of other’s opinions regarding my eternal soul. I am free from the belief that the highest form of love is through correction and discipline. I am free of any sense of indebtedness-to God or man-for love. True love is a gift freely offered which by its nature cannot be repaid. I am free of striving to earn love, repay love, or keep love.

I, hereby, maintain the right to speak out against the domination of others in the name of God. I maintain the right to ask questions and to challenge the system and its powers, no matter how established they may be. I maintain the right to lament the damage done by the domination system and to stand with those who have been wounded by it. Together we will turn the other cheek, absorbing in defiance that which was intended to shame.

I, therefore, in an exercise of my hilariously free will, and in the presence of these witnesses, rid myself of this ring as a symbol of religious domination.

To Life!”

As I shouted the last two words of my Declaration of Independence amidst the raucous cheers of my friends, I pitched the ring off the side of the mountain into the darkness. We all raised our glasses then took shelter from the snow in a hay barn. Together we drank and laughed, celebrating freedom. I received words of affirmation and sincere encouragement throughout the night, filling my heart to the brim. Once back at L’Abri each of them signed as witnesses to my Declaration. This document with signatures of those who are still close to me is one of my most prized possessions. I’m sharing this today just because I want to. I hope it finds some resonance with you.