A Story of Leaving, In Parts (This is Part Two)

[Part one can be found-->here.]

Yet, alas, here I am.

A personal tidbit, in the ever humorous saga that continues to be my futile attempt at co-parenting with a narcissistic ex: my ex-husband is taking me back to court, for the second time in two years. One of the items of contention is our daughter's attendance at her current school, which is a private, non-denominational Christian school that she has been attending since Pre-K.

We initially enrolled her there because we were married at the time, and the town in which we resided did not offer full-day kindergarten--but this school did. I was ready to pull her out of the school in first grade because we were moving and I couldn't afford tuition on my own, and my ex-in laws generously offered to pay her tuition so she could stay there.

Initially, I was so overwhelmed and grateful for their generosity. I even sent them an edible arrangement as a thank you.

Yes. I did that.

Because if I had the foresight to realize what this meant for me and my daughter in the long-term, nothing says "thank you for now locking me into a school decision for a child that IS NOT YOURS" like melons shaped into stars on wooden skewers.

And, now, here I am.

My daughter is now in the third grade.
I live right next door to an excellent public school.
I am the custodial parent.
I wish for my daughter to attend this public school.
My ex-husband says he wants her to stay where she is.
I remind him that we agreed a year ago that she could attend public school for 4th grade.

What does my ex-husband do? Slaps me with a court motion requesting that the court to compel her attendance at this school. Why? Because as long as his parents are footing the bill, there is really no need for her to go anywhere else.

Here we are.

Last week, a flyer came home from school in Peyton's folder, advertising a presentation on March 5 by an organization, Family Policy Alliance of New Jersey. This particular presentation is in regard to "public policies in the state and their impact on religious and parental rights," with a focus on the organization itself and LGBT curriculum in public schools.

Immediately, red flags were waving and warning sirens were blaring in my brain.

Why is my daughter's obviously private, obviously Christian school holding this event if the primary topic deals with public school curriculum and policy? I already know damn well they aren't teaching and LGTBQ+ friendly curriculum--which is one of the many reasons I want my kid out of there.

A quick Google gives me this organization's website, which boasts a belief that "...human life is sacred. We're all created in the image of God, so we respect and protect life, including preborn babies [author note: WTF is a preborn baby? I believe the term they're looking for is "fetus," but that doesn't quite fit the narrative I suppose.], the elderly and every other condition of the human experience through natural death."

Warning sirens continue. I click on the "Issues" tab and navigate my way on to the section on sexual orientation and immediately want to smash my phone against a wall:

"Family Policy Alliance advances policies that protect the right of Americans to freely exercise their faith (including disagreeing with sexual relationships apart from God's design of marriage) and opposes policies that seek to force families to accept, and even celebrate, the LGTBQ+ agenda."

Wait, what now?

On one hand, this organization boasts about how ALL life is sacred--but then I realize it's only the lives that fit into a purposefully defined boundary--created by men--that are worthy of the moniker of sanctity.

Conservative Christians are so good at getting it so wrong.

I cannot stress this enough: this cannot be God's design. This is simply bad, hateful theology.

Are these people not made in the very same image of the God they claim so wholeheartedly to love?
From the lips of Jesus himself, who exhorted his believers to love their neighbors--do they not count?
Does the Christian definition of love, taught by Jesus, not also equate to equity and inclusion?

It is abundantly clear to me that my daughter's school does not believe our LGTBQ+ brothers and sisters deserve to have their lives and very existences celebrated. Not at their school, and not anywhere else for that matter. The sanctity of life they so boldly claim to uphold does, in fact, have lines drawn. Inclusion and protection can be denied because a book tells them it should be so.

But, really, who says so?

If Evangelical Christians believe we are all made in the image of God, then that means there is a spark of divinity in each of us. We are all innately holy, regardless of who we love or what we look like.

What I want for my daughter is to grow up in a world where radical love and inclusion is the norm. Where every life--gay, straight, trans, black, white--is celebrated because these people are our neighbors. These people are God. Reverence for God means having reverence for everyone.

Full stop: reverence for everyone.

If we cannot find the inherent divinity in the marginalized and the persecuted, we are failing. That is not Christianity.

Or--maybe it is and I've just been wrong about it this whole time.

So here I am.

My daughter attends a school who believes that there are human beings on this earth that are not worthy of celebration, my ex-husband is dragging me in front of a judge to keep her there, and all I can do at this point is sit here with my heartache.

I mourn what I wish Christianity could be--the Christianity I thought I was a part of, one of love and peace and justice--and I abhor what Evangelical Christianity actually is: white nationalism, with a healthy side of misogyny and homophobia, with a cross slapped on it.

My heart aches for my daughter, who loves talking about God, but is also being taught in no uncertain terms that inclusion, equity, and justice is not an inherent right for all people. I wonder how to approach these topics with her, because I can see the confusion in her eyes when we talk about radical love, diversity and what that means for people of color and people who have been marginalized.

I don't know what to tell her about her great, big God who pours out love, mercy, and grace on some people...but not so much on other people.

My heart aches for me, who has to be paraded in front of a judge next Friday--to make a decision about where my daughter should attend school because, let's face it, my agency as her mother has been discarded by her father. I gave my ex-husband an answer he didn't like, and now I have to pay for it. Pay the court fees, file the paperwork, take a day off work, wait at the courthouse for our 15 minutes. The system continues to baffle me. It is not my intention to make this a first amendment issue--but rather I'd like to point out that oppressing dissenting, differing voices seems to be an ongoing trend here.

And that, dear reader, makes me angry.

I thought long and hard about whether I wanted to share these thoughts in such a public space, but honestly...I needed to say it. I've carried a deep guilt in my bones that I slapped a smile on my face every Sunday and spent anywhere from 2-5 hours at church, depending on the day, talking about how much I loved God and how great God was, but forgetting how little U.S. conservative Christianity cares about anyone who isn't already a heterosexual believer or one that could be convinced to come to their side.

As a woman, I was expected to fix a marriage that was already irrevocably broken. My ex-husband was abusive, yet somehow the onus was on me to make things right...if I just let Jesus take the wheel.

I left that marriage four years ago, and my ex-husband continues his assault via the court system when I've displeased him since he no longer has direct access to me.

I recognize my privilege as a white, straight, cisgender female. While the system is occasionally rigged against me, I recognize that there are groups of people in this country that the system is simply steamrolling--because systemic oppression from institutions like the church believe it should be so. There is so much work to be done, I still have so much to learn about how to become a better ally, and I can't sit back and just subtly call out the church when they are clearly bastardizing the very definition of the word "sanctity" on the back of Jesus Christ.

I simply cannot allow that to happen. I left the church, but I am not leaving the side of the vulnerable, the persecuted, the marginalized, the disadvantaged, and the poor.

I might be heartbroken and angry, but I am still whole. And here I am:

I see you.
I love you.
You are whole.
You are worthy of celebrating.
You are divinity.
Your body is sacred.
Your very existence is holy.

No matter what your skin looks like,
who you love,
or what you believe.

And I'm not going anywhere.

A Story of Leaving, In Parts (This is Part One)

I've spent a lot of time thinking about this post. I've drafted many, many versions of this post. I've let them sit in a queue, untouched and unpublished, for about three years now.

For many who follow me on social media, the writing may have already been on the (proverbial Facebook) wall.

I find myself in a place where subtlety no longer has any value or benefit to my faith system, so here goes nothing.

About three years ago, I made the conscious decision to leave the church.
Or rather, I have wholeheartedly and unabashedly rejected the institution of the church.

And now for the tipping point that finds me here, now, writing this: I find myself backed into a corner by the systemic patriarchal oppression reinforced by this maddening institution, and I am...well, I'm fucking tired of it.

So--let's burn it all down, shall we?

I don't want anyone to get it twisted: I believe in God(dess). I believe in the universe. I believe in angels and guides. I believe in the Earth. I believe in Spirit. I believe in energy. I believe in intuition. I believe in crystals and tarot and meditation. I believe that Jesus was one cool-as-hell dude and had things to say that were important, radical, groundbreaking, and worth a listen.

But Christianity, with a capital C? Especially that of the evangelical variety? You can keep it, because I don't want it.

____________________________________________________________________________

Aside from my current predicament--which I will address in an additional post because the level of WTF requires it--the dominoes of deconstruction have been falling pretty hard and fast since 2016:

Shortly after the 2016 election, a member of my church sent me a private message on Facebook messenger in response to a post questioning how I'm supposed to explain to my daughter that a man who boasts about grabbing women by the pussy and had raped one of his wives was now the President of the United States: "Don't worry! At least Mike Pence is our Vice President. He'll stand for good Christian values. Trump probably won't even make it all four years and then Pence will be President" (this is a paraphrase, but the general idea intact--totes cool, v. Christian).

I was absolutely horrified at the lack of self-awareness that this woman was demonstrating by allowing the most un-Christian president ever a pass, simply because his number two was a devout conservative Christian.

It was, dear reader, not a good look.

Christian values can be bought for a price. Whatever it takes. Just look the other way. Hold your nose, it makes it easier to accept.

Jesus wept.

The constant barrage of thinly-veiled hate, oppression, fear-mongering, and downright misinformation I see being shared by Christian friends and family is mind-blowing. The outright dismissal of basic human rights, equality, decency, science, and reason because of selective interpretation of a book written thousands of years ago by fallible men? It knocks the wind out of me.

The blind allegiance to Donald Trump is akin to idolatry, and the hypocrisy makes my skin crawl. Donald Trump. This man. A racist, homophobic misogynist. In the people's house. And my conservative Christian acquaintances foam at the mouths with glee about everything they think he stands for. Except...he doesn't stand for them. He doesn't stand for America. He stands for himself, and himself alone.

He feeds off fear and hate.
The most powerful man in the world.
And they love him, worship him.

Jesus weeps.

And at the earliest stages of separation from my now ex-husband, after admitting to them that he had been emotionally and verbally abusive toward me, several members of the women's group I was a part of had this advice for me: pray for him. Pray for myself.

Take a critical look at MYSELF because perhaps there was something I was doing wrong. Perhaps I could find ways to be a better wife to my husband, and maybe he wouldn't do awful things like call me fat, lazy, or hack into one of my electronic devices and proceed to harass and threaten my friend and neighbor (I know you're thinking that is oddly specific, but yes--I watched him send Facebook messages from my account using my Kindle at home--watched from my phone, while I was at church).

You wanna know what I did?

I fasted. I prayed. I cried and sang worship music and begged and pleaded with God on my way to work every day for nearly a month. Was it me? Was I so broken that I would drive the person who exchanged wedding vows with me before God to treat me so badly?

You wanna know what my ex did? Abso-fucking-lutely nothing.

And at the end of it all, we got our divorce.

But on that day, I like to think Jesus smiled. And I celebrate that day, every day, as the first step in breaking so many different types of bondage and finding wholeness.

Except this wholeness didn't come from surrendering at all costs and shrugging my shoulders when things didn't go the way I wanted them to because, "It wasn't on God's timing."

This was wholeness that allowed me to see that I was not, in fact, broken.
This was wholeness that looked a lot like self-determined worth and value.
This was wholeness that was mine alone, grasped at and formed through my own agency.

Wholeness without crutches or caveats.
Wholeness without shame.
Beauty without the ashes.

Jesus smiles.

[Part two can be found-->here.]

Depression, Thy Name is GOD-AWFUL. (A Downward Spiral in Three Acts)

When my depression creeps back in, the signs are usually there. What sucks is that I am very good at being willfully ignorant and pretending they are not happening.

Act I.

One day I just decide I'm not going to take a shower that day. I'm exhausted at the end of the day. I've hit the snooze button on my alarm in the morning a few too many times. 'I'll do it tomorrow,' I think to myself, and drag myself either straight to bed or straight into getting myself ready for work and Peyton ready for school.

(Spoiler alert: I might not actually shower the next day, either, but I am juuuust highly functioning enough to know that a sister has got to work and showering is just one of those things that need to happen if you want to be respectable enough to keep your damn job.)

I'm too tired to go to the gym. It would be a waste of gas and time if I just drove there and walked on the treadmill for 20 minutes because I don't have any energy to do anything else.

I don't make the bed before I leave for the day. The next day, I just haphazardly throw the blanket over the mattress and call it good enough. See, I'm trying--I'm fine!

My limbs start to feel impossibly heavy. I am tired, so freaking impossibly tired.

I am forgetful. The brain fog is real. My routines, which I have painstakingly crafted and normally adhere strictly to in order to keep myself "on track," fall by the wayside.

What's for dinner? I don't know. I'm just going to wing it, but first I guess I should drag myself to the grocery store so we actually have something to cook.

I go to touch up a paint job in the kitchen. I use the wrong paint to touch it up and now I have to paint the entire wall all over again. I cry for two hours straight. It was a stupid mistake, and I am stupid for making it.

I started an Etsy shop! My creative juices were flowing not too long ago (back in February--a simpler time, apparently). I felt inspired. I bought SO MANY beads. I have photos of bracelets I need to edit and list...and I simply cannot be bothered. Now it feels overwhelming. It feels silly. There are so many other more talented jewelry designers out there, and I am kidding myself if I think I can have a full-time job AND sustainably do something creative that I actually enjoy doing.

I'm in the thick of my annual screenings for Lynch Syndrome. I made the appointments to see my general practitioner, dermatologist, OB/GYN, and gastroenterologist (Still fine, everyone! Nothing to see here! #ADULTING).

My dermatologist takes three biopsies my first visit. I still need four more, and she hasn't even finished my skin cancer exam. Two of those three initial biopsies require further excision. I hate myself for thinking all those tanning beds was a good idea at one point in my life. Now I am going to be a wrinkly old football soon with scars all over my body and maybe melanoma one day. AWESOME.

My gastroenterologist schedules an endoscopy and a colonoscopy. Whatever, I have to take a day off of work, but at least I'll lose a few pounds, take a great nap, and then wake up and eat a ridiculous meal. It'll be a great starting point if my energy ever comes back to go to the gym.

At the OB/GYN, I see the midwife who does my annual exam, but I have to make another appointment with the doctor for an endometrial biopsy. I ask for Xanax before I come in for the procedure because that shit hurts and "take an ibuprofen an hour before your appointment" does not cut it.

Oh yeah, and I need to go for more bloodwork and make another appointment for an ultrasound. You know, to check for all the cancer my body seems keen on never stopping once it starts. But my insurance may not cover it, so if they don't I guess I can either let it go another year or pay another bill I can't afford to have in order to get this stuff done (like a responsible adult would!).

Act II.

My four appointments suddenly bloom into 10+ appointments. But I have to do it because God forbid cancer starts growing in my body and I'm dumb enough to know that, at the very least, having the knowledge that I'm some sort of mutant gives me better prognostic outcomes than people that don't.

And somehow even that feels like a burden. But I go anyway.

I debate the benefits of going through with my complete hysterectomy sooner than I originally planned. That'll be fewer organs to worry about. I wonder if there are any other non-essential time-bomb organs I can dispose of early, because I am just so damn tired of dealing with it and checking in on my insides once a year to ask, "We're good, right? Everyone is happy in there? You aren't planning to go rogue on me any time soon?" I have an entire lifetime of this. It seems unfair. But then I remind myself that "unfair" is better used for people who actually DIE of cancer, and then I feel shame and guilty and selfish.

Don't I want to stay on top of this for my family's sake? Don't I? Yes, I do.

So I try to schedule my appointments at times that don't interfere with my work schedule, but that's hard and I do the best I can with lunch breaks or scheduling at the beginning and end of the day. I email my boss a list of times I'll be out, and he comes and asks if I'm okay. I smile and nod. "Just prevention!" I announce. I'm afraid I'll lose my job because of all of these appointments. I'll loose my health insurance. I won't be able to afford all these doctors' visits for the sake of prevention anymore.

Anxiety is a giant bitch because it fuels my depression. My depression makes it harder to recognize my anxiety for what it is. And so it goes.

I'm so tired.
My chest hurts sometimes.
My stomach and digestive system is a mess.

Is it cancer? Is my doctor going to tell me I have cancer after my colonoscopy? (Probably not.)

I go to therapy, even though paying another copay on top of all the other copays feels like a huge strain on my budget (Self care! Prioritizing taking care of my mental health! I'm still just fine, THANK YOU). I tell my therapist about all this.

"Do you smoke weed?" she asks.

"No," I answer.

"You probably should. And you COULD do it legally with your diagnosis."

She can't help me there, though. Because I am too chicken to see an actual psychiatrist because at some visceral level I am convinced that medical intervention on that scale isn't really THAT necessary. Prescribed medication, medicinal marijuana cards, trial and error of switching out one antidepressant for another--it seems TOO real. Am I that bad? Do I need to be told I NEED something to actually function effectively? Will it make me a zombie? Will it make me feel worse? What about all the other side effects? I KNOW there is no shame in medication, and I know I'm not doing my part to de-stigmatize a legitimate concern for millions of people (including me!), and yet.

So I talk to my therapist. I tell her I'll start taking CBD supplements. I tell her I'll meditate twice a day. I tell her I'll read the books she suggests. We talk about my anxiety and my perfectionism and my C-PTSD, and all of those unsavory issues. She tells me I have time management issues (I secretly call bullshit on this because when I am "on" I am the most efficient human being to grace this earth. And that's the damn tea, sis.). She tells me to focus on solutions and not my problems.

Act III.

And yet.

I barely remember to pop the CBD tablets I spent $60 on.

I checked the books she recommended out of the library. I've renewed them four times and they make a nice decoration to my nightstand because I haven't picked them up in weeks. I either fall asleep on them, or find myself rereading the same page over and over again because suddenly reading comprehension has completely escaped me. I've reached the library's renewal limit and I have to return them soon. I could simply return them, check them back out, and then start all over again--but that seems like so much work.

I'm lucky if I meditate once a week. Forget about twice a day. Who am I? The Dalai Lama?

My perfectionism isn't an issue right now because I am just in survival mode. Get me to tomorrow and that's just fine by me. Perfectionism be damned.

I laugh because I always think about how millennials are joked about as being snowflakes and are missing the whole "pull yourself up by your bootstraps" mentality of previous generations. We expect to be "given" things in life.

LOL.

What if pulling myself up by my bootstraps looks a whole lot like functioning every day even though my brain is screaming and resisting and physically hurting? Seems pretty bootstrappy to me. You know what I would like to be given? NATURALLY OCCURING SOLID FUCKING BRAIN CHEMISTRY.

I don't feel like much of a snowflake at all, because society tells us we need to grit our teeth and get through it at all costs--so that's exactly what I do.

So here I am. The initial signs were there, and now here is the apathy and that's how I know I am in the very thick of it.

I get up every day, I do enough to get by, and even that leaves me an exhausted heap at the end of the day. If I were to be 100% honest with myself, I do it because I HAVE to, not because I WANT to.

Well, isn't that scary as hell?

I know that healing is not a completely linear process. I know there is no snap of the fingers and I'll get to revel in a magically un-foggy brain. It does take a bit of facing the ugly bits first. And these ugly bits are U-G-L-Y. I am not proud of it. I am not trying to romanticize or otherwise make excuses for it. Depression and anxiety are god-awful mental health issues, and I wish it were different. I so desperately wish it were different. Sometimes that means accepting things you are reluctant to accept.

I am not infallible. Sucks, but it's true.

Walt is concerned. He suggests asking my therapist to point me in the direction of a provider who can talk over medicine and other options. He cares so much, which is wonderful to know someone is my court while it simultaneously makes me feel awful because I can barely tolerate myself; I can only imagine how I must seem to someone else. He just wants me to feel happy again.

Happy. What a concept.

--

If you are dealing with depression and anxiety--please stay. Hope is not lost. We need you here. Here are some resources to help you:

National Alliance on Mental Illness Helpline: 1-800-950-NAMI
National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1-800-273-TALK
Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration: 1-800-662-HELP