When I was 18, I had to have my gallbladder removed. It was very odd–I had almost no risk factors except I was a white woman with a family history of the disease. My symptoms weren’t typical, either. I mostly threw up randomly. Finally, my mother took me to a doctor. After taking forever to convince them I wasn’t pregnant or depressed, they finally took some urine samples. That’s when they noticed how jaundiced I was (my red hair nicely canceled out some of the yellow so I just looked like I had a nice tan. They had me roll my eyeballs up toward the light once they saw the urine, and that was the only sign).  They decided I had hepatitis (from where, who knew?) and sent me in for an ultrasound to confirm. The ultrasound ruled out hepatitis (whew!) and gave the correct diagnosis of gallstones. My mother took me to see a surgeon who said my numbers were pretty bad and they would be removing it in the morning.

I hadn’t forgotten this really, but never thought much about it after the fact because it was so out of character for my parents to even look into natural remedies. Actually, they never really looked into remedies much at all, medical or alternative. Mostly, my mom (who was an RN) figured we’d get over things, and she was usually right. She would take us to the doctor if we were really sick, but a cold or stomach virus, we would just “get over it.” We usually did. We did not receive regular check ups and my teeth are a complete mess because my parents did the bare minimum on the dentist, but that was mostly poverty (though born mostly out of the belief that parents should stay at home. My mom compromised and worked part-time, but both of my parents are college-educated, and there wasn’t really a need to forgo that kind of care. But those were their decisions and they did the best they could, I believe.)

Anyways, now that you know what medical care was like in our family, back to the story. Someone had given them a pamphlet on how to use olive oil and lemon juice to flush out gallstones. I saw that article and nearly freaked out. I don’t know if they actually seriously considered it or if they just took it to be polite. I vaguely remember hearing them discussing it. I was terrified that is what they would make me do. The article described some very unpleasant side effects. Fortunately, one, maybe two or  three things saved me. 1) The pamphlet said that the flush was probably not a good idea if you had a blocked bile duct, which I did. That is what had made me sick instead of in major pain. The theory was that my car accident had knocked a stone into the bile duct, and that my gallbladder wouldn’t have given me trouble for several more years if not for that. Not all doctors agreed with that, though. 2) My mom was a nurse and was probably a bit dubious of that sort of thing. 3) My parents aren’t stupid. Hopefully, a little common sense in not using something unproven on someone so sick prevailed. And I was pretty sick.

The next morning, I had my gallbladder out the modern way. Terror averted.

Edit: I found a reference to it in Gothardland! I thought the font and colors I remembered were Gothard-like, but thought maybe I imagined it. Here. (Notice it’s being considered for revision. Hm! Also note that you can learn how lust damages God’s plans for childbirth while you learn how to fix your own gallbladder!)

I’ve never been very good with other people. I am kind of a hermit. And that summer, as a sheltered hermit, I was forced to get along with two roommates who, while still conservative, had not been as sheltered as I. We had our moments. I guess everyone does living together. Somehow, between that and my dorm experience over the previous year, I just felt so different. I did not know how to get along with other people on a deeper level than “hi, how are ya!” I was not always a fun roommate, and neither were they. But that is the nature of human relationships. Nobody is perfect, and I learned to not expect perfection out of myself and others. A lesson that has served me well, though a lesson I sometimes forget!

I wish sometimes, that I could take moments of that summer and hold onto them, relive them. I wish I could go back and make a few different decisions, both during and at the end. I wish life were like that summer: friendships, possibilities, excitement. Sure, I have possibilities and excitement now, but it’s colored by responsibilities and the consequences of bad decisions I made that fall. That summer, I felt free. I did the silly, absent minded things I do now, but they were funny then. I locked my keys in my car three times (and my parents lived 3.5 hours away with the spare!). I accidentally programmed the youth minister’s parents’ phone number into my phone instead of his cell, and for whatever reason, couldn’t seem to fix it, so I had many late night conversations with his dad, completely embarrassed every time. I handed out ice cream. I spent late nights after church talking to the youth minister and started questioning my faith, but in a way that wasn’t quite so scary yet. One of my roommates and I got into an indoor water fight. The youth minister my other roommate was working for (and later married and now has two kids!) broke into our apartment and decorated it with a bunch of smiley face stuff. A mission trip to Little Rock. Summer crushes and heartbreaks. Yes, multiple of each. Surgery on my shoulder and get well cards from my youth group. Innocent days of summer gone. It ended with my heart crushed and my shoulder in pain, but with many lessons learned.

So, yes, I do have good memories. Sometimes, I need to work on remembering the good times instead of focusing on the bad times. Like how embarrassed and lonely I often felt that summer shouldn’t taint all the good times I did have. I think I prefer to not remember it sometimes because even remembering how it was good can be painful for me, because I always remember what happened next. Not even on purpose. One thought just leads to another. But if I could go back to one point in my life and do it over again, that’s where I’d start. I’d do things differently and end them differently. Who knows, it may not have ended any better. But sometimes, I need to believe they would have because sometimes, that’s what gets me through the day: thinking that life could have been better, and that someday, I’ll get back to that summer again.

Both my parents got sucked into fundamentalism after growing up in abusive homes, though in radically different ways. Ways I don’t fully understand because we do not talk about unpleasant pasts in my family. Most of what I know has been gleaned from over 25 years of conversations. However, I do know that neither of them had happy childhoods.

Nowadays, most people have the option of going to therapy and getting on medication if they need it. My parents have both suffered from depression at multiple points in their lives. But they don’t seek help of any kind because they believe in having faith and because they are afraid of getting in the “system.”  This has wreaked havoc on our family life and all of our personal lives. They became Christians to avoid the dysfunction they faced in their own families, but we became dysfunctional in our own way.

On My Dad

My dad checked out for most of my childhood. I know many of my blog readers better than I know my father, who to this day has said not one word to me about my divorce or my remarriage. I say that not out of bitterness because I am used to it, but to show how small of a relationship we have. (But it’s something, which is more than what many people have. It’s an illustration, not a complaint.) When I was very small, we did many things together, but the fading out of those things through my childhood and teen years became a point of contention. My mother worked part time evenings (meaning shorter shifts, not fewer days) and she would leave the house soon after we came home from school, leaving me with my father and younger brothers.

Dinners were disorganized. Sometimes, my dad did nothing but stare at the computer all night, leaving us to snack all evening long (I knew nothing about nutrition until I was 20, and it’s been really hard getting on track). When he did cook, it was often not well put together: fried potatoes with tuna cakes, or whatever he happened to be in the mood to cook. I don’t remember how often he cooked vs. how often we grazed. But there were nights he cooked and did stuff with us, and other nights where he did nothing but stare at the computer all evening long (this was before internet, so he played solitaire). We kept our computer in the kitchen. One night, my youngest brother, Dave, found a bottle of amoxicillin in the refrigerator, or something else that was pink, and drank the entire bottle while my dad sat literally five feet away from him. My dad called my mom at the hospital, and once they determined he didn’t need immediate hospitalization, my dad proceeded to spank Dave. I cried and told him I didn’t think that was fair because he should have prevented it. Dad told me he needed to learn not to do it again.

In frustration and depression, he often lashed out to us. I received my fair share of welts from spanking, but was told frequently that it wasn’t abusive, and I believed them. I confronted my mom about this in Colorado last summer, and it didn’t do any good. So whatever. They “spanked” us in anger, but said it was done in love. Watching an episode of Supernanny where the parents frequently spanked their children with wooden spoons made me feel horrible. That was nothing compared to our house. But Supernanny was horrified. So were many people on a few of the blogs/message boards I frequent. For the first time, I realized that even though many parents spank their children, the way I was raised wasn’t mainstream normal.

The thing is that they did love us. But they were both depressed and refused help. I shouldered random bits of responsibility. My brothers fought constantly. Horrible fights. If I stopped the fight, my dad would become angry at me, insisting I should have minded my own business. If I did nothing, I got in trouble because I was the oldest and I should have done something!  Sometimes, I was able to stop the fight by whispering that if they didn’t cool it, Dad would come in. Once my dad got mad at me and drug me around the kitchen floor, screaming at me. When I tell them stuff like this now, they tell me I was a hard kid and I deserved at least some of it. I was a hard kid, yes, but I had untreated, undiagnosed ADHD. More on that later.

As a teen, my relationship with my father became either yelling or nothing at all. I have no good memories of my dad through my teen years. Seriously. I am digging deep here, and I am coming up with nothing. Everything that started good ended badly. Like, when I was 15, we started playing tennis together. That lasted a few times until he stopped wanting to play with me. But later, my mom told me it was my fault he didn’t want to do anything with me because I never wanted to do anything with him. ?!

On My Mom

My mom suffered from depression as she tried to get what she needed out of my dad. And I am sure there are some other things that went on in there, but I don’t know about most of them, just some. She literally acts high when she talks about Jesus and going to heaven. Revelation is her favorite book in the Bible because she can’t wait until she gets to live with Jesus. (I have always been terrified of Revelation. Terrified. I still occasionally will have a Revelation-related nightmare. They did an in depth Bible study on Revelation, taking everything literally, when I was 13. Doesn’t sound bad?  Keep in mind, we weren’t allowed to watch any movies rated over PG, and we didn’t watch television shows at all. So it was kind of like taking a sheltered five year old who has only seen Disney movies  to see Event Horizon and telling them it’s a true story and it will happen to them if they don’t trust Jesus. And even if they do, it might still happen if they are wrong about when the Rapture will occur! But I’m getting off track and I’ve talked about this before, so I’ll stop.)

When she talks about religion, she gets dreamy, and her voice raises in pitch while becoming softer in volume. She can’t wait to die. Religion has become a drug to her. There is no reasoning with her about religion. There is no honest discussion. It’s all about feelings. She knows her brand of religion is real because she knows. Without a shadow of doubt. The Holy Spirit has revealed it to her. According to her, she has never ever questioned it in a way that my brother Nate and I have. The way most people do at least once. Not that she hasn’t had questions or doubts, just nothing serious. I don’t really know how to explain her. A lot of denial as she “trusts Jesus” and pretends certain things don’t happen or she is/was powerless to stop them. Because only Jesus could. Lots of defense mechanisms, I think.

With her, she didn’t let her depression come between her and her relationship with us. She saved religion for that. Our relationship now is very surface. It’s getting better. As long as I don’t talk about religion or the past, we’re okay. But I don’t think she’s really okay. When I worked at camp, I remember telling my boss in tears that I thought she was depressed. About this time, we got the internet, and she would spend hours online playing Scrabble and escaping. For awhile, she and my dad would lock themselves in their bedroom and argue for hours. They weren’t loud, so I was the only one who picked up on it. I did all of the childcare on those days. I can’t remember how old I was. Not too young. Anyways, she still fights it. I feel kind of bad for her because the only thing she wanted for us kids was for us to be happy loving Jesus. Two out of three of us are atheist, and the third isn’t out of the house yet.

On Me

I had ADHD that went undiagnosed until I was 24. I get angry looking back. Yeah, my room was a mess. Yeah, I couldn’t sit still. They thought ADHD was a synonym for “undisciplined.” They thought they could spank it out of me. This led to my own depression as I could never be the child they wanted. I could never sit still in class until I hit the 8th grade and I shut down completely, locking myself in a shell that I am only recently starting to come out of. (This is common for girls with ADD.) Now as I try to navigate a world I am unprepared for, behind in several developmental areas and still an odd mix of reserve, I find myself fighting an occasional bout of depression as I feel utterly lost in social/coping skills.

I am resentful sometimes. If my parents had taught me as much about nutrition, science, and math as they did religion, I would be in a very good place. I am smart, but my head is full of Bible studies and facts. Some families play Monopoly on game night. We played Bible Trivia. A game of regular Trivia ended in tears once when Steve and I played together when we first got together. We haven’t played Scene It since the first few weeks we lived together, either. My game piece is always at the front of the game board when his hits the finish line. I don’t know anything from the 90′s. The only news I know I remember learning about in school. Yeah, we didn’t watch the news, either. Sometimes I think of the places I could be if I weren’t so behind in math and science. Now that I am out of religion, I have developed a deep appreciation and liking for the two subjects, but I am so far behind, I don’t think I will ever get to do anything in them like I would like. I failed my physics and calculus classes last semester. I couldn’t keep up, trying to learn everything brand new with not much to build on. (Not to mention that I graduated high school in 2002 anyways.) I feel like I could have done well, I just don’t have the tools.

These things are why I get upset when people tell me evangelicals are harmless. Fundamentalism certainly harmed me. It harmed my brothers. It’s harmed many. What if I’d had bipolar or schizophrenia instead of ADHD? I would probably be dead. Freedom of  speech is not freedom of criticism. Freedom of religion is not freedom to religiously and emotionally abuse your kids. Tolerance is not staying silent while people hurt other people. People need to be aware of what fundamentalism is all about. The more voices that criticize it rationally; the more people who speak out with the consequences fundamentalism has had on their lives, the more maybe hurt people like my parents will think twice before getting involved in it.

1. I had Steve to help me out emotionally and financially when I left Bob.
2. My parents were fundamentalists, but they were kind of on the fringes on the fundamentalist movement. I didn’t have to wear long hair and skirts everyday, and when homeschooling didn’t work for me, they didn’t make me stick it out.
3. I got out at the age of 23 (about a month shy of 24), at an age where I still had my whole life ahead of me (and at 26, I still do!).
4. Along the lines of #3, I didn’t spend 30 years married to a man that didn’t love me, missing out on the relationship I have now. Even if something happens and it doesn’t last, this one is worth it to me. Bob is worth it for the value growing up and Julieanne, and that’s it. Our relationship didn’t enrich my life the way my new one does.
5. I love my daughter dearly, but I’m lucky I wasn’t Quiverfull, having many children to get out of the situation with me. It’s hard enough with just one. I greatly admire those with 3, 4, 5, and more children.
6. I made new friends pretty quickly after I lost my old ones.
7. My brother became an atheist right around the time I did, giving me some family support.
8. I was able to get out of my marriage not only before I was an old woman, but before any abuse that might have been there escalated. I don’t know what might have happened  if our relationship had continued, and I consider myself fortunate for that.
9. I got out before I became so depressed, I hurt myself or developed a drug or alcohol problem.
10. I can see glimmers of the girl I might have been had I not been fundamentalist coming back to me. I am not so beaten down that the sparkle was gone out of my eyes forever. I am finding me again, and I like myself, mostly.

Not everything was so lucky. I still struggle and am trying to make some things better. But they sure are  better now than they were a year ago, and I am grateful that things weren’t any worse.

How were you lucky?

The couple in charge of it, Barb and LeRoy, became my mentors. I loved them dearly. Mostly, it was just me staying with them, though my friend Rebekah did the first summer, too. (This is the same friend that I went to the Crisis Pregnancy Center banquet with.) We spent hours giggling and working together. We slept in the same room together, and we became family. (I am still friends with Rebekah!)

A couple of older guys came up occasionally to do construction and maintenance work. I went through a crush on one of them named Tim, but nothing too long or too serious. I thought he had cute eyes and he joked around with me a lot. Mostly, I saw both Tim and the other guy, Jake, as older brothers, as they were about 5 or 6 years older than I was. (In fundie land, that’s okay. My parents would have loved for me to marry one particular guy who was 8 years older than me, which is usually a big deal to parents of high schoolers! I have my own theories on that, but that’s for another post!)

The second summer I worked, Rebekah didn’t come back, but Jake’s sister did. We were the same age and had fun working together. I knew her from summer camp as a kid, but I hadn’t seen her in years.One day, Jake came up and observed Molly and me working in the kitchen. We all sat down to dinner together. I can’t even tell you how much I loved sitting down to dinner with friends during the off season when the women cleaned for the upcoming season and the men worked on outdoor projects (mostly), and talking the night away. That is something I haven’t quite found outside of the church, and it was the one time in my almost adult life that I loved the fundamentalist life. I even considered forgoing college and working either at Pinecrest or finding another camp. Fortunately (?), I did not stick with that plan.

Later, Barbara told me, “Jake told me that you can tell whether or not you have a good woman by observing her in the kitchen, and you and Molly pass the test!” She smiled.

Inwardly, I glowed.

Now, I just want to kick myself! And really, Pinecrest is the only place I’ve ever been happy working in the kitchen. I enjoy it a bit now, but not quite like I did then. And every other time in my life, I’ve hated kitchen work. So I guess I wasn’t a good woman after all, and that’s why I became an atheist.

Seriously, even if they were a bit on the fundamentalist side, I do have some wonderful memories of working there. Pinecrest is definitely, overall, one of the better memories of my teenage years!

Back tracking a bit to my senior year in high school, two things happened. One, I took a psychology class and hated it. My teacher, though certified to teach it, did not really enjoy it. She would rather teach her major, which was history. Our class ended up having Survivor parties every Friday (or Thursday?), the day after it aired. Lots of fun, but not very worthwhile as far as psychology goes (though it is definitely fun to analyze the contestants and their interactions!).

The second thing that happened was that I felt called to the mission field. I wonder now what would have happened if I had done that instead. I think I would have enjoyed it a lot more, and probably would have stayed in Christianity at least a lot longer, as I would not have questioned my faith quite so much. I love traveling and experiencing other cultures. I even went on a mission trip to Venezuela at the age of 13 and I loved it. My mother told me she could see me as a missionary, and I really had a passion for it.

But toward the end of my senior year, I felt God calling me to ministry in the States. I felt kind of disappointed, but I really felt called to be a pastor’s wife. I figured God had tested me to see if I showed willingness to go wherever he called, but really wanted me elsewhere. The next fall, I started college as an English major. I had no idea what I wanted to do  with it. Deciding I didn’t want to teach, I decided to place my faith in God and wondered what degree might help me the most as a minister’s wife. After loving my psychology class, I thought majoring in family psychology could prove useful to my husband’s congregation. Figuring my parents’ concern over psychology evaporated as I attended a conservative Baptist college, I excitedly enrolled in some courses.

I married Bob the summer after my sophomore year in collge. I graduated seven months pregnant. By that point, my religious views had moderated quite a bit and I no longer felt God really cared if I stayed at home or worked. However, I didn’t figure anyone would hire a very pregnant woman, so I didn’t even bother to apply.

After Julieane was born, I wanted to apply for jobs, but Bob’s graduation loomed just a few months away and I would start graduate school for counseling. I decided not to apply for a job I knew I could only stay at for a few months. When we wound up in the worst little town in Arkansas, there really just wasn’t anything I could do. That is how I ended up divorced and jobless, with no experience in a tanked economy. When I divorced, I lost most of my references. I worked very hard at the churches we attended, but like Bob is going to give me a good reference! So I have lots of experience and no one to back it up. This is why my resume sucks. It’s really worse than having no education, because I am overqualified for fast food/retail kind of jobs (I tried working an evening job once, and with custody issues, it did not work anyways), but with no experience and no references, I can’t really get the jobs I am qualified for, either. Especially when there are so many other psych students looking for jobs out there.

So all I can say is that if you want to be a stay at home mom or in the ministry, make sure you have your bases covered. Volunteer for something outside the church at the very least (I know, like you have time!). Yes, I was sure I wouldn’t ever get divorced, too! (And I do volunteer now!)

Prayer for me became an exercise in guilt. Not on purpose. I just heard too much about why God does or does not answer them. So the end of my prayers often became a list of all the things I could think of that I had done wrong during the day because I didn’t feel his “presence” or that he was listening. I figured I had some sin separating me from God because I never really felt like he was there. I did everything “right”: I read my Bible, loved God, prayed, went to church, fellowshipped with other believers, asked God into my life, prayed the prayer (and meant it!), had faith, shared my hope, and believed with my whole heart. I couldn’t ever figure out what I was doing wrong that Jesus didn’t talk to me the way he seemed to other people. My prayers seemed an exercise in futility and frustration.

It’s not that I prayed for material things. I rarely prayed that God would give me something. Usually, I prayed for other people and praised God. I would often follow the Lord’s Prayer formula, inserting my own praises and concerns for Jesus’. I would pray Psalms. Etc, etc. But I never really felt like I was getting anywhere. So I started to doubt. Then I prayed for faith, but that never came either. I’ve said it before, but if the Southern Baptist Christian God is real, he must really not want me! Screw knocking and the door will be opened: I took a hammer to it with no results.

There are lots of things I occasionally miss about church. But honestly? Prayer isn’t really one of them.

Now they seem pretty campy and hilarious, but through the eyes of a child who was taught that this was really going to happen and it would be any day now, they were terrifying. We weren’t allowed to watch Disney’s Hunchback of Notre Dame, but this kind of thing was perfectly fine! Not only that, but it was exciting. A good thing.

Well, to me, it was neither exciting nor good. For one thing, I reasoned, we would have all of eternity with God. Why rush it? I wanted to live my life: get married and have kids, for there would be no marriage in heaven. I wanted to experience life with my soul mate (and to me now, that is heaven, and it wouldn’t be heavenly spending eternity in a platonic relationship– stuck forever in.  . . The Friendship Zone (da da da dumm!). But I digress!). I figured I would have forever to worship at the feet of God. I would pray that God would please let me get married before he raptured us off Earth. Then I would feel immensely guilty for not looking forward to heaven.

Secondly, and most importantly, I was terrified, terrified that I would lose my nerve, deny Christ, and spend eternity in hell. Matthew 10:33 says, “But whosoever shall deny me before men, him will I also deny before my Father which is in heaven” (KJV). I would lie awake and imagine the most horrendous things people could do to me and try to prep myself for the day that I would stand firm and refuse to deny my Savior. I tried to steel myself for the day people would shove bamboo rods down my fingernails, give me electric shocks, slash me with knives, and find ways to torture me beyond my imagination. And, oh, what if I were pregnant? Imagine the things they could do to me then! I begged God for strength in advance, pleading with him to give me strength. Keep in mind I was a kid, no older than 13 when my Sunday school class did an in depth study of Revelation, taking it all rather literally. The horrors of the Old Testament have nothing on a literal interpretation of Revelation. That is the scariest book ever written, at least to a kid who is taught that it will come true. I never understood why grown ups seemed so excited about it, parents and teachers both telling me it would happen in their lifetime. If it did, I thought, I would be a very young woman, no older than I am now, when Jesus came back (because in my mind, your lifetime was over by the time you hit 40 ). At that point, I just prayed that the pre-millennium dispensationalists were right and the rapture would occur before the pain and suffering (yes, I knew all about what pre- and post-millennialism was and the arguments for and against them at the age of 13).

Thirdly, we knew our parents would not deny Jesus, even if it meant they killed my brothers and me. Also very scary to a kid. These movies brought out a lot of end time conversation in my family. We knew that God came first, and I was scared that we would be martyred whether we had a choice or not.

A God of love and peace indeed. If you select just a few verses. But I do not understand how people can read the whole Bible and claim that God is peace and love, thinking that the End Times will be glorious! Barbaric and terrifying is more like it, even in the New Testament. Just read Revelation if you don’t believe me!

Ninth grade, PE, deserted locker room. Can you tell where I am going with this? (Not too far, don’t worry.)

It happened at the beginning of my second year of public school. We won’t talk about the first–it was that humiliating. I will talk about my life all day long, but hardly anyone knows how badly eighth grade terrorized me. The wounds are still scarring! Let’s just say conservative private school girl who did not know the vernacular meaning of “going out” did not exactly win friends easily. Moving into high school offered little improvement–more anonymity, yes, but little else. Because my naivete and conservative beliefs tended to win few friends, I managed to stay in my Christian bubble the entirety of my public school career, just as innocent in 12th grade as I was in 8th. Or close enough anyways.

I liked my PE class. Taught by a coach, he pretty much left us to our own devices in the weight room as he strategized football in his office. I enjoyed working out with the equipment, something I had never done. . The class consisted primarily of guys, seniors who had waited until the last minute to fulfill the school PE requirement. I always felt more comfortable around guys for a long list of reasons I won’t go over now, so I didn’t mind.

One day, I went to the bathroom. The bathrooms and water fountains were out of the main room in the mostly deserted locker room. When I came out, I bent over to drink some water of the fountain. As the cold water refreshed the heat radiating from my body, I felt something bump me. Thinking I must have bumped into the lockers behind me, I took another drink. I felt it again, this time rubbing. I stopped drinking and turned around. I stopped cold when I saw three guys looming at me, the lockers behind them much too far to have been the culprit. Their muscular bodies seemed much bigger in the dim room. They saw the terror on my face and started laughing. I ran out quickly into the main room.

That was the first time I ever experienced sexual harassment. I didn’t know what to do about it, so I didn’t tell anyone. Embarrassed and feeling over-dramatic, I kept it locked up inside. Eventually, I got over it. It’s not like it was that big of a deal. Looking back, it was the deserted environment and lack of teacher supervision that made it so scary, not the actual event. It’s not like stuff like that wouldn’t happen at my Christian school. It’s just that there, I was the alpha female, or one of them anyways. There was only one grade above us, and only one other kid besides myself had attended the school since kindergarten (with a couple of exceptions for younger grades). We ruled the roost. I even punched a guy in the nuts once for being such a dick (okay, that’s a minor exaggeration, but the truth is that I was not a docile, quiet female!). So going from top to bottom was scary, but Jesus helped me through. Haha, just kidding. I prayed about it, but there wasn’t much relief. I didn’t tell my parents about it, so they took my sulky mood as reason to push me harder and punish me. Totally not their fault, don’t think I’m saying they did anything wrong. But seeing those guys everyday reminded me of that brief moment of terror I had felt. I came home and took it out on my family, along with my other problems.

I did not adjust well to public school life. The mercy came a few weeks later when we moved to a smaller town an hour away. Though never popular there, things never got quite as bad as they did my first two years. Thankfully, I had at least learned not to wear hideous sweater vests if I didn’t have a teaching license.

This is dated October 8, 2003.

I have met someone. His name is Bob. We look at the stars and study World Lit and work on youth lessons. We would talk all night if we didn’t have curfew. And on Sunday, we admitted having feelings for one another. It happened so fast [should have been Red Flag #1!]. I met him 24 days ago. Yet something drew us together [I really wish I could remember what, exactly]. Things just happened. And now I pray for wisdom, courage, and direction. We are not officially a couple, but we will be [thank you, weird Christian dating rules, made up by people like Joshua Harris!]. Right now, I am kind of confused, so I am going to write down some goals [goals?!] for us to accomplish in the next few weeks or months. [How charming! That's exactly what men want, right guys? For your future girlfriend to work up a list of goals for the two of you? How exactly did we make it to the altar?? Okay, okay, I'll shut up. Here's the list:]

1. To learn to care more about his needs than my own.
2. To be in much prayer.
3. For him to meet my family.
4. Start a devotion together (weekly) [didn't happen. Ever. Should have been Christian Red Flag #2.]
5. To keep God in the center and figure out how to keep God in the center.
6. To support and encourage him to grow in the Lord and in his self [that's what I wrote; pardon the grammar!].
7. To treat him as a brother in Christ [every man's dream, right?!].
8. Scripture memorization? [?? yeah, that'll help! Also didn't happen.]

My Prayer for Bob and Me (for now)

Lord,

You knew this would happen before we were born. Please grant us wisdom as we decide what to do and direction as we figure out where to go. Help us be in Your will. To serve you better together than apart. Lord, help me keep You first. Please guide us where you would have us go.

Lord, please Bob in you. Help him grow in you and love You as he said he once did. Please strengthen him to have courage he needs and discipline we both need.

Lord, you know my heart. Please help me with the fears I am facing unless there is truth in these fears. Help me to trust you.

Above all, please help us to stay in your will and be an example of Your love.

In Your name I pray, Amen.

Gee, thanks, God!

In all seriousness, now I can spot a hundred things wrong with what I wrote, but I did exactly as taught. It was perfect, and I meant every word. I guess the only thing I really wonder about is this: I see it now, but why didn’t others see it then? Where were those wise people I was counting on to be my umbrellas of protection? My parents, friends, etc, all now say they saw some things wrong. Why didn’t they tell me then? I asked my mom once because she’s the only one I really feel comfortable asking, and she said it was because she figured I wouldn’t listen. And now I wouldn’t because I learned to not trust the people around me to warn me of any danger they see. (I know this probably makes no sense to those of you who aren’t religious. In religious world, much emphasis is placed on listening to the wise council of others rather than thinking for yourself. Now I think for myself. At that time, I bought into the Christian cultural idea of trusting your elders to help prevent you from making mistakes. I don’t think it’s a bad idea, but I do think I put way too much faith into it than I should have. I trusted the people around me instead of trusting myself and my own instincts, thus taking it too far.)

The truth is that I waited to hear someone say, “This is a bad idea,” because I knew somewhere deep inside it was. I took their silence as approval and squashed any misgivings, writing them off as “temporary feelings” or “perfectionism.” My mom further explained that she and my dad dismissed their own misgivings as immaturity on his part and figured we would both grow together (of course, I was already mature, as you can tell from my post two days ago!). I was ready to duck out the moment someone said, “Don’t do it.” But nobody did. Go figure, huh? The one time in my life I was willing to listen. Now I trust my own instincts, and so far, it’s working out much better. This doesn’t mean I don’t ask for help or listen to other people, but it does mean I trust myself, the person actually living my life, more than the people outside of it. I have learned that the people who think I don’t listen are mostly upset that I don’t follow their black and white ideas meant as one size fits all rules for everybody, and life isn’t like that. I put much more trust in people who take the circumstances into account when telling me what they think than I do people who quote the Bible at me. I don’t know if that makes sense or is coming out the way I mean. I guess what I’m trying to say is, I take advice quite frequently. But I don’t wait for it, either, or put so much faith in it that I would make a life altering decision based on advice and advice alone, turning off my brain in the process.

Live and learn, I guess! Destroy a few lives in the process, no big deal!