DISCLAIMER: Journaling about some abusive issues, nothing graphic, just some feelings and observations.
There's some really strange phenomenon going on in my life right now that I think should be addressed. I'm doing some things I know I really shouldn't, and they're kind of insignificant in a broad sense, but... well, it's weird and so not normal that... well, it's anything but normal for me.
I want to talk about a lot of different things in this particular post, so please bear with me.
As you all know by now if you've been reading, I'm trying to clear up some of the foster/ government issues from my childhood. There is good news on this front- I need to make another phone call and such, but like, I have a representative now, and an investigator into my case, and I'm very excited and scared. The reason I bring this up is because it's making me think very actively about what happened to me, where I come from, and the stuff that just sort of... balled up together to make me who I am. And because of all this, I've been thinking of my hometown, some of the homes I've lived in, and thought about contacting them.
I knew it was a bad idea, and I kept putting it off. I knew it couldn't end well. I talked to a good friend of mine, and while they never said outright it was a bad idea, it was hinted and alluded to. This put off the urge for say... like, two days. But I couldn't hold back anymore, and I contacted a woman I lived with outside of foster care, a priest. We talked for a long time, and she apologized to me for losing contact with me, and it was all well and good. Until she mentioned the 'spirits' of abandonment and such that are undoubtably attached to me. I believe it myself, to be honest. It would certainly explain my alarming track record with loss of people. She didn't say anything too horrible, but it didn't change the fact that the next day I was a monster to be around, and a sobbing mess. (Then I had some chocolate, my friends came over, and I felt better.) I'm not sure what triggered me so badly.
Suffice it to say I never learnt my lesson, because a few days later, I made yet another call to Saint George. This time, to a Baptist ex- youth minister. He's a nice man, and someone I lived with for a few months in my fostering days. The conversation was fine as we played catch-up. Then he mentioned all the 'healing' that was taking place at the St Mark's Anglican Church. I remained skeptical, but listened. He recalled to me the prayer meetings he had with me and a few others over my past abuse issues. In truth, I had almost forgotten he'd had a part in this travesty. He said something along the lines of how they were helpful, and he hoped I got healing from it.
"Are you kidding me?" I wanted to ask, but said nothing: My typical fashion. This man is sensitive and genuine, and I didn't want to hurt his feelings. So I said nothing. I've been grinding my teeth ever since.
I think at this point, I need to backtrack for those of you who might be confused. When I first started living with fellow Christians instead of the old nutbars I'd lived with before, I was insanely relieved. No longer would I fear drunken, rowdy nights. No more would parents be throwing dishes at each other over the latest affair. And hopefully, no longer would I be punished for getting something to eat. All those things were true, but at a price. In fact, a price that might've been just as hefty as the problems I'd left.
Living with Christians, if you've had my upbringing, can be very demeaning. They're quick to remind you where you come from, and the fact that you'll never quite be as 'whole' as they are blessed to be. When I first moved in with this Baptist family, it was a great change of pace. I was in Church every day, right up until it was 10:30pm. When it wasn't Church, I was in school.
Then summer came. This family had three kids- two boys and a girl. The eldest (boy) was my age, I think 17 at the time. Then were was the 15 (or so) boy, and the 11 or so girl. I got home from church, and went to go in the house, when I found it locked. That was the day I learnt that I apparently wasn't allowed in the house unless the parents were home.
Ouch. What'd they think I was going to do, molest them all at the first opportunity? I asked my ex- social worker Moe Walsh about it. All she had to say about it was that it was a great, wonderful approach to having me in the house and would reccommend it to any foster family who had a child with a past history of being abused. Obviously, I never approached the subject again.
So they were having these prayer sessions for me. Originally, the plan was to pray for help in the healing process, which I DO think is important. I remember the first day I was brought into it- I walked into the warm Sanctuary of the St Mark's Anglican church. Admittedly, I was nervous, but not scared. After all, this place was a safe haven for me. I was at home here.
Then I saw the group of people- like 5 or 6 of them, men and women- sitting and talking. The room seemed to heat up by several degrees, but I thought, "They're just talking to -so and so- they'll leave.
The Priest stood with a welcoming smile on her face, and the room was shrinking, and I couldn't force myself to move. It's like it happened yesterday. I still vaguely remember the smell of the room, the way the last of daylight shone through the windows. They were all there to pray for me. A lot of these people never knew I was abused until the priest informed them about it. I should've walked out then and there. I should've said it was unacceptable.
Anyway, halfway through prayer, they switched gears. Instead of asking for God's help, they started thanking God for getting me through what I've gotten through. I was so incredibly offended. I still AM offended. I got through that on my own, I thought. Yes, by God's grace I was/ am alive, but the steps I've taken since then should be MY victory. I did this. I survived. I feel like it makes me a victim again to take that tiny, fragile power away from me. I want the credit for what little I've accomplished, as egotistical as that will sound to any Christians reading this.
Anyway, from there they switched pegs again, and it took me a few minutes to notice- I was still upset that they took power from me. Suddenly they were praying off demons and spirits from me, and I just sat there and allowed that to happen. I should've said something, but never did. I already felt like a demon, a monster, and here they are, aggressively reminding me of that 'truth'. I remember feeling very... detached by this point, and I vaguely remember crying. I wasn't like, sobbing, it was more just tears streaming down my face, and they were all happy, thinking that God was moving through me.
No. Just your hurtful and derogatory comments.
They prayed, then, for purity of mind and spirit. For God to 're-virginize' me. I'm still insulted when I think about this, and even now my face is all red and hot. I was so angry I didn't hear most of the praying for my 'purity' back. Thanks a lot, jerks, for reminding me so forcefully of something that's been so crudely stolen from me. Thanks for bringing back his smiling face, his smell, the sounds he made coming up the stairs to see me. Thanks a lot for reminding me of something I don't remember ever *having*. Thanks a lot for reminding me how much that other man hated me.
Why do I feel like need to get into contact with these people? I was nothing but a potential pariah and predator to them, a ticking timebomb. I was afraid, all the time. I had this idea that when I turned 19, I would wake up, and something inside me would break. My old self would crumble, and this new abuser would form, aware of the old me, but much too powerful to be threatened. I thought it'd be like I was stuck inside myself. I thought I'd have no control- why else would people abuse? I remember wanting to severely hurt myself- I'm against suicide, but I didn't want to hurt anyone. Which was the bigger sin? I was/ am convinced I'm going to Hell, so what was the loss?
Obviously I never went through with it, and I realize I'm getting off topic. Why do I want to contact these people who threatened and scared me? People who constantly made me question every thing I did, every way I looked at a person? I was scared to really look at anyone, particularly if they were younger than me. Why am I so determined to have a relationship with them? What is the underlying issue?
I don't know. Since I've called St George, it'll hopefully curb my desire to want to call them again for a long time. I feel like I'm being pretty spleeny about this- it's not like these people were rude or outright mean to me. It could've been worse, and I'm grateful it wasn't. I don't know. I'm kind of hoping this whole investigation of my childhood thing just... gives me closure or whatever so I can just move on with my life again. I hope it can fix the student loan issues, because I really do want to go back to school.
Thanks for listening to my pointlessness.
