I grew up in a house of religious fundamentalists. We were in church at least 3 times a week. Sundays started early and ended late. The Bible was taught but not lived. We were not encouraged to read or know what the Bible actually said. I grew up sheltered. Most TV was not acceptable. I remember a sermon that was preached on the dangers of the show "Captain Planet". Everything from books to movies were screened.
Corporal punishment was doled out regularly. My parents were big fans of Dr James Dobson, especially his book The Strong Willed Child. The earliest memories I have are being hit by my parents. I have a vague memory of being bit by my mom for biting my baby sister and having my hand smacked for reaching for something. I remember my brother being blanket trained.
As we got older, it got worse. If I got a less than acceptable grade or mouthed off or did something I shouldn't have, my mom had a paddle with holes in it she used then when my dad got home, I got it again with a belt. Today, he claims he hit the bed...but hitting the bed doesn't leave welts on my butt and legs.
I realized I was different very early on. Maybe third grade. Kids were cruel but that wasn't the worst of it. It was then that girls started having crushes and talking about boys and I really didn't understand. I pretended. I worried. I felt unholy. This continued through my teen years.
By eleven, I was already slipping into a pretty deep depression. My parents sought the advice of a therapist. The therapist taught my mom our favorite game...Legal Obligations. When I did something wrong, anything really, my mom would let me know that she was not legally obligated to love me. She would remind me that her legal obligations were limited to five things: 1. feeding me buttered noodles 2. clothing me with rags from goodwill 3. public education with no access to a computer, library or books of any kind. 4. housing me and allowing me a place to sleep (in a closet) and 5. church. She warned us and then began taking things away. I still can't eat certain kinds of noodles and I only recently began using my closet again. It was marginally better than the hitting I guess.
Every single day, I left my house thinking school could not possibly be worse then home and came home thinking home could not possibly be worse than school. Both were equally bad.
At school, I did a lot of pretending. Pretending I was too stupid to get the jokes, pretending I didn't know about the party the entire class was talking about and I was being excluded from, pretending I didn't realize that even the teachers were making fun of me. I pretended to like boys, pretended to be absolutely obsessed with getting one to go out with me. I pretended to enjoy sports, running and music. I clung to anyone willing to give me the time of day while at the same time pretending to be normal. I pretended life at home was good.
At 14, for the first time, while still pretending to be ok, I tried to take my own life. I took a couple hundred ibuprophen and went to bed, hoping I wouldn't wake up. Of course, I did. I told a teacher, who told a counselor, who told my mom. My parents and I slipped into a course of duck and weave, denial and sunshine and roses that lasted through the next year. Several more attempts, cries for help really, went unanswered because my plans weren't specific enough, my tries weren't deadly enough and my parents could see past praying me through it.
My freshman year in high school, all of that changed. I found a couple people who were willing to tolerate me (even now, I don't think I was *likeable* back then...) and when things got tough and I made my decision, I wrote a note telling them goodbye. I laid my plan out on paper and thankfully, for a freshman and a sophomore in high school, they had good heads on their shoulders. They turned the notes into the counselor and allowed her to handle it.
They refused to allow me back into school until I had some help. I went to see a therapist and saw her daily for three days and my family doctor prescribed anti-depressants. I went back in a few more times, took the meds for a couple months and then...nothing.
My sophomore year, the church we were attending finally split and my parents and I started going to separate churches. It was still evangelical but more of a fundy-lite for lack of a better term. I got the inkling of an idea that girls could go to college. I found a place where I somewhat fit in. But, going into my senior year, my youth pastor left, many of my friends left for college and the only friend I (felt like) I had left was involved in a serious car accident. I felt thoroughly unlovable...until I met him.
To be continued...
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