ElizabethEsther.com

ISN'T IT TIME FOR SCHOOL YET????

2010-07-30T09:09:27-07:00

In retrospect, not packing my summer schedule with scheduled activities was my stupidest idea ever.

Not having scheduled activities means that I've had to come up with new ideas every fifteen minutes.

NEWSFLASH: I'm out of ideas.

Worse, I feel like strangling anyone who throws fun, educational ideas at me. No, I do NOT want to make a homemade slingshot using only Q-tips and peanut butter. No, I do NOT want to spend more time at the local library. No, I do NOT want to pack a picnic for a lovely afternoon at the park. WE HAVE DONE ALL THAT LIKE 18 MILLION TIMES!

All I want is to send these children back to school. Where they belong.

And I want to send myself to solitary confinement.

[I can't wait to see the flood of unsubscribe emails that come after I publish this post!]

Well, since school is still a month away, I've resorted to sending them off to do hard manual labor. The kids come ask me what they should do and I'm all: GO EMPTY THE DISHWASHER! SWEEP THE FLOOR! MEND MY SOCKS!

My goal is to make them so sick of summer vacation that they'll start pining for Ye Old School Days of Yore.

Mwah-ha-ha.

I've even considered buying a little whistle that I can use a la Captain Von Trapp to summon everyone. From now on, I'm parking myself on the couch and blowing on my whistle to boss everyone around.

Look, I don't know what I was expecting but this summer has been anything but a vacation for me. There's no sleeping in. There's no lazy, breezy summer afternoons.

My days still start with a bang at 5:45 am. I'm up cooking and cleaning and chasing naked toddlers before most people open their eyeballs. You know you're a mom of 8 million kids when starting lunch prep at 8:15 a.m. sounds perfectly reasonable. Unfortunately, starting my day so early means I'm a raving lunatic by 2pm.

My long-suffering sherpa/husband calls 2pm-5pm The Red-Zone. He has proof, too. The text messages I send him from 2pm-5pm read something like this: AAAUUUGH!! I'M DYING!!! I HATE EVERYTHING!! HELP! HELP!

Frankly, I don't know why people talk about solitary confinement like it's a punishment thing. That sounds like a vacation to me.

I got so desperate the other day that I hauled everyone out for 8:30 a.m. Mass. They were like: "Why are we going to church on a weekday?"

And I was all: BECAUSE IF MOMMY DOESN'T PRAY, THE WORLD IS GOING TO END!

They all behaved so well that afterwards I felt all apologetic and took everyone out for (overpriced) bagels. James was like: "Well, I guess since we just spent half an hour praying we don't even need to thank the Lord for our food."

Yes, friends. I'm doing a bang-up job of passing the faith on to the next generation.

Riding the Reflectors

2010-07-29T14:20:11-07:00

I can't sleep while my husband is driving because I'm totally convinced that my co-piloting skills have single-handedly saved us from at least 3,562 life-threatening accidents. Yeah, I keep count.

"How do you think I've stayed alive all these years when I drive by myself?" he asks.

"Sheer luck," I say. "And statistical improbability."

"What do you know about statistics?"

"Nothing," I say. "It just sounded smart. Now watch the road, you've been riding the reflectors."

"Riding the reflectors?" he laughs. "RIDING.THE.REFLECTORS? I hit one reflector. That's called grazing the reflector."

"Whatever," I say. "You're ping-ponging between the reflectors on either side of the lane."

"I'm not ping-ponging," he says.

"Totally you are. It's like driving by braille."

He shakes his head. I know this means he's laughing on the inside.

"You're such an exaggerator," he says.

"If I don't exaggerate the danger, you'd start driving on the wrong side of the road on purpose."

"OK, that one time I drove the wrong way on a one-way street wasn't on purpose. I just didn't see the one-way sign."

"Exactly! Which is why you need my co-piloting skills. I see everything."

"Your paranoia is going to cause an accident," he says.

"I'm sorry," I say. "It's just that we've got like 8 million kids in the back of this mini-van. I feel personally responsible for their safety and well-being."

"True," he says. "Where did all those kids come from, anyway?"

"I have no idea. But I think my uterus mistook itself for a revolving door."

He laughs. And then he gives me the best compliment. Ever.

"Don't worry," he says. "Your uterus is still hot."

Sewing myself sane

2010-07-26T21:59:26-07:00

I bought the easiest pattern in the store, the one tacked up on a display rack with the words Sewing For Complete Idiots And/Or Women With Rabid ADD.

That's how I knew it was for me. Things got even better when I turned over the pattern package and saw these words:

Sewing this dress is scientifically proven to assuage guilt for placing twins in preschool.

I glanced over my shoulder. Was this some kind of setup? Does JoAnn Fabrics read my blog?

And then I read on: It is a truth universally acknowledged that mothers who sew dresses for their daughters are Good Mothers.

SOLD.

In days of yore, I would have spent hours poring over pattern books, drooling over fancy gowns. Of course, this is what is known as: PERFECTIONISM & PROCRASTINATION.

It's what I rock at. It's also what keeps me from FINISHING projects.

So, this time I knew better. I yanked two bolts of on-sale fabric off the rack, swiped two spools of matching thread and paid for everything in less time than it usually takes me to sniff through one aisle of fabrics.

Yes, I sniff fabric. Doesn't everyone? Honestly, there is nothing more evocative of the good things from your fundamentalist childhood than the smell of a fine bolt of 100% cotton. Bonus points if it's a big-bloom floral pattern.

COULOTTES, ANYONE?

But I digress.

Point is: I needed to do a project. No, I needed to finish a project! For whatever reason, the process of sewing acts like prozac on my brain. Which is to say, there are few things more satisfying in life than winding the bobbin.

Well, OK. There are a few things more satisfying; namely, 2 finished and perfectly pressed summer dresses for my twins.

And even though these were the simplest dresses to sew, I felt as proud as if I'd personally hand-stitched Marie Antoinette's wedding gown.

Maybe that sense of accomplishment is what banished the nightmares I'd been having. Instead of dreaming about my twins drowning in the pool, I was dreaming about drowning in spools of handcrafted lace.

I got so deeply into this project, that I started writing supplementary advice on the pattern instructions. (Seriously, Butterick needs to hire better writers for their pattern instructions--easy-to-sew, maybe, but not easy-to-freakin'-understand!).

The best part about sewing for twins is that I get to sew the same pattern twice. The first dress is sorta like the guinea pig. The second dress? Hard-core COUTURE, baby.

I even took it a few steps farther and added cute little buttons, some decorative lace and yeah, I even professionally finished the seams.

Clearly, I've traded my PTSD for OCD. But dude. SO WORTH IT. Like, in what other life situation is it acceptable--nay, admirable--to crank your perfectionism into high gear? The sheer pleasure I get from channeling that into perfectly finished seams is beyond explanation.

I think in the child-free world they call this aesthetics. Forget expensive artwork, I could frame that sucker, slap it up on my wall and stare all day at the aesthetic beauty of a finely finished seam.

I mean, I can almost feel myself morphing into a sewing snob. I see myself slouching around in an avant-garde kimono made entirely from vintage measuring tape. I only buy designer fabric from couture boutiques and only drink black coffee from demitasse cups. I think anything less than a French Seam is tres tacky.

Most annoyingly, I start using French words in everyday conversation.

I dunno, sewing has an interesting effect on me. It's very soothing. I wind the bobbin and my brain unwinds. I sit by the window sewing a button into place and I start humming a merry little tune.

(This from someone who is violently allergic to humming, merry or otherwise.)

I'm not exactly sure how this is happening, but somehow, sewing seems to be rewiring my brain. The panicky feelings have definitively subsided. After an hour of sewing each day I feel more cheerful, hopeful. I even found myself thinking: Abusive fundamentalism? Eh. It could have been worse.

It's a surprising change of perspective. And more than a little ironic. I wouldn't know how to sew unless I'd been raised in a fundamentalist group that placed a high priority on young girls learning the art of homemaking. I gotta be honest and say that learning to sew was a beautiful gift from my childhood.

It's a gift I'm now using to sew my way out of PTSD triggered depression.

I think we call that poetic justice.

Oui?

I Am Free

2010-07-24T19:42:19-07:00

Dear Elizabeth in 2000,

I know that right now it's hard to believe you'll ever be happy. It's been a tough summer for you. You're 23 and your whole life should stretch out before you with hope. But instead, you just want to die.

You're not alone. Being trapped inside an abusive fundamentalist church tends to do this to people; especially to women.

The desperation and the despair you feel is so deep that you've asked God to strike you with a terminal illness just so you can escape this life. But I want you to know something: I'm waiting for you in 2010 and your life here is beautiful.

Will you do something for me? For us?

Don't give up. Instead, get angry. Because I know that if you get angry, you'll fight. And sweetheart? This is a fight for your survival.

Get angry because what they are doing to you is wrong. I know nobody believes you. I know you cry to God and think He doesn't listen. I know you cry yourself to sleep and wish you wouldn't wake up.

But hear me.

One day you will be heard.

One day you'll be so free from fear that you will share your stories with courage and dignity. You will speak the truth and discover that you're not alone.

One day all the things you thought were your liabilities will become your strength. You think you're too sensitive and emotional. You've been told that you should remain silent. You cover yourself because you think physical beauty is almost sinful.

One day you will realize that being sensitive enables you to empathize with others. You'll recognize that God gave you the gift of being able to feel. You'll use your words to speak your stories. You'll be comfortable in your own skin.

Elizabeth, you'll even spontaneously dance in public! There is a sunset in your future that will so enrapture you that you'll bust out a dance right there on the beach cliffs. And you won't care who is watching.

Here's the best news ever: Elizabeth, you are FREE.

So, hang on. I know this might sound impossible, but can you try to find the lesson in the suffering? Can you let the suffering make you a beautiful, compassionate, just human being?

Because one day you will be free.

And one day your freedom will help others be free, too.

With love, Elizabeth in 2010

Why I go to Confession

2010-07-22T11:31:05-07:00

I don't know how it works exactly, but something about opening my mouth and admitting what I've done wrong is a crucial step toward healing and reconciliation. It helps me see myself clearly.

In this way, Confession isn't something I do for God. It's something God does for me.

In other words, the secret only has power over you so long as it's a secret.

As a fundamentalist, I adamantly disagreed with the idea of Confession because I thought it meant the priest--not God--forgave sins. I was pleasantly surprised to discover that Catholics don't believe this. Only God can forgive sins. [I'm not a theologian, so for a more detailed doctrinal explanation, read this]

"But what if I don't get a chance to go to Confession?" I once asked a priest. "What if I just pray and ask for the Lord's forgiveness? Would I be forgiven?"

"Yes," answered the priest. "If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us."

So, why go to Confession? I think one of the main reasons has to do with preparing ourselves to receive the Eucharist. If the Eucharist really is the literal body and blood of Christ, then getting ourselves right with God seems like the least we can do.

And that is part of it for me. But also, there's something deeply personal about my experience with Confession. For one thing, it keeps me honest. It requires me to examine myself, to take a moral inventory of what I have done and what I have failed to do.

This helps me move closer toward what God desires for me: "truth in the innermost being" (Ps. 51:6). The thing is, it's just too easy for me think I can keep myself honest by myself. I have an alarming propensity to lie to myself about my shortcomings. (But I have very little trouble seeing all the shortcomings in others!).

Additionally, audibly confessing my sin acts as a deterrent against future sin. Sometimes just knowing I'm gonna have to have to confess that sin again is enough to keep me from doing it.

Confession also keeps me humble. It is my way of demonstrating that I am powerless to change myself. I cannot become a kinder, more compassionate, just and loving person through my own effort. I need divine intervention.

Confession helps me move beyond myself and into a place of humility. Humility is me saying "I am powerless to change without God's help." The act of confessing my shortcomings makes me feel very small--not in a degrading way--but sorta like putting on glasses and getting the proper perspective about who I am and who God is.

There is much relief in smacking up against the bigness of God. It makes me realize, with a sort of sheepish chuckle, how foolish it is for me to think and act like I'm in control of everything. He's God. It's OK to let Him do His job.

The strange thing is, I don't even really know Who God Is. I grew up with a very distorted view of Him and I still haven't put all the pieces in place. My view of God is partial, at best. Still, it seems that receiving His grace is not dependent on my having all the answers.

Which is to say, I don't know why Confession works. And I guess I don't even really need to know (which is a far cry from my You-Must-Have-All-The-Answers fundamentalist background). It's kinda like driving a car. You might not know anything about how it works, but you press the gas pedal and it goes.

It took a long time for me to get over the mortification I felt upon entering the confessional. Part of me was like: "Why do I need to confess my sins to another person? He's just a sinful human like me!"

I mean, I still get all mortified and embarrassed but I think I'm also beginning to understand that my sin isn't just between me and God. My sin hurts me and it hurts others. And since I've hurt others with my sin, I need others to aid me in my healing.

I used to be worried that the priest would be shocked upon hearing my list of sins. But someone once told me: "Uh. No. They've heard it all."

Again, relief! I'm not some super special sinner. I'm just an average, worn out housewife who needs someone to tell her: "Woman, you are forgiven."

And that's what I hear every single time.

Life as a fundie pastor's kid

2010-07-19T10:15:43-07:00

Despite the loud claims that our fundamentalist church didn't have a centralized authority structure like the "worldly churches," there was definitely a highly specified hierarchy. It was kinda like the Jacob's ladder to holiness. The closer you were to the top, the more "spiritual" you were. And my family was at the top.

This was because my Dad and my grandfather were both pastors. You could say that preaching was the family business.

It might have looked like a glamorous life to outsiders: all those life-transforming sermons and cross-country preaching tours. I've had friends tell me there was a sort of "princess" aspect to my childhood and I can see that. People were always volunteering to cook, clean and babysit for my family since we had so little time for anything but "the work of the Lord." Other people cleaned our toilets because it was a privilege to "serve the Lord" in our communal home.

But being a "holy princess" came with its own set of difficulties--especially since I lived inside a high-demand, borderline cult Christian group. I shouldered a heavy weight of expectations and also, what was for me, a distinctly uncomfortable public life. When eager new converts asked me what it was like to the daughter and grand-daughter of such noble men of God, I didn't know how to answer. To me, they weren't glorious orators so much as bombastic personalities who cracked good jokes at the dinner table and had stinky feet.

I loved being a pastor's daughter and I also hated it. There were rich times of honest, deep fellowship, especially during family dinners together. But there was also the heavy burden of needing to "uphold the testimony," which was just a fancy way of saying "keeping up appearances." I spent a good deal of my childhood smiling when I was sad and exhibiting cheerful obedience in spite of a breaking heart.

As pastor's kids, we were expected to be ready with verses to recite, testimonies to share or hours to spend serving others. We needed to look good because, well, when boiled down to its primitive motivation--that's what people's tithes paid us to do.

If my family didn't produce a valuable product (ie. holy children and a Godly legacy), who would invest in our "spiritual stock"?

I remember when it finally registered in my child-brain that the money being put in the "Lord's Treasury" was buying food for me to eat and clothes for me to wear. The older I got, the more I felt a growing sense of mortification and guilt anytime I got a new outfit or ate out at a restaurant.

All of which to say, it was tough work being "spiritual" before I even knew how to spell that word. (Ah, to experience the simple, plebian joy of being the daughter of a butcher, a baker, a candlestick maker!)

Oh, well. At least I was well-trained and had my pastor's daughter routine polished to a shine.

By age 5 I knew how to share my testimony with any heathen I might encounter at, say, the playground. By age 10 I could open-air preach the Gospel in 1 minute. Damnation to salvation in 60 seconds flat. But by the time I was a teenager, the pressure of always having to perform was catching up to me. There was never a chance to discover who I was since from the time I was born I had been told who I was and who I was expected to be.

I was a miserable, panicky hypocrite. And an insufferable drama queen.

I mean, most teenage girls are prone to melodramatic seizures. Imagine mine with the added bonus of being able to out-exegete any poor soul who dared question whether or not dating was Biblical. It like SO wasn't! Duh! And then I'd turn around and try to convince my parents that the boy who'd invited me to the movies wasn't asking me out on a date-date. It was more like hanging out.

See, this is what happens when you kiss dating goodbye long before you've even had your first kiss. You go screwy in the brain. Or you become a professional Pharisee.

Even though I often dreamed about escape, we were taught that leaving our church was equal to leaving God. For me, leaving our church also meant leaving my family. And for how sick and crazy we were, I just couldn't imagine leaving them. Especially my mother and sister whom, despite the insanity, I genuinely loved and was genuinely loved in return.

I don't know if other pastor's kids felt this way but the stress of needing to live a holy life (to please God) plus the stress of needing to look like I was living a holy life (to please others and make the ministry look good) was exhausting. I got sick all the time. For awhile, nobody could figure out what was wrong with me.

I was carted off to all sorts of doctors, herbalists, nutritionists and some holistic healer who listened to me breathe over the phone. Everyone had a different solution. I was placed on a restrictive, dairy-free diet. I didn't eat processed foods. Once I went on a five-day water fast where I lost so much weight that I couldn't stand up on my own.

Not one doctor ever asked if I was living in a high-stress environment. No-one said the words "panic attack." And anyway, we didn't believe in that stuff.

I realize my experience is way off the charts in comparison to the average PK's life. But still, I wonder if the broader Christian community appreciates the emotional and spiritual cost of being a pastor's kid. I mean, since most evangelical, Protestant churches are organized like a traditional business model with the leading influence of one person (ie. the senior pastor/CEO), it's been my observation that the pastor's children often get the leftovers of their father's time and attention.

This is because church ministry as we know it today is pretty much a 24/7 job. You work weekends and make midnight dashes to the hospital to visit the dying. You write books and travel around the country on speaking engagements. There are late-night board meetings, prayer meetings and counseling sessions.

I often wonder if PKs feel like their parents love God more than their children.

To an adult it might seem all holy and spiritual to PUT GOD FIRST. To me, that seems like a spiritualized excuse for neglecting your familial obligations.

[SIDEBAR: for all the naysaying against priestly celibacy, I actually see the celibacy requirement as pro-family and pro-child since it frees the married men to be devoted husbands and fathers. The priest is also freed to serve his congregation with undivided attention. In other words, nobody neglects their children to serve God. Just a thought from my obviously biased perspective. :) ]

One of the strangest things about being a PK in a hard-core church was how often we impressed other Christians. Whenever I met other Christians, they only seemed to notice how devoted and on fire for God I was (at least, until they saw me start to shake with an out-of-the-blue panic attack). Sometimes they said they wished their church was as "alive" as mine.

I have a theory that if concerned people observed the children (and overwhelmed mothers) living in these groups, they'd gain a different perspective than they would by listening to the pastor's sermon.

Instead, it seems like American Christians are particularly vulnerable to the seduction of what I like to call: Bigger, Holier, More-Radical-Than-You Christianity!

They just don't see that zealotry is often the white-wash covering a tomb.

The Bible: like Google maps with a side of Motrin

2010-07-16T09:04:45-07:00

A scary thing happened when I left the abusive fundamentalist church of my childhood: I couldn't open my Bible and read the words without hearing my grandfather's voice, his exact intonation and inflection. Certain passages were so fully saturated with his interpretation that I literally could not, as evangelicals often say, "read the Bible for myself."

This scared me because I was still convinced that the only way to be an active Christian was by reading my Bible every day. My grandfather was particularly fond of a catchy little phrase I inscribed in the cover of my Bible: This book will keep you from sin or sin will keep you from this book.

Go a few days without reading the Bible and you were backsliding. I remember several occasions when I went to church leadership for help only to be asked: "Are you reading your Bible every day?" Everything from finding God's will for my class schedule to finding relief from PMS could be solved by reading my Bible every day. The Bible was like Google maps with a side of Motrin.

I'd seen entire families shipped off to plant new churches based on a few scraggly verses from I Chronicles or II Corinthians. One family I knew uprooted their entire life to move to Oregon because they'd been praying for the Lord's will and came across a verse in Psalms that mentioned "Salem."

Fundamentalists are radically opposed to horoscopes and witchcraft but sometimes they treat the Bible as their own personal crystal ball. I was always deeply uncomfortable with this. It freaked me out that good, honest, well-intentioned Christians could cherry-pick verses out of the Bible and make them mean whatever they wanted them to mean. As long as the person could present a compelling argument in favor of their interpretation, the rest of us were just supposed to agree that God had indeed spoken to them. Biblically.

I mean, taken to its logical end, this kind of practice led to the emergence of all sorts of random pet doctrines and "convictions." Or, you know, just garden-variety heresy.

And, of course, the only way to know God was through the Bible. If you didn't read your Bible, you didn't know God because the Bible was The Only Source of Our Revelation. We were often warned against "extra-Biblical" revelations of God. The idea was that "extra-Biblical" revelation was a non-stop ticket straight to apostasy. Also known as Catholicism.

(SIDEBAR: if there is one topic about which fundamentalists and The New York Times agree, it's that the Catholic Church is a corrupt, evil organization.)

So, since God could only be found within the pages of my Bible and since I couldn't read my Bible without hearing my grandfather's voice, I figured my faith was doomed.

Reading the Bible was driving me away from God. But staying away from the Bible meant I was sinning.

I found myself at this weird crossroads. It was like: Go Crazy or Go To Hell.

I chose Hell.

Well, not really. I mean, it felt like that. By not reading my Bible everyday I felt like I was choosing The Way That Leadeth Unto Destruction.

But I was actually choosing to have my brain deprogrammed. I stopped reading my Bible for a long time because, well, I needed to get my grandfather's voice out of my head.

We'd been attending Calvary Chapel Costa Mesa and had spoken briefly with one of the pastors there. He was remarkably gracious and gentle. That was a new experience for me. Our time at Calvary Chapel was consistently refreshing and healing.

But even so, I was still unsure about whether God really loved me. Which is to say, would He come after me even if I wasn't actively seeking Him? Could I push it further? Would God look for me even if I ran away from Him?

I mean, when the Bible has been used as a weapon against you, it's very difficult to find a loving God there. And since I couldn't read my Bible without breaking down in tears, well, I figured I'd lost God, too.

The problem, though, wasn't that I'd lost God so much as radically underestimated Him. Growing up inside fundamentalism, my idea of Him was very small. I thought He was bound up inside the Bible. I didn't realize He was bigger and more wonderful than I'd ever imagined.

One of the new thoughts that broke open my concept of God was this: if God can only be known through the pages of Scripture, does that mean all illiterate peoples will never know God?

I slowly accepted that if God the Father could exercise mercy on the illiterate peoples of our world, then perhaps He'd also show mercy to a confused, intentionally illiterate woman like me.

I know it sounds weird, but I was basically telling God to treat me like someone who had never been exposed to the Christian God.

If I was ever going to regain my faith, me and God were gonna have to start over from scratch.

Boobs are the enemy

2010-07-11T00:01:00-07:00

The economy being what it is, I'm a sucker for a discount. So when our local Montessori school agreed to raise my twins at a bargain price, I took the deal. Starting in a week, my twins will be in full-time preschool (5 half-days).

This means, of course, that now I can really dedicate myself to a proper nervous breakdown. I've been postponing this breakdown since the day my uterus expelled its first human. That was almost 11 years ago.

For those of you who, like me, lack math skills, that was when Clinton was still President. Back then, I was enrolled in a graduate level poetry class where one of my classmates wrote a poem called, "O Lewinsky, My Lewinsky."

Those were the days, dudes.

I've been holding out since Clinton was Prez to have this breakdown. It had better be epic.

Goodness knows I need this breakdown. My body is a shriveled, sorry excuse, an empty husk of its former self. I've birthed five human beings and I'm all stretch marks and deflated breasts. I pee when I sneeze. After I drink coffee, my armpits smell like French Roast with a faint hint of halitosis. It's weird.

If I'm honest, I've been waiting to have this breakdown since I was a kid waiting for Jesus to return in 1988. I was 8 when I realized I only had three years left to live. In 1988, I was gonna be 11 which didn't leave me much time to prepare. Just to be safe, I wrote up my final will and testament while I was still 10.

My lesbian neighbors got my pet rabbit. I figured they wouldn't be making the Rapture, but I knew they'd take good care of Thumper.

When 1989 arrived, Jesus still hadn't returned and instead of getting Raptured, I was getting braces. I mean, it was nice that my parents didn't want me to look like a horse for the rest of my life. But it was also kind a downer because if we were gonna waste money on cosmetic improvement, all I'd ever wanted since age 5 was cleavage.

But, of course, boobs were forbidden in fundamentalism. Boobs were the enemy, see. They must be strapped down, covered up, draped and tucked away like embarrassing relatives. Boobs? What boobs? I don't see boobs! Boobs don't exist!

I mean, the only time boobs were allowed in our church was when a baby was nursing. In which case a mother would pull out a voluminous nursing cape the size of a dining room tablecloth. She would drape herself in this and then stick her baby under there. You didn't really know what was going on except that in between Brother John's sermon on "Why The KJV Is The Only Authorized Version" you could hear loud sucking noises. And the occasional burp.

Anyway, the point is: I lived past 1988. I'm now 33, although my tired uterus is telling me I'm 90. I've actually outlived Thumper (that rabid reproducer!) and what's worse? I still don't have cleavage. Bring on the bingo and a honkin' huge LA-Z-Boy recliner. I'm ready to retire. Or have a breakdown.

I don't care if I can't get to Haven in a rocking chair. Imma be rockin' this trip.

I know my husband realizes something is wrong because he's gone into hyper-fix-it-mode. Like his solid WASPish forebears, he firmly believes that everything in life can be remedied with hard work and duct tape. I'm Greek so I take the more tragic view.

I know he can't fix me but I admire his willingness to try. It's endearing. And as a token of my appreciation, I've offered to dye his rapidly graying hair to a younger shade of sexy brown. He'll have none of it. Ah, well. It's probably too soon. It took me 13 years just to get him to use SPF-moisturizer.

I also offered to get a part-time job to help offset the costs of full-time preschool for our twins. He shrugged this off, too. He doesn't want me to get a job, he wants me to get better.

Do you know what this means? I think this means he's giving me permission to have my breakdown.

What a lovely specimen of maleness he is!

So, my plan for the rest of the summer is: to finally have my breakdown.

And then get a boob job.

Because cleavage: under-appreciated in fundamentalism, super awesome in real-life.

Even at age 90.

Tears for "Quivering Daughters"

2010-07-09T13:46:12-07:00

I tried several times to talk about Hillary McFarland's book without weeping. Could.Not.Do.It. I thought about editing out my tears, make this a nice, pretty little video. But you know what? I didn't. I didn't because what is happening inside "biblical patriarchy" is nothing short of tragic. We should be weeping. I was honored to write the Foreword to Hillary McFarland's new book "Quivering Daughters" and I'm unashamed to weep for these precious daughters, here. Please watch and please consider purchasing her important, courageous book.

We Will Tell You How To Feel (or how I discovered my emotions after an abusive church experience)

2010-07-06T11:49:45-07:00

A few weeks ago, I came across my journal from 7 years ago. We were just coming out of our abusive church. Our family had been blown apart, scattered, estranged.

I was lonely and terribly unsure of myself. I had no friends or social networks outside of my church. And yet, there was a sweetness in each journal entry. My faith was shaken, but still intact. I was full of longing and loathing, hope and self-doubt. I was intoxicated by new freedom but terrified about making my own decisions.

Every day I struggled with feelings of failure and unworthiness. I was fearful and anxious about even the simplest things--like going to a park by myself. I was extremely sensitive to "worldly" stimuli and spent a lot of time swinging between total panic and slow, rational acceptance of my new, "secular" life.

We got a TV for the first time ever and at first I was completely overwhelmed by the noisy commercials and blaring BREAKING NEWS headlines. One morning I was washing dishes and the TV show was interrupted by trumpeting horns and a BREAKING NEWS UPDATE! I ran into the living room all freaked out.

Was the world ending? What was happening?

Nothing. Just some lame car chase in L.A. I felt so used and manipulated. I turned off the TV and stomped back into the kitchen. Stupid, stupid TV.

Yeah, adjusting to a TV took some time. We still only have one TV in our house. I think it's more than enough. (I still have difficulty not getting all emotionally involved in stupid reality shows).

Happily, though, I also discovered this amazing band. Maybe you've heard of them? They're called The Beatles. Dude, I bought a whole collection of their music and for an entire year I went around singing these raw, passionate lyrics like: Love, love me do! You know I love you!

It was freaking awesome!

I felt like an alien being acclimated to mainstream society. But instead of the world being this horrible, ugly, vile, sinful place, I found America to be a wonderful, multi-colored place full of love, creativity, passion and friendly people.

Sometimes, though, the sheer intensity of the emotions I felt were overwhelming. I could only let myself feel these things in small doses. Occasionally, I had to turn off The Beatles because All You Need is Love was liable to throw me over the edge. I didn't know what to do with all that love, love, love.

There were dark emotions, too. Anger, frustration, feelings of betrayal, panic. I didn't know how to handle these feelings and eventually I went to therapy.

I remember telling my therapist some of the things I experienced and was astonished to see her wiping away tears.

"Why are you crying?" I asked.

"Because it's a sad story," she said. "Crying is what people do when they hear something sad."

I know it might sound silly, but it was one of the first times that I realized it was OK to feel my emotions. When something sad happens, it was normal to feel sad. This was a major revelation.

Up until that point, I'd operated under the idea that the only acceptable emotion was rejoicing. Any other state of being--even happiness--was suspect and perhaps sinful.

In the church we talked a lot about how being happy wasn't really spiritual. True Christians weren't happy. They were joyful. And you were never just sad. You were "sorrowing yet rejoicing."

As Christians, what did we have to be sad about? Nothing! 'Cuz we were on our way to Heaven!

So, I learned to systematically repress any non-rejoicing feelings. This was a fantastic coping mechanism for surviving a cultish church, but it did come with a hefty price-tag once I got out into the Real World. For one thing, I had a difficult time identifying what emotion I was experiencing. I was emotionally challenged.

One day my therapist lent me a children's book about feelings to read with my kids. Instead, I was the one who kept reading it over and over.

I loved the little pictures of facial expressions. Sad. Happy. Concerned. Confused.

So many emotions to feel! A bountiful HARVEST of emotions. Oh, dear, sweet, GLORIOUS emotions!

But it was scary, too. Managing my emotions was turning out to be a full-time job. Once you start letting yourself feel, well, HELLO NIAGARA FALLS OF EMOTION, how do I stop you now?

I would let myself feel for awhile and then I'd go scurrying back into Not Feeling. It was safer.

In the last couple of years, I've started feeling safer about my life situation. I'm settled and stable. It's safe to feel.

I sort of have that little diagram of facial expressions memorized. It's a helpful little tool. Whenever I'm stuck, I imagine my therapist asking me: "So, how does that make you feel?"

I consult my little mental diagram. Ah, ha! I'm feeeeeeeling.....ANXIOUS!

Awesome.

At first I hated the "How does that make you feel?" question. I hated it because it stumped me. Huh? How do I feel? I HAVE NO FREAKING IDEA HOW I FEEL. Can we move on, now?

But I gotta admit. That little question probably saved my life. Seven years ago I was a 25 year old woman who was terrified of feeling anything.

Now? I feel and I feel and I feel and I FEEEEEL! Guess what? My feelings aren't broken!

Oh, beautiful feelings. Oh, precious feelings. Oh, gloriously wide spectrum of lovely, sparkly, sad, happy, confused, concerned, rainbowy feelings.

Oh, God, thank You for feelings! Love, love me do! You know I love YOU!