This has been months in the making. I have to hit a lot of different points but they generally fall into four parts:
Part One–The Isolation of Intersectionality*: In which I whine about how I feel like I’m in the middle of everything because I’ve seen “both sides” of the political conversation, as well as general hurt about the church. I also have a deep desire to want to change the hypocrisy that drove me away in the first place, but I often feel completely invalidated while speaking out because, in leaving the church, my views are deemed illegitimate. Go with me on this one. I know that it’s a lot but I think that it’s important to fully know where I’m coming from before I dive into this thorny subject.
*Intersectionality: a theoretical framework for understanding how aspects of a person’s social and political identities might combine to create unique modes of discrimination and privilege. Intersectionality identifies advantages and disadvantages that are felt by people due to a combination of factors. For the purposes of this piece, I’ll be focusing mainly on the intersections of my queer identity, current “liberal” politics (which I argue aren’t liberal but instead basic human rights) and past in Evangelical Christianity.
Part Two–The Weaponization of Christianity: I discuss how the Religious Right is being flagrantly hypocritical regarding the “sanctity of human life” in their refusal to wear masks, peppered with two personal stories in which I am an angry daughter bear.
Part Three–The Cult of Trump: In which I share information about the hallmarks of cults and cult leaders and if you’re not convinced it mirrors the current political climate of the United States right now, your money back!
Part Four–What Can We Do?: In which I especially charge those still within church communities to speak truth and model that old chestnut “WWJD” by advocating for mask wearing because it’s the loving and Christlike thing to do. And generally just step up and be louder than those who are weaponizing Jesus’ name.
(CW: Cancer, brain surgery, dementia, religion, mental illness, depression, anxiety, dissociation, Christianity, family trauma, brief mention of suicide)
This is the most painful period of my life thus far. More that my divorce, more than anything else I have ever faced. I am sloughing off my old skin and being reborn in some sort of way, but the process is difficult and scary.
The details are not mine to share in such a public forum, but the catalyst for this time of metamorphosis is the heartbreaking hardship my partner’s family is experiencing right now. A year before we met (so, four years ago) my partner’s father was diagnosed with brain cancer. He had a surgery where he had a large portion of his brain removed, and it has permanently altered his personality and caused a decline in cognition. This decline has accelerated greatly over the past few months.
The day after Thanksgiving, an event occurred which made it impossible for him to continue living at home. Through some extremely traumatic events, my partner has become his medical and financial Power of Attorney and has become one of the only people that his father still trusts.
I have been privy to countless heartbreaking exchanges with his family, and right at my partner’s side throughout the process of finding an assisted living community.
This is greatly abridged and vague, but suffice it to say: brain cancer is hell. Hell for those who experience it directly, and for those who love them. It is an unimaginable hell in which we are constantly discovering new horrors.
Each day comes with new challenges to navigate, new aspects of the decay of a brilliant mind. The toll it has taken on my partner and his family and, by association, me, has been enormous. And the thing that we keep coming back to is that there is no light at the end of the tunnel. There is no getting better. It is only going to continue to be a decline with no saying how long it will be. This has been, and will continue to be, a marathon.
I’m a fixer. A problem solver. I inherently want to make things better, and the fact that I can’t…that no one can, is something that I’ve had to reckon with. There’s nothing I can do to spare those I love from unbelievable pain, and we are facing the question of how to make this situation “sustainable.” This emotionally wrenching situation could continue for years, and I don’t know what to do to help.
There is a fine line that must be discovered for self-preservation of our sanity and continuing to live our lives…our early and mid thirties, which should be some of the best years of our lives, balanced with providing my partner’s father with the support he needs.
I want, more than anything, to see my partner smile. I met him after his father’s diagnosis which also coincided with the collapse of his own marriage, so I have only ever known him after two consecutive heartbreaks. I wish more than anything I could have met him “before.” Could have known his family “before.” Could have met his dad “before.” I’ve only known the rubble, the aftermath. And I love them so much. This situation has only solidified the fact that he is, in fact, my “person,” but, dear God, I’m just begging for some good years. We are so dearly owed them. I long for even a week when my partner is able to let go of his burdens. To see that smile. To catch a glimpse of some happiness and hope in his eyes.
I’ll say it again. Brain cancer is hell. Pure, unadulterated hell.
So, you see, I have been facing some hopeless times. I have cried at work more times than I can count. (I even now have a “cried at work” tag on my mood tracking app…) I am so grateful for my amazing coworkers and friends and my family and support system. But the problem is, they can’t do anything. No one can. There’s no way to make this any better. And it’s so difficult to maintain any sort of optimism.
Yeah, those tags in my mood tracking app are pretty bleak
At least this has served as a distraction from the rest of the world, on fire, exploding, and imploding. I haven’t had the energy to attempt to devote any thought to that other than fleeting moments of existential terror.
I have started regularly attending therapy for the first time in my life. I had tried off and on several times, but I never clicked with anyone. But as my partner’s father’s decline accelerated, I knew that I was going to need some professional help.
I’ve struggled with chronic depression and anxiety my whole life, and have been on and off (mostly on) medications since I was seventeen. I’ve written extensively on the subject over the years, but I have been experiencing a whole new level.
I’ve been struggling with a chronic depression/situational depression/seasonal depression sandwich with a healthy dash of anxiety on top. Well, maybe like a dash of anxiety sometimes but then the anxiety shaker lid comes off every once in a while.
And that has been exacerbated with my slow, painful deconstruction of my faith. Which has led to guilt and sadness with the acknowledgment that I have hurt many people I love more than anything. And this loss of faith has led me to extreme existential angst. Which has led me to feelings of despair, hopelessness, and utter meaningless.
I haven’t been suicidal, but it’s been so difficult to find any light that life has lost most meaning. I half cling to an idea of some sort of god, but I no longer subscribe to an idea of a One True Christian God. I can’t. I see all of the things that are being done all over the world in the name of the Christian God and I am filled with so much resentment. So much hurt. For myself and so many beautiful people I know and love. But this has left me with nothing to cling to. Which is hard. I understand why difficult experiences can both bring people to spiritual beliefs and push others away.
And I know that well meaning people will urge me to try to run back to the One True Christian God. To put my hope in that being. And I know that my loved ones will mourn over and pray for my soul. I know the implications.
I don’t begrudge people who find solace in the Christian God. It’s just that I no longer can. I feel like my eyes have been opened too wide and I have seen things as they really are.
I have seen how politics have been hijacked by those narrow interest groups who weaponize the One True Christian God to steer this country in a way the majority of Americans are absolutely horrified.
I have seen how organized religion uses the same tactics as cults to control their congregations. I have become aware of how absolutely brainwashed I was and how unable I was to think for myself. How I was taught to have no agency of my own. (I wrote more extensively about this a while back.)
I have been talking a lot with my partner and therapist about how, up until this point, I have led an “unexamined life.” I have learned how much the things I was taught growing up had conditioned me to never question things. To assume all authority figures are infallible. I assumed every pastor, every doctor, every teacher, every politician, knew what they were doing and saying and who was I to question them.
I had always done things because they were expected of me. Because it was the easy thing. I was swept away in life’s current without ever pausing to reflect on who I truly was, and what I wanted and needed. And I have suddenly woken up. And I can clearly see things as they are, bald and ugly, once the haze of my autopilot has lifted.
I feel like I have realized the truth about the Matrix. And I’m horrified, and part of me wants to retreat back into the safety before this knowledge. That it’s less scary. Ignorance is bliss, right? But I can’t go back. I know too much now.
I’ve also realized just this week that I’ve spent a large portion of my life dissociated. I explained it to my therapist yesterday like this: “I feel a lot of the time like I’m a brain in a jar. I often forget I have a body. I feel so disconnected from my body. A lot of the time, it feels like I’m dreaming and it’s a struggle to interact socially with people, especially strangers. I feel like an alien.”
I struggle to remember a lot of the four years I was with my ex and lived in Chicago. And my struggles with dissociation and difficulty communicating has gotten worse since things “went down” with my partner’s father. Which would make sense that it’s exacerbated by trauma. And what we’ve been through the past few months has been extremely traumatic.
I’m just beginning to scratch the surface of this issue, but I remembered something that I read in the book “You Are Your Own: A Reckoning with the Religious Trauma of Evangelical Christianity” by Jamie Lee Fitch. She wrote about how, as Christians, we were taught to believe that our bodies are just vessels for our soul, which is immortal through belief in Jesus. That we are conditioned to think that our bodies are sinful.
“People who spend their formative and developmental years reacting with fear to the teachings of Evangelicalism were conditioned to dissociate from their bodies in order to become “holy.” (You Are Your Own: A Reckoning with the Religious Trauma of Evangelical Christianity by Jamie Lee Finch, Page 86.)
She also wrote about the work that “Exvangelicals” must do to recover their own autonomy.
“It’s vitally important for people recovering to own their voice and story, to do the necessary investigative work to notice and name their issues, to be empowered to speak kindly and to heal themselves, and to become aware of the relationship they are in with themselves after years of coerced neglect of self.” (You Are Your Own: A Reckoning with the Religious Trauma of Evangelical Christianity by Jamie Lee Fitch, page 110-111)
That made a lot of sense to me. I remember hearing from some religious figures that yoga was evil because it was tied to another, “wrong” religious practice. “Meditation,” unless it was a form of prayer or focus on scripture, was also deemed evil. Anything that drew focus and intentionality to observing one’s body and being “present” was strongly discouraged. Even now, I fight knee-jerk reactions against the language used, I have been so indoctrinated.
So it made perfect sense to me that the church had conditioned me to ignore my body–my “earthly shell”– because ultimately it was inconsequential for eternity. And, being a very dedicated, supremely religious person in my formative years, I deeply internalized that. So much so that it appears that I forgot I have a body.
Isn’t that fucked up? Like…I’ve been going around for 33 years feeling like a brain in a jar. Feeling a supreme disconnect from my body, feeling like I’m a disembodied brain floating around, going through the motions.
There are layers, of course, but this was a fascinating new epiphany. I keep peeling back things, digging deeper, and discovering all the things that have made me who I am, for better and for worse.
So, because of all of the above (and more!) this past few months has been…painful. Difficult. Insurmountable. Heartbreaking. Challenging. Eye opening. Disheartening.
I’ve been moving through life in “survival mode.” Each time I feel like I’m finally beginning to dig myself out of another deep bout of depression, something else happens and it feels like I get punched in the face when I’m about to reach the top of the hole. One day at a time. One hour at a time. It’s sometimes all I can handle.
I have no energy to do anything. I eat my feelings. I’ve been almost exclusively in a deep depression since then, as well. I didn’t go home for Christmas for the first time ever because it was more important for me to stay here as support for my partner and his family, but all of this has distracted me from the fact that my father is also sick, halfway across the country.
I wept in therapy yesterday. “I feel so…defective. That emotionally, I was born with life on “difficult” mode. But I also struggle so much with feelings of guilt because I acknowledge my privilege in so many other ways. But I feel like I’m not emotionally cut out for this life. That I’m so fragile. So fucked up. I keep trying to figure out what else is “wrong with me” because I feel like if I just find another diagnosis, I can “solve” me.”
Right before things really took at turn at Thanksgiving, my therapist recommended I check out the concept of “HSPs” or “Highly Sensitive People.” HSPs were first written about by Dr. Elaine Aron in the 1990s, and when I took the self-test on her website, I checked nearly every box. I would like to write more in depth about this at a later date, but I’ll summarize it a bit here. Dr. Aron’s research has brought her to the conclusion that 15%-20% of people strongly relate with traits that are “hypersensitive” both in one’s experience of external stimuli (loud noises, bright lights, strong smells) and in their experience of emotions. It has been called, more appropriately, “Sensory Processing Sensitivity” (as opposed to Sensory Processing Disorder, which is a different thing.)
The more I delved into researching this “disorder/trait,” the more I saw myself. It connected things within me that I had never realized until I saw words to describe it. It made so much sense. I had recently lamented to my partner “I feel everything. EVERYTHING. So strongly. I absorb everything like a sponge. It’s all too much.” And this put a name to it. It made me realize that I’m definitely not alone and it’s actually pretty common. And that I quickly identified this trait in many of my dearest people in my life. It was revolutionary. Like I said, I’m going to devote a whole post to it at some point, but if this sounds like it might be you, I highly suggest reading her book “The Highly Sensitive Person” or just doing a google and reading more about it. It was so incredibly validating.
So yeah…
These are heavy times. The world is too much. I’m treading water. It’s hard to see any light up ahead, but “the only way out is through.” And so through I go. I’m clinging to the things that bring me joy like the Facebook group “This Cat Is C H O N K Y” (and more specifically, the bipedal cat with dwarfism who is in love with a fridge named Oatboi) and sitcoms like Kim’s Convenience and The Good Place. My partner and I are clinging to each other and our loved ones. I got a CBD oil variety pack for Christmas and am throwing everything at the wall and seeing what sticks. I’m also indulging in some retail therapy with my Christmas money and just ordered what amounts to a whole new (secondhand) wardrobe on Thred Up. (Click for my invite link and get $10 off your first order, while you’re at it, especially if you’re aiming to be more eco-conscious!) I’m sleeping and eating too much junk, but I’m trying to be gentle with myself.
One step at a time. One hour at a time. One day at a time. Maybe one of the times I crawl out of that pit, there won’t be anyone there at the top to punch me in the face. I’m living for the day when that happens.
Oatboi is one of the brightest spots in my life these days
I mean…just look at him. His little leggies. I just can’t handle it.
The Gay Divorcee Chronicles 