The last couple of weeks have been a challenge. As you know I’m currently writing a book. I’ve been feeling stuck and frustrated with the process. At the same time I’ve been having many fresh realizations. It feels like more and more layers of UPCI indoctrination are being stripped from me. I’ve had mind blowing ah-has that have left me overwhelmed as I’ve tried to process them. I find myself thinking how strange it is that there is still more to be stripped away. It feels like after all these years there should be nothing left, but there is always more.
For decades I have been seeking to better understand what happened to me when I was a child. I’ve engaged with all sorts of ideas that range from Christian to atheist, always unwinding the past and trying to make sense of it all. Writing my memoir has heightened my questioning which in turn has given me more to unwind and process. Writing while processing can be really taxing and so at times I feel compelled to just surrender to the waves. This means stepping away from my keyboard and taking time to just tear the layers away and see what is underneath. Each wave removes another layer and then there is a tiny transformation, I am changed. Some of these transformations bring joy and that is always a nice surprise. Other transformations reveal another layer of anger and resentment. Next, I have to make peace with whatever has been revealed. I have to learn to accept this new to me self that has been buried deep within. During this time I usually end up asking myself many questions, this part can lead me right back to the unwinding stage. Finally when my emotions and questions have quieted down I can find my way back to the keyboard. Hopefully then my transformed self can bring something fresh, a deeper insight to it all. This is often needed as it can be hard to keep revising the same chapters over and over.
My desire in sharing this with you today is just to reach out. I’m still here, I’m still willing to listen and help, and I’m still working through my own trauma. Please feel free to check in and let me know how you’re doing. Now, I’ve got to get back to my book.
As I comb through the first 18 years of my life it can be hard to find anything worth preserving. My home did not provide comfort, instead the air was thick with unease. When I drift through the memories of childhood there is a gray wash over everything. The memories that make me smile are not associated with people so much as activities and things, like the orange push-up ice cream treats I would buy on hot summer days or my neon green and yellow bike. Solitude brought intense loneliness but also some of my most joyful moments. When I was alone I was free and could often breathe more easily but sometimes when I was alone I would be stalked by the things I feared most.
My mother worked long hours and sometimes two jobs. She had a very physically demanding job working at a laundry where they washed and pressed uniforms and other things. F&W Means was the name of the company. The laundry was hot and working there did some damage to her hands. In the summer she would be forced to work overtime often being gone from morning until after dark. She never minded the overtime because we always needed the extra money. Sometimes, not very often, I would go to work with her. The air in the laundry was humid and it burned the back of my throat. There were huge baskets on wheels being pushed from one station to the other and music blasting through speakers. Sometimes I would go sit outside, just to get some fresh air and my mother would buy me a soda. Those days seemed so long but she did not seem to mind. The laundry was filled with mostly women employees and they smiled and joked with each other in spite of the terrible conditions.
My mother was a very dedicated worker and took pride in providing for our family. I understood why she had to be away but that understanding did not make the days any easier. After work, she would sometimes deliver pizzas for extra money. This only made my lonely days even longer. My father was often in and out of our home and he could not be counted on to help with the rent or our bills. He made good money but it seemed to slip through his hands easily. My father lived in the moment and never seemed to have a plan or concern for the future. He enjoyed playing cards and I think drinking was sometimes involved. They fought a lot about money and his many affairs. They had epic fights that included objects being hurled across the room and my mother lashing out physically and threatening my father’s life. My father wouldn’t hit my mother but he did try to protect himself. During these fights he always appeared to be the innocent one because he was the one being physically attacked. That being said, he was the reason my mother flew into a rage. He would play the role of “why me?” but even at a young age I knew that he was torturing my mother mentally and emotionally. In reality he was torturing me too but I was too little and too much of a daddy’s girl to understand it. I witnessed my mother cry over our finances again and again. My father was often responsible for the financial issues. He wouldn’t pay his fair share and then he would come around begging her for money. He even went so far as to support another woman with my mother’s money. You can imagine how that went over!
My mother wouldn’t go to her family for help unless she had no other options. She was close to my grandfather but she did not like asking him for money. I got the message that her family had a pretty strong bootstrap mentality. My grandmother and my aunt would gossip about my mother and that caused her a lot of distress. She definitely gave me the impression that her mother and sister ganged up on her. My aunt Wanda is a cruel judgemental woman and my grandmother would cover for her nasty tendencies. Even though my aunt lived in the same city as we did she could not be depended on in any way. My mother did not have many friends and the ones she did have were not in any financial shape to help us. On top of that, she was proud and believed that asking for money was a kind of moral weakness. Her family strongly believed it was wrong to go to the government for help so she would not apply for food stamps or welfare checks. She did not want social workers nosing around her business. All of her family was suspicious of the government and concerned about it being connected in some way with the antichrist. They firmly believed that someday a one-world government would come to power and following that Armageddon. All these beliefs did not leave my mother with many options. She would cry and pray for hours. I would sit outside her door wishing God would answer her so she could come out and play with me. I believe this is the age I started swallowing my pain. We couldn’t both be crying. Above all, I wanted to comfort her and fix all of her problems. I prayed to God in hopes that he would answer but for some reason, he always seemed so silent and unreachable.
My mother was a very talented woman. I looked up to her musical ability. She had this huge accordion and she would often sit on her bed in the evenings and play it. I was fascinated with all of the buttons and the large case with burgundy velvet lining that she kept it in. She only sang gospel songs and when she was singing I could tell she went somewhere else in her mind. She played the piano and organ too but we did not have access to these on a regular basis. We sang together, pretty much everywhere, in the car and the house. She would always give me high praise when we sang together and that praise made me feel warm and loved. By the time I was three years old she was having me perform for strangers in the grocery store. I would be riding in the cart minding my own business singing some happy tune and it wouldn’t be long before a gaggle of older women would be smiling at me and asking me to sing for them. This seemed to really make my mother happy so I sang for them even though I was terribly shy and kind of scared of old people. I would sing tunes from the radio often misunderstanding the lyrics and I would sing Sunday school songs. I can imagine a world in which she could have been happy teaching music or working in a music store. If she had possessed more confidence maybe she would have sang in the church choir or even led a choir. I’m not sure she really grasped how talented she was. Maybe because her family tore her down so much or maybe it was mental illness standing in the way. When I take a minute to allow myself to gaze upon her with my child eyes I see a shining star, capable of anything, and almost goddess like. As a little girl I just knew I would never reach the pinnacle of her perfection. She could do anything.
At a very young age I was aware that there was something wrong with my mother. She called it depression so I had a word for it even if I had no idea what it really was. During the day I was alone but often in the evenings, I was also alone because she was consumed by whatever financial crisis was upon us. Then there was the question, “Where is your father and what is he up to?” She never had security, not financially or in her relationships. She would watch Jimmy Swaggert preach on television and then go retreat to her room to cry and pray. When she finally came out her eyes would be very red and she would be silent as a stone. I would attempt to comfort her in any way I could. Often I would try to make her laugh just to see her smile was a comfort to me. Maybe things would be ok?
Jimmy Swaggert was a big deal in our house. He was a skilled piano player and when we watched him the television camera would often focus in on his hands gliding over the keys. He sang with a tear in his eye. My mother was enthralled. She hung on his every word. I believe she felt very connected to him and watching him on television helped her to feel less alone. She would sing along while watching and her face would soften. Those were the only times I saw that look on her face.
I can remember so many nights when she would retreat to her room after dinner to pray. Often she would watch Jimmy Swaggert or listen to some music beforehand. I would watch television with the volume down low so I would not disturb her. As the night would wear on I would wander over to the door of her bedroom and slump down to the floor listening to her wail and speak in tongues. I hated to hear her cry and I knew she was waging a battle. She was trying to convince god to help us. She was trying to pray away whatever sin was standing in the way of us being blessed. She was fighting for her salvation because she was always afraid of missing the rapture and going to hell. It was high stakes prayer, that was the only kind of prayer ever said in our home. All of this crying, praying, wailing, and speaking in tongues did nothing to make our little apartment feel like a home. There was an intensity to my mothers religiosity that created an atmosphere of danger and fear.
Childcare was always a struggle in our home. Working an eight hour day was hard enough but then add in overtime and a second job and finding childcare becomes impossible. I never really cared for any of my babysitters and I suspect that is because my mother did not trust or like many people and she handed that suspicion down to me. My father could not be counted on for more than a couple of hours, maybe once a week. She could never afford to take off work to be with me over Xmas, spring, or summer break. I wanted so desperately to help her so I would tell her that it was ok I didn’t need a babysitter. She would look at me so unsure. She weighed my opinion heavily too much because I was just a small child and had no idea what was appropriate or safe. I wish she hadn’t given in so easily. I wish she hadn’t let me try to solve her problems for her or be her savior. It did not help that my father was always telling me I was smarter and more capable than other children. He thought pretty highly of himself and since I was his child and in his mind an extension of him then I must be above average.
I remember times when it felt like I held my parents’ fate in my hands. I had to keep them together and I had to help them survive. I was responsible for their emotional well being and safety. When they would have one of their knock down drag out fights my father would cry on my shoulder. After he left our apartment my mother would collapse and it would be her turn to cry. As I’m writing this I remember how small I felt in those moments. How insurmountable the problems of my family seemed to be and how these things happened regularly. In these moments I have to really focus on loving myself and cutting myself some slack. You see, I have complex post traumatic stress disorder. As I document all of this it is like watching the seeds of my condition being put into the ground one after the other. I am aware of how small and defenseless I was to stop any of it, and that realization helps me to breathe through the process of being gentle with myself and remembering that none of this was my fault. Even at 51 I need that reminder sometimes.
My mother was more than my mom; she was my best friend and I believed I was her best friend. The healthy boundaries between parent and child would often melt away in the midst of her depression and loneliness. She overshared and because of that, I was also depressed. I worried about money, my parent’s relationship, and God. She was my mother but I was her caretaker. I cannot remember a time when I was allowed to be a child. I carried my parent’s burdens with me everywhere. They went with me to school, the playground, and then at bedtime they followed me there too. My mother’s burdens were scary. I worried for her safety and at a young age I knew that sometimes she wanted to die.
Because of all of this worry I started to develop some pretty severe stomach issues in early elementary school. I would go to the nurse’s office with stomach cramps and it didn’t take long before the school psychologist became involved. Eventually after talking with me several times he asked my mother to come in. I sat there fearing what he was going to say to her. Had I told him more than I should have? She came into the room and sat in one of the hard plastic chairs across from his desk. They talked and I tried to pretend like I wasn’t there. I felt like I was being a problem. The last thing I ever wanted to do was add another problem to my mother’s plate. If I’m being honest I was probably a little scared of her at that moment. She always told me to never discuss things from our home life with anyone. How was she going to take the fact that I had been talking with another adult about my life?
He said, “Do you have any idea why she might be so stressed?”
She replied, “Well her father and I are having problems and I’m having money issues.”
They went on to talk for a long time. My mother cried and told this complete stranger all of her whoas. I felt so seen. At school I tried to hide my unhappy life. Now my unhappy life was on display. Eventually towards the end of the conversation he said, “You have to find a way not to share all of your problems with your daughter. She is going to end up with ulcers before she finishes elementary school.” I recognized his tone, he was speaking to her like someone trying to talk someone down from a ledge. Telling her the hard truth but doing it with kid gloves. Soon after we went home but now I was on the school’s radar. I would meet with him from time to time but that was as far as it went. After this I witnessed my mother recount the story to multiple people. She seemed worried and put off by his expectation that she hide her problems from me. She couldn’t imagine how that would work. She hated anyone knowing what went on inside of our lives. I knew I had created a problem for her. I never received any help for my “nervous stomach”. As an adult I have struggled with ulcers, IBS, and GERD. Whenever I experience stress it shows up in my stomach first. Eventually she would have a similar meeting with another school psychologist, this time it would be my senior year of high school. The message was very much the same. Dr. Zuberbear asked for her to come in and he told her I was very depressed. By this point she was physically sick and struggling. She listened and even expressed sympathy after we left but that was all she had to give me. From the earliest of ages my mental health was mine to manage. She just didn’t have the bandwidth.
My father would tell me that I had a nervous stomach like him. He would tell me not to worry while at the same time laying his worries at my feet. He would also tell me that my depression was a weakness and that it came from my mother’s side. She was “weak minded” and I should endeavor to be strong like him. Anytime I had physical issues it was due to my mother, at least that is what my father said. My allergies and later asthma were a result of her weak genes, he was after all healthy as a horse. I spent my entire childhood and young adulthood being worried about being “crazy”, as my father put it. I worried that I would have my mother’s mental health issues and emotional instability. This concern forced me to always be an “adult”. I strove for emotional balance and I tried to let my intelligence and logic rule. Now I struggle to access my emotional side and often I see any emotional outburst I might have as a moral failing. I’m still striving to always be an “adult.”
Hi everyone! I have been in a writing slump for a long time. I am back on the horse for the time being and I intend to share some of my pages here. I’m open to feedback either in the comments or better yet at my email survivingchurchandchildhood@gmail.com Please be kind, memoir is really hard.
This morning I find myself sitting with my coffee at my lonely laptop. I am banging away at the keys trying to pound my story out onto the page. This feels like just another new start. It is filled with hope, maybe this time will be the time when everything gels together. Fall always feels like the right time to write. There is something about the cool mornings that drives me to try again. I have been away from this work for a long time and then suddenly there it is in my face beckoning me back to this lonely task. On days like this the words burn through my fingertips, they cannot escape my brain fast enough. Being a Gemini part of my brain just wants to put words to page and part of my brain wants to craft the perfect memoir. These two parts are always at odds and through this struggle, I push this work into existence.
I have been seeking to make sense of my childhood for as long as I can remember. Even though I recognize that there are some things I will never understand I feel compelled to keep searching for truth. Truth is wobbly when you are talking about others’ motivations and when they are no longer around to ask your questions to. I am a quintessential gen-Xer born in 1970. I was a latch-key kid with my house keys always around my neck. I grew up in Madison Wisconsin and I’m still in the area. I wonder how many others are out there like me. Wounded souls trying to make sense of their childhoods through writing memoirs. Looking back all I see is trauma, fear, and sadness. When I look a little harder I can see moments of creativity, freedom, and joy. Those moments are much harder to reach for. I can guarantee that there will be times when my story overwhelms you, just know as you continue on with me that I am okay now, I’m a survivor.
Throughout my childhood fear was my constant companion. It hung in the air like a thick cloud around me and its friend sadness clung to me like an old thread worn sweater. Fear was brewed first at home followed by my church and school. My mother was a very fearful woman and she passed her fear onto me the same way she gave me my freckles and my smile. She was tough but at the same time, it seemed like she was always scanning the landscape looking for danger. On the other side of the coin, my father insisted that I be strong and fearless. He has zero tolerance for weakness unless he was the one being weak. He and my mother were like the sun and the moon. How they ever got together is beyond me. At this moment I cannot think of one way in which they were alike other than their tendency towards being fixed on themselves. My mother suffered from severe depression and her childhood was pretty dysfunctional. My grandmother was a severe parent and my mother always felt like an outsider within her family. My father has always been a mystery to me. His accounts of his origin story seemed to vary and there were many topics he had no interest in talking about. My parents never seemed happy although they did seem to really love each other. They certainly were ill-suited for the long haul and could barely take care of themselves let alone each other. Looking back on it now, I think they loved each other more than they loved me.
My mother was pretty in a tomboy sort of way. She was dark-haired and covered from head to toe in freckles. Her green eyes were the prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen. She was not the most domestic woman in the world. She viewed housekeeping as a chore and not something to be enjoyed. She wasn’t much of a cook and had no interest in learning to be better at it. She was all about comfort food and she did that well. She felt the most at ease in nature and preferred the company of dogs and horses to being around people. When my mother was around people she could be very charming and those who knew her liked her more than she could ever acknowledge to herself. She was an artist and could draw almost anything. Her family valued music and so she learned multiple instruments and she was a gifted singer. Marla, my mother, loved to laugh and her playfulness created some of the only happy memories of my childhood. When I was in elementary school we did not have much furniture in our living room but it did not matter. She and I would snuggle on the floor, backs against the wall, and enjoy one of our favorite shows. No TV night would be complete without a bowl of hazelnuts, a nutcracker, and generic grape soda. Those nights were my favorite. In those moments we laughed together and I could breathe a sigh of relief.
My father was short and his skin a chocolate brown color. He always seemed to have something to prove. He was a boxer and fairly ambitious. Armando, my father had a boyish smile and an impish sense of humor. He was a whistler and sang along to the radio even if he often got the lyrics wrong. People liked him and he liked them back. Depression could come knocking at his door if he spent too much time alone. My athleticism and tenaciousness come from him. He was a wanderer and philanderer and often these tendencies took him away from me. I chased his affection long after it became clear to me that he only wanted mine when he could not get it other places. I was a consolation prize, a toaster when what he really wanted was a boat.
I loved my parents fiercely! My love for them was strong but this does not mean they were good parents. They were flawed as all of us are and they were tortured by personal demons. My mother came from a strict religious home and her upbringing informed much of her parenting style. Growing up outside of her family’s love and acceptance made it so she never felt accepted or loved. I believe this crippled her and made it hard for her to give love and acceptance. She was deeply lonely even when friends tried to be there for her. It was never enough or she just couldn’t believe that they “really” liked her. She had a dark deep hole inside and it seemed it could never be filled. Her sadness and fear permeated every part of our lives. Even the material objects within our home seemed to take on her personality. Heavy and oppressive miasma clung to everything. She could go from being jovial and childlike one minute to screaming and violent the next. I learned very early on to be careful what I said to her. If something was going to get me into trouble it would most likely be my mouth. Often her anger came from unexpected places. She always seemed to believe I understood why she was raging even when I often did not. When in a loving mood she would pour out affection on me and when in an angry mood she could be petty and mean. She would spank me but also pinch me, pull my hair, and twist my wrists. It was as if all of these little acts of violence lanced some painful wound within her. People who cut themselves sometimes say that when you do it it releases some of your pain, I think her hurting me did the same thing. It’s like it kept her from doing something worse.
My father often spoke of being emotionally and physically abused as a child. He was generally mellow in personality but at times his anger would flare. Both my parents spanked me with a belt but my father was the one most likely to take it too far. If I did not meet his high expectations he could be cruel with his words. Weakness seemed to send him into anger faster than anything else. My mother played by God’s rules as she understood them and my father played by no one’s rules but his own. He was very unconventional and independent. At times I miss them and my inner child longs for my mother. At other times the flames of anger burn within me so brightly I could set the world ablaze. It is all very complicated and I have had to come to terms with many truths about my childhood. If this book were about my parents it might be written from a place of more understanding and questioning what led them to be who they were, but this story is not their story it is mine. There was a time when I went through my life seeking to make excuses for their choices but I can no longer do that. I have to put myself first in a way that neither of them ever could. I find myself shouting to them from across the years, “Can’t you see how your choices are affecting me? Please get some help for yourself and for me!”
Surviving Church and Childhood 