God Left Me A Long Time Ago

Religion and I have had a rocky relationship. I grew up a devote Catholic, alter server and all, where most of the people I’ve known the longest in my life actually came from the church. We played on Little League Teams together, went on vacations, and grew up in and out of the church. The one thing I will say is that church created a really strong community for me growing up.

Being Catholic still brings me comfort, despite the fact that I am now an agnostic/atheist/unicorn… whatever. I’m someone who doesn’t believe in a conventional god, but also doesn’t think any of us will ever know, but also respects people for believing in something (as long as they don’t murder each other for said belief). Truth be told, I always kind of figured god is a set of rules or natural law, something beyond our comprehension, so we make him out to be a human because it makes it all relatable (kind of like how we make tigers and chimps and lions look like cute little anthropomorphic character so they seem less threatening and more human).

“I WILL FEAST ON YOUR FLESH”- Lion

When I lived in New Mexico, I went to Mass at the local Catholic church, Basilica of San Albino, in old town Mesilla. It was 5 minutes from my RV, and it made me feel connected to my family. There is something about being in a Catholic church that still brings me peace. It’s the solemness, the rituals, the decor… it all brings me comfort. Bow, genuflect, sit, kneel, bow, sign of the cross, etc. All patterns that are still, to this day, muscle memory for me. I’d go for communion but not take the eucharist, despite going through my first communion, because I felt like a fraud if I did so. I’d just cross my arms and get my blessing from Father and move on to self reflect.

I still remember all the songs too, like my favorite one “You Are Mine.”

I am hope for all who are hopeless
I am eyes for all who long to see
In the shadows of the night,
I will be your light
Come and rest in Me

Do not be afraid, I am with you
I have called you each by name
Come and follow Me
I will bring you home
I love you and you are mine

Or another one, that I still remember the words to:

You need not fear the terror of the night,
Nor the arrow that flies by day,
Though thousands fall about you,
Near you it shall not come.

And He will raise you up on eagle's wings,
Bear you on the breath of dawn,
Make you to shine like the sun,
And hold you in the palm of His Hand.

I still sing that song to myself in the shower all the time; hell, I BELT them when nobody is around, despite the fact that I don’t really believe what the lyrics say. My mom was the lead canter in my parish, and my evenings and weekends were always filled with hymns as she rehearsed. Our house was FILLED with sheet music and hymnals… I still know so many of the songs without a second thought as my mom was always singing them.

Being Catholic, in my family, is a cultural identity. My grandparents were devout Catholics, and when my Grandpa Jack passed away I participated in mass for him. It wasn’t about MY feelings for religion, but it was about his and my Grandmas. I carried the Eucharist up for communion. My Grandma knew I wasn’t Catholic anymore, and I remember she told me she knew it, but knew I was a good person no matter what. I tried so hard to not bawl my eyes out in the McDonalds drive thru in Kentucky as she told me, but to me it meant the absolute world; all I wanted is her and my Grandpa’s acceptance, which they gave without hesitation.

I don’t ridicule religious people, to each their own, and I actually get really pissed off when people criticize Catholics (weird, I don’t know why I get so defensive). I actually envy religious people, because no matter what I do I just can’t believe. They must have some sort of peace that I wish I could have, because the mere thought that when I die I will go back to nothingness terrifies the FUCK out of me and drives me to do silly shit (like buy planes and chase achievements). My Uncle Jay’s mom, June (who was a professor of psychology at UCLA) once told me when I was 12 that the main reason why people have children is for immortality. That has stuck with me ever since then, and has driven me to realize that the only way I’ll ever be remembered when I die is if I do something remarkable.

I know people tell me stuff like “the Lord works in mysterious ways” or “God only gives you what you can handle” or “everything happens for a reason” but I find those statements so hard to accept. It’s hard to think that way when you’re a product of childhood sexual abuse, or if you’ve seen people die for no reason.

This is why I find it so hard to believe in god, coupled with my scientific background. Some of the strongest people I know believe in god, and it perplexes me. How can you believe in something when you see so much despair?

The SIDS baby call, the kid who died in a vehicle roll over, the various kids I’ve watched get abused. Why? I stood in a field for days, picking up pieces of my co-workers remains and thought “where’s god?” and then, again, when I saw his children attend his memorial services I thought “why?” What GRAND MYSTERY was there to be had in such suffering?

I think about the sexual abuse I experienced throughout my childhood and adolescence. There is no meaning to this. This was not part of god’s grand plan, and if it was then WHAT THE FUCK!?

What I’m about to talk about will be very uncomfortable for people to read… and my hope is that my mom doesn’t read it because I don’t want this to hurt her… the “pain of knowing” would destroy her and my dad, nor do I want to trigger anybody who has gone through this too… therefor I suggest many of you skip the rest of this blog.

People talk about who their first kiss was, and it’s true that I don’t remember who my first consensual kiss was (concussions robbed me of that memory too!) but my first kiss was my abuser.

The feeling of my bare skin on the cold freezer lid. The shock of realizing what they were trying to do… the panic in not knowing what to do. The shame of knowing what happened. I went home later and cried my eyes out into my baby blue Garfield bedsheets. That weekend my parents wanted me to go to mass, and I told them I was sick. I don’t remember much of what happened, because I blocked everything out.

Then there was the time when I was older. My buddy Sefton is practically a brother to me, and has been my consistent friend since middle school. I hold Sefton so near and dear to my heart because he was the only one who stood up and said something about it. I have NEVER forgotten that, and this is why I’m friends with him to this day. I was panicked as I sat on that bed as someone who I thought was our friend began to rip my clothes off. He (my abuser, not Sefton) told me that his mom was a nurse, and therefore he knew where all my sensitive spots were. He took great entertainment in undressing me in front of everyone as I awkwardly pushed myself away into a corner.

Sefton saw what was happening and was the only one who stood up and said something about it. He saved me from a situation I was too shocked and scared to get myself out of. I told a few friends about what happened, to which a kid named Brandon pointed out what happened to me was assault, but I quickly shut him down because I didn’t want the spotlight on me. My abuser was a known pathological liar, and he’d just spread further rumors about me… I wanted this to all be forgotten.

The pain of knowing. I’ve talked about this topic before in other blogs. Well, I’m here to tell you that the pain of knowing is why many people don’t come forward. For me, there was a lot of reasons. I didn’t want my parents to experience the pain of knowing their only daughter was abused; I can’t imagine that anguish as a parent. For the instance that happened when I was a teenager, I didn’t want my friend to know that her boyfriend (and future husband) was actually a scum bag; she adored him. I didn’t want her to choose him over our friendship. She divorced him eventually, knowing that he was a shitlord.

God left me a long time ago… much like the memories I have of those incidents which I have been drowned out by the defense mechanism that psychologists call “repression.” The one act of mercy out of all of this is that I can’t recall the details of my abuse even if I tried (partially due to a few concussions as well). I may not be able to recall the details, but the finger prints of abuse covered my skin for the longest time. Even as an adult, I’d flinch if people put their hand on my shoulder… I’m like a watch dog in public when I have kids present. I walked through Walmart with my nieces and I kept them close to me and made eye contact with every person I saw so they’d know they were on my radar. I absolutely can’t watch rape scenes in movies. I had to leave the room when my ex-girlfriend and I were watching the Netflix documentary on the “Nightstalker” because it literally made me start to pour sweat; she was incredibly empathetic to it, which made the embarrassment of me leaving the room sting less. I’ve done therapy for these things, yet these fingerprints will always remain.

I got so fucking angry at the idiots on Facebook who defended Bill Cosby, just because he was squeaky clean. “They just want him for his money,” look, no amount of money is worth having to go through that shit! The legal battles, the people ridiculing you… NOBODY DOES THAT FOR AN ABYSMAL AMOUNT OF MONEY YOU FOOL!

I remember going to confession and being absolutely terrified to admit that I was sexually abused… like it was MY FAULT or some crazy shit. I went into the confessional, I didn’t dare face the priest, and I don’t recall what I told him. I sugar coated it, I’m sure, because knowing Father Francis if I had told him the truth he would have marched right out of there and got my parents; he was a kind man with integrity.

I never went back to confession after that. Not once.

I forgave my first abuser, as they themselves were young and scared… I hope he knows I forgave him. As for the rest… fuck no. I hope they rot. They took away my innocence. They robbed me of being able to be truly intimate with people for the longest time.

The more I talk about this, the more I realize I am not alone in these experiences. I find that men have a harder time talking about this than women, as they feel even weaker because of what was done to them, which is far from the truth. I hear from people as they talk about being abused by their spouses, and how people think that doesn’t count, or by their co-workers and they are black listed because they speak up. I too experienced this, as I outed someone for having deplorable behavior at work. I was black listed for calling them out and leaving for it, even though people throughout the organization knew about it too. It’s like they knew it, were grossed out by it, but didn’t want to get involved with it… so they distanced themselves from me. I’ve never felt so alone in my whole damn life… I didn’t even want to speak up about it because I knew I’d get professionally fucked over by even saying anything, and I’d have to re-live all the trauma I experienced as a kid. The doubters, the nay sayers, the people who don’t want to get involved because you’re “the squeaky wheel.” I STILL HESITATE TO TALK ABOUT IT… it’s like I’m made to feel ashamed for something THEY FUCKING DID!

For the longest time I thought there was something wrong with me because I got molested, like I had a flaw in my character. I always get so pissed when people say things like “oh they were asking for it by the way they dressed,” motherfucker, NOBODY ASKS FOR THIS! The sad fact is that if you’ve had it happen to you, you’re more likely to have it happen again. The same goes for people who fall into abusive relationships, are tempted my narcissists, and so on. And it’s for a variety of reasons. Some do it to recreate the trauma, so they can enact power on the situation. For me, I got into these situations because I was a people pleaser and didn’t want to rock the boat. I’m not that gal anymore… you act like a disgusting shitlord, I’m holding you to it. You try to touch me, you’re getting your jaw broken.

I struggled with god for a long time. I knew my sexuality was viewed as a sin, and I was always confused as to why god would make me that way? Why was I born like this? So uncomfortable in my own skin. People will point to my sexual abuse and say that’s why I’m queer but I knew I was long before those events happened to me. I was born this way… 100%.

I struggled because I was a good catholic kid. I never cheated, lied, or stole. I served the lord for years, both inside the church as an alter server (which I took that job VERY seriously) and outside of the church as a Girl Scout. I honored my mother and my father, went to mass every Sunday… why me? What did little Linnie do to deserve that? I lived an honest life with a kind heart, and still I got hurt. As an adult, that’s not so much the case… I still have a high degree of integrity and kindness, but I’m far from perfect. Still, I don’t feel like I deserve the shit people have dealt to me. It makes me further cynical and makes me think that good people don’t get what they want out of life…

Still, I find myself praying at night to someone I don’t even know exists. I don’t know why…