I did a brave thing today. I was deep in my thoughts, spinning through the complexities of life and enjoying my coffee and current book. I have been reading a memoir entitled “A Well-Trained Wife: My Escape from Christian Patriarchy” by Tia Levings. Under the recommendation from my brother, the book held parallels to our own upbringing in the Christian faith. The controversial read arrived to me in the mail along with a warning from my brother, “This book is an intense one”. I am about 5 chapters deep and the unearthing of memories and emotions is like ripping open a wound. A wound that under the surface is still throbbing. Throbbing from the infection of a spirit that had sought out steadiness in my chaotic world. I spent a large majority of my life embedded in Christian culture, fighting against “worldly influences” and my own instincts. I have touched on my thoughts about Christianity in my piece “Exploit & Shame: All in Jesus’ Name”, and “Part 3: The Year I Lost My Husband, My Dad and My God.” My religion growing up saturated so much of my story. Like the author, my story is fragrant with all the themes of obedience, purity, and female repression. I have been taking the book in spurts due to its heart wrenching nature. I closed the hardcover book and set it on the table. I began rifling through my memories of growing up in the church. I started recalling the countless books I had read, the scripture I had faithfully memorized, and the sermons I hung my truth on. It was a lot, and I didn’t want this rabbit hole to consume me. I felt frustrated like when I am on an endless scrolling stint, wanting to stop but feeling powerless to turn away. I realized I was not going to be able to turn away from what had bubbled up. I needed to put some parameters around my thoughts or at least gain some understanding as to where I was in my younger years when I was a “sold out, born-again Christain”. I reluctantly slugged down the stairs, opening the heavy door to the back storage. Feeling the weight of every bin I set down, I finally got to the dusty red one. The red one with all my old journals and such. The dusty red one that over the years had moved many places with me, all the while its contents never disturbed. I cracked open the lid. I moved a few things around till I found three of countless past journals. I decidedly put the lid back on and brought the journals upstairs.
Now, when I say I did a brave thing today, I mean it. I was afraid. Scared to what I might find in the pages. Would it make me angry? Sad? Might I feel shame, embarrassment from once being a cross-wielding zombie? But like with anything that has the allure of the unknown and the possibility of fresh perspective, I could not resist the curiosity that had overcome me. I spent just short of two hours rummaging through page after page of my journals, most of which were from my early twenties. The themes were there. Numerous relationships, ups and downs of failing to meet “godly” standards, the struggle for my identity, letters to a God I loved and wondering why I did not feel his presence. I felt sick. I knew how the next 15 years would pan out. It was as if I was going back in time and experiencing my thoughts firsthand as a 20 something. It was by far the strangest, unnerving experience. I felt slight disappointment that I struggle with some of the same themes when it comes to self-acceptance and self- love. However, it was the perspective I have now after all I have been through, that brought me to tears. The rollercoaster of a younger me trying so hard to be accepted, not just by herself, friends, and family, but to be accepted by the Creator of her very existence. The younger me was operating in that tension of never measuring up and the struggle to have a cohesive self-understanding. The pages were filled with mediocre cursive just brushing the surface of past trauma and pain. My pen was quickly directed to begin apologizing for my sinful nature and pleads to feel my Heavenly Father’s presence and guidance. And so, the cycle continued, never giving myself the chance to feel all of me. To feel without shame, the part of me that had clearly been sexually abused, the part of me that wanted to have fun, the part of me that struggled with abandonment, and the part of me that longed to discover all the thigs the world had to offer. Like an ostrich with its head in the sand, Christianity at the very least crippled my ability to have an understanding of myself as a whole complete person. Instead, I slapped a sin label on everything and found a Bible verse for every tempting situation.
Someone recently asked me honestly, without judgement, “Why all of my trauma and pain is rising to the surface now?”. The Savigirl Substack (this blog) is filled with stories and emotions of all the things I am experiencing or have experienced. I felt a bit sheepish from the question as my critical internal voice whispered, “shouldn’t you have worked through it already?” My answer to his question was most definitely confirmed today. I grew up in a religion that in some difficult moments brought me comfort but for the most part dominated every pocket of my life with the answer of sin, obedience, pray and trust God. The answers for everything, the solution for all your problems, struggles and disappointments. We have a complicated existence and watering it down to fit into the confines of one book and its countless interpretations is a tragedy. My tragedy. As I re-wire my brain and uncover all that was muted, I find a solace in knowing that I am doing it for the freeing of my soul, not the avoidance of damming it. I am closing the journals for now. My quiet reflective time is over as the house is now filled with my fearsome four. Tonight is our family night, and we just might talk about the wonderful art of journaling. 🌻
You are so strong 🥰