Discovering Neurodiversity in Myself and My Family

I was mindlessly scrolling TikTok the other day, and a video of a nurse giving advice about patient care came across my FYP. I immediately went down a rabbit hole of googling a bunch of the different information she was talking about, and before I knew it I had over a dozen browser tabs open and I was totally absorbed in learning about hyponatremia, osmotic demyelination syndrome, the neurophysiology of thirst, and on and on. I was sitting there looking at all my reading and I remembered how when I was a kid I used to LOVE to read a book my mom had about childhood illnesses, infections, injuries, etc.

I read the entire book over and over as a kid because I found it sooo interesting. I could study it for hours. It really helped with taking care of my siblings when they were sick sometimes too because I had essentially memorized a lot of the illnesses, symptoms, and treatments or at least knew exactly where to find the info in the book. I didn't realize that wasn't really a typical fascination that everyone had until recently. I used to get so confused when other people didn't know the same things I did, and especially when they didn't seem to even want to, because I thought everybody found it interesting and wanted to learn about it too. I ran into that with my near-obsession with studying pregnancy, childbirth, and lactation as well. I didn't understand how everyone else didn't want to know all this information, or even seemed bothered by it? And people I knew seemed weirded out or even concerned by how much I was interested in the medical details of it all.

I think I got a lot of my traits like that from my dad. :) He is a SUPER curious person. He loves to learn about anything medical, scientific, technological, etc. I had surgery for a tumor on the side of my head when I was 6 years old, and I remember my dad pointing out all the interesting stuff about the tests and scans to me, talking to me about the procedures and medications. I didn't feel afraid at all. It just made me curious and interested in the process. He didn't talk about it like it was something scary, just "Look at that!! You can see your blood going into the tube! Isn't that awesome???!" and it totally was to me. Thinking back, I'm sure part of it was that it was really interesting to him but also it was his unique way of trying to help me not be afraid. Its still how I approach medical situations for myself today. It didn't work on any of my siblings, and it doesn't work on my own kid either, but it totally worked well for me.

It dawned on me that this could probably qualify as a "special interest", and it probably worked for me because my dad and I share similar personality types, ways of thinking, etc. 3 of my 5 siblings have gotten an adult diagnosis of ADHD, autism, or both in the past few years. We all had a few conversations about it, and several of them brought up to me that they feel a lot of my traits and behaviors that my family struggled with in my childhood were probably related to me being neurodiverse also. We also discussed how both of my parents have a LOT of different traits of both ADHD and autism that affected the way we did things as a family, how we all related and interacted with eachother, and pretty much everything we did. Its SO interesting to me seeing all of our personalities and behaviors from another perspective this way. Its also really heavy seeing the way things could have been different, better, if all of us (especially my parents!) would have been aware of their neurodivergence and gotten support for their unique needs and found ways to make things work for them. I'm really glad it seems that a lot of us are doing this work now for ourselves as adults, and passing down that awareness and support to our kids. Already my own child and my nieces and nephews are getting lots of support that all of us could have used as kids. My mind has been totally blown by observing my kid and realizing that their dad has gone his whole life undiagnosed as well! I had absolutely no idea so much of his behavior was actually traits of the specific flavor of neurodiversity that they share until I started seeing the same patterns pop up in my kid that could not have been learned behavior. I used to be super judgmental about it, I didn't understand how differently other peoples' brains worked and I thought a lot of differences were just a choice or a character flaw. I learned first hand how wrong that is. So many of us have gone our entire life thinking that our different traits and behaviors were flaws that needed to be hidden or corrected. Some of it became the fuel for abuse and mistreatment by caretakers and people around us. We carried negative beliefs about ourselves into adulthood and it has held us back so much. I'm really hopeful that we're moving closer to a day when those differences and support needs are just part of the normal spectrum of human existence in society. Which really gets me thinking about how much work there is still to be done in disability activism. If you haven't seen it yet, Crip Camp: A Disability Revolution is still streaming on Netflix, and its an awesome introduction to embracing the diversity of human experience, and how we can make the world more accessible to everyone with all different levels of support needs.

Pride 2021

Pride has become super important to me. I've spent my whole life mostly lost in the closet. I'd peek my head out every so often, but then I'd go back in. When I was younger, I never felt like I fit well into any of the gender or sexuality labels that I knew existed.The cis hetero script society hands us didn't fit me, but neither did the definitions of being lesbian or a trans man, which were the first alternatives I heard about. I'd keep questioning those over and over and keep coming to the same conclusion. I didn't know wtf I was, so I just stuck to the default settings.

Growing up in an extreme patriarchal religion with strict gender roles complicated things a lot. So many of the choices I made were based on the limitations of what I thought was possible within that world. The constant message that masculinity was awesome but femininity was obnoxious and inferior both fed into and clouded the gender dysphoria I didn't know yet that I was feeling. Traditional feminine things often felt uncomfortable or uninteresting to me, so being told they sucked seemed like a benefit me...to a point. I was still labelled a girl and therefore was still subject to those same expectations and rules in the end-- everything you are and everything you do has to revolve around what men find attractive and acceptable. That was like a giant mile high concrete barrier I couldn't get past in order to "just be myself". It can feel impossible to tell where gender dysphoria starts and ends when misogyny is embedded in absolutely everything around you, and its equally hard to find your sexuality when your entire world is ruled by patriarchal heteronormativity.

Somehow, some way, over the years I've worked to dissect things and try to extricate myself from that mess. Sorting through the clutter little by little and finding treasure where I was told there was only trash. Discovering diverse and accepting communities online where people are safe to explore the nuances of their gender and sexuality has been invaluable. Visibility is LIFE SAVING. Its taken time for me to stumble across identities and words that seem to fit me better, like gender non-conforming and non-binary. When I found those, I felt like I'd found home. Sexuality was a bit trickier for me though. Religious patriarchy and purity culture is a traumatic MESS. Even outside of that though, nothing ever felt right. I remember being around all the women in beauty school and the salon and hearing them talk openly about their sexual attraction to men. I thought they were joking until I realized they definitely weren't. I was totally confused and definitely missing something. People have told me I'm obviously a lesbian in denial for almost my entire adult life. Mostly due to the gender non-conforming appearance I think? But every time I listened to bi and lesbian women talk about their sexual attraction to other women, it didn't resonate with me at all either. No matter how much I explored that idea, it just didn't click either. I'd always be left feeling like I must just be defective in some way. All my partners over the years seemed to agree. Both men and women were as frustrated and confused as me. Then recently, I found the asexual community. Suddenly everything made perfect sense. Sexual attraction is just not something I experience. I still find tons of people of all genders beautiful, dreamy. I can feel affectionate toward people I like. Without getting too TMI, I don't have any issues with my hormones or ability to experience pleasure. I can enjoy good sex as much as the next person. I just don't ever see someone and feel a sexual attraction to them. Never have. And that's okay! Finding that piece of the puzzle has made me so much more comfortable with myself.

In the past, I was so scared I would lose everyone I care about if I was honest about myself. I was scared nobody would understand. I was scared nobody would take me seriously or believe me. I was scared nobody would like me anymore. But having communities of people who can actually relate means everything. Seeing them helps me remind myself that I am valid. It can be so hard feeling like there's something wrong with you compared to everyone else. And I really have lost a lot of people I love in my process--partners, family, friends. It hurts and I miss them. It's hard to NOT feel like something is wrong with you when the most important people to you can't accept you. But also a bunch of you have stuck around and loved me all the more!! Some of you don't even know how much I've struggled internally with it all, to you I was always just me no matter what, and always worthy of love! I feel so thankful for all of you who have seen me and accepted me when I couldn't yet.
I don't want to feel like I need to defend and justify my existence anymore, to myself or anyone else. Its hard to erase decades of voices echoing in my head repeating all the criticisms I've heard, but joining together with supportive people to celebrate helps so much. That's why pride means so much to me.

Love,
Your local queer space frog

Deconstructing my journey with gender

This is a pretty vulnerable subject, one that many curious minds have asked me to write about for some time now. I haven't really been ready to talk openly about it up until this point. I started this post in the summer of 2016. The truth is, I haven't really ever known what to say. I don't have a clear-cut conclusion, I don't have myself "figured out" by any stretch of the imagination, I have no remarkable transformation story to tell. So, in the vein of this blog, I've decided to just go ahead and present myself as I am. 

I don't remember thinking about gender much at all in my earliest memories. I played with toys. I wore clothes. I was just a child, doing things I enjoyed and wearing things I found comfortable and fun.
The first time I remember becoming aware of the significance of gender was when a well-meaning adult asked what I wanted to be when I grew up. I answered that I wanted to play football. I wanted to go to college in Nebraska and play for the Nebraska Cornhuskers. The adult laughed as if it was the most preposterous thing he had ever heard and informed me that I couldn't, because I was a girl. I was shocked. I remember thinking about it and processing that information for a long time after that, and coming to the reluctant conclusion that it really was true-- I was a girl and there were no girls in football. That was the first moment I can remember when my gender felt like something itchy and wrong and ill-fitting. Or maybe it was myself that was itchy and wrong and ill-fitting? Either way, I was forced to accept I was stuck in this and it sucked. I was going to have to figure out a plan B.

I liked wearing my hair short. My dad hated short hair and often quoted the Bible verse about a woman's hair being her glory. Other men and boys echoed the sentiment. Women at church would remark about how it was such a shame I had short hair because I'd be so lovely with it long. I constantly felt guilty and wondered if something must be wrong with me for preferring my hair short. I became concerned that nobody would ever love me with short hair. I worried about it a lot, but I really couldn't stand having long hair. I tried to let it grow out several times, but would end up cutting it off again in a fit of unbearable discomfort. I'd feel both immense relief and happiness...and guilt and anxiety, knowing the negative comments would be rolling in soon. 

I was raised to follow traditional Biblical gender roles, meaning women were not allowed to teach or lead. They were to be submissive and obedient. I didn't feel like I had any real female role models. I remember learning vaguely about Joan of Arc's existence, although it was very hush hush and skimmed over and accompanied by some grumbles that signified there was something bad about her. I was fascinated. I wasn't allowed to learn more, but I remember sort of tucking away the idea that there was someone else out there in time and space who seemed like me in some way. I remember learning about the plot of Mulan when it came out, even though I wasn't allowed to watch it, I felt really excited about it. In real life, everyone I looked up to was male, but I wasn't allowed to be like them. I was supposed to be an obedient, quiet, submissive woman. I tried to balance a line between emulating all the things I liked and admired about men and boys, and not getting in trouble or making anyone upset. 

As I got toward later elementary years, I was drawn to boy clothes almost exclusively, I just thought I looked cool. My 5th grade year, I picked out my entire back-to-school wardrobe from the boy's section, but I still wore dresses on Wednesdays and Sundays for chapel and church services as required, and I didn't mind.
I remember learning about the term "tomboy". I never felt like I was a tomboy, because everyone said tomboys hated wearing dresses and were good at sports. I wished I could be a tomboy, because that sounded really cool, but I didn't seem to fit in that box either. I had many typically "girly" interests--I loved playing with dolls and playing dress-up, looked forward to wearing makeup, enjoyed painting my nails, etc. 
I still enjoyed tons of stuff that was considered typically "boyish" though. I attribute much of this to the fact that I loved doing anything with my dad. Computers, racing, watching sports, lifting weights, everything outdoors, and more. I'm fortunate that I was allowed to participate in that stuff as much as I was! 

I remember in my middle school years, I wanted desperately to skateboard, but the only people I knew who skated were boys. All of them brushed me off when I tried to join in or talk to them about it. I wanted to play football with the boys out in the field next to the church. Same result. "Why don't you go find the girls and play with them." I remember being told by an adult that boys don't like girls trying to compete with them in their space, so to just let boys be boys and stay out of their interests. I gave up trying to learn and just stuck to watching skate videos and football games at home and "being a poser". I didn't form very close friendships with other girls either generally, because I tended to come across as weird to them and we didn't seem to have much in common. I bonded with whichever girls didn't seem to mind in whatever ways we could, but they most often had much closer friendships with other girls and eventually our friendship would taper off as those strengthened.

I don't remember when this happened first, but I remember many times hearing the "hilarious story" of the bill my parents received from the hospital after my birth. My first name is typically male, so the hospital had mistakenly billed my parents for a circumcision, as was routine. My parents laughed, "the doctor must have aimed a little too low!" Its the first time I remember entertaining the idea of being born as a boy. I was definitely beginning to associate the idea of being male with positive ideas, like being cool and fun...and the idea of being female felt uncomfortable, restrictive, bad. 

As puberty was on the horizon, suddenly so much of life began to revolve around romantic relationships and everyone's worth was so tied up in what the opposite sex thought of them. All the generalizations about men and women and all the pop culture stereotyped gender roles were unavoidable. I remember hearing the complaints women made about men, and the complaints men made about women. In my inexperienced mind, I concluded, I'm not like women! I would never get upset about stuff while the football game was on! I'd totally love to go camping! It was clear to me that men just wanted to do fun things, and women always ruined it for some reason by being annoying? They wanted jewelry and dumb stuff for some reason, I didn't want any of that. I knew which side I'd rather be on. I focused much of my energy at that point on becoming perfect wife material, and separating myself from identifying with and relating to other women.
I was unknowingly feeding into my own growing internalized misogyny. I hated the way I saw women acting and being portrayed and being talked about and I couldn't relate to it one bit. I wasn't anything like "those women", that disgusted me. I was a "good woman", different from all of them. I was going to do everything men wanted, be the best companion, then we'd live blissfully ever after together. This was the beginning of my life as a "cool girl". 

It shaped my romantic relationships in many ways I didn't expect. Men did seem excited and appreciative at first about our shared interests and the fact that I was "low maintenance" compared to those "other women", however, it inevitably wore off. After a short time, my partners wouldn't allow me to join them in activities associated with our shared interests anymore, because I'd be the only girl or girlfriend there. "Its just for the guys, you understand, honey? Why don't you go have a girl's night?" But I didn't have girls. I just had him and my guy friends that quickly became HIS guy friends. So I'd just end up sitting at home by myself, while my partner and all our friends were out doing fun things I wanted to do. 
In our shared life, I did the entirety of the housework despite often working outside the home at times significantly more than my partners. I did all the grocery shopping and cooked every meal- hot dinner on the table each night as he returned from work, packed lunches, hot breakfast in the morning. All the laundry, all the cleaning. I submitted myself dutifully in bed to his every whim. I rationally controlled my emotions, never complained or criticized, never let myself seem grumpy or sad, especially around my period. I carefully chose my words to always affirm him and stroke his ego. I kept myself attractive and presentable in his presence according to his specific preferences. I'd sit silently as he exclaimed his attractions to other women ("because its just guys being guys") while I would never, ever bat an eye at or speak to another man so as not to arouse his jealousy. I'd listen intently to him vent about his work day, I'd give a massage, I'd wait on him hand and foot. I worked incredibly hard to be any man's "dream girl" thinking this was the key to the life I wanted. Permission and approval to be myself. 

But not only did it NOT do that, it created a power dynamic in which I was always at a disadvantage. Dismissive, disrespectful, and downright abusive behavior would start to blossom and escalate. My partners would always feel loved and secure and satisfied with the relationship, but I did not. I was miserable and sad and isolated and hurt. Suddenly I was finding myself in the same shoes as all those "other women" I so desperately wanted to separate myself from. I didn't understand why I was being treated this way. I didn't do any of those things men said made them hate women. So why was I still being treated so horribly? I didn't realize at the time that it didn't matter one bit. It has nothing to do with what you did or didn't do. You could never earn your way to good treatment. I was still a girl, and that was the role of a girl in the relationship. That was the way girls were treated, period. The pattern repeated itself, and I continually found myself becoming frustratingly like those dreaded "other girls" at the end of my relationships-- complaining, crying, lonely, wanting the tiniest bit of kindnesses, but the more I asked to be treated with basic respect, the more my partners became resentful, violent, distant. Just like I was taught when I was a child-- Only men deserve respect. Women were just to serve and submit. 

When I was 19 years old and living alone after my already failed first marriage despite my impressive efforts to be the perfect embodiment of the perfect submissive wife, I intentionally cross-dressed for the very first time. I bound down my breasts, and took pictures of myself posing with my baseball cap on and no makeup. I don't remember why I decided to try it, but I definitely felt like nobody could ever find out.
It wasn't long after that I found out about FTM transgender people online. I was extremely intrigued and researched it exhaustively. My boyfriend at the time discovered it and became concerned. He got angry and began demanding reassurance that I wasn't identifying with it. I brushed it off and lied "Of course not! I just find it interesting." Ultimately I concluded that it must not apply to me because I didn't experience the "always knowing I was a boy" or the extreme examples of body dysphoria that were described, so I tucked all the information away and tried not to think of it again, even though I was still inexplicably drawn to anything and everything I ran across that had to do with gender nonconforming. 

One day many years later, when that boyfriend had become my husband, I was having yet another meltdown over a haircut. It was such a regular occurrence over the years, he had nicknamed it my hair crisis. He demanded to know why I just couldn't stand having certain hairstyles even though they looked beautiful on me, why I was so picky with clothing even when it looked perfect, why those things made me SO uncomfortable that I felt like I wanted to crawl out of my own skin. I sat there analyzing it. All in an instant, it suddenly dawned on me that the things that bothered me are feminine.

All the pieces suddenly came together and everything made sense. I was constantly frustrated with wanting everything to be "plain", I kept trying to describe, I just like things plain! I didn't want "pretty" or "fancy" stuff unless it was an outfit to dress up in. I hated ruffles and ruching and beading and sequins and embroidered flourishes and all the feminine touches they put on female clothing. 

 

I didn't like typically feminine haircuts, like any kind of bangs/fringe, layered bobs, braids, curls. I didn't like being referred to as "princess" or "queen" or "goddess" or anything feminine. That's what it had been all along. 

After that, I embarked on an experiment-- I explored only wearing what I wanted to wear, regardless of what I felt was expected of me. It was much more difficult than I expected. I worried constantly about what people thought. Would people notice and ask me about it? Would they think I was becoming a lesbian or "letting myself go"? Would my partner still find me attractive? Would anyone still find me attractive? This period of time unfortunately coincided with my husband at the time having an affair. When discovered, he admitted that my decrease in femininity (alongside many, many other issues between us at that time) had contributed to him no longer finding me attractive.

I reevaluated my priorities, and determined at that time it was more important for me to try to keep my family together. So I deeply examined my feelings of discomfort toward femininity. It was then that I uncovered the extreme internalized misogyny and began to work through it, bit by bit. I realized that my experiences had revealed there was no such thing as those "other women". The difference between me and them was an illusion. I felt for the first time like I had a connection to womanhood. We were all struggling that struggle. As I confronted my feelings and beliefs, I replaced the negative ideas I had about femininity and womanhood, and my strong aversions to it lessened. However, I still didn't make my full realization about the role I was trying to play. After that point, I wore wigs, I grew out my hair, I always put on makeup, etc. thinking it was the right thing to do to try to save my marriage. Of course it didn't, because that wasn't the issue. It was during the split up that I learned about personal boundaries. This knowledge completely changed my life. Being a "good woman" didn't have to mean being a doormat, and it wasn't wrong to expect respect and reciprocation from my partner.


I reverted to my androgynous style, but couldn't shake the increased approval and positive attention I got when I presented feminine. I was constantly torn between trying to feel like myself, and feeling the assurance of acceptance and approval. I flip-flopped a lot. I experimented with being even more masculine than I'd ever been, I'd vacillate between feeling confident and disgusting. Similarly, if I broke down and femme'd it up in order to feel attractive, I'd simultaneously feel desirable and uncomfortable, like putting on a mask to use as a social crutch, and that everyone's compliments were fake, to a false presentation of myself. I panicked over the idea that perhaps nobody would ever find me attractive as "myself" whatever that might be. What if another partner left me and couldn't love me like this? I couldn't feel comfortable in anything.

Well-meaning friends tried to give me advice on how to do masculinity "right". Tried to tell me to walk differently, dance differently, which clothes and colors to wear, how to style my hair. Constantly commenting on and criticizing my ability to "pass" as more male. That created just as much stress and anxiety for me as feeling compelled to look more feminine. 
I didn't want to change all those things about myself. I just wanted to like the things I like and wear the things I want to wear. Nobody seemed comfortable with whatever that was, so neither was I. Getting dressed for the day was fraught with more anxiety than I cared to admit. I periodically revisited the idea of whether or not I might be transgender. Was I just afraid and in denial? I was definitely afraid. Was there a box I fit in? I didn't know. Who the heck was I? 

Maybe none of this would have been confusing at all if I'd never been told that girls can't do all of the things I wanted to do. Maybe none of this would have been confusing at all if I'd never been taught that women are inferior and a nuisance.
Maybe none of this would have been confusing if I wouldn't have been taught that from an early age that my survival and happiness would depend on my level of desirability to men.

Over the years I've seen more and more women doing the things I was told I couldn't do, and I always feel deeply, painfully envious and full of regret. I wonder, how did they get through when I couldn't? I have to grieve for all the opportunities I lost, for the person I would be, if I hadn't accepted all those lies as truths.

These days I have become more comfortable with the idea of claiming the label "nonbinary". I don't fit neatly into society's expected presentation or roles of "male" or "female". My lived experiences resonate very much with being assigned female at birth, and that isn't something that will go away, no matter how much I never felt like I fit in that box either. 

The pronouns I use are they/them.


I wish there was a way I could show everyone what gender dysphoria feels like so they could understand, in that intimate and unshakable way, the way we experience it. The deep consistent knowing beyond the shadow of a doubt that something isn't right, doesn't fit. And also the feeling of gender euphoria! When for the first time, something feels like home. Until then, I hope that those of you who don't share this experience will trust and respect us who do.  🖤💜🤍💛 

A Way Forward: Disclosure (TW: rape/sexual assault)

 My name is Parker, and I was raped and sexually assaulted by Kyle Dropik (DemonBear13/Bear King)

I have written this thousands of times in my head before today, waiting for the day when I felt ready to say the words. I’m not writing to “talk shit” about Kyle, in fact I have to admit I still love him. I’m writing because trying to carry the secret has been so heavy. It has weighed me down every day for over 5 ½ years and I feel ready to try to set it down.
From what I understand, Kyle himself disclosed this information to some people in his life several years ago, I’m not sure who and I don’t know what was said. But he encouraged me to talk openly about it at the time too, I just wasn’t able to yet. The choice to keep silent was mine.

You might wonder why. There were many reasons. The first being I wasn’t ready to admit it to myself. I still have a very hard time. It makes me absolutely unbearably sad, to have to try to face it and accept that it was real. My mind kicks and screams and fights when I’m forced to acknowledge it. Everything in me doesn’t want it to be true. I’m completely overwhelmed with grief when I think about it.
Another reason is that I doubted people would believe me. I could hardly bring myself to believe it and I experienced it, how could I expect anyone else to accept the information??? I couldn’t bear to face people’s reactions. Everything was far too painful and I felt much too fragile to face the fallout. I didn’t want to lose him, I didn’t want to lose anyone else, I didn’t want any of this. So, I tried to pretend it didn’t happen as much as I could. I wanted it all to go away.

Today however, I’m ready. I recently watched the Epstein documentary series on Netflix and it was enormously healing for me to hear those women tell their stories. It had an incredible impact on me, listening to them explain how they didn’t react, didn’t leave, didn’t immediately run away, didn’t fight, didn’t tell anyone. They all said the same things. The shame I’ve felt over that for years has eaten me alive. But now, I don’t feel ashamed anymore. I had no idea how common of a reaction it was. I know I've read that it is normal, but it was different hearing their stories. I know without a shadow of a doubt now, that if I was to tell my story, someone else out there would believe me, and they would hear me and feel the same way. You are not alone. It is not your fault. The fact that you didn’t fight/scream/run/tell everyone/do something about it doesn’t mean you deserve what happened to you.

I have been through years of therapy. I’ve been diagnosed with disabling PTSD. I’ve done EMDR, CPT, and more. It has been grueling, painful, gut-wrenching work. It took me until this year, as part of a therapy assignment, before I was able to sit down and write out and read aloud a full account of what happened. Healing is out there. The burden gets a little lighter. There are people who will believe and support and understand you. <3

This is my story.

One night a month and a half into our relationship, Kyle and I started having consensual sex. However, I did something that made me accidentally throw up some, and I’m extremely emetophobic. I immediately started having a massive panic attack and crying hysterically. It took him quite some time to help me get calmed down, and I eventually was ready to crash out so Kyle tucked me in to sleep.
I was asleep curled up on my side when some time later, I woke up to feeling his fingers suddenly shoved inside of me. I was groggy and still trying to register what was happening, so I didn’t outwardly respond besides grimacing in discomfort. I tried to reposition my body to block him and he pulled his hand away. I started to drift back off to sleep, but the next thing I knew his body was on top of me and he forced himself inside of me. I was very shocked and confused, trying to process what was happening. I remember thinking “Is this real? Is this actually happening? What the fuck???!!” I tried to twist my body away, push my arms against him to resist, show discomfort, thinking that would be enough to make him realize I didn’t want it and stop. But it didn’t at all. He grabbed my body and shoved me back into position on my side, and held my arms out of the way. That is when I started to really panic. He wasn’t going to stop. He didn’t care that I didn’t want it. He could tell that I didn’t want it, and he didn’t care.
I just kind of checked out of my mind for a while at that point. I didn’t know what to do. I remember staring at my bedroom wall next to the bed through my eyes cracked open, and I just laid there. He pulled out and started to try to force himself into my ass. I clenched my eyes shut and shook my head no, no, no, no, no. I gritted my teeth in pain and tears were leaking from the corners of my eyes. He didn’t seem phased at all. I hoped it would end soon. I couldn’t understand why this was happening.
When he finished, he jumped up quickly and wiped himself off. I expected him to wipe me off or toss me the towel like normal, maybe say something to me, acknowledge me in some way? But he didn’t. He left me there, and just plopped down behind me, pulled up the covers, and within a few minutes was snoring. I had thought he might kiss me goodnight, or kiss me on the forehead like he did when I was asleep sometimes, do something to acknowledge me, anything at all... but he didn’t. It hit me like a ton of bricks. I felt sick. How could he do that to my body, and just leave me there like nothing, less than nothing?? Someone he seemed to care for and love normally?? I just laid there in complete shock, not knowing what the fuck to do. Thinking maybe I’d wake up from this awful nightmare. After a little bit, I got up and went to the bathroom to clean up. I was sore, torn, bleeding. I went and sat on the couch in the living room and tried to figure out what to do from there. The next morning, I confronted him, and he denied it. I wouldn’t let it go. I remember I started asking him “Why? Why would you do that to me???” and he finally replied “I don’t know” and broke down crying.

We talked more about it later, and I decided to stay with him because I liked him a lot and told myself I didn’t think it would happen again. I could put it behind us and we could go on with our lives.
Except I didn’t realize it was going to unexpectedly affect everything about my life. Everything changed whether I wanted it to or not.

I was right that he wouldn’t do that again. But he started to do other nonconsensual things during sex and in our attempts at BDSM scenes. I had to teach him about consent, negotiation, checking in, aftercare...but he wouldn’t do any of it with me. One thing that I found the most traumatic happened several times. He would very suddenly and forcefully attempt to fist me. With no warning, no warm-up, no discussion of it whatsoever. It was totally unexpected, extremely painful, and scary for me. I knew he was into fisting porn, so after the first time, I told him I was totally down to try it with him, we could talk about it and work up to it in the proper ways, but he always said no when I tried to talk to him about it. And it would happen again. I’d have to kick and fight him off screaming and be left crying, bleeding, torn, and severely bruised for days. He would avoid even looking at me for days afterward. I didn’t understand. Every time it happened again, I felt like a complete idiot for putting myself in that position. I felt so stupid. I’d beg him not to ever do it again, and things would go well for a while, I’d trust him...and then BAM. I’d be devastated, humiliated, ashamed, furious with myself. I loved him so much. I just wanted things to be okay. I wanted us to be happy together.

I had gotten to the point where I could barely function. I laid in bed crying much of the time. I wanted to die. I had developed an extreme fear of men, of porn, of BDSM, everything I used to love. Songs, tv shows, overhearing people talk in public was triggering. Everything felt terrifying. Most of all, I was terrified of him. But I still loved him so much. It was heart wrenching. I had observed a constant pattern in his overall behavior that always bothered me deep down. I noticed he found vulnerabilities irresistible. The way he looked at the world disturbed me. He just saw things he could take. I would always talk to him about it, and I remember how proud he was of himself when he would catch himself sizing up a situation, seeing that he could take something, and would decide not to. I was glad...but it ate at me.
I couldn’t get it out of my mind, the way the more he saw you being damaged, the more he enjoyed it. It excited him.
Even when he was seeming generous, loving, hilarious, tender and caring, all the things I love about him...that darkness was always there.

I’m glad to hear that he seems to have a good grasp on consent, negotiations, aftercare, etc. now, even if at the same time its extremely painful that I didn’t get to experience that myself. I don’t know why this had to happen the way it did. It hurts really badly. I still have a long way to go in my recovery and healing, but I’m making progress all the time. I’m ready to keep taking the next steps to move forward.

by @elwingbling

Coming clean, my REAL journey of motherhood

When I laid my daughter down for bed tonight, she asked to look at pictures of herself as a baby. I brought up my Instagram and scrolled all the way back to the beginning of my photo uploads. As we began looking at each photo, I started to think about what we have been through together.

I once had a blog that I intended to use to chronicle my parenting journey, the adventures of our family, as I had seen so many other mothers and families do. I wrote, I think no more than 3 entries in that blog. The truth is I just couldn't bear to talk about what was going on in my life. Everyone was rooting for us. Everyone was ecstatic for us. I wanted my life to be the way I had thought it was going to be, the way everyone else was hoping it was, and it devastatingly wasn't. Everything was crumbling to pieces and I was desperately trying to hold it all together thinking that maybe, just maybe it would all come back together soon? I didn't tell anyone what was going on, because surely it was just all temporary, and I didn't want to let anyone down, or for anyone to think less of our family once we finally got everything together. But time dragged on, and holding the pieces together became more and more and more difficult, impossible even, and the cracks began to show, and I began to drown in a sea of expectations and opinions and guilt and responsibility and shame. And I hid it still, as best I could. The people I couldn't hide it from had to endure long painstaking monologues from me as I struggled to figure out what to do, what to do...

It has been 5 1/2 years now since my daughter's birth, and still I hide. I hide because of all the people who shamed me for staying with my child's father, then for leaving my child's father and becoming a single mom, for being a two-time divorcee, for being a woman who should have known better, for being a woman with visible tattoos, for being a woman who at times worked two jobs and still couldn't keep my head above water, for being a woman who almost died doing physical labor for barely above minimum wage, for being a woman who wasn't able to save my child from abuse and neglect at the hands of a caregiver while I worked those jobs, for being a woman who desperately needed food stamps, child support, and medicaid in order to provide for the basic needs of my child while I worked those jobs, for being a woman who couldn't figure out how to crawl out of the pit I had been tossed into, for being a woman who tried my absolute best to do everything right and still failed miserably.

How could I admit in front of all those people that I failed at the most important thing I would ever do and then essentially just gave up, lost hope, and began wandering through life aimlessly searching for something, anything that could give me any sense of purpose again? How could I tell this story to people who already thought I would fail, who looked at us to prove their prejudices? How could I tell this story to people who were confident I would succeed, to people who looked at us for inspiration? How could I tell this to anyone?

I couldn't.  I could barely accept it myself.
But now I will. Because this is my REAL journey of motherhood and I don't want to hide in shame anymore. Its not what I wanted, by any stretch of the imagination. Its not pretty or happy. Its dirty and messy and ugly and painful. This is not what I wanted to write in my mom blog about our family adventures. But this is it. This is my life, and this is Cricket's life.

The people who know my daughter's father well will tell you that he's never had a very good work ethic. He's creative, can be charismatic, a wealth of counter-culture information that drew me in as a curious 19 year old. In our time dating, he worked a handful of small one-off jobs out of necessity that he inevitably quit, not wanting to be a slave to "the man", pinned down to some dreary restrictive schedule droning on for eternity and sucking away his life energy. Seemed harmless enough as twenty-something child-free punk rockers with nary a responsibility in the world that seemed to matter at the time.
We had both talked about wanting children and a family in the future, and after being together for several years, him having stuck at a steady job and gotten his problematic drinking under control for over a year at that time, we decided the timing was good to try to bring a new light into the world. Shortly before finding out I was pregnant, he quit working for the usual reasons, and we had considered putting the trying on hold for a bit longer...but life had other ideas.
We both cried when we got those two lines on the pregnancy test. I had so many plans and hopes and dreams for this child.
Being severely emetophobic, the nausea of pregnancy felt like torture and I spent much of the time miserable.
My husband began working at a tattoo shop during that time, returning to an earlier career choice that he had previously given up on.
By my third trimester, I was starting to see signs of my husband's enthusiasm for this pregnancy waning, but I chalked it up to caregiver burnout and stress.

Within 24 hours of the birth of our daughter, I began questioning whether that was it. His lack of interest in the baby was beginning to concern me.
Within a week, I was sure that something was very, very wrong. I was beginning to unravel. Trying to recover from childbirth and nursing a newborn around the clock put me in the position of requiring help getting my basic needs met, but he seemed constantly absent and unavailable. He went out and binge drank several times, and drove drunk. At our daughter's first checkup, I fainted, because I hadn't eaten or slept more than 20 minutes in two days. I cried. I begged for help. I excitedly called to him to come see every cute and amazing thing our daughter was doing. But he became increasingly hostile and absent. I hid it from everyone. I wanted everyone to think I was doing a good job, and that it was going to be okay, he was going to come around soon.

By month 4, I had gotten more despondent. We had some good moments that got my hopes up, but many, many more that dashed them to dust. More blackout drinking and driving. Still no interest in interacting with the baby or even spending time together. He brought home less than $100/month from the tattoo shop on average, and our financial situation was becoming desperate. I wasn't able to hide it from visiting family members well anymore, my stress was palpable. I felt guilty.
They began inviting me to visit them out of state to help me get away. It helped me in the immediate moment, but instead of being able to enjoy my time, I worried intensely the entire time about what to do, what to do...
By 6 months, I broke down and revealed my situation to the moms I knew in groups online. It opened me up to storms of criticism and I felt crushed. Yet still, several moms reached out to me and sent me cloth diapers, detergent, a baby carrier, and other helpful items that became invaluable to me. Still to this day, I cry when I think about their generosity and how much their support changed my life.
Because we could no longer afford disposable diapers, I used the cloth diapers and hand washed them in the bath tub, drying them in the sun outside during the day. I took walks with Cricket in the carrier to clear my head, but often just seeing all the homes as we walked in the nearby neighborhood would leave me in tears back at home again, because I was losing hope that Cricket would ever get the childhood I knew she deserved. Because I wanted my husband back, I wanted him to be as in love with Cricket as I was, because she was so perfect and beautiful and yet he didn't seem to notice or care. I wanted so badly for her to be living the life I had dreamed for her, not this. To say my heart was shattered is an understatement. But I had to go on.

By 9 months, we were given notice of our electricity being shut off, and I was being sent warnings by the department of health and human services that our food stamps would be cut off if my husband did not attend workforce commission workshops for gainful employment. He was drinking heavily and refusing to attend. I had already sold almost everything of value that I had owned up to that point in order to keep us even minimally afloat. I would spend my entire day and night on the computer, trying to find ways to make money or get childcare and work. I constantly felt plagued by guilt that I wasn't spending quality time with Cricket, I was constantly trying to keep her occupied and out of my hair so I could just deal with the situation at hand. Finally I made the decision I felt I had to make, and called my family out of state to come pick me up.
They arrived within 3 days towing a trailer, and it was then that my husband suddenly seemed to feel a change of heart. He said out of the blue that he was afraid of losing Cricket. It tugged at my heart strings. Was he really interested in her? Finally? He made elaborate promises of trying to be there for us, and I made the decision to give him a chance. My family asked, was I sure? Yes, I said. I couldn't shoot down what could be our turning point! I hastily packed up his things and we were on our way together for a new life in Colorado.
Nobody except my family and my online mom groups knew that we were leaving out of desperation, and that the family patriarch was supposed to have been left behind. I made it look outwardly as if we were just all moving to Colorado as a family. Everyone seemed so excited for this new chapter in our lives.

Upon arriving there, things seemed hopeful. We both obtained employment quickly. My family helped with childcare and our basic needs. We slept on a makeshift bed on the floor of my parents' basement and lived out of duffel bags.
My hope was short-lived. After a month, my husband quit his job and didn't attempt to find another. Months went by, things stayed the same. I worked often 12+ hour shifts, while my family watched our daughter, and my husband spent his time as he pleased. I grew more and more displeased with this arrangement, as I wasn't able to be a part of planning and carrying out my daughter's first birthday, wasn't able to be a part of much of her every day life. Even when I was home, she went straight to my mother or one of my sisters when she needed anything. Even when I was home, her meals were made for her by someone else, she was clothed by someone else, she wanted to play with someone else. I was becoming invisible. My shaky relationship with my mother and family combined with mounting disagreements on boundaries and childrearing made it imperative to me that we move out of my parents' home as quickly as possible. I felt trapped.
Finally someone helped my husband out with a temporary job. Relieved, I watched him get up dutifully each morning and work to make just enough money to get us back to Texas where we had arranged to move a back in to the family-owned housing we had been living in before we left for Colorado. I was terrified. We were coming back with almost nothing at all but the clothes on our backs and Cricket's toys, I remember him promising me that as soon as we returned, he would hit the ground running, looking for work immediately. He reassured me that he wouldn't let us down, that we would be taken care of this time. I believed him, I supported him.
I was wrong.
As soon as we got home, he went out with friends and got drunk. And proceeded to spend every single day and night that way for the next 10 days.

I remember laying there on the bare floor of the condo with Cricket sleeping, calling shelters, calling churches, calling anywhere I could think of to help us. We had no food, no money, nothing. There was nothing anyone could do immediately. I was on waiting lists for assistance and our food stamp application was being expedited. I had nowhere else to go. Night after night, I endured my husband coming home black out drunk, crashing through the empty house, collapsing wherever he fell and remaining there until the next evening when he would reanimate and leave the house for a repeat. Eventually he went back to the same routine at the tattoo shop. First just hanging out, then back to working there bringing home less than $100 month.
I remember a few friends visiting, and being disturbed by the emptiness of the apartment, the blanket we slept on in the middle of the floor, the hollow refrigerator, my lack of ability to keep up any sort of facade any longer although I tried my best to smile and seem okay.

Nothing was okay.
Months went by. I was isolated and hopeless.
Myself and Cricket were invited on a camping trip while my husband was out of town partying. I spent the weekend pouring out my thoughts to two working mothers and listening to them encourage me. I was painfully embarrassed by the way I couldn't contain myself, by how anxiety-ridden I'd become, by how stressed I was that I burst into tears over the smallest frustrating slight. But I gathered my strength and told myself I could be like them.
I found a way to earn the money to buy myself Dermablend tattoo cover makeup.
I applied to jobs.
I got hired part time.
I told my husband when I was going to be gone and set everything up for him to care for our daughter while I was away.
I got up for work at 3am after only 5 hours of sleep if I was lucky, still interrupted by numerous night nursing sessions, and drove over 200 miles each day to merchandise store to store.
I'd come home after it was all over to find my husband on the computer with his headphones on, and Cricket in a filthy diaper with a rash, with food thrown all over the living room. Every single time, without fail. I'd clean up the mess, make dinner, and repeat.

Then, a new piercer was hired at my husband's tattoo shop. He began to talk about her a lot. No big deal, she was new, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Then he began to spend a lot of time with her outside of the tattoo shop. Said he was taking her under his wing. One night, he drunkenly told me "I know I talk about her a lot, but we're just friends, so don't worry." He'd been friends with plenty of women before, spent time alone with plenty of women before, there was no need for such a disclaimer then. It was at that moment that I began to worry. Then he stopped coming home, and I knew.
I asked him why? He told me it was because I was a mother now. And I was a good mother. It wasn't what he found attractive in a partner. Family stuff made him uncomfortable. He wanted to be free.
I couldn't accept it. When he did come by the condo to pick up a change of clothes or something else he needed, I would tell him how much we loved him and that he was irreplaceable to our family and that I wanted him to come home and be with us.
After about 6 weeks, he did.
And I didn't say a word. Not to him about it, not to anyone else. We went right back into life as if nothing had ever happened. There were some changes though. He celebrated my birthday, Cricket's birthday, Christmas with us, and put in real effort. He quit working at the tattoo shop and still disappeared out drinking sometimes, but I had become somewhat accustomed to that...until his spending and drinking began to interfere with my ability to get to work. He wasn't sober enough to watch Cricket for me, or he left with the car and hadn't come home, or he had spent all the money we had that I needed for gas. I called in so many times that I eventually had to resign because I just couldn't reliably perform the duties of my position anymore. I cried and cried and cried because I loved that job and it was the only hope I had.

A few months later, I had convinced him to accept work at a local call center. He started training and seemed hopeful. Less than two weeks in, he found out about a TV show filming in Austin that was looking for extras. He made the decision to leave the job and go to Austin for several weeks and stay with a family friend in the meantime.
While there, he sought out and accepted a position at a local tattoo shop and decided to make the move permanent.
Cricket and I stayed behind in San Antonio for several months while he worked and visited us, seeming to be making improvements. He was earning money at a job he found himself, he was beginning to somewhat involve himself with Cricket when he visited, etc. Then he asked us to move up to Austin with him. I was paralyzed with fear. Leaving the only place I had to stay, uprooting Cricket once again on his already untrustworthy word, and yet...again I felt I didn't want to turn down the chance at our family's happiness and togetherness. I agreed. We found an apartment. We moved.
Two weeks later, the illusion was already shattered, and after a last ditch attempt at therapy, I came crawling back to San Antonio with Cricket, officially a single mother. It was over.

I got a seasonal retail job in the evenings and on weekends and an office job weekdays. I begged childcare help from anyone I could, piecing together a small short-term team of people I'll forever be indebted to. My parents' church gathered together some money to send me to help me get on my feet. I used the money to get my daughter started in a home daycare that came suggested from a friend of my husband's. It seemed nice enough, run by a retired preschool teacher in a room in her home that was full of activities. I began working a physically strenuous job as an elevator mechanic helper, and it sometimes required me to be on jobsite before 7am, often requiring me to drop my daughter off at daycare as early as 5am. I was sore, exhausted, and scrambling to make ends meet between paying rent, utilities, car insurance, and daycare. I was run ragged, commuting and working from 4:30am to 7pm or later many days, and still trying to find time to make dinner at home, do laundry at the laundromat, buy groceries, do dishes, and other basic duties. My daughter felt like a stranger.

Again, I began losing hope. I couldn't go on like this. I was exhausted. Nothing was improving. I had no way out. I felt that my boss had begun to cross the line into abusive behavior. I had been trying to find new work. I didn't know what to do.

On April Fool's Day 2014, my boss dropped a steel beam from the top floor of the residential jobsite we were working on. I was below him, trying to fix a problem he had caused that had threatened my life only moments earlier. The beam struck me in the upper back and left shoulder, missing a direct impact with my spine by less than an inch, because I flinched toward the doorway at the very last second. I spent the next 16 weeks in recovery, doing physical therapy to regain the use of my left arm and full movement of my neck.
Let me tell you how fun it is to parent a 3 year old alone, without being able to turn your head or use one of your arms, and without being able to lift more than 5lbs. Let me tell you how much fun it is to lose your spot in daycare and be stuck on workman's comp for months. I got just over half my normal paycheck, which was pitiful to begin with.
I had no one to help me, so I drove myself to all my doctor appointments one-handed and brought Cricket with me. She had fun in physical therapy, and luckily, everyone tolerated her. I frustratedly let all my dishes pile up in my sink because I couldn't figure out how to wash dishes with only one hand. I cried with relief when my boyfriend at the time stepped in to help me in the evenings.

I went back to work on light duty when the time came, and there was an opening in the same home daycare.
After a few short weeks, it became clear that there was a problem.
Cricket began crying and begging not to go, telling me she was bad, a bad girl. One day she came home with bruises and scratches, insisting the caregiver had punished her and told her she was bad for not being quiet at nap time. She also had said an older boy who was there for the summer had shown her a zombie movie on his tablet, and she had been having repeated nightmares and anxiety about zombies, frequently talking in graphic detail about gore and violence. I spoke to the caregiver who came up with a strange and varied story as to what must have happened, and I began immediately searching for new childcare.
I brought Cricket with me to work in the office for a few days while my boss was out of town, and when I wasn't able to find another childcare that I could afford, I sent my daughter back until I could figure out something else. I didn't know what else to do. I went back to full duty working in the field and immediately began having issues again with the safety. I ended up in potentially life-threatening situations unnecessarily several more times before I told my boss I was leaving, walked off the jobsite, and picked up my daughter from daycare. I surprised the caregiver and discovered Cricket was closed in a dark room in the back of the house while the caregiver watched television. I later discovered another older child had been hurting her, choking her, biting her, etc. while they were left unattended. I decided neither of us were going back, no matter the cost.

My dad invited me to come work for his company in Colorado for a few weeks, so we packed our bags and headed up there. I spent long days working enjoyably with my dad while my mom and sisters cared for Cricket. I'd spend anywhere from 2-12 weeks there assisting my dad on projects and then come home. Whenever I was back in Texas, I kept trying to find a long-term way to sustain us.
I never figured it out.

In one of those breaks between trips, I met my current boyfriend who eventually insisted on providing for us. My dad sold his company like he'd been wanting, and now here I am.

Completely lost. Financially comfortable now, but unable to ever feel comfortable. I still react as if anything could be the end of it all. A year and a half now, alternating between trying to relax into just being a stay-at-home mom, and trying to find something to do with myself to make myself feel useful and capable again.
I'm not happy with how little time and attention has been devoted to Cricket in her short life, she is already far too independent for her years and our connection has been so disjointed. She still cries that she is bad, years after being removed from the daycare. I'm not happy with the fact that I never was able to figure out a way to take care of Cricket on my own. I'm not happy that every job I qualify for and feel passionate about is impossible to do on my own with a child. Rotating shifts, overtime, out of town travel...I can't be the primary caregiver of my child AND do man-centric work at the same time. I cannot be a mom and a dad by myself. And yet, now I am unable to be satisfied with only doing one or the other.
As I run petty errands and drive my child to and from school each day, I long to be in the places of the construction workers we pass by, I inspect every elevator we run across, I reminisce about carrying hundreds of pounds of equipment up and down stairs all day long as I bemoan my current lack of strength and fitness, I fantasize about fixing things, building things, DOING things again. When at home, I find myself cooking the same meal to serve at the same table and washing those same dishes for the thousandth time, and I think "This is it? This is all I'm supposed to do?"

I lost everything I ever wanted, had to accept that it was unattainable. Ever since then, my future has just looked and felt blank.  As of yet, I've been unable to find anything to put in that space. My dreams are anxious and obstructed. I don't feel like I have much control over my life. I'm still grieving, still isolating myself, trying to hide until I feel presentable to the outside world. Until I at least feel confident enough that I contribute something I can defend to the people who shout at me that I'm a waste of space, that every decision I've made is a mistake that I deserve to suffer for, that I should be ashamed of myself.

I'm so tired of feeling ashamed.

So here it is.

A wreck. Plenty of love. Plenty of heartache.

The REAL story of my journey into motherhood so far. No hiding behind smiling makeupped pictures and cute facebook statuses.

Why leave?

I have spent much time ruminating about how I might explain why I left the most recent church I was attending. I have tried to start telling the story many times, preparing in my mind what I might say if any of the church members contact me to ask. Nobody has, but I still rehearse in my mind how I would communicate the event. So where do I start?

The church I was attending was a very small Christian and Missionary Alliance church. The head pastor had been one of the assistant pastors of the church I grew up in.  There was an average of 30 or less people in regular attendance, many elderly. At first, the pastor expressed some concern about how I might be accepted by the congregation mainly due to my appearance, but he assured me he would speak to everyone and make sure I was welcome.
I fell in love with the church because I loved the preaching. Expository style with lots of historical and cultural context, referring back to the original translation, very rational and educational. I continued attending for over two years.

During that time, I met my boyfriend through friends while I was between work trips. We corresponded via text for several months before getting romantically involved. Within a few months of watching me juggle the stress of single motherhood and my dismal work situation, he was intent on financially providing for me and my daughter so I could stay home if I wanted to. Naturally, not long after, we began to live together. Having a functioning family unit with a steady income was a very welcome relief.
It wasn't my first time committing the dreaded sin of living with a boyfriend, but both times, I felt that God not only understood, but was throwing me a safety line. I didn't flaunt it at church, but wasn't intending to hide it either. Some wording on a Facebook status lead to a conversation with the pastor about it after almost a year. He let me know that the church members had a discussion about it during a meeting (?!) and that everyone agreed that nothing needed to be done unless I applied for official church membership. I felt sort of uncomfortable that I was being discussed without anyone having ever asked me about it, and I expressed and interest in talking with him and the church members about it, but he declined, saying it wasn't necessary because it wasn't any of his business.

Shortly after, my landlord of almost 9 years informed me that he was going to sell the property ASAP. My boyfriend and I began trying to find a home to rent on short notice after depleting our savings on the holidays and a work injury he sustained. Hitting roadblock after roadblock with time running out, stress and frustrations were at an all time high. Ultimately, we made the decision for my boyfriend to stay with a friend temporarily while Cricket and I looked for somewhere to else to stay while we figured everything out. We determined that we would begin couples therapy to help us work through longstanding conflicts we had and help us stay connected through the separation as well.
Pastor contacted me during the week letting me know that I had popped into his head and he felt like he needed to check in on me. That had never happened before, so I thought perhaps God was providing me an opportunity to share what was going on. After relaying the situation, Pastor offered me and my daughter an empty room in his home. He said we would meet in person to go over the details, but that we were definitely welcome to move in with them until we got everything straightened out. I was relieved.


Here began the mess.


After a handful of attempted meetings with Pastor, over two weeks had passed and we had less than a week left before we were supposed to be out of our home. Frustrated with yet another cancellation, I insisted we speak over the phone because I was out of time and couldn't wait any longer. I expected the conversation to be mainly about basic logistics, rules, expectations, boundaries, common courtesy and respect (Would I have my own key or would I need to be let in? Would we be expected to share meals or would I prepare my own meals for myself and my daughter? Would I help pay for utilities or other resources? Etc.) but instead, it seemed to take on a different tone entirely.

He said he needed to go over everything and warn me so that nothing would go badly and ruin our relationship, because he knows himself and that's what would happen.
He started out by telling me that I would be expected to be making progress. Unsure what he meant by that, I asked for clarification, and he answered in a similarly vague way "Now, don't be mis-hearing me, I expect this of anyone, including my own children. I expect you to be making an effort to improve your situation." Again unsure of what that was specifically referring to or how that might apply to me, I asked for clarification. He again repeated that all he asked was that I show effort to make progress. Of course I honestly can't remember the conversation word-for-word chronologically, but after that point, it started to seem glaringly obvious that some grave misunderstandings had been occurring about what my "situation" really was.
 He said that he expected me to be working both a day shift while my daughter was in school, and additionally working an evening or overnight shift while he and his wife watched my daughter for me. He said I was required to make progress toward financial independence from my boyfriend. I had been looking for work recently just to have something to do (we didn't need it financially), and I had told him at a previous time that I was choosing not to work evening shifts so that I could be there to make dinner and put my daughter to bed. It was at this time that he stated he assumed that was because my daughter's behavior was so out of control that I had to be there to deal with it. (?!?!) So a sub-requirement would be that he and his wife would do behavior modification training with my daughter while I was away, so they could fix her "behavioral issues" that were preventing me from working. It was incredibly shocking and puzzling to me that was what he had gathered from me saying I was choosing not to work in the evening so I could be there with my daughter. I tried to explain, but he wouldn't give me a chance to speak.

He told me that I need to get my finances straightened out and would be required to go through the Dave Ramsey Financial Peace University. I had no issue with taking the classes, but anyone who knows me would find it completely laughable. I am extremely (at times irrationally) strict with my finances and budgeting. At the time of the conversation, I had zero unpaid bills, zero past due accounts, credit score that was steadily rising, and money in savings. He refused my offer to show him my bank accounts and budget to prove that I had no issues in that department, saying again that it wasn't any of his business. (?!?!)

He stated that my daughter would not be welcome in any of the common areas of their home, due to the fact that he stores firearms, there are breakable items, (fair enough), and because they are "quiet people who prefer not to have visitors". No visitors also included not allowing my daughter's father to pick her up for visitation or drop her off at their home.
We would not be allowed to store food at their home. Not in our room (seems fair for pest control reasons) and not in their pantry or refrigerator. He did follow this by saying any food found in our room would be thrown away during inspection (?!?!) and IF we put any food in their pantry or fridge, it would be considered community property and promptly eaten.

He told me I would be held to a personal progress plan with timeline laid out for me by them, making life improvements they determine I require. I found this so humiliating and insulting. At that point, I began crying and trying to explain myself, but he absolutely would not let me speak. He said I needed to get my life together, that I'm not taking responsibility for my poor life decisions, that I'm obviously not trying to succeed and I'm being a burden on others, that I'm being selfish and I owe my daughter a proper upbringing and a proper role model, that I'm acting entitled to other peoples' help because I obviously have no desire to be independent since I'm not trying to take care of myself or my child, told me he won't allow me to be asking them for money and that if my car broke down I can't ask them to buy me a new one or expect them to give me rides everywhere.  (?!!!!!! All of that was so bizarre to me, it would never occur to me whatsoever to even DREAM of doing that.)
He said he always taught his children to never get themselves into a position where they need to rely on other people to get their needs met. I confusedly tried to explain that once you have a child, you really can't get by without relying on someone's help, that is the purpose of a family unit, and sometimes things happen that aren't in your control that make it so you need help and support...but he used that to launch into a rant about how everyone in society is interdependent upon one another, but that I'm not pulling my weight or taking responsibility for the choice I made to get myself into this position. He stated that he would not allow himself or his family to become an enabler for someone like myself.

I ended the phone call crying, saying I'd let him know what I was going to do within two days. I spent about an hour afterward sobbing, and told both my boyfriend and my mom what had happened. They were both shocked. I decided I'd contact the pastor to let him know that I wasn't going to accept his offer of a room for us and that I wasn't going to be at church on Sunday.

A few days later, I posted a funny parenting meme on Facebook jokingly complaining about kids asking for drinks of water at bedtime, and Pastor began to leave a barrage of comments telling me that I let my child manipulate and control me, that I need to get it together and parent my child, etc. I left only a brief response reassuring the pastor that just because my child asks every night, that doesn't mean I give in. He however, sent another barrage of messages and got into a verbal altercation with another friend on the post until I deleted it. A similar situation occurred the next day, so I removed him from my friend list. He texted me to make sure everything was okay, and even though I didn't feel ready, I decided to go ahead and attempt to explain why it was not okay.

I tried to be as understanding as possible, stating that I knew he was wanting to be helpful and had good intentions, and that I do believe its completely reasonable to make rules and expectations when allowing someone into your home, so I had no issue with those things. However, during the phone conversation, I felt that there had been a lot of negative assumptions made about me and I didn't feel like his view of my situation was correct, and even if it had, I felt like his method of "help" wasn't very respectful to me as a person. I honestly hadn't realized until that moment how little he actually knew about me and my life. The way he spoke to me about it made me feel horrible and it made me concerned for people in need of help and how it makes them feel to have to accept help under those circumstances. I compared it to the story of The Good Samaritan, feeling as if he had come across the person who was beaten and robbed, he would have said to them "I can offer you help, but you have to know that I'm going to expect you to show that you're making improvements in your life and not putting yourself in the position to be beaten and robbed again, because you need to take responsibility for yourself, you can't just be expecting people to come along and help you like this, you have to consider the burden you're putting on others. I can't enable the obviously poor choices you're making that got you into this position." (which is almost word-for-word what he said to me on the phone) I ended the message by saying I didn't want to have an argument, so I asked that he please not reply immediately, to give me some space and time before replying.

Unfortunately, he did not. He immediately replied back. He accused me of projecting my "bad experiences with other churches" onto our interactions (I'm not even sure what he's referring to there?), said that him requiring me to want better for myself as a condition of being helped is not judgmental or negative in any way, said I was misunderstanding him because I insisted on speaking over the phone instead of waiting until he could find time to meet me in person, and accused me of being judgmental toward him, and stated, quote "if I am going to be judged in this it would be nice if it were accurate."

At that point, I committed myself to not replying. That last line was especially ironic and I wasn't sure how I could possibly reply to any of that. He sent me several more messages, texts, and voicemails over the following weeks saying "I don't know why you're doing this" and "It would be nice if you would reply" and similar things that I ignored, because they all seemed somewhat strange, unprofessional, and still confrontational. Then, my mother began getting messages from him that seemed to get even more bizarre.
Included in them, he made repeated statements that his church is growing, but that he can't bear how much I hurt him, that I obviously have made horrible assumptions about him, misunderstood him, judged him, and have made him out to be the huge bad guy. He said he learned long ago that trying to help people only leads to hurt and the only reason he ever helps people is because that's what God calls his people to do. He said that he had done more for me than he would ever do for even his own children (????) and refuses to continue to try to beg for my attention (?). He stated that he has apologized to me numerous times (?!?? I didn't get a single apology, not even close?) and that he no longer cares to fix this or lose sleep over someone who doesn't deserve it (ouch?). He went on about how upset he was, that I ruined the birth of his granddaughter by upsetting him, that he has already shed too many tears over me to reconcile. When my mom replied calmly asking if he could maybe help to clarify what he thought I might be misunderstanding and tried to offer some mediation, he replied in a bizarre manner again stating that his congregation is growing and that he doesn't like to argue despite popular opinion to the contrary, and then said that he had been asking ME for time and space, and that my mom needed to leave him alone and drop it because it is too painful for him and he is no longer concerned with it. Many vague Facebook status updates later, he seems to have moved on.

 All in all, it was a very strange unexpected turn of events, but also looking back, much of his behavior and things he said now seem like warning signs.  During those two years, many things occurred that I didn't realize would hold such later significance.

He would often say in front of the church and other people that he'd known me since I was a tiny little girl and that I was like a daughter to him. I was glad he felt so warmly toward me, but the truth was that I really only loosely knew of him for perhaps a year or two when I was early elementary age-- all I remembered about him was that my family didn't like his theology or his personality and that his son seemed to have some behavioral issues. His family moved away and I didn't see him or communicate with him whatsoever until I showed up at this church 20 years later.  He knew essentially nothing whatsoever about my life, and never asked about my life, my spiritual journey, nothing.
We had some dinners with his family, he let me borrow his computer once to update my resume, he invited me to bring over laundry once, and his daughter watched my daughter for a few job interviews and doctor appointments.
When I was exhausted trying to get by as a single mom working a manual labor job, he asked if I had considered going to college, so I explained that I had gone to school to be a cosmetologist and was licensed, but I purposefully let my license expire in this state, and that I was not eligible to return to school due to my student loans being in default. He offered to help me pay to re-transfer my cosmetology license to this state, but I declined because I left the industry for a reason, and the hours and low pay starting out would not be helpful to me at that time.
He then asked if I had considered removing my visible tattoos to help me earn more. I said I had considered it, and he offered to help pay for laser removal. I said I knew someone that did it whom I trusted, and I would get pricing and let him know if I needed assistance. After getting the information, I informed him that I didn't need help paying for it, and thanked him for the generous offer. At the time, I was unaware that he had apparently had discussions with other church members about it, and it was unclear if he let them know afterward that I had declined the assistance-- at least some of the members hadn't been informed, because when one of my photos went viral (as they do occasionally when you have a face tattoo) one of the church members commented publicly on it that I was getting it removed and her church was paying for it. I was mortified.

In his messages to my mother, he kept referencing these things over and over again and talking about "all he had done for me", which my mother and I both found very puzzling since there really wasn't anything hugely notable. His incoherence in the messages seemed strange for a person who normally prides himself on writing lengthy academic papers, forming complex logical arguments, etc. It drove me crazy that whenever I tried to provide him with information about myself, he would block me, saying that it was none of his business, and yet I'd find out he and the church members had been forming elaborate conjectures about myself and my life and having meetings to discuss me.
Then there was his constant facebook arguing that lead to at least once weekly vaguebooking about having been deleted by yet another "thin skinned, easily offended" person who just couldn't handle his superior intellect. "Sorry" was obviously not in his vocabulary. He was a staunch libertarian and die hard rational, combined with his strict military background made him lacking in compassion. His reaction was also strangely narcissistic.

After the experience, I was absolutely exhausted of trying to prove myself worthy of people's respect and acceptance, trying to hold up to and defend myself from the scrutiny that comes from my life not resembling the given model of what you're supposed to have if you're doing everything the "right way"...so I decided definitively to not put myself through it anymore. No more church.
I made a lot of realizations about thought processes I was subjecting myself to that were ultimately damaging to me that I learned in church, which I will talk about in later posts.