It was with some interest, earlier, that I read up on the concept of depressive realism after a friend of mine provided this link:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Depressive_realism
Basically, the theory is that those who have a tendency towards being mildly to moderately depressed actually have a more realistic perspective of their environment - their own abilities, their importance in the world, the scope of their locus of control etc. I can only assume that this is usually what depresses them :-/
I wish I could dismiss this theory offhand, but I can't. That would be too optimistic. Ba-dum-bum-tish...
As most of you know, I have grappled on and off with depression myself. It's not something I am either ashamed of, or inclined to use for self-pity. It's just a fact. It's more than likely due to a combination of conditional and hereditary factors - my mum has also got mental health issues, and basically I'm not the only one in the family. Although whether our shared tendency towards depression is hereditary, or because we have to constantly deal with each other, is anyone's guess. But I think it's helpful to be honest about these things - if you cannot bear to articulate your own feelings of despair, whether current or in retrospect, I think you contribute to a conspiracy of silence for other people going through the same thing. Someone has to start talking, and frankly I don't mind being that person.
Aaaaanyway - there is a point to this post, and more than likely it will present itself eventually. The reason I am thinking about this right now is because I went to see the social worker in charge of my brother's case again today, to discuss progress within my family, etc etc.
I have very mixed feelings about how the meeting went. She was marginally better than the last social worker originally assigned to Paul, although that's not saying much since the original one was about as useful as a chocolate teapot. It was cathartic to me to discuss some of my difficulties in making reports with her, but it did make me conscious of my feelings of helplessness and fear with how things are progressing in my family. I feel kind of adrift in a sea of other people's agendas, with their motivations like currents pushing me this way and that way... my parents' inability to face their own mistakes/shortcomings, the dynamic between my mom and dad, the social worker just trying to tie up all the loose ends of red tape, my extended family - who remain mostly ambivalent on the subject, but support my mom, mainly - my little brother clinging to me, my sister... god it's exhausting. Maybe I have my own motivations? I suppose I must, but honestly the only thing I really *feel* about the situation is that I want my little brother to be OK, and to minimise the adverse effect that my parents have on him. I guess what the article on depression realism said about such individuals being conscious of their lack of control in certain scenarios really struck a chord with me - I am conscious of my lack of control over all the factors at play in this situation, and it drives me crazy.
I'm the kind of person who always wants to *fix* everything. I can't see something I think is unfair and not try to fix it. My friend gets screwed over by social welfare, I write to them to complain. I read something that annoys me in the paper, I write to it. I read about unethical practice of a company, I boycott it. I see my brother being abused by my parents, I report them to social services. Seems simple, and clean cut, but it isn't.
The emotional fallout from reporting my parents in February has been enormous. I have been in turns ignored, made homeless, guilt tripped, accepted back, chastised, blamed for everything, and denied access to my brother. It's been a roller coaster, emotionally, and to be honest at this stage I don't know my head from my ass. Every time I think I'm reaching some kind of mental plateau where I can accept the situation as it is and deal with it, something else happens to make me question my sanity/maturity/motivations.
I love my parents, but as the social worker said this morning, they categorically deny everything that happens at home. Both of them deny ever hitting my brother, or that there are problems at home, and they resent the social worker's intrusion and questioning of their parenting abilities. What the SW said this morning is that my parents have preconceived notions of the kind of people social services deal with - layabout drunks, mainly - and they don't see themselves as being at all in this category. Which is fair enough, but kinda misses the point. I need scarcely point out the fallacy of thinking that you have to live in a council estate with piebald ponies roaming your front garden, drinking Stella Artois in a wifebeater vest at 1 o clock in the afternoon, for there to be child abuse - or for social services to be necessary. It makes me crazy, because every now and again I'll think I've made a breakthrough, if a small one, in getting through to them. Usually, I'll have a discussion with my dad - the more self-aware of the two, whereby I outline erratic or dangerous behaviour in the past, on mom's part especially, and he acknowledges it. But it's like he just can't *face* the extent of it, so the next time I see him I'm practically back to square one of "problems? What problems? I don't see a problem, except you."
I just so bloody unfair. I'm aware of how petulant that sounds, but it's just so cruel. I know I have shortcomings. I don't mind admitting them. There have been times where i have said things I shouldn't/didn't mean, and when Paul was attacked in June I was too slow to report it to social services. I should have done so immediately, I recognise that now. But I'm scared. I'm scared of hurting my parents, I'm scared of severing my relationship with them forever, I'm scared of causing more pain - but more than anything else, I'm scared of letting Paul down. He needs me, and if I have to be the only one in this scenario willing to stand up and say that our family is fucking messed up? I'll do it. I just wish I wasn't alone, one voice shouting against a howling wind comprised of contradiction and misplaced guilt. Where's a bloody fairy godmother when you need her...
Showing posts with label abuse. Show all posts
Showing posts with label abuse. Show all posts
Monday, November 22, 2010
Friday, June 11, 2010
S.S.S. (Sodding Social Services)
Please bear with me while I vent.
In February of this year, I reported my own parents to social services for their treatment of my younger brother. Abuse, in almost all of its conceivable manifestations, has been a part of our family life for some time now, and I really feel that my brother - we'll call him Paul - bears the brunt of this.
My mother has had issues with depression and overall mental health for some years now. Much as I love the woman - and I do - she is self-absorbed, insecure, spiteful, vicious and has a severe "martyr complex". She views herself as the eternal victim, and is entirely averse to so much as the mere concept of personal accountability. My father, while decidedly more mentally stable, is - to use a colloquialism - completely whipped. My mother has always been incredibly condescending towards him, especially in arguments. I think it's a part of her insecurity, but the effect of this on him is that I believe him to feel more or less entirely emasculated. He feels he gets no respect from my mother, but he can't punish her because that just wouldn't be appropriate, so he transfers his requirement for respect and authority(ish) onto his children. I think he is, deep down, a very good man, as I think in some ways a lesser man would just have taken this rage out on his partner, but this transference is dangerous. It is even more dangerous when you combine it with my mother's mental instability and lack of responsibility, and a complete inability on his part to stand up to her. I also think he feels incredibly isolated, and the thought of his marriage to mom actually breaking down terrifies him, so he's afraid to rock the boat too much.
Thing is, my sympathy for them kinda ends there. I love them, but they are seriously. fucked. up.
Since my teens, I myself have been shouted at, screamed at, hit, slapped, punched, choked and told that my family would be better off without me. Not all the time, just when my mother was in one of her "moods". These periods would be interspersed with relative affection and normality - whatever that is - so for adolescent me this was all rather confusing. I got on rather well with my dad, mainly because I didn't tend to try to get him involved in the conflicts between me and my mom, and I am by nature HIGHLY non-confrontational. I used to blame myself entirely for the abuse, and rationalise it by saying that my mom was just very stressed. My sister - let's call her Paula - is autistic and has numerous health issues, and this was a major stressor for my mom.
However, things have escalated since then, and now that I am in my 20s and no longer living at home, it is Paul who bears the brunt of - mainly my mother's - frustrations. He is more confrontational and a traditional "angry teenager" than I was, so he tends to get into confrontations with both of my parents. He talks back, he gives cheek, he doesn't do as he's told. Relatively standard fare, to be honest. Any of you who have, or have ever known, a teenage boy can probably testify to this. Teenagers are fucking annoying... But the response to his relatively minor transgressions is anything but normal. There have been increasinly numerous occasions where Michael is kicked, slapped, punched in the face and head, hit with objects like rods, screamed at, threatened and otherwise abused, and it makes me fucking sick. I am honestly disgusted at my own parents. I love them, but right now they disgust me.
So - I reported them. In February, initially. There was another incident that was quickly spiralling out of control, and something inside me just snapped. Paul is 9 years younger than me, and to be honest my feelings for him are somewhere smack-bang in the middle of sisterly and maternal. I'm very protective of him, and I knew that something had to break the cycle, and that furthermore it wasn't going to come from within the family, if at all. I went to the police station in town and filed a report. The police spoke to my parents, brought Michael home (I have no authority to remove him from the house, not being his legal guardian), and referred the case on to social services.
It was 12 weeks - twelve. fucking. weeks, before anyone contacted my family about the case. Never mind the fact that anything could have happened in my family during the course of 12 weeks, when they did contact the family, it was my parents they called. Reasonably enough, you may say, but they barely spoke to my brother about it, and they didn't speak to me at all. As both the one who initially filed the report, and an adult member of the immediate family, I would have imagined it would be only rational for them to inform me of any progress.
No, no - I actually had to ring the HSE, ring my brother to ask HIM what the social worker's name was, track down her number myself, ring her and REQUEST an interview in order to give my side of the story... only to be told that for me to do so, she would require my parents' consent.
Well - that's fucking bright, isn't it? Because as the ones actually being accused of child abuse here, it's not like my parents have anything to HIDE that they might not want me to say to the social worker, what with me being the only non-abusive adult involved in the whole scenario and all. There's no way they could have any illegitimate reason to withdraw their consent for me to give my side of the story. Fortunately, though, they DID give their consent, but the fact that it was necessary at all seems superfluous and illogical. It's not even like I was looking for confidential information. I was a member of the family and a witness, trying to give my perspective. Jesus Christ on a bike Ireland drives me insane sometimes.
Since then, things have gone from bad to slightly worse. Social Services are just epically unhelpful in this country. It's breathtaking. The social worker in question has gone from unhelpful, to rude, to victim-blaming, to justifying my parents, to just fucking useless to unhelpful again. There was another incident about 2 weeks ago and when I rang maybe 4 days later to report it to her, she gave out to me for not acting fast enough, saying that it sounded like a serious incident.
First off, you thick bitch - it was a serious incident the last time, too, and you took 12 fucking WEEKS to do anything about it, so hey - I guess I figured 4 days wouldn't offend you. Secondly, I was doing things in those 4 days that involved getting my only income from a charity, since I've been kicked out of home and am basically destitue, and ensuring that my brother was in no immediate danger. Thirdly, how fucking easy do you think this is for me exactly? I've basically made myself a social pariah in my own family. The only people who appreciate what I'm trying to do is Paul and Paula - everybody else thinks I'm a neurotic oversensitive bitch who just doesn't appreciate how hard her parents have it, sob sob! So you can take that attitude and shove it right up your fucking ass. This same woman told my brother in her initial interview with him that she saw no problem with a ibt of corporal punishment. There's a reassuring sentiment from a child protection worker if ever there was one.
Right now, I'm at my wit's end, basically. I reported my parents to authorities as a last resort, and they've helped about as much as a chocolate fireman would have with the Towering Inferno. Hooray, another victory for Mary Harney and her team of incompentent gobshites!!
In February of this year, I reported my own parents to social services for their treatment of my younger brother. Abuse, in almost all of its conceivable manifestations, has been a part of our family life for some time now, and I really feel that my brother - we'll call him Paul - bears the brunt of this.
My mother has had issues with depression and overall mental health for some years now. Much as I love the woman - and I do - she is self-absorbed, insecure, spiteful, vicious and has a severe "martyr complex". She views herself as the eternal victim, and is entirely averse to so much as the mere concept of personal accountability. My father, while decidedly more mentally stable, is - to use a colloquialism - completely whipped. My mother has always been incredibly condescending towards him, especially in arguments. I think it's a part of her insecurity, but the effect of this on him is that I believe him to feel more or less entirely emasculated. He feels he gets no respect from my mother, but he can't punish her because that just wouldn't be appropriate, so he transfers his requirement for respect and authority(ish) onto his children. I think he is, deep down, a very good man, as I think in some ways a lesser man would just have taken this rage out on his partner, but this transference is dangerous. It is even more dangerous when you combine it with my mother's mental instability and lack of responsibility, and a complete inability on his part to stand up to her. I also think he feels incredibly isolated, and the thought of his marriage to mom actually breaking down terrifies him, so he's afraid to rock the boat too much.
Thing is, my sympathy for them kinda ends there. I love them, but they are seriously. fucked. up.
Since my teens, I myself have been shouted at, screamed at, hit, slapped, punched, choked and told that my family would be better off without me. Not all the time, just when my mother was in one of her "moods". These periods would be interspersed with relative affection and normality - whatever that is - so for adolescent me this was all rather confusing. I got on rather well with my dad, mainly because I didn't tend to try to get him involved in the conflicts between me and my mom, and I am by nature HIGHLY non-confrontational. I used to blame myself entirely for the abuse, and rationalise it by saying that my mom was just very stressed. My sister - let's call her Paula - is autistic and has numerous health issues, and this was a major stressor for my mom.
However, things have escalated since then, and now that I am in my 20s and no longer living at home, it is Paul who bears the brunt of - mainly my mother's - frustrations. He is more confrontational and a traditional "angry teenager" than I was, so he tends to get into confrontations with both of my parents. He talks back, he gives cheek, he doesn't do as he's told. Relatively standard fare, to be honest. Any of you who have, or have ever known, a teenage boy can probably testify to this. Teenagers are fucking annoying... But the response to his relatively minor transgressions is anything but normal. There have been increasinly numerous occasions where Michael is kicked, slapped, punched in the face and head, hit with objects like rods, screamed at, threatened and otherwise abused, and it makes me fucking sick. I am honestly disgusted at my own parents. I love them, but right now they disgust me.
So - I reported them. In February, initially. There was another incident that was quickly spiralling out of control, and something inside me just snapped. Paul is 9 years younger than me, and to be honest my feelings for him are somewhere smack-bang in the middle of sisterly and maternal. I'm very protective of him, and I knew that something had to break the cycle, and that furthermore it wasn't going to come from within the family, if at all. I went to the police station in town and filed a report. The police spoke to my parents, brought Michael home (I have no authority to remove him from the house, not being his legal guardian), and referred the case on to social services.
It was 12 weeks - twelve. fucking. weeks, before anyone contacted my family about the case. Never mind the fact that anything could have happened in my family during the course of 12 weeks, when they did contact the family, it was my parents they called. Reasonably enough, you may say, but they barely spoke to my brother about it, and they didn't speak to me at all. As both the one who initially filed the report, and an adult member of the immediate family, I would have imagined it would be only rational for them to inform me of any progress.
No, no - I actually had to ring the HSE, ring my brother to ask HIM what the social worker's name was, track down her number myself, ring her and REQUEST an interview in order to give my side of the story... only to be told that for me to do so, she would require my parents' consent.
Well - that's fucking bright, isn't it? Because as the ones actually being accused of child abuse here, it's not like my parents have anything to HIDE that they might not want me to say to the social worker, what with me being the only non-abusive adult involved in the whole scenario and all. There's no way they could have any illegitimate reason to withdraw their consent for me to give my side of the story. Fortunately, though, they DID give their consent, but the fact that it was necessary at all seems superfluous and illogical. It's not even like I was looking for confidential information. I was a member of the family and a witness, trying to give my perspective. Jesus Christ on a bike Ireland drives me insane sometimes.
Since then, things have gone from bad to slightly worse. Social Services are just epically unhelpful in this country. It's breathtaking. The social worker in question has gone from unhelpful, to rude, to victim-blaming, to justifying my parents, to just fucking useless to unhelpful again. There was another incident about 2 weeks ago and when I rang maybe 4 days later to report it to her, she gave out to me for not acting fast enough, saying that it sounded like a serious incident.
First off, you thick bitch - it was a serious incident the last time, too, and you took 12 fucking WEEKS to do anything about it, so hey - I guess I figured 4 days wouldn't offend you. Secondly, I was doing things in those 4 days that involved getting my only income from a charity, since I've been kicked out of home and am basically destitue, and ensuring that my brother was in no immediate danger. Thirdly, how fucking easy do you think this is for me exactly? I've basically made myself a social pariah in my own family. The only people who appreciate what I'm trying to do is Paul and Paula - everybody else thinks I'm a neurotic oversensitive bitch who just doesn't appreciate how hard her parents have it, sob sob! So you can take that attitude and shove it right up your fucking ass. This same woman told my brother in her initial interview with him that she saw no problem with a ibt of corporal punishment. There's a reassuring sentiment from a child protection worker if ever there was one.
Right now, I'm at my wit's end, basically. I reported my parents to authorities as a last resort, and they've helped about as much as a chocolate fireman would have with the Towering Inferno. Hooray, another victory for Mary Harney and her team of incompentent gobshites!!
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Dogma is abuse
I had reason, recently, to deal with my old church group again, under the worst possible circumstance – the funeral of a very young woman who had died suddenly without prior medical problems. It was a heartbreaking service, and I personally was distraught at her death. I left the church, and the faith, with far more regard and affection for some who remained behind than others, and this particular woman was decidedly one of the former. She encapsulated all that I admire in a person – kind-hearted, generous, compassionate, funny, and optimistic. One of the major fallacies I see in the reason some people have given me for why I left the church, in that I must have been hurt by somebody and therefore be throwing the baby out with the bathwater - is that if a few measly “Christians” behaving badly and being hypocritical was enough to make me leave the church, people like this woman should have been enough to make me stay. She was, if you’ll forgive the cliché, an angel. I was honestly mad about her and I feel such a sense of sudden, violent loss that I scarcely know what to do with myself. It scares me a little, admittedly, that I now no longer have the certainty I once did pertaining to the afterlife. I hope, for my friends’ sake, that there is something after death, as the part of me that requires justice likes to think that there is something out there to reward her for being such a stellar example of a human being. However, she left behind two small boys and a husband, so I think there are some very pressing, practical things we left behind might do to pay homage to her memory.
As usual with this sort of thing, of course, it got me to thinking. It aroused some very conflicting feelings in me. The removal and funeral services were conducted by the church group to which we had both belonged, and naturally there was much reference made to my friend’s strong faith in Jesus, etc. etc. It made me very uncomfortable, and at first I couldn’t put my finger on why. I realised afterwards that I felt I was almost betraying my friend by not holding that faith which she understood to be of paramount importance. I felt almost that I should have been able to force myself to believe as she did, and that that is what she would have wanted. Because outside of that faith, there would be a barrier between us, limiting the depth of our friendship because I was no longer a “buhleeva” – I would be an outsider. And as we all know – or at least those of us who have been members of an evangelical/pentecostal church know – we are nothing without Jesus.
The way they spoke about it at the funeral – it was almost as if this faith was the single most positive, admirable aspect of my friend’s life and person. Her faith was what defined her, and it was presented as her main redeeming facet. The thing is, though, that it wasn’t. My friend was the best kind of human being, with or without Jesus (although I know she would have contended that herself). I listed just a few of her beautiful characteristics before. She had enough going for her sans Jesus to be worthy of our love and admiration. The fact that we now had different belief systems should never have been an issue. People – friends – differ on things all the time, without allowing it to form some cataclysmic rift between them. I think what I am trying to get at is that Christianity uses belief in Jesus Christ as a marker of your humanity, basically – it sorts the human race in all of its beauty and complexity into two very crude categories. Saved, and unsaved -those who are something (because they have Jesus), and those who are - literally – nothing (because they do not have Jesus). It’s that simple. The Bible frequently makes reference to our worthlessness and inherent evil without the intervention of the divine - in other words he who possess the ability to redeem us, and save us from our own depravity, our own thorough uselessness. Outside of the Almighty, we can do nothing. This was an integral part of church rhetoric when I was there – “without Jesus, I am nothing”, “I used to be *insert repulsive term here*, but then I got saved”, “without god, I’d be dead now”, “I could never have done this myself, it’s all god”, “Jesus saved my life, I couldn’t live without him”, “without Jesus my life would be meaningless/empty/without purpose”. I am guilty of saying these things myself, in the past. I have been thinking about it, more and more, and the more thought I give to it the more this particular aspect disturbs me greatly.
It encourages us, both as written in scripture and as used incessantly as a mantra within the group itself, to regard Jesus as our saviour and the source of all that is good in life, and ourselves as incapable of operating satisfactorily without clinging desperately to him. Without Jesus, life is empty and desolate. We might even die, and if we die without Jesus we will be abandoned forever – because without Jesus we cannot be acceptable to god. Even though, he made us to begin with. Even though he made us exactly to his will because he is omnipotent, and to a flawless design because he is omniscient, we disgust him without his son – who is actually himself – to defend our right to exist and be happy to him. There’s a headscratcher for you. I know people will make the argument of free will at this point, and I accept that some people use that free will to be fairly shitty specimens of human beings – but the fact is, not all do. My late friend is an example, and I hope I am too. Some people use that free will to make enormous sacrifices for their fellow man, and are compassionate and good and tolerant. I try to do and be these things myself, and I refuse to be held accountable for original sin. Original sin = bullshit. I am not Eve, so anyone who wants to hold me responsible for her listening to a talking snake, in a scenario that clearly never happened anyway, can fuck right off.
That’s right, fuck off. But only if you think I’m responsible for the actions of a mythical woman.
It makes me wonder what kept me buying this crap for so long. Since I’ve left the church, not only has my life not fallen apart, but I feel more self-sufficient and capable than ever before. My life is not empty and desperate, quite the contrary. I’m not saying I don’t face problems, but rather that refusing to rely for assistance on someone who regards me as inherently worthless has made me much stronger. I CAN do things for myself, I am a very capable woman. Sure, life is shit sometimes, but I’ll do my best, and when I can’t handle things alone there are plenty of non-deities around to help me in the form of friends and family.
But – I have a final point to make. Like I said, I wondered why I bought into this for so long when it’s so clearly a lie. But the more I consider it, the more the dynamic in this instance between “The Saviour” and “The Saved” bears a jarring resemblance to the dynamic between partners in a mentally and emotionally abusive relationship. I grew up within a highly abusive household – my mother was emotionally and mentally abusive towards myself, my father, and my brother. Quite a number of my friends have been involved in abusive relationships, and I have even read a number of testimonies of women who have escaped such relationships. So my experience of such covert abuse is pretty extensive, and now, looking on from the outside, I can see how my relationship with Jesus was like an extension of the worthlessness I was made to feel by my other abusive partner – in my case, my mother.
One of the questions most frequently asked of women – or indeed men – who have escaped abusive relationships is why they didn’t leave sooner. Why they failed to recognise the abuse for what it was immediately and up and leave. It seems so basic, so obvious, to someone looking in from the outside that anyone who makes you feel that way doesn’t deserve you. To the person on the receiving end of the abuse, though, it frequently isn’t obvious at all. Even for those who are abused physically, it often doesn’t begin that way overnight. The abusive partner will begin to gradually erode their victims’ self-esteem and self-reliance, so that when they begin to exert their control and manipulation in a more overt manner, the victim feels paralysed. They have often been isolated from outside influences and sources of support, people who may recognise the situation as abusive and encourage them to leave. They have been told they are worthless/fat/ugly/stupid/useless, and even that they “drive [the abuser] to it”, or that it’s for their own good. They have been given the impression that they cannot leave, either through direct threats of punishment (leave and I’ll kill you/I’ll take the children), or indirect threats (leave and you’ll fail/no-one will believe you/you won’t be able to manage). The victim of the abuse comes to develop a kind of domestic form of “Stockholm Syndrome”, where they engage cognitive dissonance to justify the abuser’s behaviour. They love their partner despite everything, and they do not want to accept that they need to sever ties with them. They are terrified of what will happen if they leave, and they don’t see the alternative, however unhappy they may be in their situation. They might even convince themselves that they are happy.
For me, the above paragraph has innumerable parallels to my relationship with the church/god. I was taught to distrust outside influences (the “world”), lest they corrupt me, so I was less susceptible to discerning real alternatives to the sheltered church life I was living. I was taught that I was nothing without god, I was inherently evil, and without god to redeem me I was little more than a filthy rag. To encourage this, I was taught to perceive my own natural functions – sexual urges being a prime example – as inherently “sinful” and “wrong”... rather than natural, which they actually were. I was taught that if I left I would go to hell (direct threat of punishment), and that my life would fall apart as I failed to manage without divine guidance (indirect threat). I came to love god sincerely, despite my doubts about his behaviour (Stockholm Syndrome/cognitive dissonance), and trust that he knew best, and it was for my own good, despite the fact that a part of me still felt it was nonsensical. Finally, I tried my best to stifle my doubts lest I “fall away”, and tried to convince myself that I was happy. Ultimately, I failed – thankfully – but it’s something to think about. The parallels do not reflect well on Christianity, or indeed on religious dogma as a whole.
As usual with this sort of thing, of course, it got me to thinking. It aroused some very conflicting feelings in me. The removal and funeral services were conducted by the church group to which we had both belonged, and naturally there was much reference made to my friend’s strong faith in Jesus, etc. etc. It made me very uncomfortable, and at first I couldn’t put my finger on why. I realised afterwards that I felt I was almost betraying my friend by not holding that faith which she understood to be of paramount importance. I felt almost that I should have been able to force myself to believe as she did, and that that is what she would have wanted. Because outside of that faith, there would be a barrier between us, limiting the depth of our friendship because I was no longer a “buhleeva” – I would be an outsider. And as we all know – or at least those of us who have been members of an evangelical/pentecostal church know – we are nothing without Jesus.
The way they spoke about it at the funeral – it was almost as if this faith was the single most positive, admirable aspect of my friend’s life and person. Her faith was what defined her, and it was presented as her main redeeming facet. The thing is, though, that it wasn’t. My friend was the best kind of human being, with or without Jesus (although I know she would have contended that herself). I listed just a few of her beautiful characteristics before. She had enough going for her sans Jesus to be worthy of our love and admiration. The fact that we now had different belief systems should never have been an issue. People – friends – differ on things all the time, without allowing it to form some cataclysmic rift between them. I think what I am trying to get at is that Christianity uses belief in Jesus Christ as a marker of your humanity, basically – it sorts the human race in all of its beauty and complexity into two very crude categories. Saved, and unsaved -those who are something (because they have Jesus), and those who are - literally – nothing (because they do not have Jesus). It’s that simple. The Bible frequently makes reference to our worthlessness and inherent evil without the intervention of the divine - in other words he who possess the ability to redeem us, and save us from our own depravity, our own thorough uselessness. Outside of the Almighty, we can do nothing. This was an integral part of church rhetoric when I was there – “without Jesus, I am nothing”, “I used to be *insert repulsive term here*, but then I got saved”, “without god, I’d be dead now”, “I could never have done this myself, it’s all god”, “Jesus saved my life, I couldn’t live without him”, “without Jesus my life would be meaningless/empty/without purpose”. I am guilty of saying these things myself, in the past. I have been thinking about it, more and more, and the more thought I give to it the more this particular aspect disturbs me greatly.
It encourages us, both as written in scripture and as used incessantly as a mantra within the group itself, to regard Jesus as our saviour and the source of all that is good in life, and ourselves as incapable of operating satisfactorily without clinging desperately to him. Without Jesus, life is empty and desolate. We might even die, and if we die without Jesus we will be abandoned forever – because without Jesus we cannot be acceptable to god. Even though, he made us to begin with. Even though he made us exactly to his will because he is omnipotent, and to a flawless design because he is omniscient, we disgust him without his son – who is actually himself – to defend our right to exist and be happy to him. There’s a headscratcher for you. I know people will make the argument of free will at this point, and I accept that some people use that free will to be fairly shitty specimens of human beings – but the fact is, not all do. My late friend is an example, and I hope I am too. Some people use that free will to make enormous sacrifices for their fellow man, and are compassionate and good and tolerant. I try to do and be these things myself, and I refuse to be held accountable for original sin. Original sin = bullshit. I am not Eve, so anyone who wants to hold me responsible for her listening to a talking snake, in a scenario that clearly never happened anyway, can fuck right off.
That’s right, fuck off. But only if you think I’m responsible for the actions of a mythical woman.
It makes me wonder what kept me buying this crap for so long. Since I’ve left the church, not only has my life not fallen apart, but I feel more self-sufficient and capable than ever before. My life is not empty and desperate, quite the contrary. I’m not saying I don’t face problems, but rather that refusing to rely for assistance on someone who regards me as inherently worthless has made me much stronger. I CAN do things for myself, I am a very capable woman. Sure, life is shit sometimes, but I’ll do my best, and when I can’t handle things alone there are plenty of non-deities around to help me in the form of friends and family.
But – I have a final point to make. Like I said, I wondered why I bought into this for so long when it’s so clearly a lie. But the more I consider it, the more the dynamic in this instance between “The Saviour” and “The Saved” bears a jarring resemblance to the dynamic between partners in a mentally and emotionally abusive relationship. I grew up within a highly abusive household – my mother was emotionally and mentally abusive towards myself, my father, and my brother. Quite a number of my friends have been involved in abusive relationships, and I have even read a number of testimonies of women who have escaped such relationships. So my experience of such covert abuse is pretty extensive, and now, looking on from the outside, I can see how my relationship with Jesus was like an extension of the worthlessness I was made to feel by my other abusive partner – in my case, my mother.
One of the questions most frequently asked of women – or indeed men – who have escaped abusive relationships is why they didn’t leave sooner. Why they failed to recognise the abuse for what it was immediately and up and leave. It seems so basic, so obvious, to someone looking in from the outside that anyone who makes you feel that way doesn’t deserve you. To the person on the receiving end of the abuse, though, it frequently isn’t obvious at all. Even for those who are abused physically, it often doesn’t begin that way overnight. The abusive partner will begin to gradually erode their victims’ self-esteem and self-reliance, so that when they begin to exert their control and manipulation in a more overt manner, the victim feels paralysed. They have often been isolated from outside influences and sources of support, people who may recognise the situation as abusive and encourage them to leave. They have been told they are worthless/fat/ugly/stupid/useless, and even that they “drive [the abuser] to it”, or that it’s for their own good. They have been given the impression that they cannot leave, either through direct threats of punishment (leave and I’ll kill you/I’ll take the children), or indirect threats (leave and you’ll fail/no-one will believe you/you won’t be able to manage). The victim of the abuse comes to develop a kind of domestic form of “Stockholm Syndrome”, where they engage cognitive dissonance to justify the abuser’s behaviour. They love their partner despite everything, and they do not want to accept that they need to sever ties with them. They are terrified of what will happen if they leave, and they don’t see the alternative, however unhappy they may be in their situation. They might even convince themselves that they are happy.
For me, the above paragraph has innumerable parallels to my relationship with the church/god. I was taught to distrust outside influences (the “world”), lest they corrupt me, so I was less susceptible to discerning real alternatives to the sheltered church life I was living. I was taught that I was nothing without god, I was inherently evil, and without god to redeem me I was little more than a filthy rag. To encourage this, I was taught to perceive my own natural functions – sexual urges being a prime example – as inherently “sinful” and “wrong”... rather than natural, which they actually were. I was taught that if I left I would go to hell (direct threat of punishment), and that my life would fall apart as I failed to manage without divine guidance (indirect threat). I came to love god sincerely, despite my doubts about his behaviour (Stockholm Syndrome/cognitive dissonance), and trust that he knew best, and it was for my own good, despite the fact that a part of me still felt it was nonsensical. Finally, I tried my best to stifle my doubts lest I “fall away”, and tried to convince myself that I was happy. Ultimately, I failed – thankfully – but it’s something to think about. The parallels do not reflect well on Christianity, or indeed on religious dogma as a whole.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)