I have little patience for stupidity or wilful ignorance. I have always known this, and yet some kind of underlying masochism in me requires me to occasionally engage with idiots over the internet. I think it must be some kind of catharsis for the frustration I don’t often get to express in person, being the nonconfrontational sort that I am. Either way, I find myself every now and then getting really sucked in to heated “discussions” with people who are in possession of roughly the intellectual capacity of an iceberg lettuce. I don’t fully understand why I do this to myself, but I do.
Part of the reason why I find myself in these situations, though, is my few remaining links to the church group I used to go to – it is populated by some of the most breathtakingly vapid people I have ever known, and their interpretation of “Christ’s love” and “Christian charity” are nothing short of mind-bending. I am about to provide you with an example of this.
While I was a Christian, I always found it odd that of all the Biblical characters, Jesus was one of very few I actually felt an affinity to. He cared about the poor, he had his priorities straight. I could *identify* with Jesus. I got him, and I liked him, as a person. He challenged people who felt they had some kind of status in society, and propagated equality among all people, even in ways that made him less than popular. He actually talked to women like they were human beings. If he saw a need, he met it. He never lost sight of what was really important, and he had compassion. Other Biblical characters like Paul, and the apostles I could not relate to in the same way. They were too dogmatic, and I felt like they really lost sight of what was important. They had their eyes so firmly fixed on the “spiritual” that they neglected the practical. Jesus, in my eyes, didn’t do this – and even now, when I no longer consider him the son of god – it still frustrates me when those who claim to want to emulate him instead parrot his dogmatic early followers.
Example time now!
I have a number of FaceBook “friends” from my old church who have thus far failed to block me. I usually try to ignore their status updates, as they are almost universally saccharine enough to make you feel an actual ache in your pancreas. There are only so many consecutive exclamations of “I love Jeeeeesus” and “The lord is so good!”, because apparently you prayed for your car to start and – hey presto! – Jesus worked his magic juice on it, that I can bear without wanting to embark on a Columbine-style rampage at their next coffee morning.
About 2 days ago, one of them I had failed to notice was pointed out to me. One of the girls, let’s call her Sarah, had a photo of what looked like an ice cream van up, with this message:
So excited to go out tomorrow and show God's love to people. Heading to X Park with [girls’ name, let’s call her Claire] and we will be handing out free tea and coffee. Thanks again to [boys’ name] for his coffee van! Its kinda like this one in the picture. :) Its so cute!!! :D
Underneath the photo, someone made the excellent suggestion of charging 1 euro, or even having a collection there for the victims of the floods in Pakistan. This idea was immediately dismissed, based on the reasoning that god had “spoken to them”, and that apparently this was what he wanted them to do, because god was using free hot beverages to “bring people to him” - cue smiley faces. Passive aggressive, much? Anyway, I felt obliged to respond by pointing out that it was in fact an excellent idea, and that I couldn’t quite understand someone who claimed to model their worldview on that of Jesus considering offering free hot drinks to a Cork population already drowning in Barry’s tea more important than ameliorating the immediate suffering of the extreme poor after a natural disaster. Long sentence I know – but the response I got was thus, from Claire:
"Because i am called to be a servant to the Living God and do whatever He asks of me not what the world asks of me. Sorry that you don't understand this Grace but I'm living the impact and change God has had on my life so it is very importnat to me that those sick and dying in their souls know He can save them. :)"
I have a number of problems with this, but I feel it is necessary to be fair here and point out that I know this girl quite well, and the response was possibly not *quite* as passive-aggressive as it may appear. She’s actually very nice, and I feel somewhat disappointed that I must take such vehement issue with her approach. But I must, so I do. It’s not even the fact that they refused to organise a collection that annoyed me. If that just wasn’t the point of that particular event, OK – fair enough, I guess. I wouldn’t like it, but it wouldn’t annoy me half as much if they hadn’t more or less dismissed the plight of the Pakistani people as being less important than that of Corkonians to accept the Lorrrrrrrrd into their life. Just how far up your ass does your head need to be, in order for your set of priorities to be that arseways?
First off, the obvious. How precisely does bribing people with hot drinks – on a warm summer day, no less - ameliorate their “spiritual health”? Corkonians drink tea and coffee like fish drink water, and knowing them as I do you’d nearly have to tie them down to listen to a sermon while they drink it. They’ll just take the drink and fuck off. Why not do something even vaguely useful? For me, gags like this in the absence of any kind of collection for charity, etc., completely removes any facade of altruism and reveals these people for what they are – relentless proselytisers who want nothing other than to add more sheep to the sheep pen.
Secondly, the very idea of meeting the “needs” of those “sick and dying in their souls” before those of people who are literally sick and dying strikes me as bordering on farcical. It encapsulates the problem I had with people who neglected real issues for spiritual ones. I guess you could argue that the entire point of religion is to neglect the real for the “divine”, but in this case it irks me particularly, because this logical fallacy results in people dying. It’s just so, so irrational. I can scarcely get my head around it – I mean, even if it were purely levels of faith and “spiritual health” you were concerned about. I would imagine that watching their loved ones die for lack of basic food, sanitation and shelter in conditions scarcely fit for rats to live in would adversely affect the “spiritual health” of the Pakistani people.
The church is SURROUNDED by Cork people. They have their whole lives to meet Corkonians’ non-existent need for tea and coffee they can easily afford to buy anyway. The need of those suffering in the wake of the disaster in Pakistan is urgent and immmediate. If the church really cared about the poor and needy, they wouldn’t be wasting their time throwing hot drinks at bemused Cork people.
Also – seriously, would it be that much effort to have a collection there? Even if they didn’t charge for the tea and coffee, they could just have had a collection box for people to donate as and if they wished. All it would involve would be punching a hole in a box and writing on it. It would certainly involve far less manual labour than organising and setting up a hot drinks stand. It would literally cost them nothing to incorporate something like this into their event, and it would do so much good.
Even from their own perspective, at least pretending to care about Pakistan could benefit them. I for one would sure as hell be far more open to chatting to someone about anything if I felt they were supporting a good cause, even Jesus. If someone just bribed me with a drink to preach to me about the Lord, I would promptly explain that I needed the lord in me about as much as I did the beverage. As in, thanks, but not at all. It just makes them more credible as an organisation if they are seen to be doing something with an actual point. Other than shoving the love of Jeeeeesus down our throats with our hot tasty beverage.
To me, it just encapsulates everything I now hate about organised religion, especially the one I left. Even for those, like the girls above, who are relatively well-intentioned, the whole dogma of the religion removes their focus from the “world” – i.e. the problems right in front of their faces, and causes them to believe that the relationship some comfortable Westerner has with an questionably existent deity is more important than the constant, agonising suffering of people who are watching the people they love die unnecessarily. I mean, the disparity should be immediately obvious to anyone with a jot of empathy, or even logic, but both of these attributes are clouded in those who are devoutly religious by the need for “spiritual” issues to trump all others. As Claire rightly pointed out, it makes no sense to me – and to be perfectly honest, I’m fucking glad of it.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Thursday, July 29, 2010
The Logic of the Damned
I have just returned from a week-long stay with friends in Germany, north of Frankfurt. I had an absolutely wonderful time, and as usual I loved my time there. I find Germans on the whole very pleasant to deal with, and I’m extremely lucky to have some wonderful friends there who go to crazy lengths to be hospitable.
While I was there, however – on the 24th of this month, to be precise – we turned on the TV to find ourselves greeted with an absolute catastrophe. Most of you will already have heard of this by now, although I’m not sure how much coverage it got yet outside of Germany, but there was a mass panic at the LoveParade dance event in Duisberg and 19 young people (so far) have died as a result. Approximately 500 more are missing still, most likely traumatised, injured, and wandering aimlessly.
The LoveParade has been a staple event for German young people for the past 15 years or so – it’s pretty much just a massive dance event comparable to any music or dance festival elsewhere. For Irish readers, think of Oxygen, only 20 times bigger. It has always been held in Berlin in the past, but this year they decided to move to Duisberg due to the chaos it causes in the capital. Apparently, though, it was very poorly planned and executed in Duisberg, and the authorities did not properly plan for the sheer number of people attending (approximately 1.4 million). The facilities and space provided were totally inadequate, with a capacity in some places of just 250,000. Uncharacteristic of the Germans I think, but the consequences were fatal. A mass panic was started when too many people passed through a tunnel in the city, and the result was sheer anarchy. The fatalities were, essentially, trampled to death. 19 young, vibrant people in the prime of their lives, cut short in a horrific manner. Just looking at the videos and the photos was enough to send a shiver up my spine – it looked like my worst nightmare realised. I experienced something similar during my time in Africa last year, on a smaller scale, and let me tell you that even if you are not seriously hurt, it is utterly traumatising. People lose their minds in a panic situation, and it’s terrifying. You can’t breathe, you can’t move, and the noise is overwhelming.
Bearing this horrible situation in mind, there is one public reaction I have come to expect and be repulsed by, when it comes to major catastrophes. That is the “it was God’s judgement” response. This never fails to make me livid with rage. Honestly, every time I hear someone say this I want to beat them over the head with a fucking Bible. Or a brick. Anything that comes to hand, really, but I prefer the irony of beating them with religious paraphernalia.
And lo, someone came out with it! The callous, shit-for-brains individual concerned we shall name Nora X, and she’s a well-known publisher who stated via her Twitter feed that the LoveParade event was always inherently sinful, that it was their [the young peoples’, presumably] own fault, and that it was... of course... God’s judgement. I don’t think there are actually words for just how angry the injustice and the sheer logical fallacy of this enrages me. It makes me see red. It’s part of what I hate about the religious mindset, or at least that of fundamentalists. I think some people are constantly searching for ways in which to determine themselves superior to others in some way – sometimes it’s racism (I’m better because I’m white), sexism (I’m better because I have a penis), status (I’m better because I have a BMW), education (I’m better because I have a degree), and often, sectarianism or religious discrimination (I’m better because I follow the *right* religion, and ergo am morally superior).
This in itself infuriates me – this attempt to denigrate the rest of the human race for being different to you. What brings the “god’s judgement” response onto a whole other plateau of assholery, however, is the element of being willing to use a catastrophe, and the grief and despair it causes, as a vehicle by which to assert your superiority. I mean, you’re essentially sacrificing the peoples’ deaths, and the despair of their families, on the altar of your own self-satisfaction. Lack of empathy to that extent is just utterly incomprehensible to me. I mean, really – what the fuck is wrong with you? 19 young people are dead - people whose characters, behaviours and personalities you know nothing of, besides the fact that they enjoy a particular genre of music. However, you (and here I obviously mean Nora X) are meanwhile both callous and arrogant enough to assert that you actually have the answer to the massive question of why this happened, and that it is the fault of the unfortunate young people in question.
Go fuck yourself. Seriously. Just do us all a favour and go fuck yourself. And if you’re more offended by that statement than Nora X’s, you need to get your head checked.
I mean, the concept of such events being a reflection of God’s judgement is both offensive and fallacious on several levels. For starters, the God you assert is so pissed with us, may or may not exist in the first place, so please don’t go making any wild claims about him. Furthermore, if God really does cause natural disasters every now and again in a fit of rage - he should probably be tested for manic depression, as frankly his behaviour seems rather erratic and his judgement sporadic at best. Also, wouldn’t God have bigger fish to fry? I know if I was an omniscient, omnipotent deity there are plenty of things wrong in this world I would care about a great deal more than young people in Duisberg drinking alcohol, listening to music, eating too much junk food and *shock* maybe having sex outside of marriage! For instance, an earthquake would have swallowed the Vatican whole fucking years ago. Please excuse me if making the world safe for paedophiles ranks higher on my list of “sins” than enjoying dance music.
The Love Parade isn’t exactly the only place in the world where drinking and debauchery takes place – in fact, if these things really were smiteworthy I’m pretty sure that Ireland for one would no longer exist. God should see what goes on in Freakscene on a Wednesday night. I’m sure he’d be shocked out.
I know my response is somewhat satirical, but please believe it is in earnest. I’m not entirely sure how to respond to such wilful stupidity – on the one hand, it is illogical enough to be met with derisive humour from anyone of moderate intelligence, but on the other it’s also offensive enough to be met with a smack in the face. If the god of Nora X is responsible for the disaster in Duisberg, then he’s as much of an asshole as she is. I mean, how is such a horrific statement an incentive to follow her religious beliefs, or to believe them valid? A god who kills random young people sporadically and in a horrific manner is not someone I would ever worship willingly. Apparently, though, some would, and I think that it speaks to their character. And not in a nice way.
So, to summarise. If you are Nora X (unlikely), or anyone who believes as she does about such catastrophic events - fuck you. If your smugness is more important to you than the grief and loss of 19 young peoples’ families – innocent people who have lost daughters, sons, sisters, brothers, and friends and are trying to reconstruct lives shattered by sudden bereavement – fuck you. As far as I’m concerned you can crawl into a hole and die, as you deserve even less empathy than you’re willing to give.
If you’re not – please accept my apologies for the language, and rant over *^_^*
While I was there, however – on the 24th of this month, to be precise – we turned on the TV to find ourselves greeted with an absolute catastrophe. Most of you will already have heard of this by now, although I’m not sure how much coverage it got yet outside of Germany, but there was a mass panic at the LoveParade dance event in Duisberg and 19 young people (so far) have died as a result. Approximately 500 more are missing still, most likely traumatised, injured, and wandering aimlessly.
The LoveParade has been a staple event for German young people for the past 15 years or so – it’s pretty much just a massive dance event comparable to any music or dance festival elsewhere. For Irish readers, think of Oxygen, only 20 times bigger. It has always been held in Berlin in the past, but this year they decided to move to Duisberg due to the chaos it causes in the capital. Apparently, though, it was very poorly planned and executed in Duisberg, and the authorities did not properly plan for the sheer number of people attending (approximately 1.4 million). The facilities and space provided were totally inadequate, with a capacity in some places of just 250,000. Uncharacteristic of the Germans I think, but the consequences were fatal. A mass panic was started when too many people passed through a tunnel in the city, and the result was sheer anarchy. The fatalities were, essentially, trampled to death. 19 young, vibrant people in the prime of their lives, cut short in a horrific manner. Just looking at the videos and the photos was enough to send a shiver up my spine – it looked like my worst nightmare realised. I experienced something similar during my time in Africa last year, on a smaller scale, and let me tell you that even if you are not seriously hurt, it is utterly traumatising. People lose their minds in a panic situation, and it’s terrifying. You can’t breathe, you can’t move, and the noise is overwhelming.
Bearing this horrible situation in mind, there is one public reaction I have come to expect and be repulsed by, when it comes to major catastrophes. That is the “it was God’s judgement” response. This never fails to make me livid with rage. Honestly, every time I hear someone say this I want to beat them over the head with a fucking Bible. Or a brick. Anything that comes to hand, really, but I prefer the irony of beating them with religious paraphernalia.
And lo, someone came out with it! The callous, shit-for-brains individual concerned we shall name Nora X, and she’s a well-known publisher who stated via her Twitter feed that the LoveParade event was always inherently sinful, that it was their [the young peoples’, presumably] own fault, and that it was... of course... God’s judgement. I don’t think there are actually words for just how angry the injustice and the sheer logical fallacy of this enrages me. It makes me see red. It’s part of what I hate about the religious mindset, or at least that of fundamentalists. I think some people are constantly searching for ways in which to determine themselves superior to others in some way – sometimes it’s racism (I’m better because I’m white), sexism (I’m better because I have a penis), status (I’m better because I have a BMW), education (I’m better because I have a degree), and often, sectarianism or religious discrimination (I’m better because I follow the *right* religion, and ergo am morally superior).
This in itself infuriates me – this attempt to denigrate the rest of the human race for being different to you. What brings the “god’s judgement” response onto a whole other plateau of assholery, however, is the element of being willing to use a catastrophe, and the grief and despair it causes, as a vehicle by which to assert your superiority. I mean, you’re essentially sacrificing the peoples’ deaths, and the despair of their families, on the altar of your own self-satisfaction. Lack of empathy to that extent is just utterly incomprehensible to me. I mean, really – what the fuck is wrong with you? 19 young people are dead - people whose characters, behaviours and personalities you know nothing of, besides the fact that they enjoy a particular genre of music. However, you (and here I obviously mean Nora X) are meanwhile both callous and arrogant enough to assert that you actually have the answer to the massive question of why this happened, and that it is the fault of the unfortunate young people in question.
Go fuck yourself. Seriously. Just do us all a favour and go fuck yourself. And if you’re more offended by that statement than Nora X’s, you need to get your head checked.
I mean, the concept of such events being a reflection of God’s judgement is both offensive and fallacious on several levels. For starters, the God you assert is so pissed with us, may or may not exist in the first place, so please don’t go making any wild claims about him. Furthermore, if God really does cause natural disasters every now and again in a fit of rage - he should probably be tested for manic depression, as frankly his behaviour seems rather erratic and his judgement sporadic at best. Also, wouldn’t God have bigger fish to fry? I know if I was an omniscient, omnipotent deity there are plenty of things wrong in this world I would care about a great deal more than young people in Duisberg drinking alcohol, listening to music, eating too much junk food and *shock* maybe having sex outside of marriage! For instance, an earthquake would have swallowed the Vatican whole fucking years ago. Please excuse me if making the world safe for paedophiles ranks higher on my list of “sins” than enjoying dance music.
The Love Parade isn’t exactly the only place in the world where drinking and debauchery takes place – in fact, if these things really were smiteworthy I’m pretty sure that Ireland for one would no longer exist. God should see what goes on in Freakscene on a Wednesday night. I’m sure he’d be shocked out.
I know my response is somewhat satirical, but please believe it is in earnest. I’m not entirely sure how to respond to such wilful stupidity – on the one hand, it is illogical enough to be met with derisive humour from anyone of moderate intelligence, but on the other it’s also offensive enough to be met with a smack in the face. If the god of Nora X is responsible for the disaster in Duisberg, then he’s as much of an asshole as she is. I mean, how is such a horrific statement an incentive to follow her religious beliefs, or to believe them valid? A god who kills random young people sporadically and in a horrific manner is not someone I would ever worship willingly. Apparently, though, some would, and I think that it speaks to their character. And not in a nice way.
So, to summarise. If you are Nora X (unlikely), or anyone who believes as she does about such catastrophic events - fuck you. If your smugness is more important to you than the grief and loss of 19 young peoples’ families – innocent people who have lost daughters, sons, sisters, brothers, and friends and are trying to reconstruct lives shattered by sudden bereavement – fuck you. As far as I’m concerned you can crawl into a hole and die, as you deserve even less empathy than you’re willing to give.
If you’re not – please accept my apologies for the language, and rant over *^_^*
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
For the women of Cork
I was sitting on the bus yesterday, making my way home from a night in my friend’s house. Due to certain circumstances, I was already thinking about the Irish justice system when I boarded. For the most part, I was lamenting internally its’ inefficiency and overall uselessness. It takes forever to get anything done, as I’m sure it does in most countries – but in Ireland it really seems as if the system is actively trying to screw those who are most dependent on its’ assistance, namely those who have been victimised, or abused and have no recourse to justice but to seek it in court as they cannot defend themselves. It takes forever for cases to reach court, evidence is frequently misplaced or neglected, sentences are farcically lenient, and the policework required to enable cases to reach court in the first place is substandard.
It was during this rather depressing internal monologue that I heard an announcement on local radio news, among the chatter and the noise, that genuinely scared the crap out of me. According to Garda (police) statistics, the number of reported rapes in Cork city area has increased by 500% in a one year period.
That’s not a typo with an extra zero there. Five hundred per cent, since this time last year. There is of course the question to be considered as to the cause – are more women being raped, or is it the case that a far greater proportion of them are reporting it? Given the treatment of sexual assault cases in Ireland, which I have touched on in previous posts, I find it rather difficult to believe the latter. This statistic leads me to a number of conclusions, all of which are deeply unsettling.
As I have said, I find it hard to believe that a 500% increase in number of rapes being reported during a one year period, isolated within one regional area, can be attributed to higher incidence of reporting by victims. As such, the increase must be reflective of a massive increase in the number of assaults. 500% is a terrifying figure. It would also suggest to me that we have at least one serial offender responsible – it’s not a difficult conclusion to draw. We have to consider the number of rapes historically committed per annum in Cork, and the kind of numbers represented by a 500% increase. Say for example, the increase represents 150 assaults. The possibility of an increase or decrease in crime levels by such an amount is proportionate to the size of the population of the area in question. An increase by 150 assaults could much more likely be coincidental in a major city – London, Paris, Berlin. In a population the size of Cork’s, though, the likelihood of such an increase consisting of purely isolated incidents is practically zero.
It led me to thinking about the likelihood of there being an appropriate response to this near certainty (of a serial rapist, or more than one) by an Garda Síochána. I have tremendous respect on an individual level for certain gardaí I know personally – and as a profession in general I consider it extremely worthy. But as a woman in Cork, I have little faith that major perpetrators of sexual assaults here will be apprehended before many, many more women are hurt. If ever. In what little dealings I have had with the police force here, I have found their response to even the most basic of crimes insufficient and sluggish. We are totally unprepared in Ireland for serial crime. There was an entire spate of female disappearances in the midlands in the 1990s, such as that of JoJo Dullard, which are widely believed to be related but remain unsolved. Our response to serial offenders – by understanding, and consequently being able to adequately predict or apprehend the various psychoses that drive their behaviour – is effectively nonexistent. It frustrates me, because there is no want of talent in Ireland for such things, the systems are just not in place to channel that talent and expertise into effective, specialised police subforces dedicated to such crime.
So, in the meantime, if you live in Cork and happen to be female – please don’t take any chances. I don’t want to cause undue alarm, but I think the aforementioned statistics speak for themselves. The piece mentioned two specific scenarios to be aware of – home invasion assaults, and assaults on women who were heavily inebriated. Double check that your windows and doors are locked before you go to bed. If you’re drinking, either try not to drink to excess or at least stick to a group. Be aware of your surroundings as much as you can, and trust your instincts. It strikes me as hypocritical how we are so averse to displays of assertiveness in women here, be it in the form of turning guys down flat or setting firm boundaries if someone is bothering you – and yet when a woman is attacked, we often blame her for not doing precisely these same things. Should anything happen to you, or even if it has happened in the past, it was unequivocally NOT your fault. We can only be responsible for that which we can control, and since rape is by its’ very nature the deprivation of control over what happens to one’s own body, the responsibility for rape lies irrevocably with the perpetrator. It doesn’t matter what preceded it, or how much he might have felt you “led him on”. But I would rather as few women (or indeed men) as at all possible be subject to the horror of being raped, so please, if you’re reading this – be careful. Don’t put yourself in situations you are unsure of, and if you find yourself in one anyway, it’s better some random guy think you’re acting like a complete freak than you get assaulted. Try to find the balance between being cautious and sensible, and accepting that rape is never the victim’s fault, and as such your preventative measures can only ever be a precaution against something outside of your control.
Please be safe, and be aware – not only for yourself, but for the women around you. No-one deserves the pain of being raped, save perhaps those who inflict it on others – who, for the record, I would gladly have skinned and rolled in salt. With any luck those responsible for the dramatic increase in the past year will end up with a bad dose of karma, and preferably floating face down in the Lee.
It was during this rather depressing internal monologue that I heard an announcement on local radio news, among the chatter and the noise, that genuinely scared the crap out of me. According to Garda (police) statistics, the number of reported rapes in Cork city area has increased by 500% in a one year period.
That’s not a typo with an extra zero there. Five hundred per cent, since this time last year. There is of course the question to be considered as to the cause – are more women being raped, or is it the case that a far greater proportion of them are reporting it? Given the treatment of sexual assault cases in Ireland, which I have touched on in previous posts, I find it rather difficult to believe the latter. This statistic leads me to a number of conclusions, all of which are deeply unsettling.
As I have said, I find it hard to believe that a 500% increase in number of rapes being reported during a one year period, isolated within one regional area, can be attributed to higher incidence of reporting by victims. As such, the increase must be reflective of a massive increase in the number of assaults. 500% is a terrifying figure. It would also suggest to me that we have at least one serial offender responsible – it’s not a difficult conclusion to draw. We have to consider the number of rapes historically committed per annum in Cork, and the kind of numbers represented by a 500% increase. Say for example, the increase represents 150 assaults. The possibility of an increase or decrease in crime levels by such an amount is proportionate to the size of the population of the area in question. An increase by 150 assaults could much more likely be coincidental in a major city – London, Paris, Berlin. In a population the size of Cork’s, though, the likelihood of such an increase consisting of purely isolated incidents is practically zero.
It led me to thinking about the likelihood of there being an appropriate response to this near certainty (of a serial rapist, or more than one) by an Garda Síochána. I have tremendous respect on an individual level for certain gardaí I know personally – and as a profession in general I consider it extremely worthy. But as a woman in Cork, I have little faith that major perpetrators of sexual assaults here will be apprehended before many, many more women are hurt. If ever. In what little dealings I have had with the police force here, I have found their response to even the most basic of crimes insufficient and sluggish. We are totally unprepared in Ireland for serial crime. There was an entire spate of female disappearances in the midlands in the 1990s, such as that of JoJo Dullard, which are widely believed to be related but remain unsolved. Our response to serial offenders – by understanding, and consequently being able to adequately predict or apprehend the various psychoses that drive their behaviour – is effectively nonexistent. It frustrates me, because there is no want of talent in Ireland for such things, the systems are just not in place to channel that talent and expertise into effective, specialised police subforces dedicated to such crime.
So, in the meantime, if you live in Cork and happen to be female – please don’t take any chances. I don’t want to cause undue alarm, but I think the aforementioned statistics speak for themselves. The piece mentioned two specific scenarios to be aware of – home invasion assaults, and assaults on women who were heavily inebriated. Double check that your windows and doors are locked before you go to bed. If you’re drinking, either try not to drink to excess or at least stick to a group. Be aware of your surroundings as much as you can, and trust your instincts. It strikes me as hypocritical how we are so averse to displays of assertiveness in women here, be it in the form of turning guys down flat or setting firm boundaries if someone is bothering you – and yet when a woman is attacked, we often blame her for not doing precisely these same things. Should anything happen to you, or even if it has happened in the past, it was unequivocally NOT your fault. We can only be responsible for that which we can control, and since rape is by its’ very nature the deprivation of control over what happens to one’s own body, the responsibility for rape lies irrevocably with the perpetrator. It doesn’t matter what preceded it, or how much he might have felt you “led him on”. But I would rather as few women (or indeed men) as at all possible be subject to the horror of being raped, so please, if you’re reading this – be careful. Don’t put yourself in situations you are unsure of, and if you find yourself in one anyway, it’s better some random guy think you’re acting like a complete freak than you get assaulted. Try to find the balance between being cautious and sensible, and accepting that rape is never the victim’s fault, and as such your preventative measures can only ever be a precaution against something outside of your control.
Please be safe, and be aware – not only for yourself, but for the women around you. No-one deserves the pain of being raped, save perhaps those who inflict it on others – who, for the record, I would gladly have skinned and rolled in salt. With any luck those responsible for the dramatic increase in the past year will end up with a bad dose of karma, and preferably floating face down in the Lee.
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!!
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Mensa, here I come?
Very recently, I applied to sit the supervised test to prove myself eligible for Mensa membership. That may appear to some a pompous thing to do, but for me, it was important. I passed the home test some years ago, but ever since I have long put off sitting the supervised test. Why? I am not entirely sure – I think that a part of me was afraid of failing it. My intellect is as much a part of my personal identity as my nationality or my hair colour, but one I am significantly more self-conscious about. I sometimes find it hard to acknowledge my own cognitive ability – I was taught for so long to downplay it so as not to make people uncomfortable. I often wonder if I would have been so encouraged, had I been born a boy. Certainly, as I got older, I came to realise that demonstrating superior intellectual prowess made boys uneasy, and the vapid hair-tossing, giggling Beverly Hills wannabe variety of teenage girl was what I was expected to aspire to. Think more Tori Spelling than Virginia Woolfe. That, combined with the fact that I was condemned to spend my school life unfulfilled and neglected, has significantly hindered my acknowledgement and nurturing of my brainpower.
As a child, I was always told I was bright. I was a bright girl, very clever. A real bright spark. This was usually accompanied by a pat on the head or a similarly affectionate but condescending gesture. Even as a little girl, I was made to feel like a dog that had just managed to sit on command. In retrospect, it was a bit more than that. I read my first words off the side of a doll box when I was two, and by the age of five I had memorised the precise distances between the planets of the solar system. I knew what a black hole was, and how it worked. I had a reading age comparable to someone in their mid-teens by the time I started school at the age of 4 or 5. I was obsessed with dinosaurs, and knew the difference between vertebrate and invertebrate creatures. I wasn’t “bright”, I was prodigiously intelligent. I’m not saying that to be obnoxious, that is an entirely toothless statement. What I am trying to express is that I was consistently taught to undervalue and neglect my intelligence, rather than nurture it for what it was.
When I started school, I was actually made to repeat my first year because I never paid attention. The teacher seemed to be under the impression that I couldn’t keep up with the curriculum, when in fact this couldn’t have been further from the truth.
I was bored out of my skull, and on top of this I was terribly afraid of my teacher. I developed a phobia of going to school, and I was scream and cry when my mother would wake me in the mornings to bring me. Eventually, my parents entered into a deal with the school whereby I was permitted to leave class earlier than normal that year, in exchange for repeating the class. My parents were desperate – by this point I was all but clinging to their legs in the morning, and this was all that would calm me – so they agreed. The results were disastrous. This decision all but ensured that I would spend the remainder of my school career constantly ahead of the curriculum, and bored out of my tiny mind. Within two years they were bringing in extra work from higher classes, just for me to have something to do – but by then, I was socially well-adjusted so they never remedied the situation by moving my forward.
Anyway – please bear with me, for this post does actually have a point besides lamenting how bored I was as a child.
For me, going to Mensa would be the beginning of a truly new existence. One where my intelligence is acknowledged and nurtured, rather than undermined and ignored. Part of my quest for identity, now that I have left the church, is figuring out just who I am, and trying to form associations with people I have a great deal in common with. I want to seek out the company of people who have something in common with me, be it intelligence, political worldview, (non)religious affiliation, interests, or personality type. I think everybody could benefit from doing this. My intellect, to me, is a talent, no more or less to be appreciated than the ability to sing or draw well. I want to love being who I am, and that involves recognising my individual qualities, and caring for them accordingly. I would like to think that this could encourage you to do the same, because if you are reading this you can be sure that it is no more than you deserve also.
As a child, I was always told I was bright. I was a bright girl, very clever. A real bright spark. This was usually accompanied by a pat on the head or a similarly affectionate but condescending gesture. Even as a little girl, I was made to feel like a dog that had just managed to sit on command. In retrospect, it was a bit more than that. I read my first words off the side of a doll box when I was two, and by the age of five I had memorised the precise distances between the planets of the solar system. I knew what a black hole was, and how it worked. I had a reading age comparable to someone in their mid-teens by the time I started school at the age of 4 or 5. I was obsessed with dinosaurs, and knew the difference between vertebrate and invertebrate creatures. I wasn’t “bright”, I was prodigiously intelligent. I’m not saying that to be obnoxious, that is an entirely toothless statement. What I am trying to express is that I was consistently taught to undervalue and neglect my intelligence, rather than nurture it for what it was.
When I started school, I was actually made to repeat my first year because I never paid attention. The teacher seemed to be under the impression that I couldn’t keep up with the curriculum, when in fact this couldn’t have been further from the truth.
I was bored out of my skull, and on top of this I was terribly afraid of my teacher. I developed a phobia of going to school, and I was scream and cry when my mother would wake me in the mornings to bring me. Eventually, my parents entered into a deal with the school whereby I was permitted to leave class earlier than normal that year, in exchange for repeating the class. My parents were desperate – by this point I was all but clinging to their legs in the morning, and this was all that would calm me – so they agreed. The results were disastrous. This decision all but ensured that I would spend the remainder of my school career constantly ahead of the curriculum, and bored out of my tiny mind. Within two years they were bringing in extra work from higher classes, just for me to have something to do – but by then, I was socially well-adjusted so they never remedied the situation by moving my forward.
Anyway – please bear with me, for this post does actually have a point besides lamenting how bored I was as a child.
For me, going to Mensa would be the beginning of a truly new existence. One where my intelligence is acknowledged and nurtured, rather than undermined and ignored. Part of my quest for identity, now that I have left the church, is figuring out just who I am, and trying to form associations with people I have a great deal in common with. I want to seek out the company of people who have something in common with me, be it intelligence, political worldview, (non)religious affiliation, interests, or personality type. I think everybody could benefit from doing this. My intellect, to me, is a talent, no more or less to be appreciated than the ability to sing or draw well. I want to love being who I am, and that involves recognising my individual qualities, and caring for them accordingly. I would like to think that this could encourage you to do the same, because if you are reading this you can be sure that it is no more than you deserve also.
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.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
It's been a while... again.
Pregnancy.
I've been thinking about it again because I recently had my first full sexual experience. I reached all ten bases - or, however many there are in whatever system you use. I never could figure out that system, all I know is we went all the way!
And it was good. No - scratch that - it was awesome. The guy in question was fun, I felt comfortable with everything, and it was just right. It was the kind of first time you could really hope for. We stayed overnight in a cute guesthouse that was actually more like a boutique hotel, with the kind of baroque décor that really appeals to me, and we just spent the night experimenting, making love, and sleeping before heading down to a leisurely breakfast. We used condoms, of course, and many of them... so my chances of being pregnant now are fairly nonexistent, but I guess it was just an interesting contrast to my few experiences with sexual encounters I had with my ex-fiancé while still a Christian.
I remember at one point convincing myself - largely thanks to a guilty conscience - that I was pregnant after we "fell into sin" one time on holidays. How I managed to convince myself of this, in retrospect, I do not know, because I had my pants on the whole frigging time, but in my hysterical guilt afterwards I was determined that my fiancé's magical man-juice would manage to seep its' way through my pants and impregnate me anyway. By osmosis or something, don't ask me. I was hysterical anyway.
And I tormented myself with the guilt until my blessed period arrived. It's just incredible to think about, looking back, that the hypothetical judgement my fellow "buhleevas" would heap upon me in case of my pregnancy was enough to drive me close to suicide. I was so terrified, so ashamed of myself - the thought of walking into that church, all of them looking - knowing what I had done - facing them all with the tangible evidence of my sin as a literal bump in my form... It made me want to die, and I mean that in the most literal manner possible. I've never told anyone this, but before my period arrived that time, I actually tormented myself into experiencing phantom pregnancy symptoms. I started experiencing a lot of the symptoms of pregnancy as a sort of psychosomatic response to my overwhelming fear I was pregnant, which in turn reinforced my belief I was pregnant, which terrified me even more.
Now, I consider the possibility of my being pregnant - which is rather more likely now that I've actually had sex, you know... and I honestly don't feel anything like the shame or guilt. Sure, I don't want to be pregnant - now wouldn't be a great time for me, and I'm not sure how I'd handle it, but it definitely wouldn't drive me to abortion or suicide. Because you know what? What I do or have done with my body is nobody else's fucking business. I may not be the best potential mom that's ever existed, but should life throw me a lemon in the form of a baby I'm gonna make some damn good lemonade. And you can fuck right off with your tut-tutting and your sideways looks.
When I was still at church, I was led to believe for so long that sex was some life-changing experience. I was force-fed these pitifully poor analogies of sex as being like two pieces of paper being glued together - apparently, you can rip them apart, but pieces of them are still stuck to one another... *eyeroll* In other words, once you give "ze vagine" to someone (or indeed "ze asshole"), you are intrinsically linked to them on some psychological or even spiritual level, that you are not if you abstain from sexual activity with them. Well, ladies and gentlemen, I can now confirm to you that this is bullshit of the highest order. I, for one, feel absolutely no different as a person. Certainly not in any negative sense - I feel a bit more confident about my body now that I've exposed it fully to someone and gotten a thoroughly "firm" response (pun intended), but that's it. I like the guy in question, very much, but we could part ways in the morning and I would mourn it no more than any other breakup. I am in no way "bonded" to him like someone superglued us together, we did not "become one" - we just did the horizontal mambo, and it was very nice.
So, lads and lassies, the moral of the story is - sex is the dog's bollocks! Go for it.
I've been thinking about it again because I recently had my first full sexual experience. I reached all ten bases - or, however many there are in whatever system you use. I never could figure out that system, all I know is we went all the way!
And it was good. No - scratch that - it was awesome. The guy in question was fun, I felt comfortable with everything, and it was just right. It was the kind of first time you could really hope for. We stayed overnight in a cute guesthouse that was actually more like a boutique hotel, with the kind of baroque décor that really appeals to me, and we just spent the night experimenting, making love, and sleeping before heading down to a leisurely breakfast. We used condoms, of course, and many of them... so my chances of being pregnant now are fairly nonexistent, but I guess it was just an interesting contrast to my few experiences with sexual encounters I had with my ex-fiancé while still a Christian.
I remember at one point convincing myself - largely thanks to a guilty conscience - that I was pregnant after we "fell into sin" one time on holidays. How I managed to convince myself of this, in retrospect, I do not know, because I had my pants on the whole frigging time, but in my hysterical guilt afterwards I was determined that my fiancé's magical man-juice would manage to seep its' way through my pants and impregnate me anyway. By osmosis or something, don't ask me. I was hysterical anyway.
And I tormented myself with the guilt until my blessed period arrived. It's just incredible to think about, looking back, that the hypothetical judgement my fellow "buhleevas" would heap upon me in case of my pregnancy was enough to drive me close to suicide. I was so terrified, so ashamed of myself - the thought of walking into that church, all of them looking - knowing what I had done - facing them all with the tangible evidence of my sin as a literal bump in my form... It made me want to die, and I mean that in the most literal manner possible. I've never told anyone this, but before my period arrived that time, I actually tormented myself into experiencing phantom pregnancy symptoms. I started experiencing a lot of the symptoms of pregnancy as a sort of psychosomatic response to my overwhelming fear I was pregnant, which in turn reinforced my belief I was pregnant, which terrified me even more.
Now, I consider the possibility of my being pregnant - which is rather more likely now that I've actually had sex, you know... and I honestly don't feel anything like the shame or guilt. Sure, I don't want to be pregnant - now wouldn't be a great time for me, and I'm not sure how I'd handle it, but it definitely wouldn't drive me to abortion or suicide. Because you know what? What I do or have done with my body is nobody else's fucking business. I may not be the best potential mom that's ever existed, but should life throw me a lemon in the form of a baby I'm gonna make some damn good lemonade. And you can fuck right off with your tut-tutting and your sideways looks.
When I was still at church, I was led to believe for so long that sex was some life-changing experience. I was force-fed these pitifully poor analogies of sex as being like two pieces of paper being glued together - apparently, you can rip them apart, but pieces of them are still stuck to one another... *eyeroll* In other words, once you give "ze vagine" to someone (or indeed "ze asshole"), you are intrinsically linked to them on some psychological or even spiritual level, that you are not if you abstain from sexual activity with them. Well, ladies and gentlemen, I can now confirm to you that this is bullshit of the highest order. I, for one, feel absolutely no different as a person. Certainly not in any negative sense - I feel a bit more confident about my body now that I've exposed it fully to someone and gotten a thoroughly "firm" response (pun intended), but that's it. I like the guy in question, very much, but we could part ways in the morning and I would mourn it no more than any other breakup. I am in no way "bonded" to him like someone superglued us together, we did not "become one" - we just did the horizontal mambo, and it was very nice.
So, lads and lassies, the moral of the story is - sex is the dog's bollocks! Go for it.
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