Deb M

Childhood, Family, Fear, isolation, Stress, Trauma, Uncategorized

Childhood and Adventure

September 8, 2021September 8, 2021 Deb M

Part 3

Both of my parents were checked out much of the time. I was raised by television. Many of us who grew up in the ’70s had this experience. I lived my day according to what show was on next. The people on television were my friends and they kept me company while my mother was away. I would build tents out of the dining room chairs and blankets from my bed.. My dog Muffy and I would hunker down inside and eat snacks while watching Gilligan’s Island. I loved building those tents. Once inside it felt like I was in a different world. Under my blankets with my furry companion felt safe and warm. I can still feel the softness of Muffy’s fur and the way she smelled. Muffy was my only company when my mother was away. She was a beautiful white Samoyed dog with happy brown eyes. She was very easy going and always willing to play tea party with me or even dress up. To this day I love dogs and I feel I owe a debt of gratitude to Muffy for taking care of me. For the first ten years of my life, she was there. There were times when she was the only being around to comfort me and she was often the only really dependable thing in my life. She was like a second mother to me and many of the good memories I have from the first 10 years feature her.

In the morning my alarm clock would go off and I would hear Bugs Bunny say “Eh What’s Up Dock?” I loved my Bugs clock! Alone I would get up, eat, and get myself ready for school. I knew when “Leave It To Beaver” came on it was time to go. At the end of the day when I returned home, I would watch “Bugs Bunny” and “Gilligan’s Island”. Most of the time the television was just on as background noise to keep me from feeling alone. I would bring art projects out into the living room and work on them in front of the television. When there was nothing on tv I wanted to watch I would go play in my room or I would play outside. Sometimes I would play with friends but I felt guilty about leaving Muffy alone if she had been alone all day. I wonder if she saw my being out of the house as a break, much like a young mother might relish nap time. For a little bit she would not have to be my Dressy Bessie.

In the evenings my mother and I would watch “Sonny and Cher”, “The Love Boat”, “Fantasy Island”, and “Charlie’s Angels”. I enjoyed all of these shows. When my mother was home we would often sit on the floor, in the dark, and she would bring out a big bag of nuts from the kitchen. It was like being in a movie theater. She would crack the nuts open for me and we would have them as a treat. Sometimes we would have a generic soda too. My mother loved orange, grape, and root beer flavors so that is what we had to choose from. When I think of these times with my mother it warms my heart. It calls to mind the physical closeness I so needed and that could be hard to come by. I lived for these moments. The person I loved best in the world was finally there beside me and she wasn’t crying or screaming, she was laughing. In the dark it did not matter that we had no sofa to cuddle on or that the devil might be hiding in the closet, all that mattered was that we were together.

I really loved Cher! She was one of the only people on television who looked like me. Certainly, she was the only woman I was aware of. She had long black hair and olive skin just like mine. I loved seeing all of her glamorous Bob Maki dresses. She was both beautiful and talented. She gave me the impression that she ran her own life and maybe Sonny’s too. She was confident and I wanted to be like her. Another woman I admired from television was Lucille Ball. I thought she was beautiful as well and so funny. Lastly, there was Carol Burnett. I did not see her as a great beauty but as the funniest woman ever! I loved her show and couldn’t wait for it every week. When it went into syndication, I could watch it in the afternoon. I never missed a show. These women helped me to develop my sense of humor. Cher was sharp and kind of dry, Carol and Lucy perfected physical comedy. When my mother would go into one of her depressive moods I would act out scenes from these shows to try to make her laugh. If that didn’t work I would dig into my candy stash to find something to make her smile. My mother loved candy so the combination of my best Carol Burnett impersonation and a Snickers bar could go a long long way.

On the action side, I could not get enough of “Charlie’s Angels”, “The Bionic Woman”, and “Wonder Woman”! These women inspired me to be strong and athletic. I would run through the woods pretending to be Wonder Woman! I love those memories. I had a fort in the trees and I would perch on a branch and pretend to be in my invisible plane. I saw myself in these characters. They were tough, confident, and dependable, all things I hoped to be. I tried and tried to make my hair do the 70’s flip or feather, no matter what I did it never worked.

To this day I love female comedians, especially if they embrace physical comedy. I enjoy female cop shows and superhero characters. When I get lost and I can’t find my way they help me to get back to myself. They remind me of who I was at the beginning, who I am at my core. They remind me of my mother, which can be both good and bad. They remind me of how far I’ve traveled to get to where I am now. They continue to provide comfort and inspiration!

Television offered me predictability and comfort. Shows were almost always on when you thought they would be. I could see this extended family whenever I wanted and they would always be the same. The sounds of their voices coming down the hall from the living room made our apartment feel like it was full and not so empty. I feel the shows helped me to become more socially confident. My mother and father were socially awkward and so they did not provide good examples of how to fit in. I have always felt odd in the world but it could have been much worse. I watched these shows and learned how to interact with people and it showed me how adults should be with kids. Television helped me see the inappropriateness of my parent’s behavior. Television also helped to keep the things I was afraid of at bay.

When I wasn’t watching television I played outside. We had a small wooded area next to our apartment along with a large hill and field. On the other side of the field was my elementary school and playground. When the weather was nice I would play in my “fort”. Wonder Woman was my favorite scenario. Those woods had the potential to be so much. They could be my invisible plane when I climbed the tree and sat on a branch that overlooked our street and the low brush was my fort or secret lair. The large rocks made great chairs and an easy to move low hanging tree branch served as a secret invisible door. In the summer it wasn’t

unusual for me to waste the afternoon running through the tall grass having spectacular adventures. Even in these happy times fear followed me around lurking behind every tree and waiting for me at home. When I think of that fear now I can feel it in my chest. I can imagine it is not unlike what a rabbit feels when it senses danger. You become still and hope you can’t be seen.

My dog Muffy liked to be outside when it wasn’t too hot. She made a pretty good playmate. Even though she was a big dog I managed her fine. She never ran away even when I dropped her leash. Even though I don’t think she enjoyed it much, she would climb in the sled with me and go down the hill. Well, truth be told she only made it half way down the hill before jumping out of the sled and running to the bottom to meet me. Once at the bottom of the hill she would chase after me to get to the top and do it all over again. When the weather was warmer she would play kickball with me. Which meant I would kick my small red rubber ball and she would chase after me as I pretended to run the bases. When we grew tired we would plop down in the grassy field and I would make dandelion jewelry and crowns. I was very allergic to both the grass and the dandelions so it didn’t take long for us to be driven back into the apartment to cool off. Once inside I would grab a popsicle and arrange my dandelion creations so that I could show my mother when she returned home. Often by the time my mother arrived they were very wilted. It made me sad that I could not figure out how to keep them pretty for her.

On other days I would slip through a small trail in the treeline behind our apartment that opened onto some railroad tracks. I would follow those tracks all the way to the beach. When I think about it now it seems so dangerous. I would bring a towel, some beach toys, and whatever change I could gather so that I could buy some ice cream once I got there. I would play in the sand and water all day without any adult supervision. To this day I am not the strongest swimmer and I recognize how lucky I am that I never got hurt. Even though it was dangerous I can’t help but think of these days warmly. My childhood was not safe by any stretch of the imagination but it was filled with childish adventure. I had so much unstructured time to explore the world around me and these days at the beach are the best example of this. All I need is to hear the sound of the waves hitting the shore and I’m instantly taken back to those days sitting on the beach eating a popsicle with my toes buried in the wet sand. By the end of the summer, my skin would be a deep brick-brown making me stick out like a sore thumb. Adults and children alike seemed confused and interested in my appearance. They would often ask me about my ethnicity and when I was young I thought it was kind of a game. Later it would make me feel bad about being different.

When I wasn’t outside I loved to create little art projects. My mother saw early on that I was a blooming artist and so she made sure I always had paint, markers, and clay to play with. My mother was an accomplished artist. Part of my desire to create was driven by wanting to be as skilled as my mother. She liked to draw nature scenes and especially animals. My mother grew up around horses. I could tell by the stories that she told me about her childhood that she loved her horses. I would ask her over and over to tell me about Dolly and the others. She would tell me each horse’s name and then describe what they look like. She would include details like which horse liked to get into mischief and which ones liked apples. I would try my best to draw them as my mother had described. I also drew my dream horse over and over again. He had a black tail and mane and was a deep chocolate color. I could never match my mother’s sketching talent and this distressed me. She bought me this large oversized book about how to draw horses and I spent many hours trying my best to follow the instructions. I became pretty good at it! But sadly never as good as my mother. It really bothered me. It took me until well into adulthood to be able to create art for art’s sake and to not be still comparing myself to my mother in my head.

After my horse drawing stage I moved onto my fancy lady stage. I was fascinated with dresses from the 1800s and I would draw what I called “fancy ladies”. Some would have parasols and others would have very elaborate hats. I dreamed of being like them. This led me to be obsessed with the “Gibson Girl”. I loved to draw elaborate updos from that trend and I would practice them over and over. I think this phase was more enjoyable to me compared with the horse phase. My mother did not draw these “fancy ladies” and so I was not constantly comparing myself with her. I could just draw for the love of drawing. For a long time Snoopy was a subject I would sketch over and over. I always looked forward to the Charlie Brown specials mostly for the scenes that featured Snoopy.

I tried many other crafts and it was easy because my mother had a closet full of half-finished projects. I spent hours playing with my spin art toy. It was one of those toys where you put the paper in the tray and then drop bits of paint onto it while it spins. I also learned to finger crochet and latch hook. I was not a big fan of finger crocheting but I loved to latch hook. I would sit side by side with my mother and we would make latch hook projects together. She also taught me to make little potholders with a plastic loom. When she was creating she was smiling. Right from the start, it was clear to me that she became bored much faster than I did. She would start a project and then get bored, it would go to live in her bedroom closet and maybe one day I would pick it up and finish it. This is one way in which my mother and I are very different. I hate having unfinished projects laying around. This goes for books too. I will finish the most boring books just because I can’t seem to allow myself to just not like something and then put it down. I really have no idea where this comes from.

I possessed a big imagination and it showed through in my playtime and art. I believe that my imagination is what got me through all of those long hours of being alone. When I think of this time it brings a smile to my face. I was a vibrant child so full of promise. When I think about it a little longer my smile turns to sadness for all of the hours I spent alone. It wasn’t safe and I never felt safe.

boundaries, C-PTSD, Childhood, Depression, Prayer

Boundaries

September 7, 2021 Deb M

Part 2

As I comb through the first 18 years of my life it can be hard to find anything worth preserving. My home did not provide comfort, instead the air was thick with unease. When I drift through the memories of childhood there is a gray wash over everything. The memories that make me smile are not associated with people so much as activities and things, like the orange push-up ice cream treats I would buy on hot summer days or my neon green and yellow bike. Solitude brought intense loneliness but also some of my most joyful moments. When I was alone I was free and could often breathe more easily but sometimes when I was alone I would be stalked by the things I feared most.

My mother worked long hours and sometimes two jobs. She had a very physically demanding job working at a laundry where they washed and pressed uniforms and other things. F&W Means was the name of the company. The laundry was hot and working there did some damage to her hands. In the summer she would be forced to work overtime often being gone from morning until after dark. She never minded the overtime because we always needed the extra money. Sometimes, not very often, I would go to work with her. The air in the laundry was humid and it burned the back of my throat. There were huge baskets on wheels being pushed from one station to the other and music blasting through speakers. Sometimes I would go sit outside, just to get some fresh air and my mother would buy me a soda. Those days seemed so long but she did not seem to mind. The laundry was filled with mostly women employees and they smiled and joked with each other in spite of the terrible conditions.

My mother was a very dedicated worker and took pride in providing for our family. I understood why she had to be away but that understanding did not make the days any easier. After work, she would sometimes deliver pizzas for extra money. This only made my lonely days even longer. My father was often in and out of our home and he could not be counted on to help with the rent or our bills. He made good money but it seemed to slip through his hands easily. My father lived in the moment and never seemed to have a plan or concern for the future. He enjoyed playing cards and I think drinking was sometimes involved. They fought a lot about money and his many affairs. They had epic fights that included objects being hurled across the room and my mother lashing out physically and threatening my father’s life. My father wouldn’t hit my mother but he did try to protect himself. During these fights he always appeared to be the innocent one because he was the one being physically attacked. That being said, he was the reason my mother flew into a rage. He would play the role of “why me?” but even at a young age I knew that he was torturing my mother mentally and emotionally. In reality he was torturing me too but I was too little and too much of a daddy’s girl to understand it. I witnessed my mother cry over our finances again and again. My father was often responsible for the financial issues. He wouldn’t pay his fair share and then he would come around begging her for money. He even went so far as to support another woman with my mother’s money. You can imagine how that went over!

My mother wouldn’t go to her family for help unless she had no other options. She was close to my grandfather but she did not like asking him for money. I got the message that her family had a pretty strong bootstrap mentality. My grandmother and my aunt would gossip about my mother and that caused her a lot of distress. She definitely gave me the impression that her mother and sister ganged up on her. My aunt Wanda is a cruel judgemental woman and my grandmother would cover for her nasty tendencies. Even though my aunt lived in the same city as we did she could not be depended on in any way. My mother did not have many friends and the ones she did have were not in any financial shape to help us. On top of that, she was proud and believed that asking for money was a kind of moral weakness. Her family strongly believed it was wrong to go to the government for help so she would not apply for food stamps or welfare checks. She did not want social workers nosing around her business. All of her family was suspicious of the government and concerned about it being connected in some way with the antichrist. They firmly believed that someday a one-world government would come to power and following that Armageddon. All these beliefs did not leave my mother with many options. She would cry and pray for hours. I would sit outside her door wishing God would answer her so she could come out and play with me. I believe this is the age I started swallowing my pain. We couldn’t both be crying. Above all, I wanted to comfort her and fix all of her problems. I prayed to God in hopes that he would answer but for some reason, he always seemed so silent and unreachable.

My mother was a very talented woman. I looked up to her musical ability. She had this huge accordion and she would often sit on her bed in the evenings and play it. I was fascinated with all of the buttons and the large case with burgundy velvet lining that she kept it in. She only sang gospel songs and when she was singing I could tell she went somewhere else in her mind. She played the piano and organ too but we did not have access to these on a regular basis. We sang together, pretty much everywhere, in the car and the house. She would always give me high praise when we sang together and that praise made me feel warm and loved. By the time I was three years old she was having me perform for strangers in the grocery store. I would be riding in the cart minding my own business singing some happy tune and it wouldn’t be long before a gaggle of older women would be smiling at me and asking me to sing for them. This seemed to really make my mother happy so I sang for them even though I was terribly shy and kind of scared of old people. I would sing tunes from the radio often misunderstanding the lyrics and I would sing Sunday school songs. I can imagine a world in which she could have been happy teaching music or working in a music store. If she had possessed more confidence maybe she would have sang in the church choir or even led a choir. I’m not sure she really grasped how talented she was. Maybe because her family tore her down so much or maybe it was mental illness standing in the way. When I take a minute to allow myself to gaze upon her with my child eyes I see a shining star, capable of anything, and almost goddess like. As a little girl I just knew I would never reach the pinnacle of her perfection. She could do anything.

At a very young age I was aware that there was something wrong with my mother. She called it depression so I had a word for it even if I had no idea what it really was. During the day I was alone but often in the evenings, I was also alone because she was consumed by whatever financial crisis was upon us. Then there was the question, “Where is your father and what is he up to?” She never had security, not financially or in her relationships. She would watch Jimmy Swaggert preach on television and then go retreat to her room to cry and pray. When she finally came out her eyes would be very red and she would be silent as a stone. I would attempt to comfort her in any way I could. Often I would try to make her laugh just to see her smile was a comfort to me. Maybe things would be ok?

Jimmy Swaggert was a big deal in our house. He was a skilled piano player and when we watched him the television camera would often focus in on his hands gliding over the keys. He sang with a tear in his eye. My mother was enthralled. She hung on his every word. I believe she felt very connected to him and watching him on television helped her to feel less alone. She would sing along while watching and her face would soften. Those were the only times I saw that look on her face.

I can remember so many nights when she would retreat to her room after dinner to pray. Often she would watch Jimmy Swaggert or listen to some music beforehand. I would watch television with the volume down low so I would not disturb her. As the night would wear on I would wander over to the door of her bedroom and slump down to the floor listening to her wail and speak in tongues. I hated to hear her cry and I knew she was waging a battle. She was trying to convince god to help us. She was trying to pray away whatever sin was standing in the way of us being blessed. She was fighting for her salvation because she was always afraid of missing the rapture and going to hell. It was high stakes prayer, that was the only kind of prayer ever said in our home. All of this crying, praying, wailing, and speaking in tongues did nothing to make our little apartment feel like a home. There was an intensity to my mothers religiosity that created an atmosphere of danger and fear.

Childcare was always a struggle in our home. Working an eight hour day was hard enough but then add in overtime and a second job and finding childcare becomes impossible. I never really cared for any of my babysitters and I suspect that is because my mother did not trust or like many people and she handed that suspicion down to me. My father could not be counted on for more than a couple of hours, maybe once a week. She could never afford to take off work to be with me over Xmas, spring, or summer break. I wanted so desperately to help her so I would tell her that it was ok I didn’t need a babysitter. She would look at me so unsure. She weighed my opinion heavily too much because I was just a small child and had no idea what was appropriate or safe. I wish she hadn’t given in so easily. I wish she hadn’t let me try to solve her problems for her or be her savior. It did not help that my father was always telling me I was smarter and more capable than other children. He thought pretty highly of himself and since I was his child and in his mind an extension of him then I must be above average.

I remember times when it felt like I held my parents’ fate in my hands. I had to keep them together and I had to help them survive. I was responsible for their emotional well being and safety. When they would have one of their knock down drag out fights my father would cry on my shoulder. After he left our apartment my mother would collapse and it would be her turn to cry. As I’m writing this I remember how small I felt in those moments. How insurmountable the problems of my family seemed to be and how these things happened regularly. In these moments I have to really focus on loving myself and cutting myself some slack. You see, I have complex post traumatic stress disorder. As I document all of this it is like watching the seeds of my condition being put into the ground one after the other. I am aware of how small and defenseless I was to stop any of it, and that realization helps me to breathe through the process of being gentle with myself and remembering that none of this was my fault. Even at 51 I need that reminder sometimes.

My mother was more than my mom; she was my best friend and I believed I was her best friend. The healthy boundaries between parent and child would often melt away in the midst of her depression and loneliness. She overshared and because of that, I was also depressed. I worried about money, my parent’s relationship, and God. She was my mother but I was her caretaker. I cannot remember a time when I was allowed to be a child. I carried my parent’s burdens with me everywhere. They went with me to school, the playground, and then at bedtime they followed me there too. My mother’s burdens were scary. I worried for her safety and at a young age I knew that sometimes she wanted to die.

Because of all of this worry I started to develop some pretty severe stomach issues in early elementary school. I would go to the nurse’s office with stomach cramps and it didn’t take long before the school psychologist became involved. Eventually after talking with me several times he asked my mother to come in. I sat there fearing what he was going to say to her. Had I told him more than I should have? She came into the room and sat in one of the hard plastic chairs across from his desk. They talked and I tried to pretend like I wasn’t there. I felt like I was being a problem. The last thing I ever wanted to do was add another problem to my mother’s plate. If I’m being honest I was probably a little scared of her at that moment. She always told me to never discuss things from our home life with anyone. How was she going to take the fact that I had been talking with another adult about my life?

He said, “Do you have any idea why she might be so stressed?”

She replied, “Well her father and I are having problems and I’m having money issues.”

They went on to talk for a long time. My mother cried and told this complete stranger all of her whoas. I felt so seen. At school I tried to hide my unhappy life. Now my unhappy life was on display. Eventually towards the end of the conversation he said, “You have to find a way not to share all of your problems with your daughter. She is going to end up with ulcers before she finishes elementary school.” I recognized his tone, he was speaking to her like someone trying to talk someone down from a ledge. Telling her the hard truth but doing it with kid gloves. Soon after we went home but now I was on the school’s radar. I would meet with him from time to time but that was as far as it went. After this I witnessed my mother recount the story to multiple people. She seemed worried and put off by his expectation that she hide her problems from me. She couldn’t imagine how that would work. She hated anyone knowing what went on inside of our lives. I knew I had created a problem for her. I never received any help for my “nervous stomach”. As an adult I have struggled with ulcers, IBS, and GERD. Whenever I experience stress it shows up in my stomach first. Eventually she would have a similar meeting with another school psychologist, this time it would be my senior year of high school. The message was very much the same. Dr. Zuberbear asked for her to come in and he told her I was very depressed. By this point she was physically sick and struggling. She listened and even expressed sympathy after we left but that was all she had to give me. From the earliest of ages my mental health was mine to manage. She just didn’t have the bandwidth.

My father would tell me that I had a nervous stomach like him. He would tell me not to worry while at the same time laying his worries at my feet. He would also tell me that my depression was a weakness and that it came from my mother’s side. She was “weak minded” and I should endeavor to be strong like him. Anytime I had physical issues it was due to my mother, at least that is what my father said. My allergies and later asthma were a result of her weak genes, he was after all healthy as a horse. I spent my entire childhood and young adulthood being worried about being “crazy”, as my father put it. I worried that I would have my mother’s mental health issues and emotional instability. This concern forced me to always be an “adult”. I strove for emotional balance and I tried to let my intelligence and logic rule. Now I struggle to access my emotional side and often I see any emotional outburst I might have as a moral failing. I’m still striving to always be an “adult.”

Childhood, Depression, Fear

Back to Writing

September 6, 2021September 6, 2021 Deb M

Hi everyone! I have been in a writing slump for a long time. I am back on the horse for the time being and I intend to share some of my pages here. I’m open to feedback either in the comments or better yet at my email survivingchurchandchildhood@gmail.com Please be kind, memoir is really hard.

This morning I find myself sitting with my coffee at my lonely laptop. I am banging away at the keys trying to pound my story out onto the page. This feels like just another new start. It is filled with hope, maybe this time will be the time when everything gels together. Fall always feels like the right time to write. There is something about the cool mornings that drives me to try again. I have been away from this work for a long time and then suddenly there it is in my face beckoning me back to this lonely task. On days like this the words burn through my fingertips, they cannot escape my brain fast enough. Being a Gemini part of my brain just wants to put words to page and part of my brain wants to craft the perfect memoir. These two parts are always at odds and through this struggle, I push this work into existence.

I have been seeking to make sense of my childhood for as long as I can remember. Even though I recognize that there are some things I will never understand I feel compelled to keep searching for truth. Truth is wobbly when you are talking about others’ motivations and when they are no longer around to ask your questions to. I am a quintessential gen-Xer born in 1970. I was a latch-key kid with my house keys always around my neck. I grew up in Madison Wisconsin and I’m still in the area. I wonder how many others are out there like me. Wounded souls trying to make sense of their childhoods through writing memoirs. Looking back all I see is trauma, fear, and sadness. When I look a little harder I can see moments of creativity, freedom, and joy. Those moments are much harder to reach for. I can guarantee that there will be times when my story overwhelms you, just know as you continue on with me that I am okay now, I’m a survivor.

Throughout my childhood fear was my constant companion. It hung in the air like a thick cloud around me and its friend sadness clung to me like an old thread worn sweater. Fear was brewed first at home followed by my church and school. My mother was a very fearful woman and she passed her fear onto me the same way she gave me my freckles and my smile. She was tough but at the same time, it seemed like she was always scanning the landscape looking for danger. On the other side of the coin, my father insisted that I be strong and fearless. He has zero tolerance for weakness unless he was the one being weak. He and my mother were like the sun and the moon. How they ever got together is beyond me. At this moment I cannot think of one way in which they were alike other than their tendency towards being fixed on themselves. My mother suffered from severe depression and her childhood was pretty dysfunctional. My grandmother was a severe parent and my mother always felt like an outsider within her family. My father has always been a mystery to me. His accounts of his origin story seemed to vary and there were many topics he had no interest in talking about. My parents never seemed happy although they did seem to really love each other. They certainly were ill-suited for the long haul and could barely take care of themselves let alone each other. Looking back on it now, I think they loved each other more than they loved me.

My mother was pretty in a tomboy sort of way. She was dark-haired and covered from head to toe in freckles. Her green eyes were the prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen. She was not the most domestic woman in the world. She viewed housekeeping as a chore and not something to be enjoyed. She wasn’t much of a cook and had no interest in learning to be better at it. She was all about comfort food and she did that well. She felt the most at ease in nature and preferred the company of dogs and horses to being around people. When my mother was around people she could be very charming and those who knew her liked her more than she could ever acknowledge to herself. She was an artist and could draw almost anything. Her family valued music and so she learned multiple instruments and she was a gifted singer. Marla, my mother, loved to laugh and her playfulness created some of the only happy memories of my childhood. When I was in elementary school we did not have much furniture in our living room but it did not matter. She and I would snuggle on the floor, backs against the wall, and enjoy one of our favorite shows. No TV night would be complete without a bowl of hazelnuts, a nutcracker, and generic grape soda. Those nights were my favorite. In those moments we laughed together and I could breathe a sigh of relief.

My father was short and his skin a chocolate brown color. He always seemed to have something to prove. He was a boxer and fairly ambitious. Armando, my father had a boyish smile and an impish sense of humor. He was a whistler and sang along to the radio even if he often got the lyrics wrong. People liked him and he liked them back. Depression could come knocking at his door if he spent too much time alone. My athleticism and tenaciousness come from him. He was a wanderer and philanderer and often these tendencies took him away from me. I chased his affection long after it became clear to me that he only wanted mine when he could not get it other places. I was a consolation prize, a toaster when what he really wanted was a boat.

I loved my parents fiercely! My love for them was strong but this does not mean they were good parents. They were flawed as all of us are and they were tortured by personal demons. My mother came from a strict religious home and her upbringing informed much of her parenting style. Growing up outside of her family’s love and acceptance made it so she never felt accepted or loved. I believe this crippled her and made it hard for her to give love and acceptance. She was deeply lonely even when friends tried to be there for her. It was never enough or she just couldn’t believe that they “really” liked her. She had a dark deep hole inside and it seemed it could never be filled. Her sadness and fear permeated every part of our lives. Even the material objects within our home seemed to take on her personality. Heavy and oppressive miasma clung to everything. She could go from being jovial and childlike one minute to screaming and violent the next. I learned very early on to be careful what I said to her. If something was going to get me into trouble it would most likely be my mouth. Often her anger came from unexpected places. She always seemed to believe I understood why she was raging even when I often did not. When in a loving mood she would pour out affection on me and when in an angry mood she could be petty and mean. She would spank me but also pinch me, pull my hair, and twist my wrists. It was as if all of these little acts of violence lanced some painful wound within her. People who cut themselves sometimes say that when you do it it releases some of your pain, I think her hurting me did the same thing. It’s like it kept her from doing something worse.

My father often spoke of being emotionally and physically abused as a child. He was generally mellow in personality but at times his anger would flare. Both my parents spanked me with a belt but my father was the one most likely to take it too far. If I did not meet his high expectations he could be cruel with his words. Weakness seemed to send him into anger faster than anything else. My mother played by God’s rules as she understood them and my father played by no one’s rules but his own. He was very unconventional and independent. At times I miss them and my inner child longs for my mother. At other times the flames of anger burn within me so brightly I could set the world ablaze. It is all very complicated and I have had to come to terms with many truths about my childhood. If this book were about my parents it might be written from a place of more understanding and questioning what led them to be who they were, but this story is not their story it is mine. There was a time when I went through my life seeking to make excuses for their choices but I can no longer do that. I have to put myself first in a way that neither of them ever could. I find myself shouting to them from across the years, “Can’t you see how your choices are affecting me? Please get some help for yourself and for me!”

C-PTSD, EMDR, Trauma

A Summer of Processing

August 4, 2021 Deb M

Hello fellow survivors and supporters! I hope this post finds you well, whole, and having a good summer. I have been taking a break from therapy to process everything and give myself a little bit of rest. It has been fruitful and at times surprising. Many things are bubbling up to the surface and I have been surprised by what I am processing. The hardest issues have to do with my parents and how abandoned I felt as a kid. I have also become aware of how colored my decision making processes are due to never feeling worthy. I recognize that I tend to draw toxic people into my orbit because of how I feel about myself. It’s a lot but I’m doing ok. The more clearly I can see the past and how it has impacted the now, the longer the road seems. I have to keep reminding myself that if I never make it to the end, if I never purge all of the poison within me, I’m good, I am ok, and I’m worthy.

When I think about feeling abandoned I can see how it causes me to hang onto relationships that are not healthy. Because, my righteousness is as filthy rags, I always assume I am at fault in every situation. This means whoever I’m dealing with must always be right. After decades of work, I still twist myself into a pretzel to try to accommodate even when I am not at fault. I chase after people and their approval the same way I chased after God. When I fall short I hear the words of the Bible and I am reminded of how worthless I am. I always feel like I need to say this, I know this is not everyone’s experience but it is mine. Your mileage may vary.

Right now I am in the business of letting go. I’m letting go of people and things that cause me to feel unworthy. I’m not chasing people anymore. I feel like I say that all the time and I’m still trying to enforce it. I realize more that ever what a sad child I was and I’m trying to cut myself some slack. Believe it or not, the questioning voices still rise up from the ashes from time to time. They say, well maybe it is your fault, or maybe you could have made better decisions. I know what these voices are and who they belong to, I know they are not based in truth and I battle them back into the fire to burn again. Each time I catch them quicker and it is a little easier to push back.

I have not decided if I will go back to EMDR this fall. I might need more time. I have some health issues happening that are overwhelming me right now. I just don’t need one more thing. I will keep you posted! Right now I am busy dreaming of pumpkin everything and trying to allow myself some peace.

Childhood

Little Debbie

April 20, 2021 Deb M

Every year I choose a word of the year. Pleasure is my word for 2021. Pleasure is the hardest word I have ever tried to embrace. It is rare for me to feel pleasure or even remember a time when I did. This is all because I dissociate so much. I never realized just how much of my time I spend being disconnected from everyone and everything around me, even myself. Therapy has helped me to become more aware of how often I disconnect. Dissociating is something I learned in childhood and it served/serves as a protection mechanism. My therapist gave me a red ball to use as a tool to help me stay present. I am suppose to keep it with me and within eye sight to help remind me to be in my life instead floating somewhere above it all.

All this dissociating makes it very hard to identify pleasure or even think about how to feel it. When eating the other day I unexpectedly felt pleasure and this made me wonder if engaging with my child self might be the key to unlocking pleasure. You see the food I was eating was a food I loved as a child, comfort food. In that moment I felt pleasure and I felt present. I started to wonder what other child self related activities might unlock the door.

When I was a little girl I was alone a lot. My mom always made sure there were craft supplies around so I would have something to do. During winter break when I was home alone I decided to build a manger scene complete with animals. I was around 7 or so. I used popscicle sticks and glue to create my work of art. I built a fence, I don’t know why, and filled the yard with little stick animals. Of course there was the baby Jesus and his parents. This project took up a lot of space but my mom let me keep it and play with it for a long time. When I think of working on that project it brings a smile to me face. I find pleasure in creating art and I have since I was a very little girl.

Thinking about this time inspired me to play with some craft sticks. I decided to build a fairy house. I think they are so cute and I know little Debbie would have loved this project.

No, this is not beautiful yet but I’ve had so much fun doing it. I felt pleasure collecting the sticks and other supplies. I was disappointed when I had to stop because I ran out of glue. I think building these could become an obsession! This one is a work in progress and maybe I will share the finished project with you if it isn’t too weird looking. Little Debbie would not have cared how it looked, she knew instinctively that the pleasure comes in the process not the end product.

Making these and other works of art is my way of trying to be present in my life. I’m kinistetic by nature and so working with my hands is always preferred. I’m done with EMDR therapy for now. I may go back for maintance if something comes up that needs attention. I’ve made huge progress towards healing the wounds of my past. One important thing that I have learned is the key to my happiness is found through figuring out who I am without the trauma. So much of my young life was all about surviving and coping with unimaginable stress. When you’re living like that it can be hard to know who you are or what you want. You’re too busy just trying to survive the day.

I feel like I have rambled a lot in this post, sigh. If anyone out there is struggling with dissociation or just trying to be present in their daily life, please do not hesitate to ask for help. Go see a therapist or just message me and I will do all I can to help. When you float above it all you miss out on so much, I know I have. Find safe people and allow yourself to be in your body and present.

C-PTSD, EMDR, Rapture

Some Triggers Rise Again

March 9, 2021 Deb M

*Triggers Rapture, End Times, CPTSD*

I have complex post-traumatic stress disorder. Currently, I’m undergoing Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing therapy. So far it has helped more than anything else. I have been working on so many subjects but the first subject that we covered was my rapture anxiety. When I talk about rapture anxiety it sounds much smaller to me than what it actually is. It has loomed large over my life for as long as I can remember. I thought I had completely healed from it but I was wrong. When I go to see my therapist next time I think I need to do some maintenance work about this topic.

For those who do not know here is a definition of C_PTSD

“Both PTSD and C-PTSD result from the experience of something deeply traumatic and can cause flashbacks, nightmares, and insomnia. Both conditions can also make you feel intensely afraid and unsafe even though the danger has passed. However, despite these similarities, there are characteristics that differentiate C-PTSD from PTSD according to some experts.

The main difference between the two disorders is the frequency of the trauma. While PTSD is caused by a single traumatic event, C-PTSD is caused by long-lasting trauma that continues or repeats for months, even years (commonly referred to as “complex trauma”).¹

Unlike PTSD, which can develop regardless of what age you are when the trauma occurred, C-PTSD is typically the result of childhood trauma.

The psychological and developmental impacts of complex trauma early in life are often more severe than a single traumatic experience. So different, in fact, that many experts believe that the PTSD diagnostic criteria don’t adequately describe the wide-ranging, long-lasting consequences of C-PTSD.” verywellmind.com

Here is an explanation of what EMDR is

“Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing (EMDR) therapy is an extensively researched, effective psychotherapy method proven to help people recover from trauma and other distressing life experiences, including PTSD, anxiety, depression, and panic disorders.” emdria.org

The above website is full of useful information if you are interested in learning more about EMDR.

I had a difficult weekend. It started with me strolling around Facebook just killing time. Something came across my feed that immediately triggered me. In a group I belong to someone posted a still photo from the film “Thief In The Night”. I immediately knew what it was and before I could even have a thought my brain had run away into panic mode. My heart was pounding and my stomach clenched tight into a knot. Immediately that awful song, you know the one, started playing in my head. This happened in part because of some of the comments posted under the photo. Yes, I should have walked away but when I am in this state I do not always think clearly. I read a few comments and even responded to someone who was speaking about their trauma regarding the film. After that my fight began, I was fighting to get that song out of my head and to keep my anxiety from running wild. I felt like I could not breathe and I had to find something to distract myself.

I decided to do some art work and listen to one of my favorite podcasts, Spiritual PTSD. The host was talking about something completely unrelated and then out of nowhere he went down a “Thief In The Night” tangent and I just froze, sitting there dumbfounded. How in the space of a few minutes had I experienced these triggers? Then I was afraid to move and wondering where that fear might jump out at me next. If I let it, it will spin out of control and lead to flashbacks, when I get to that point there is no stopping the panic I just have to let it run it’s course. I had flashbacks this weekend but I was able to breathe through them and not let it spin me out of control. I call that progress. This attack did not last a week and it did not keep me from sleeping the way it would have in the past. I’m healing that much is true, I just know I’m not all the way there yet.

I am shaken. I am shocked by how hard I was hit over the weekend. I’m angry at my parents and the church that exposed me to this trauma. I’m angry that so much of my time and money has to go to just trying to heal and live a normal life. I’m grateful I have access to help and a support system that holds me when I’m struggling. I’m thankful for my husband who helps me to feel safe when my brain turns on me and seeks to convince me there are monsters waiting for me around every corner. Teaching children about end-times theology is child abuse and showing those films to children is torture.

Thank you for staying with me on this journey.

Debbie

Calvary Gospel Church, EMDR, Healing, United Pentecostal Church

My Healing Journey

February 19, 2021 Deb M

My Healing Journey

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My healing journey has not been an easy one. Just leaving the United Pentecostal Church can be hard enough without adding all of the other issues on top. You may remember that I am going to EMDR therapy and that I have expressed how hard it is. It is hard but it is also worth every second of pain. I have made enormous progress and I am so grateful for the opportunity to go. One of my goals has been to figure out what is at the root of all my trauma. Every bit of trauma is tied to all of the others and sometimes if you can get to the root the other parts will just fall away. I think I may have figured out what the root of it all is.

I woke up this morning with a song in my brain…

“All you need is love
All you need is love
All you need is love, love
Love is all you need”

It sounds simple and maybe it is but when I realized that all of my trauma is tied to not feeling loved it kind of blew my mind. I never felt loved by my parents and I certainly never felt love from the church. Had my parents loved me the way they should have I would not have been the neglected and unprotected child that I was. They would not have been so harsh with me and my mother in particular would not have been physically, emotionally, and verbally abusive. All of the fear, loneliness, and feelings of worthlessness could have been taken from me with a strong dose of dependable love

The church is a whole other kettle of fish. Where my parents showed me imperfect and insufficient love the church seemed completly barren of any love. Love does not put money, race, and popularity before people. It certainly does not act in its own selfish interest and it does not judge harshly. Love shows mercy and compassion. Love doesn’t offer children up on an altar of self protection and image. Love admits guilt and seeks healing and reconciliation. Calvary Gospel possesses none of these qualities.

Now that I know, I have to work even harder than I already am to engage in self-love. Not the surface level kind but deep self-love that will hopefully make up for all the lack in my formative years. This is not an easy task because I have so many voices from the past in my head reminding me of how unworthy I am. I have to chase love and push those other feelings away. I need to work on cultivating more loving relationships. I’m interested in the deep friendships that include vulnerability and a willingness to show up when things get hard. I’m going to keep going to EMDR as an act of self-love. The more I go the more I learn about myself and the things/ideas that are holding me back.

When I think of all of the survivors of Calvary Gospel I have spoken to I am reminded of how love could have changed everything for them as well. If CGC had replaced selfishness, vanity, and the love of money with the love of people so many wounds could have been avoided. But lets be honest the version of God that they serve is not a loving God. He is harsh and vindictive and he waits to judge and reject. The Grants have long represented God this way even if they preach love from the podium. Love is about action not words. Anyone can say I love you brother or sister, but the love shows through when they chose how to act towards you.

So this is where I am. I’m getting better every day. The road is never easy but one by one I am removing traumas from my back and with each one healed my load becomes lighter. I will never walk like others do but maybe I can walk without so much pain.

C-PTSD, Calvary Gospel Church, Childhood, Compassion, Pastor John Grant, Poverty, Sexual Abuse, Trauma, United Pentecostal Church

The High Price Of Turning A Blind Eye

August 22, 2020 Deb M

I have often wondered why so many people seem to turn a blind eye when they see something that doesn’t seem right regarding a child. Maybe they did not see anything but they heard a rumor and maybe they thought it was none of their business. As a child abuse survivor, I’m here to tell you that when you make the choice to turn a blind eye you’re abandoning that child. You might feel that it isn’t your concern or that the child’s parents should be the ones deciding what to do. If you only take one thing away from reading my blog I’d like you to take away that you may be the only thing standing between that child and a lifetime of trauma.

In isolated churches where the outside world is not welcome, children have no one to turn to but those inside of their little community. If the community is more interested in protecting its reputation than protecting the life of the child than that child really has no chance. Not only will they deal with the trauma of whatever abuse happens to them but they may deal with the trauma of not being believed or of feeling unworthy of protection. It may take a lot of courage to speak up and you may have to endure criticism but in the end, is it ever wrong to try to protect or save a child?

If any of the adults around me had stopped to think about how odd it was that a 30ish-year-old man was spending so much time with me they might have asked some questions. The heat of that attention may have scared Steve off from abusing me, he may have felt he was being watched. Had one of the women who knew about this come to me just to check in and see if everything was ok maybe that would have given me a chance to open up, or again it may have scared Steve off. I told him pretty much everything about what was going on in my life. The time he was spending with me was so out there in the open for anyone who was paying attention to see. If you were one of the people who went out after church and shared a meal then you knew he was driving me around. If you were part of his group of friends you knew he was taking me on road trips with him. These adults could have saved me from some of my trauma.

When Steve Dahl was abusing me our church averaged around 250-300 depending on the Sunday. Steve played his trumpet in every service. He and his wife sat in the second row. He was popular and well liked. A man like that doesn’t just disappear from a church and nobody notices he is gone. A woman doesn’t have her husband suddenly leave and no one know what is going on. Her sister was suddenly gone too, so there is another person gone. Pastor Grant would have said something to the elders. The women of the church would have had some idea what was going on with Debbie, Steve’s wife, it would have been out there amongst the congregation. That is a lot of adults choosing to turn a blind eye. Choosing to say nothing. As a child, I could feel everyone stepping back from me like I had some disease they might catch. I knew they knew. I felt judged and unworthy of love. No one reached out to me in love, no one checked in on me, this added to my trauma. I am sure they assumed that pastor Grant would take care of it but maybe they should have checked to be sure. If love and compassion were present then I feel that backing away from me wouldn’t have happened. How do you back away from a wounded child? If they really thought I was a seductive child or whatever they are trying to say now, why didn’t that drive them to ask questions? Even if they had chosen to reach out to me at this point they could have saved me some trauma. If love and therapy had been applied here things could have turned out very differently for me.

In all of the intervening years running right up to the present if any of the adults who heard rumors or flat out knew about what happened had come to me and checked in they could have reduced my trauma.

C-PTSD encompasses trauma coming from many different sources over a long period of time. Food insecurity and poverty featured heavily during my childhood. This was no secret. I can remember one day when my mother took me for a school uniform fitting and another woman who was there commented on how I was so thin I looked like I could just blow away in the wind. On another occasion, I worked very hard to be on the honor roll at school and the reward was to go on a field trip out of town to a museum. I was sooo excited! There was only one problem, my shoes developed a sudden hole in the bottom and I was too embarrassed to go. We had no money for another pair of shoes so my mother called Roy and asked if he could help. He asked another student if she could loan me a pair of shoes for the day. I was mortified. I wore the shoes and the young woman who loaned them to me made sure everyone knew what had happened. Then I gave them back. Well, that solved the issue for that one day, but what would have really helped was if someone had offered to buy me some shoes. Maybe Roy who worked in the school and was my youth leader, or maybe this girl’s parents who were elders at the time. Instead they turned a blind eye. There were adults who knew we did not have electricity from time to time. One person, Ida Cox helped my mother. I remember it was such a big deal and made my life so much easier for a time. The other times we had no electricity no one helped. I know people dropped me off to that sad dark house after church. There were never any lights on. I would open the door and this dark heavy oppression would hit me like a wall of despair. Sometimes my mother would be sitting on the porch outside to greet me and other times the house would be silent. I would feel the way to the stairs leading up to my bedroom and then feel for the oil lamp to give me some light. Didn’t these adults wonder why they never saw a light come on? On one occasion a young adult man dropped me off after a service and I invited him in. My mom and stepdad were not there for some reason. I had nothing to offer him but Koolaid and at one point he asked me about the cooler on the floor. I explained to him that we have no power and that is where we kept our food. I even opened it up briefly to show him the contents. He smiled tightly and soon was out the door. I felt embarrassed and immediately wished I had not invited him in. Another blind eye.

I grew up feeling like everyone could see my pain and no one would help me. I grew up feeling unworthy, sometimes hungry, sometimes lonely, always unloved. This is the garden my trauma grew out of. The harvest of my childhood is an adulthood full of unraveling. First you have to figure out what is wrong with you. You can sense early on in adulthood that you are not like most people. Then you start the long journey of trying to heal. You try dozens of things until you land on some that help. Most help a little but there is no magic pill. Mine is a life of lost potential. I was too busy struggling to survive to do what most people do in their young adulthood. I had no one to help me figure out how to go to college. I had no desire to live with either of my parents and so I moved out at age 17 and got my own apartment. I worked hard to survive but there was no time to nurture myself or think about how to fix what was broken. When you think about turning a blind eye think of me and maybe reconsider. Would one adult be able to solve all of my childhood issues? Probably not, but if I could have entered adulthood with one less layer to my trauma it would have made a huge difference to me.

I believe that churches give too much power to pastors. They often feel that the pastor knows about things and is taking care of them. In legalistic churches, they often blame the victim and stand in judgement instead of applying love and compassion. They may gain salvation but they lose their humanity. The people at Calvary Gospel certainly seem to have lost their heart. How can they side with the abuser over and over again? They pray for the abuser and the victim becomes the problem. This may be why some people feel it is better to turn a blind eye. If they side with the wounded it will not be long before they are also wounded. It is selfish self-preservation. If you are in a group that causes you to silent that inner voice that tells you something is off then I advise you to run! Don’t let an organization like Calvary Gospel take away your humanity and care for children, the poor, elderly, and suffering. Don’t turn a blind eye, say something, reach out and offer your help. If you do this you can hold onto your heart and maybe help someone else to heal theirs.

As I look at the photos above all I can think is that she deserved better from all of the adults in her life.

C-PTSD, Calvary Gospel Church, Childhood, Crime, EMDR, Pastor John Grant, Sexual Abuse, Shame, Survivors, Trauma, United Pentecostal Church

Finding My Freedom

August 18, 2020 Deb M

Freedom is a word that keeps coming up in my life. It has been especially present the last three or four years. I keep moving closer and closer to it and with each step, I cast away more of my chains. With the most painful struggles have come the greatest rewards. My whole body has been buzzing with anxiety and it is unrelenting. I have not been sleeping and at times tears well up in my eyes for no real specific reason. I have restarted my EFT routine in hopes of being able to cope better. Why is all of this happening? I believe it is a result of all of the emotions being stirred up due to EMDR. I can feel the EMDR purging the deepest parts of my trauma and with that comes an amazing sense of freedom. I can feel those memories moving from an ever present pain to a distant sadness. That’s progress. EMDR has forced me to look at some things with a clarity that is so raw and bright. It is impossible to continue to lie to myself or not see the evil of others for exactly what it is. Along with this comes some greiving. When you lie to yourself about people and their intentions and you finally see the truth you then have to grieve what you thought your relationship to those people was. For example, I am finally starting to let go of some very deeply held shame and blame. These feelings were so hidden and a part of who I am that I did not realize I still held them. On a logical level, you can know something in your mind but your heart might tell a different story. Once you let go of the lies you’ve been telling yourself the truth can be shocking. My truth is that I was a little girl just trying to make it in a harsh world. I was not to blame in any way for what happened to me or for how I was treated by certain people. All the shame that was heaped on me was not mine to take responsibility for. It might surprise you to know that in the still of the night my inner voice would question, “Did I do something to cause these things to happen to me?” “These people cannot be as bad as I think they are.” Now I know and can say in my most full-throated voice than none of what happened to me was my fault. The magic of this is that I really feel it in my bones for the first time.

Some of the truths I’ve had to face are kind of brutal. There are some things that happened to me during my childhood that are too dark for me to give breath to here. Sometimes abuse happens and on the surface, it doesn’t look like abuse. It might feel off and you might question for decades if it was abuse or if you should just cut that person some slack. Maybe they didn’t know better or maybe they had some mental illness that made them behave a certain way. The part of you that loves them wants to protect them from the things they’ve done. Once you’ve seen them clearly and you allow light to be shone onto the things they’ve done you cannot unsee what is right in front of your eyes. Then you have a choice to make. Love yourself and set yourself free or continue to try to unsee the truth and protect those who hurt you. I’m choosing to love myself but it comes with a cost. The cost is letting go of old beliefs and feeling the pain of the reality of the situation. Right now I feel the pain every day but I know it will lessen over time. The other side of the coin is knowing that I did not, could not cause all of that to happen. I was just a child.

I know that some of you will say, “I still have friends at Calvary Gospel” or “There are still good folks there.” You are free to believe however you wish but from where I stand I do not see how that is possible. Sure years ago when maybe some people really didn’t know what was going on, although I don’t know how they could not see what was right in their faces. The information regarding how many young girls and others were abused has been out and available for a couple of years now. If they still attend they are choosing to support a church that covers up crimes and fosters an abusive environment. I cannot support anyone who turns a blind eye to the truth of what that church is. I cannot lie to myself and say that any of those people are or could be a friend to me. If you know, and they do, that these awful crimes have been committed and you still support Calvary Gospel then you are complicit. These people who still attend CGC are supporting racism, classism, misogyny, child abuse, and the Grants who have been a party to a multitude of sins. Saying this out loud is like breaking the final link in a chain of pain tying me to CGC. There was a time when I felt sorry for the congregation and maybe even wanted to save them in a way from the UPCI. I get the brainwashing and control and how hard it is to break free, but then I wonder how do the Grants still have a church, how are people still attending? Especially after everything with Glen Uselmann being out in the press. I believe that if they are still there it is because they want to be. This may sound harsh and it was my feelings of guilt and shame, which CGC gifted me with, which has caused me to worry about what others might think of my feelings.

I know that we are all on different parts of our journey and I do not expect everyone to agree with me. If you cannot agree with me I hope you can at least rejoice with me in my freedom. I hope that you will also understand that I no longer intend to soft-peddle my opinions about the Grants, my parents, or anyone else who abused me or watched while I was being abused and did nothing. My goal is to heal and that means getting really real.

Calvary Gospel Church, Childhood, Compassion, Pastor John Grant, Sexual Abuse, Sin, Survivors, Trauma, United Pentecostal Church

Some Things Never Change

July 27, 2020 Deb M

As new things develop and as I work through my personal trauma I have to ask where is the bottom? Where is the bottom when it comes to Calvary Gospel’s crimes against its congregation. I watched their Sunday morning service after they learned of Glen Uselmann’s charges and I was surprised. I shouldn’t be but I find that they never cease to amaze me. As they sink lower and lower I wonder how did they get this way? During their service, there was no mention of healing for the abused but there was mention of healing for Glenn. They did not display humbleness or any sense of self-reflection. What they did display was a sense of being persecuted. Pastor Roy Grant once again did not speak to his congregation. I have watched many regular services now and he has not spoken at any of them. I have to wonder where is his leadership? The speaker mentioned the torture of the saints and those dealing with depression but no mention was made of the trauma survivors. It is important to keep in mind that we survivors are the children of their congregation. They raised us and their lack of compassion towards our pain is nothing short of stunning. They continue to direct all of their love and compassion towards the ones who committed crimes against their children. When they speak out against myself and others they often say that we mischaracterize their views on women. I do not understand how they can say that when their views are so obvious and on full display. As girls, we were made to believe that we were second class citizens in the kingdom of God. Not just second class citizens but walking sin that needed to be covered up, hidden, and we needed to be ever vigilant lest we caused our brother to fall. Whatever they actually believed the message that was delivered was that men bear no responsibility for their actions but little girls should somehow be capable to make or break a man in the lust department. Little girls were told not to bring shame on the church by reporting, not to ruin a grown man’s life, and to take responsibility for the whole situation. Little girls often bore the stain of whatever happened while the men would go on to make their mark in the ministry. If women are truly the weaker vessel then why are they given so much responsibility to carry, especially young girls? It is also important to point out that we are talking about children. Grown men should not be lusting after children. A girl of 11 or 12 is a child. Most of the rest of society can see this why can’t they? They act so put upon, so persecuted, and they seem to have no awareness of their responsibility. As they dig in their heels they risk falling deeper into the pit they have created for themselves.