I'm Not Crazy

Tiny scraps of paper scattered on the cement like confetti. 

Scraps of paper from advertisements, 

letters of warning or consolation, maybe. 

White, blue, some yellow too. 

The sun isn't up, but we are. 

I stand at the corner away from the scraps, 

away from the screams, away from the woman angry about a past 

and the people she can not fix.

"Fuck that bitch! 

Fuck that hoe! 

I'll kill them all!" 

She yells to no one while sitting on the metal bus bench. 

(At least this bus stop has seats. 

At least this bus stop has coverings.)

The outbursts are nothing new to me. 

A large city has many of them daily.

I've become accustomed to

the drugs, 

to the mental blocks, 

and the poverty.

"They killed my son. 

They killed my sister." 

She continues as I stay my distance. 

As I try not look. 

As I try not to make things worse...for me.

The projection transports me to when I am young. 

The muscle memory is always there.

A tinge of knotted stomach,

A rise of blood pressure from the fear of the unexpected.

I can hear my Mother in the kitchen saying similar 

hate filled statements through her slurred 

drunken words. 

I know things can change 

in an instant. 

The boiling pot isn't unable to jump, 

to attack,

to ruin my face.

But this woman isn't drunk.

She's perhaps not even homeless.

Just please don't get on the same bus.

I was cutting the time close, rushing to not be late. 

Anticipating my day,

brushing aside the worries of needing to pay bills

and finding something to eat.

I see the lights from down the darkened street. 

Some relief. 

We must keep moving.

Please hurry.

"Fuck this bitch! 

Fuck them all! 

Stupid hoe."

Dirty sweatpants with hearts, 

a reusable grocery bag knotted at top,

she stands.

Onto my same bus, 

along my same journey.

Her volume has decreased by half, 

but mumbling still continues. 

The ramblings of immense confusion and pain. 

No where to release the anger without the threat of being thrown out and discredited.

I hear the crack in her voice for just a moment. 

As I sit a seat behind, 

I see the Winnie the Pooh plastic charm bracelet along with other beads attached to her ankle. 

Both ankles bound with decorations or perhaps shackles from the past she'll never forget.

I hear the sadness that fuels the ongoing outbursts.

Does the bus driver not say anything because of lack of experience 

or just the opposite? 

A bus driver told a rambling man to get off just the other night.

He was drunk.

Drinking to forget,

but memories flood in 

like a heavy liquid,

drowning their compacity 

to see new surroundings.

But this is day. 

This is a new start, 

a new person, 

different situation.

Is she sober or somber minded?

They say anger is a cover up emotion.

They say there's a root. 

Does she know the fear her anger causes?

Does she notice the people moving away?

They say we're responsible for ourselves;

yet, we're social species.

Who determines the place & time to be tumultuous,

to let it all out like spilled milk? 

Nourish my bones with the awakening.

Who allows the yells from top of my lungs and the

heaving of the sorrow?

Mature my mind with the realization.

Who does medication help,

is it for the speaker or 

the one's who refused to listen?

Could therapy run by the government that wrecked us fix this? 

Could a community curated by the government that raped us cure this?

It's only then I hear it plain as day. 

The woman exclaims not completely under her breath, 

not worried about who hears,

the crux to all of this:

"I wish I was white."

Hard Life Lessons

I've had to learn over the years that my triggers are my responsibility. Although I can do my best to communicate in my relationships when conflicts arise, I've come to realize most people didn't have a parent screaming at them when anything uncomfortable came up. Even though everyone has a different love language so to speak (i.e ways they feel most respected, honored, cared for) there's a common thread on what love looks like among all. Love is kind, patient, gentle...love is a mother caring for her child even when she felt like no one loved her. Love is sometimes forgiving, sometimes boundaries, sometimes no contact. Love is accepting all of who I am.

I am my mother's daughter; a mix of two worlds, two cultures, two races. I was the first granddaughter, the first black child in a historically German family. I am her mother's granddaughter, shoved off to the side and left to daydream soaking in Illinois heat. I took on the faces they desired- gentle, quiet, and submissive because mine was too loud, annoying, or simply too much. I copied from those I received love from so perhaps I could be just as loved. But every time I mimicked someone else, I felt the stabbing criticism, "Don't do that!" 

Who was I? Who am I? Am I not just all of them?

I catch myself being heated with impatience like my mother when the AC doesn't kick in fast enough. Years of therapy and healthy communities have taught me to breathe, focus on what I can control, and to be ok with the tension knowing it won't last forever. I catch myself breaking down in tears whenever a friend slams the door because Mom had always assumed I had an attitude when I did. This caused her to scream at me until I did develop an attitude. I need to remember my friends didn't have a snarling, intoxicated mother barking back, "Stop your crying now or I'll give you something to cry about." Instead, I know I deserve and give myself the love I need in those tender moments.

A hug, a gentle whisper, a warm caress was something I rarely remember receiving. Sometimes this led to my love being unreadable; I tucked away my great affections because I was afraid to scare my partners away.

It's my turn to be my own parent; yet, with me leaving my "Heavenly Father" (i.e Christian cult) I'm wanting to live my "rebellious teenage years." In so many ways I'm still a child, but this body has aged and the aches aren't ceasing. It's time to be my own caretaker, I have to make the money to buy the medication to be mentally well to maintain this misery. The Mother of the family I lived with after I was kicked out of my home was right, I do have to learn to not lean on people.

I'm so many people at different ages, perhaps that's the reason I just drift off and stair into space.

Disassociating most likely occured when the domestic violence at home began when I was in first grade. I had to walk on eggshells around my Mother so much so that I couldn't always see how this led to laying down the red carpet for everyone else. Like the eager gratitude I longed to give Christ for saving me, I'd fall into love bombing (something certainly not helped from the evangelical youth group culture). My attachments were more than either of us (me, my crush, and everyone I told about my crush) could handle. A parasitic kind of love, disguised like a puppy. 

I wanted someone to tell me who I was, tell me what to do, where to go, when and why. 

The worst relationships tended to be ones that shined upon the naturalistic human in me and not the religious fascade. I'm still just a mammal learning to do life, love, and logic along with every one else. Blunt individuals similar to my Mother let me know when I hurt them because they knew talking things out could lead to a healthier relationship. The difference now was I actually had the other party willing to listen and not say " I get the final word not you." My hurts and hangups slithered through my obsessive relationships like a poison. "Am I good enough? Am I smart enough? Am I pretty enough?" These were internal inquiries I had to establish before understanding that being told "you hurt me" does not equal "you need to die."

In addition this multifaceted being that I am, I've also learned more about what it means to be on the spectrum, which I feel myself and some family members are. This corresponds to how we've miss read each other and shamed each other's stimming. My Mom's combition of (possible) BPD, OCD, and being on the spectrum is a triple threat for the need to control everything. As I've become more intune with my body, I've learned a couple of my stims are repeating audio (i.e songs) and shaking my legs- both of which severely annoyed Mom. After years of therapy and reading more about BPD (Borderline Personality Disorder) I've learned to relinquish that need for control and impress. The only person I can control and impress is myself. Despite being a mosaic of those around me, I'm the sole perpetrator. I need to take accountability to continue relationships; yet, fear loves to have me hide from responsibility and shame smiles when I become stuck in the same toxic patterns. There is no magic prayer that can guide my path, no Lord or monsters to appease. I have to do this for me; I have to continue on for me.

Self reflection reminds me that this too-loving myself and others, is a balance. 

I don't have to do anything; I get to. It's not about winning, but the self-journey. The greatest gift to give oneself is confidence. I'm not in a race with anyone and timelines for healing are like looping rollercoasters. 

I know how awful life can be, this is why I look upon all living things with such awe. All I have is here and now; how will I live it? With no regrets.

Sensory History

Downtown 

Bumping music, competing voices 

Air stuffy, shoes stick

She's catching up with friends 

Gently caressing wooden railing spindles;

Swallowing Shirley Temple's 

I'm alone again 

Attic

Yelling below, thuds, & crys

Scared, thinking the worst

Angry, drunk mother slamming door on face 

Hot, bitter tears basking salt 

Death

A gasping breath under weighed fingers calling my name,

These legs are glued

A face turns blue

Small little plastic clock

Distraction to disorder 

Rescue

Projecting blame, unaccountable adult

None of this is right 

Suits, note pads & tables 

Seatbelts looser than her grip

Dreaming of far, far away

Runaway

Commands, demands pervasive parent

Angry, unable to escape

She barges through barricade

Wooden window pane opens easy,

Shaking & hungry 

Adulting

Your impatient, judgement tone

A daughter you never knew 

Escaping coping mechanisms 

Freedom to choose 

Lighting up in front of me

Sweet affections we lose

Christianity Can Be Cultish Part 4

"Christianity saved me only to bury me."  

Recapping some of our previous points: 

1. Anything can be cult 

2. Cults can be identified by: 

     - teaching a type of separation from the main culture (us v. them, good v. evil, truth v. lies)

     -  instating distinctual attire & attitudes to denote membership (uniformity, rules, codes, ethics, boundaries)

     - lead by charismatic, lovable, authoritative teachers (viewed as holy or most intelligent)

      - can be on a spectrum of unhealthiness (ex: a sports team cult following v. Jim Jones)

3. Religions were cults that gained the most traction over the centuries and Evangelical Christianity today can be an example of such

4. Anyone can fall victim to a cult

5. It's all just another sales pitch (either convincing you of a problem you don't have or selling a cure all solution)

As a past Jesus Freak, I wholeheartedly and unashamedly professed that I was a sinner saved by grace alone. As a past Jesus follower, I rightfully and joyfully laid down my life daily for the Holy Spirit to do His bidding. 

Now, on the flip side. I see how Christianity-my version anyway, had built its empire upon a foundation of projection. 

The feelings of inadequacy, loneliness, and fear are common to our species. As our brains mature, trying to make sense of life through the guidance of others still figuring out, we feel this aching desire to have meaning behind everything when there isn't. There is no more meaning than the meaning our species ascribe. Charlatans manipulate this human curiosity by prescribing an antidote they themselves wouldn't always buy. You'll hear it in sermons and outreaches, see it on billboards and throughout media:

"Come to Jesus all who are sick..." 

To many times religion claims that following a person (deity) or book(s) faithfully without doubt is honorable. One of the first and hardest things I went through while deconstructing was asking myself, "What does the Word really say? What does God really say? Who is God really?" 

The problem with religion is when those unfalsifiable beliefs become your blinders to reality. Reality is repeatedly and demonstratable, providing the same answer each time for everyone. This is impossible for spirituality not because of the apologetical claim of there being a supernatural, but due to its emotionally lead demeanor. I can open my Bible read a passage and get a whole different interpretation than my "brother/sister in Christ." Why? What method ensures we're on the same page? Hermeneutics? Language studies? Cultural and historical facts? Everyone has their opinion on what the Bible says, even each one of it's authors. 

Science and sound logic, on the other hand, is the best methodology we have in this reality. What is real is what can be observed; what is yet to be understood, is just yet to be scientifically observed. We can't start with a conclusion and move backwards; we can not say, "Look at the trees & stars, for they declare a Creator! A Designer! A God!" 

This isn't to say one can't be a Christian and practice science, they're not incompatible. What it is saying, is that Christianity lies. For the cross of Christ is the cost of your daily life, sacrificing your "evil" desires for His righteousness. Beckoning you in like a siren song, the grace you believe you don't deserve comes to entrap you. You are not your own, but the Master's. You belong to God. 

The language and attitude of Evangelical Christianity display many red flags not only through their love bombing, but deepities. The emotional draws heightened with an urgent plea seems to just project the pastor's inner desire for validation, purpose, and drive. Some Bible teachers simply make blanket statements to win as much of the crowd as they can, not worrying about any shread of evidence-based practices. 

"Cast your cares onto him who cares for you." How? How has he (God) shown he's cared? By taking your punishment of sin himself upon the cross? But is that justice, releasing the guilty party & punishing yourself? 

"God's ways are higher than our ways." How? Because we can't ever understand or can't ever know? "God gives generously to all who ask,"  doesn't he? Then why let cancer continue? Is cancer in children God's or Satan's doing? Isn't everything ordained by God-the good, bad, and even the ugly? Isn't justifying someone's "ugliness" evil? Then why do we do it for Yahwey? If we take the Bible at its word, the God of O.T has a higher body count than Satan. How is this somone worthy of my respect?

Truth is, they're not. It's frankly despicable to continue to serve the God of the Bible based on the Word's clear display of extreme narcissism and need for blood. It's nothing more than another blood cult. No one, not even a God, deserves unrelenting worship.

We are finite, fragile creatures on this spinning rock for only a short while. Embrace your existence, uniqueness, and beauty. If you're having trouble seeing or practicing these, it might be time to reevaluate who you're listening to. The brain synapses are most likely not a supernatural being speaking to you, but a tumbler of your family, friends, and culture.

Be kind to yourself because you deserve it. Why? 

YOLO. That's why.

Here's a couple YouTube sources that have helped me during my deconvertion. May they be of some help to you as well, blessings. 

Holy Koolaid

Forrest Valkai

Belief It or Not

Kristi Burke

 

Just Symptoms

*spoken word emotional core poetry/song

It's falling madly in love

over and over again

thinking this could be the one

justifying everything they do

forcing myself to like everything about them

torn to utter pieces when they miss my mark

that I've never spoken

It's overanalyzing everything you said

and how you said it

feeling like I know what's not being said

holding in what I want to say

bottling up my emotions and going numb

It's exploding and not able to come down easily

For days I'll cry over it

It's doing everything for you

because you need to know how much you mean

then secretly hurt when you don't do the same

It's beating myself up mentally and physically

finding a razor somehow some way

scratching forcibly

punching myself repeatedly

It's feeling like I'd rather die than hurt you

and dying when you leave

It's preparing for the end

wanting to skip the beginning and middle

It's saying I'll change next week

next Sunday

on the 1st

Next year

It's knowing I'm contradictory

not simply defined

 It's forgetting what I look like

responding with a yuck when I do

thinking beauty is certain looks and angles

not believing their compliments

fishing for affirmation

having knowledge I'm pretty & feeling unhinged

It's risky sexual behavior

because I'm impulsive

because I'm scared of intimacy

because I'm not good enough for the person I want

It's spending years being taught the body is temporary

that is just a shell

that the REAL me is inside

It's years of being fed that I'm corrupt

that the body is evil

It's lighting up another after promising I was done

after I've gotten into thousands of dollars in debt

after having to go to the hospital

after no longer getting satisfaction

It's wishing I could leave everything

like that would somehow fix things

as if living on the streets is a choice

It's imagining the worst 

happening to others

and wanting the worst to happen to me

It's feeling  like I'm not here

I'm not what you see

I'm nothing

My scars don't tell everything about me

If they did,

There'd be a whole lot more of them

I hate my mind more than anything

These emotions and illogical thinking

Haunts me 

You'd think I'd be over it

But something triggers the pain, the hurt, the darkness

What can you do when you can't have 

What you want, what you need?

How do I speak?

The anxiety eats at me

I'm still bleeding

Why is this heart beating?

Life is just symptoms.