Earlier in this blog, I mentioned an “awakening” I had before receiving the gospel. I’d like to share about that now.
It began in 9th grade, October 10th, the day before my 14th birthday, when my guidance counselor called me into her office.
The dialogue went a little something like this:
“How are things going?”
“I’m okay.”
(silence)
“Is school treating you well?”
“Fine.”
(silence)
“Any relationships?”
“Um, I don’t have a boyfriend right now?“ (beat) “I hang out with my friends?”
(silence)
“Do you know why you’re here?”
“No. Is there something wrong?”
The guidance counselor proceeded to tell me that two of my friends had visited her concerned about the fact that I had been doing some cutting on my ankles and wrists.
I should probably take a moment to admit that I was really a big wannabe. I’m not proud of it. I didn’t “wannabe” someone accomplished or bright or pretty. Well, of course, I wanted to be those things. When I was convinced that I could never be any of those things, however, I wanted to be…cool.
What qualified someone to be “cool?” Well, in my high school, there were a lot of things that could make you “cool.” There were cool kids who were friends with everyone and did well in their classes or excelled in a sport or other extra-curricular activity. There were cool funny guys who made people laugh or pretty girls whom everyone wanted to date or befriend.
Then there were the rest of us who never felt they could measure up to those standards. So we, who came in all shapes and sizes, tried different means of being cool. The easiest way, it seemed, was to pretend that you didn’t really care about anything.
My previous school year, 8th grade, was rough. I was a new girl at the school, homely, with a limited wardrobe, and lacking social skills. As a result, I was severely picked on in the hallways and lunchroom for the first two months or so until people finally got bored and found someone else to torment. Some of the boys on the bus loved sexually harassing girls, and I was one of their favorite victims.
Life sucked for the first part of 8th grade.
Even after the bullying and harassment died down and I found success in schoolwork, choir, and a few friends, the memory of the pain was seared into me. I still audibly gasp a little when a young woman tells me she’s in the 8th grade. To me, 8th grade was hell. The whole school year is stained for me with memories of suicide poems, death wishes, and dreading the bus and the hallway.
At the end of that school year, I determined that someday I would be cooler, prettier, and care less. I put “sun” in my hair so I was golden blonde and spent the summer staying up late, swimming at the pool all day and tanning, hanging out with friends, and limiting my diet to about a meal a day. I listened to Pink Floyd and knew the lyrics to popular nasty rap songs. I got stoned once on a hash joint with some friends, and had a mental list of every drug I’d be willing to try.
Teenage boys (who had cars!) would tell me I was so “fine.” My first kiss happened on July 4th, when I was buzzed from drinking a wine cooler after a long day of tanning and not eating much. I didn’t even know the guy’s name.
At the start of my 9th grade year, just a month or so before my 14th birthday, I was 5’6 ½”, blonde, tan, and weighed about 100 pounds. I went to the occasional keg party with friends, smoked when I could get away with it, snuck beers at night when I sat down to homework, and I had had a couple of boyfriends. I went from being a straight–A student in the National Junior Honor Society and a choir star to being someone who rarely completed homework, hid from my family, and showed disrespect to my teachers.
I was a mess.
To any youths who may stumble upon this blog, please let me assure you, this was a very unhappy time. I no longer had a vision of my possible future. I no longer saw myself as capable of anything worthwhile. I was just piling on armor to protect me from potentially cruel classmates, my family, or anyone or anything else that could hurt me. The armor wasn’t reliable, though. Any hurtful word from family or peers would send me spiraling down into self-mutilation, substance abuse, or suicidal thoughts.
This brings me back to my encounter with the guidance counselor the day before my 14th birthday.
After she explained that my friends had “outed” me for self-mutilation, she suggested I talk to a therapist at the mental hospital. I reluctantly agreed to, and by bedtime I was encouraged to check myself into the adolescent ward. I again agreed to, not because I felt that I needed it, but because I didn’t want to go home that night knowing that my family thought I should be in a mental hospital.
I consider my willingness to commit myself in order to avoid being guilted for not committing myself one of the greatest ironies of my life.
It was also an extremely important event in my life.
I will try to be somewhat concise about my two months in “rehab” (the term we all affectionately used for our new home, because we thought that it sounded cooler than “inpatient in an adolescent psych ward”). It is necessary to give some detail, however.
First, I met some of the saddest people I’ve ever met, most of whom considered themselves “cool.” I find it easiest to just list them (by fictional name) in the interest of time.
There were the following:
Joe, a 16 year old male with cystic fibrosis, who became my boyfriend for a few weeks. Despite being warned that he was giving himself 6 months to live if he continued using drugs, he never took the hospital seriously and went AWOL at least twice. He was also an unpredictable, manipulative boyfriend.
Marie, a 14 year old girl who had done practically every drug in the book and had been sexually active since she was 12 or 13.
Mike, a 16 year old juvenile delinquent who had been in and out of detention centers for more than a year, where he had been raped more than once. He rarely bathed or brushed, talked with a severe speech impediment, and had a heart of gold. We adored each other over time.
Josh, a 16 year old who permanently had the shakes from a medication that had disagreed with his system. He had been an inpatient for at least 1 year. He kept every rule and cared about everyone, but his depression was severe. I think he may have also had schizophrenia.
Annie, who had severe schizophrenia and didn’t interact with any of us. We laughed at her antics, like when she pretended to be a cockroach, because we were idiots. (The memory of it still breaks my heart).
There were a few more people of interest: A crack addict who checked himself out after a few weeks, a gang-rape survivor who mixed in well with the coolest crowd, a manic depressive who fought her mood swings daily and was a pool shark, a young man who had experimented with drugs and Satan worship, and a few others whose challenges I can’t recall.
“Rehab” was a mess but a necessary turning point for me. The other inpatients terrified me, especially when they chose to balk at the rules and ignore their treatments. At times, I joined in with the stupidity, but only for so long. Thankfully, I was a wimp and unwilling to fully commit to behavior that I was convinced could ruin my future.
Three influences/events in rehab stood out the most to me.
One of these will sound a little cliché. I loved most of the counselors. They were strict with us, but they were accepting and at times funny. I particularly loved one who encouraged meditation and played great music on Sunday evenings with us. He introduced me to Cat Stevens, and I’ll be forever grateful.
Sitting in those hallways expressing our feelings together and then listening to music and feeling acceptance brought me peace. It removed the sense of isolation I had dealt with for so long. I believe we all felt understood.
Another important influence came from two life-changing documentaries. One was called “Streetwise,” and I can’t remember the name of the other one.
“Streetwise” is probably the most powerful documentary I’ve ever seen, featuring homeless youths in Seattle in the 1980s. Scenes from these kids’ lives were heartbreaking and humbling. They dealt with drugs, STDs, family abuse, street violence, etc. In fact, it ended in the most tragic way when one of the young men hung himself. They couldn’t have planned a more sobering ending.
The other documentary was mostly about the dangers of popular drugs at the time. One drug that frightened me more than anything was angel dust or PCP. I had heard of PCP before. When I was a little girl in Lake Worth, Florida, a story had circulated about a young mom in our area who did PCP one day and did something horrendous under its influence. I won’t share the details that I had heard. True or false, they are not worth repeating.
In this chilling documentary, they showed a young man sitting in a chair in an empty room. He had done PCP 2 weeks before and was still tripping, singing random songs and reciting lines from the openings of television shows. It was sort of funny and shocking.
These two documentaries bored most of my peers, but they entranced and terrified me. I still don’t know why the other kids weren’t frightened. Maybe I just hadn’t seen as much ugliness in life as they had. Either way, seeing those images was a wake up call to me.
The final important influence was a painful event. It started with Joe, my poor messed up boyfriend. We became an item after he expressed an interested in me and then went AWOL when I gently declined him. Before running away, he wrote me a letter telling me that if he couldn’t have me, he couldn’t stay in rehab. Knowing that he needed to get clean in order to survive into adulthood, I welcomed him with open arms when he returned.
It was somewhat melodramatic, I admit.
Despite this total breech of the rules, I ascended through the “level system” established in the ward, which was based on obedience and earned me increased privileges. The most sought after privilege was a 12-hour release to be with family. I was so happy that it enabled me to spend Thanksgiving Day with my mom. When I returned to the hospital that evening, however, none of the other kids would talk to me. I quickly learned that, during dinner, Joe complained to the other girls about all of the ways I wasn’t nice to him. It seemed to come out of nowhere. In fact, he seemed thrilled to have me back and gave no hint of the exchange.
I had convinced myself that these people were my family, that they had accepted me as one of their own. Their coldness broke my heart. I was shattered. Then I broke down and ended up on suicide watch for a day. Then I woke up.
I realized that I had been wasting time and that I no longer cared to play the politics of rehab social life. I wanted to be healthy and happy. I broke up with Joe and committed to my treatment. I was released a little over two weeks later on December 7, which I still consider my clean date.
In the final weeks in rehab and in the months to follow, I fully committed myself to the Alcoholics Anonymous and Narcotics Anonymous programs. I got a great sponsor and made weekly 12 Step meetings a priority. I was not perfect in following the 12 steps, but I made progress and got some recovery. Most importantly, I came to believe in a Power greater than myself. It was the beginning of my spiritual awakening that prepared me for my conversion.
What became of my rehab peers? I only know about a few. Some went AWOL again, and I don’t know if they returned to the hospital.
Joe, my naughty boyfriend, was eventually released and started using drugs soon afterward. His parents lost track of him. At the age of 19, he was found dead somewhere. His drug use had destroyed his ability to survive his cystic fibrosis.
Mike, the juvenile delinquent, admitted to the rehab group that he was gay, facing much rejection. After being released, he was in and out of jail. He often used his phone call from jail to call me, even though I couldn’t do anything to help him.
I only maintained brief contact with the friend who had survived the gang rape. She was a wonderful, bright girl, but we lived far away from each other. The friendship soon fizzled out.
My time in rehab was an important milestone in my life. I learned that with all of my wounds, I did not really know Ugly. These stories were much uglier than mine. Yet it was not for the reasons one might assume, like socio-economic status and home environment. I saw and heard about their families, and we all came from similar backgrounds.
The sobering thing - the real Ugly - was that some kids were less frightened of the dark than I was. It was as if they were more determined to self-destruct. Either that, or they weren’t afraid to play “chicken” with their future.
I’m not saying I was smarter. I was just more scared. Sometimes fear is a good thing.
I know that God allowed me to go on this path. I could’ve slipped so far, but He didn’t let me. He showed me what could’ve been, and when I ran away in horror, He set me on a better path.
This frightening foray into a mental facility was my first great Awakening.
Tuesday, October 27, 2015
Monday, October 12, 2015
Honor thy Father and thy Mother
Speaking of tightropes, I have to walk one every time I discuss my childhood.
First, I would like to state for the record that I have an amazing mother and father. Actually, I have two amazing moms - one natural mother and one step-mother. They and their progenitors are and were wonderful people. They worked through tremendous hardships to establish themselves and raise their families.
There was a time in my life, however, when I could only see the weaknesses of my family and the wounds they inflicted upon me. There were wounds. Some came from family members, and others came from outside people and influences from which I was not protected.
At the age of 37, I was diagnosed with PTSD and a mild attachment disorder. This was not the first diagnosis I ever received, but it was the first that really made sense.
For much of my life, I struggled with anxiety. I didn’t tend to have huge panic attacks where I hyperventilated and feared death. Rather I would just get stressed easily, cry a lot, or get angry and often swear.
Years of therapy and trauma work have helped a great deal. Just the same, I continue to see the world through a strange lens. The mantras "I have to do everything by myself," “I’m stupid,” and "They don't really want me here" are some personal favorites.
My attachment disorder is very interesting. I’ve received the label of “anxious attachment,” which might be best described in the following monologue:
"Hi. I really like you. Do you like me? Let’s be friends. Best friends. Please let me know if you ever need anything. BTW, even though we don’t know each other that well, here is my life story. <insert long-winded life story>. Thanks for letting me share that. Sorry to go on and on. So please tell me all about yourself. Do you need anything? I think you’re amazing! Oh, you have to run? Oh, of course you do. Silly me, getting all carried away with time! No actually I had to go too. Bye. <quickly pretend you never noticed them in the first place>"
One might say that my attachment disorder causes me to fear that everyone sees me as one of those awkward guys you knew in high school who really wanted to date you, but you didn’t want to date him so you took the long way to class once a day to avoid running into him?
The more I understand about trauma and attachment, the more my anxiety and social challenges come to make sense. Sometimes I ache, because I feel I'm so poorly wired. At other times I’m just mad.
It's easy to look at your personal struggles and then look at your family and see all of the ways they played a part in it, even though it was unintentional.
Much has changed in the last 13 1/2 years, however.
One reason: I became a mother.
Words of Wisdom Upon Which I Claim No Ownership: If you want to come to understand and forgive your family, become a parent.
Granted, these are words of wisdom, not advice. If you are totally messed up, you should tread very slowly and carefully in the direction of parenthood. Very slowly…
If, however, you have a measure of stability, a good companion, a great deal of love to give, the willingness to sacrifice and never ever quit, and, of course, the ability to become a parent in one way or another, then go for it. It'll change your life and your view of everyone and everything.
Once I became a parent, certain aspects of my childhood became very clear. I started to appreciate how difficult this job is. Even in the seemingly most ideal circumstances - married to a prince, living in a castle, 4 cute mice - it is very easy to fall short in meeting my children’s physical and emotional needs.
My own childhood was wrought with so much weirdness. Divorce, moving, living near the poverty level at times, isolation, exposure to dangerous influences, etc. It was nothing like some of the horror stories I’ve heard, seen, or read. Just the same, it wasn’t very safe.
Still there was no one to blame. Anyone with intelligence and compassion could see that the deck was stacked against my parents’ marriage, my mom, my sister, and me. Yes, there were fun times with good memories, laughter, and some good food. There were good intentions, but the blows continued to land on each member of our household.
The enduring love that has kept us holding on tight to each other through the years following the storm (and I need to further tighten my grip), is a beautiful miracle.
Parenthood has opened my eyes to these realities.
Do you have any idea how difficult parenthood is? (If you are a parent, I'm guessing you do.) I would randomly guess that there are about 20 ways to nail some aspect of parenthood and 10,000 ways to flunk.
Parenthood never ends, either. You cannot walk away from parenthood, even with adult children, and say, "I tried. Not my thing. They are better off without me, and someone else can step in. No one will miss me." A hole will be left in each abandoned child. Even with the greatest step-parents, adoptive parents, spouses, and friends trying to fill and refill that hole, it will remain. The invisible string drawing children to their parents never really severs.
Fact: The most common form of child abuse is neglect.
Isn't that mind-boggling? When I learned that my heart sank. The truth is, neglecting your children is so easy. There are extreme examples of child neglect that often result from poverty, addiction, and/or mental illness. Yet even in the more ideal settings, parents can be pulled away from their children by so many things – distractions, physical or emotional problems, etc. – and the mild but real emotional neglect occurs.
My point is this: Now that I'm a parent, I get it. These are good people, and they are a part of me.
Stephen Schwartz wrote a great song called “Forgiveness’ Embrace” that captures this sentiment perfectly. I hope he won’t mind me sharing some lyrics:
“I have served a full life sentence as a prisoner of my past,
As a victim of a victim of a victim.
Seems my parents' parents' parents left traps that held me fast,
and they still catch me even when I think I've licked 'em.
Well, I have blamed them,
I have fought them,
but I never understood.
All they really did was did the best they could.
I forgive my poor flawed parents for the things they could not be.
I forgive my valiant lovers for not completing me.
And the hardest thing of all now,
I forgive myself the sin of not being all I planned
And all I thought I should have been.
But there's an alchemy in time,
transforms each grief and loss and scar
Into the precious stuff of who we are.
And there's a way to rise above,
If I look at them with love.
Though I don't deny that harm has taken place.
I can make my peace at last,
With the pieces of my past
And enfold them in forgiveness's embrace
Some call it wisdom, and some just call it grace.
When we make our peace at last
With the pieces of the past
And enfold them in forgiveness's embrace,
And enfold them.
I will enfold them.
Now I enfold them in forgiveness's embrace.”
I hope you'll forgive that I don't plan to go into a ton of detail about my childhood. I'm sure that as I’m improving my attachment style, I should at least keep some things private.
More importantly, though, I value my continuing relationships with my family who stay in and deeply enrich my life. I honor their beautiful gift of life, love, and honest efforts. I honor their journey of reflection, of regret, of continuing to extend themselves through each storm. I honor the memories and bonds that are created when an imperfect person loves and rears another imperfect person in a very imperfect world.
This lengthy treatise is what Honor Thy Father and Mother has come to mean to me.
First, I would like to state for the record that I have an amazing mother and father. Actually, I have two amazing moms - one natural mother and one step-mother. They and their progenitors are and were wonderful people. They worked through tremendous hardships to establish themselves and raise their families.
There was a time in my life, however, when I could only see the weaknesses of my family and the wounds they inflicted upon me. There were wounds. Some came from family members, and others came from outside people and influences from which I was not protected.
At the age of 37, I was diagnosed with PTSD and a mild attachment disorder. This was not the first diagnosis I ever received, but it was the first that really made sense.
For much of my life, I struggled with anxiety. I didn’t tend to have huge panic attacks where I hyperventilated and feared death. Rather I would just get stressed easily, cry a lot, or get angry and often swear.
Years of therapy and trauma work have helped a great deal. Just the same, I continue to see the world through a strange lens. The mantras "I have to do everything by myself," “I’m stupid,” and "They don't really want me here" are some personal favorites.
My attachment disorder is very interesting. I’ve received the label of “anxious attachment,” which might be best described in the following monologue:
"Hi. I really like you. Do you like me? Let’s be friends. Best friends. Please let me know if you ever need anything. BTW, even though we don’t know each other that well, here is my life story. <insert long-winded life story>. Thanks for letting me share that. Sorry to go on and on. So please tell me all about yourself. Do you need anything? I think you’re amazing! Oh, you have to run? Oh, of course you do. Silly me, getting all carried away with time! No actually I had to go too. Bye. <quickly pretend you never noticed them in the first place>"
One might say that my attachment disorder causes me to fear that everyone sees me as one of those awkward guys you knew in high school who really wanted to date you, but you didn’t want to date him so you took the long way to class once a day to avoid running into him?
The more I understand about trauma and attachment, the more my anxiety and social challenges come to make sense. Sometimes I ache, because I feel I'm so poorly wired. At other times I’m just mad.
It's easy to look at your personal struggles and then look at your family and see all of the ways they played a part in it, even though it was unintentional.
Much has changed in the last 13 1/2 years, however.
One reason: I became a mother.
Words of Wisdom Upon Which I Claim No Ownership: If you want to come to understand and forgive your family, become a parent.
Granted, these are words of wisdom, not advice. If you are totally messed up, you should tread very slowly and carefully in the direction of parenthood. Very slowly…
If, however, you have a measure of stability, a good companion, a great deal of love to give, the willingness to sacrifice and never ever quit, and, of course, the ability to become a parent in one way or another, then go for it. It'll change your life and your view of everyone and everything.
Once I became a parent, certain aspects of my childhood became very clear. I started to appreciate how difficult this job is. Even in the seemingly most ideal circumstances - married to a prince, living in a castle, 4 cute mice - it is very easy to fall short in meeting my children’s physical and emotional needs.
My own childhood was wrought with so much weirdness. Divorce, moving, living near the poverty level at times, isolation, exposure to dangerous influences, etc. It was nothing like some of the horror stories I’ve heard, seen, or read. Just the same, it wasn’t very safe.
Still there was no one to blame. Anyone with intelligence and compassion could see that the deck was stacked against my parents’ marriage, my mom, my sister, and me. Yes, there were fun times with good memories, laughter, and some good food. There were good intentions, but the blows continued to land on each member of our household.
The enduring love that has kept us holding on tight to each other through the years following the storm (and I need to further tighten my grip), is a beautiful miracle.
Parenthood has opened my eyes to these realities.
Do you have any idea how difficult parenthood is? (If you are a parent, I'm guessing you do.) I would randomly guess that there are about 20 ways to nail some aspect of parenthood and 10,000 ways to flunk.
Parenthood never ends, either. You cannot walk away from parenthood, even with adult children, and say, "I tried. Not my thing. They are better off without me, and someone else can step in. No one will miss me." A hole will be left in each abandoned child. Even with the greatest step-parents, adoptive parents, spouses, and friends trying to fill and refill that hole, it will remain. The invisible string drawing children to their parents never really severs.
Fact: The most common form of child abuse is neglect.
Isn't that mind-boggling? When I learned that my heart sank. The truth is, neglecting your children is so easy. There are extreme examples of child neglect that often result from poverty, addiction, and/or mental illness. Yet even in the more ideal settings, parents can be pulled away from their children by so many things – distractions, physical or emotional problems, etc. – and the mild but real emotional neglect occurs.
My point is this: Now that I'm a parent, I get it. These are good people, and they are a part of me.
Stephen Schwartz wrote a great song called “Forgiveness’ Embrace” that captures this sentiment perfectly. I hope he won’t mind me sharing some lyrics:
“I have served a full life sentence as a prisoner of my past,
As a victim of a victim of a victim.
Seems my parents' parents' parents left traps that held me fast,
and they still catch me even when I think I've licked 'em.
Well, I have blamed them,
I have fought them,
but I never understood.
All they really did was did the best they could.
I forgive my poor flawed parents for the things they could not be.
I forgive my valiant lovers for not completing me.
And the hardest thing of all now,
I forgive myself the sin of not being all I planned
And all I thought I should have been.
But there's an alchemy in time,
transforms each grief and loss and scar
Into the precious stuff of who we are.
And there's a way to rise above,
If I look at them with love.
Though I don't deny that harm has taken place.
I can make my peace at last,
With the pieces of my past
And enfold them in forgiveness's embrace
Some call it wisdom, and some just call it grace.
When we make our peace at last
With the pieces of the past
And enfold them in forgiveness's embrace,
And enfold them.
I will enfold them.
Now I enfold them in forgiveness's embrace.”
I hope you'll forgive that I don't plan to go into a ton of detail about my childhood. I'm sure that as I’m improving my attachment style, I should at least keep some things private.
More importantly, though, I value my continuing relationships with my family who stay in and deeply enrich my life. I honor their beautiful gift of life, love, and honest efforts. I honor their journey of reflection, of regret, of continuing to extend themselves through each storm. I honor the memories and bonds that are created when an imperfect person loves and rears another imperfect person in a very imperfect world.
This lengthy treatise is what Honor Thy Father and Mother has come to mean to me.
Sunday, October 4, 2015
The "Fake" Mormon
I want to interrupt this narrative to state an observation. Latter-Day Saints walk a tightrope when it comes to openness about trials and personal weaknesses versus rejoicing about the goodness of the gospel.
I have heard so many times (and used to often say myself) that many Mormons are "fake." What does that mean, though?
We all want to focus on the happiness that a covenant life can bring. Who wants to join and stay in a church if it won't help us become happier?
Yet, life is hard. It's just meant to be so, and there are so many kinds of hard. We all have huge trials and weakness. It's a key element in mortality.
In fact, if you watch any General Conference, you will notice that practically every talk is about how hard life is and how the gospel is one of the only things that can help you through the difficulty.
The truth is, Latter Day Saints have opportunities to strengthen one another we they open up, acknowledge the difficulties of life, and reassure each other through the sharing of these things. That raises a question: When is one focusing too much on the negative? When should Sadness step aside and let Joy take care of things?
So, back to my first point: Tightrope.
Going further with the title of this post: The Fake Mormon. There are the pitfalls within the church and church culture that often cancels out the positive effects of the church for some people.
While teaching a lesson in church, I often like to say "Let's have an anarchy moment and list the bad stuff." Then I just have my class call stuff out to me while I list it quickly on the board.
So here's an anarchy moment.
Some ugly trends amongst Mormons that can and have run people out of the church:
Let's pause for a second on that one. "Hypocrisy" - what does that mean?
I think sometimes we see a form of soft - very soft - hypocrisy when people try to hide their weaknesses, like a chaotic home environment or a struggling child. But that's hardly hypocrisy. Those are people who are afraid of judgment or who don't feel comfortable opening up about trials and struggles. While it might be unfortunate, it doesn't really qualify as hypocrisy.
I think the most damaging, real hypocrisy is when someone seems to be living true to their covenants, often in a public manner, and then it turns out they have a big, ugly, deep, dark secret, like an affair or something illegal.
I'm going to refrain from judgment on those cases, because it must really suck. Still, it's probably pretty reasonable to call that hypocrisy.
The question I want to ask myself and others about hypocrisy within the church is this: Why should we ever let someone else's pain and anguish caused by their living a lie be an excuse for us to run away from something that can heal us?
A little more anarchy (and a zinger or two):
inequality between the sexes (less common than many claim; in my opinion, not driven by church doctrine or policy; but, yes, it happens)
prejudice or perceived prejudice amongst members against LGBT individuals
icky or confusing church history stuff
I've probably hit enough things.
Let's just say, the church isn't perfect. Sorry, no - it's not. The gospel is true and whole and the most amazing thing in the world, and the church is incredible and changes lives every day. But the church continues to grow and evolve through time. No perfect people, and no perfect way to deal with life in the church.
So how far do we go in our effort to be authentic? How much and how often do we open up about the hard stuff? What's the difference between complaining and reaching out for help? Are the ones who cross-stitch, can fruits, quilt, have awesome household routines, well dressed children, and a garden but face trials like cancer not as "real" as the physically healthy girl with bipolar disorder?
I have no answers, just questions. And a suggestion.
Let's just assume we don't understand each other enough. Therefore we aren't allowed to compare ourselves, because we have no idea to what we're really comparing ourselves.
We aren't allowed to be hurt by what someone says, because we can't know exactly what they were thinking or meant when they said something.
If someone seems perfect, then they aren't ready to share their trial, or maybe they don't feel their trial is relevant.
If people make mistakes that shock us, let's assume they are suffering enough, so we don't have to suffer with them. (Mourn with, yes, but not suffer with.)
In other words, we aren't allowed to let anyone in the church make us turn our backs on the spiritual experiences that have either brought us to or kept us in the church.
Maybe this is what it means to be an authentic Mormon? To be true to what we know or believe - no excuses.
While we chew on these questions, I'll return to my personal narrative in my next post.
I have heard so many times (and used to often say myself) that many Mormons are "fake." What does that mean, though?
We all want to focus on the happiness that a covenant life can bring. Who wants to join and stay in a church if it won't help us become happier?
Yet, life is hard. It's just meant to be so, and there are so many kinds of hard. We all have huge trials and weakness. It's a key element in mortality.
In fact, if you watch any General Conference, you will notice that practically every talk is about how hard life is and how the gospel is one of the only things that can help you through the difficulty.
The truth is, Latter Day Saints have opportunities to strengthen one another we they open up, acknowledge the difficulties of life, and reassure each other through the sharing of these things. That raises a question: When is one focusing too much on the negative? When should Sadness step aside and let Joy take care of things?
So, back to my first point: Tightrope.
Going further with the title of this post: The Fake Mormon. There are the pitfalls within the church and church culture that often cancels out the positive effects of the church for some people.
While teaching a lesson in church, I often like to say "Let's have an anarchy moment and list the bad stuff." Then I just have my class call stuff out to me while I list it quickly on the board.
So here's an anarchy moment.
Some ugly trends amongst Mormons that can and have run people out of the church:
- social politics or misunderstandings between members
- having what feels like too much responsibility thrown onto your plate in the form of callings
- feeling like you never fit in because of emotional struggles, personal trials, or past sins
- the constant reminders of more good things we should try to fit into our lives when we already have plenty to deal with
- members comparing themselves to others who seem to have it all together
- confusion over doctrines, principles, policies
- bishops or other leaders who say or do dumb things - it happens sometimes, no excuses
- hypocrisy
Let's pause for a second on that one. "Hypocrisy" - what does that mean?
I think sometimes we see a form of soft - very soft - hypocrisy when people try to hide their weaknesses, like a chaotic home environment or a struggling child. But that's hardly hypocrisy. Those are people who are afraid of judgment or who don't feel comfortable opening up about trials and struggles. While it might be unfortunate, it doesn't really qualify as hypocrisy.
I think the most damaging, real hypocrisy is when someone seems to be living true to their covenants, often in a public manner, and then it turns out they have a big, ugly, deep, dark secret, like an affair or something illegal.
I'm going to refrain from judgment on those cases, because it must really suck. Still, it's probably pretty reasonable to call that hypocrisy.
The question I want to ask myself and others about hypocrisy within the church is this: Why should we ever let someone else's pain and anguish caused by their living a lie be an excuse for us to run away from something that can heal us?
A little more anarchy (and a zinger or two):
I've probably hit enough things.
Let's just say, the church isn't perfect. Sorry, no - it's not. The gospel is true and whole and the most amazing thing in the world, and the church is incredible and changes lives every day. But the church continues to grow and evolve through time. No perfect people, and no perfect way to deal with life in the church.
So how far do we go in our effort to be authentic? How much and how often do we open up about the hard stuff? What's the difference between complaining and reaching out for help? Are the ones who cross-stitch, can fruits, quilt, have awesome household routines, well dressed children, and a garden but face trials like cancer not as "real" as the physically healthy girl with bipolar disorder?
I have no answers, just questions. And a suggestion.
Let's just assume we don't understand each other enough. Therefore we aren't allowed to compare ourselves, because we have no idea to what we're really comparing ourselves.
We aren't allowed to be hurt by what someone says, because we can't know exactly what they were thinking or meant when they said something.
If someone seems perfect, then they aren't ready to share their trial, or maybe they don't feel their trial is relevant.
If people make mistakes that shock us, let's assume they are suffering enough, so we don't have to suffer with them. (Mourn with, yes, but not suffer with.)
In other words, we aren't allowed to let anyone in the church make us turn our backs on the spiritual experiences that have either brought us to or kept us in the church.
Maybe this is what it means to be an authentic Mormon? To be true to what we know or believe - no excuses.
While we chew on these questions, I'll return to my personal narrative in my next post.
My Conversion in a Nutshell
Like many people, I feel I can trace the start of my conversion back to one particular experience. For me, it was a conversation in my junior year, about a month or so after befriending Anne.
Anne loved sharing her beliefs with people. I think that at one point she wanted badly to go on a mission. She didn't serve a mission, but she invited many people to church and had many friends who joined the church under her influence.
One Friday evening (probably one of the few when she didn't have a date), Anne decided to call me. We probably started with Brett stories, but before long with were discussing religion. For years, I had thought that reincarnation made some sense. I had often felt as a child that I that there was something long before that I was remembering/forgetting. (There is no logic in that statement.) I just knew I had been somewhere and had a different experience before I was a little girl growing up in the Eastern United States.
I had learned a tiny bit about reincarnation in relation to the Hindus. So I declared to Anne something like, "I like the Hindu religion that believes that you are reincarnated again and again as a higher form each time depending on how you live your life." I have no idea if that's a correct understanding, but I felt pretty confident saying it at the time.
Now in the next moment, Anne was reaching. But here was her response:
"Actually, in the LDS church we believe similar things. We actually believe in levels in heaven. There are three kingdoms in heaven, and, depending on how you live, in the next life you either go to the Telestial, Terrestrial, or Celestial kingdom."
This is an obscure, unique LDS doctrine that may offend half of the Christians who hear it. Yet, as she named the kingdoms, something inside of me said, "That's true."
I often second-guess this part. Did I really say what I remember saying? Was this a response that I fabricated or embellished? I don't know. I just know that what came out of my mouth next astonished both her and me.
What I remember saying was something kind of like this:
"I believe you. I believe that's true. What you just said is true."
I hesitate to ask Anne today if that's what I said. Ironically, she is no longer in the church. She probably wouldn't remember it. I just know that that was the first of many times I told either Anne or the missionaries that I believed what they were teaching me.
Over the next several weeks of attending church with Anne and her family, going to youth activities, meeting with the missionaries, and reading the Book of Mormon and praying, I had a sense again and again of remembering something. There was a steady, "Aha...yes...now I get it...Of course." It was undeniable.
I had had awakenings in my life before that - well, one big awakening, which I'm happy to share in the future. (Remember, we're being authentic...) But this awakening was different. It was like someone had changed the filter on an expensive camera. I was no longer looking at life through blue tones. There was so much more light.
Admittedly, in the 25 years since that time, I have still had periods of darkness and angst. (The church has not finished inventing the magic "fix-it-all" pill that I've been patiently waiting for.) I do not always feel the Holy Ghost. I don't make perfect choices, and I sometimes simply shut him out. My depression and anxiety is, at times, a barrier.
I will not forget that awakening, though. For the first time in my life, I stopped seeing myself as an emotionally and spiritually scarred person with a big nose whose only worthwhile contribution to the world was a pretty singing voice. I began to see myself as a daughter of God, known, valued, and loved by Him. I could be somebody.
I had yet to learn that I could be there for anybody else, but this was still a good start for me.
I was baptized on December 22, 1990 at the age of 16.
Anne loved sharing her beliefs with people. I think that at one point she wanted badly to go on a mission. She didn't serve a mission, but she invited many people to church and had many friends who joined the church under her influence.
One Friday evening (probably one of the few when she didn't have a date), Anne decided to call me. We probably started with Brett stories, but before long with were discussing religion. For years, I had thought that reincarnation made some sense. I had often felt as a child that I that there was something long before that I was remembering/forgetting. (There is no logic in that statement.) I just knew I had been somewhere and had a different experience before I was a little girl growing up in the Eastern United States.
I had learned a tiny bit about reincarnation in relation to the Hindus. So I declared to Anne something like, "I like the Hindu religion that believes that you are reincarnated again and again as a higher form each time depending on how you live your life." I have no idea if that's a correct understanding, but I felt pretty confident saying it at the time.
Now in the next moment, Anne was reaching. But here was her response:
"Actually, in the LDS church we believe similar things. We actually believe in levels in heaven. There are three kingdoms in heaven, and, depending on how you live, in the next life you either go to the Telestial, Terrestrial, or Celestial kingdom."
This is an obscure, unique LDS doctrine that may offend half of the Christians who hear it. Yet, as she named the kingdoms, something inside of me said, "That's true."
I often second-guess this part. Did I really say what I remember saying? Was this a response that I fabricated or embellished? I don't know. I just know that what came out of my mouth next astonished both her and me.
What I remember saying was something kind of like this:
"I believe you. I believe that's true. What you just said is true."
I hesitate to ask Anne today if that's what I said. Ironically, she is no longer in the church. She probably wouldn't remember it. I just know that that was the first of many times I told either Anne or the missionaries that I believed what they were teaching me.
Over the next several weeks of attending church with Anne and her family, going to youth activities, meeting with the missionaries, and reading the Book of Mormon and praying, I had a sense again and again of remembering something. There was a steady, "Aha...yes...now I get it...Of course." It was undeniable.
I had had awakenings in my life before that - well, one big awakening, which I'm happy to share in the future. (Remember, we're being authentic...) But this awakening was different. It was like someone had changed the filter on an expensive camera. I was no longer looking at life through blue tones. There was so much more light.
Admittedly, in the 25 years since that time, I have still had periods of darkness and angst. (The church has not finished inventing the magic "fix-it-all" pill that I've been patiently waiting for.) I do not always feel the Holy Ghost. I don't make perfect choices, and I sometimes simply shut him out. My depression and anxiety is, at times, a barrier.
I will not forget that awakening, though. For the first time in my life, I stopped seeing myself as an emotionally and spiritually scarred person with a big nose whose only worthwhile contribution to the world was a pretty singing voice. I began to see myself as a daughter of God, known, valued, and loved by Him. I could be somebody.
I had yet to learn that I could be there for anybody else, but this was still a good start for me.
I was baptized on December 22, 1990 at the age of 16.
An Authentic Mormon - An Intro
"An Authentic Mormon." Sounds so arrogant, doesn't it? Like I'm saying that I'm real and the rest
are fake.
I promise you this blog isn't about accusing members of the
LDS church of being anything but genuine.
It's just me, adding my voice to the many LDS voices that paint a more
realistic, colorful picture of a Mormon life.
I'm a 41 year old Mormon convert, wife, mother, actress, and
teacher. I'm also a survivor of PTSD and mild attachment disorder. I am brave, broken, a little too cocky
sometimes, insecure, and still fighting to overcome my decades old tendency to
swear when under stress.
I do not know how to quilt (and have no desire to). I'm still pretty awful at gardening (but
determined to get better), and I have barely scratched the surface on my family
history. My house is a mess most of the
time. My recent advent into part-time
teaching has erased almost all home-making skills from my skill-set. I hug and kiss my kids a lot but have to
fight the daily urge to hide from them.
I am a believer who hopes against hope. I love the scriptures and fight the daily
battle to remember to read them. I
barely completed an LDS mission to the Philippines because I went out before
they "raised the bar" and had a mission president who was determined
to help me finish.
No one will ever put me on a poster and or declare me a
model of an LDS women. I just try my
best... like every other Mormon I know, who almost all have equally
weird and messy stories.
So, without further ado, I invite you into my backstory, my
life, and my testimony.
A Beginning - My First Actual Mormon Friend, Thanks to Brett
Twenty five years ago, I was a teenager in Florida who befriended a Mormon girl. Out of respect to her privacy, I'll rename her Anne (with an "E" of course).
When Anne and I first became friends, we had one thing in common - Brett. (Again, name changed.)
Brett was this cute baritone in the school's top choir who graduated the year before Anne and I became friends. He was tall and skinny with green eyes, and he made most of the girls in choir giggle with his teasing and antics. He had a great voice and could drive. To someone like me at 15, he was a hunk.
Brett and Anne, a senior and a junior, had dated for two months at the start of my sophomore year. They were so publicly adorable - similarly good looking, smiley with sparkly eyes. They looked so cute together walking hand in hand from their typing class each day. We were all in love with Them.
Then Anne suddenly dumped Brett, and we were all heartbroken. Brett claimed that Anne cheated on him with another guy. I later learned that it wasn't that simple, but I digress...
After the breakup, Brett was devastated - as in, occasionally sitting catatonic in a chair in choir devastated. Then some adult told him, "Young man, you should not be so fixated on one young woman. You are young! Date around!" So that was exactly what he did.
Brett started asking out practically every girl in choir. We all had a crush on him, and we all said yes. Alas "date around" in Brett's language didn't mean "go out on dates and be friendly with lots of different girls." It meant "take a girl out, watch a movie, and make out for at least an hour with each one of them so they can compare notes later."
I was one of the girls, but I didn't want Brett to make out with other girls. Headstrong and convinced I was in love, I hoped I could become his new girlfriend. After about a month of dating, however, Brett stated that he and I could never have a future together on the grounds that we had religious differences. He was moderately religious, and I was not religious at all.
In actuality, Brett fell for an old girlfriend whom he eventually married. All's well that ends well.
It took months for me to recover. So when Anne joined the chorus the next year - my junior year and her senior year - we became friends and started exchanging stories about Brett. Well, also about religion. At first it was about religion and Brett, but eventually it was just religion.
To start with, I learned that the reason Anne and Brett broke up the previous year was religious differences. Anne was a Mormon, and Brett was a regular Christian. In fact, Brett worked at a Christian book store -you know, the kind that keeps books about Mormons in the "cult" section. Brett would read those "Christian" books at work, and he would start debates with Anne on their next date. In no time, her feelings toward him soured. So Anne moved on and dated someone else.
For some reason, Anne's faith was one of the things that drew me to her. I usually didn't associate with such smiley people. I preferred people passionate and angsty, with a potty-mouth, like myself. Still, I liked the Mormons I had met. The seemed...authentic for the most part. They didn't feel pious. It still amuses me that Utahns associate Mormonism with piety, because it's very different in Florida. Perhaps being a religious minority and knowing that you are often alone in your beliefs and values forces you to be more authentic.
The title of Mormon seemed mysterious to me. I found myself attracted to the LDS church despite knowing nothing about it. In fact, though I had balked at most Christian religions, I imagined that if I were ever to join any church, it would probably be the Mormon church.
Wanna to hear a funny story that illustrates this fascination I had with the church? When I was at the start of my junior year in high school, I filled out a survey about my interest in college. One of the questions was "If you were to attend a church affiliated school, which religion would it be affiliated with?" I had no idea. I was officially Protestant, having been baptized Methodist as an infant. I was not a practicing Methodist, though. My mother had mostly taken my sister and I to the Church of Unity, a sort of non-doctrinal and mostly fellowship-based organization. I felt no devotion to it or belief in it. I had no devotion to any faith at all.
Yet there as I took the survey and scanned the list of religions, I saw "CJCLDS" listed for one of the religions. Not knowing what it meant, and for no particular reason, I checked the box.
It turned out that "CJCLDS" stood for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints - the Mormons.
Here is the real punchline: Two and a half years later, I began attending Brigham Young University, the LDS church's university based in Provo, Utah.
When Anne and I first became friends, we had one thing in common - Brett. (Again, name changed.)
Brett was this cute baritone in the school's top choir who graduated the year before Anne and I became friends. He was tall and skinny with green eyes, and he made most of the girls in choir giggle with his teasing and antics. He had a great voice and could drive. To someone like me at 15, he was a hunk.
Brett and Anne, a senior and a junior, had dated for two months at the start of my sophomore year. They were so publicly adorable - similarly good looking, smiley with sparkly eyes. They looked so cute together walking hand in hand from their typing class each day. We were all in love with Them.
Then Anne suddenly dumped Brett, and we were all heartbroken. Brett claimed that Anne cheated on him with another guy. I later learned that it wasn't that simple, but I digress...
After the breakup, Brett was devastated - as in, occasionally sitting catatonic in a chair in choir devastated. Then some adult told him, "Young man, you should not be so fixated on one young woman. You are young! Date around!" So that was exactly what he did.
Brett started asking out practically every girl in choir. We all had a crush on him, and we all said yes. Alas "date around" in Brett's language didn't mean "go out on dates and be friendly with lots of different girls." It meant "take a girl out, watch a movie, and make out for at least an hour with each one of them so they can compare notes later."
I was one of the girls, but I didn't want Brett to make out with other girls. Headstrong and convinced I was in love, I hoped I could become his new girlfriend. After about a month of dating, however, Brett stated that he and I could never have a future together on the grounds that we had religious differences. He was moderately religious, and I was not religious at all.
In actuality, Brett fell for an old girlfriend whom he eventually married. All's well that ends well.
It took months for me to recover. So when Anne joined the chorus the next year - my junior year and her senior year - we became friends and started exchanging stories about Brett. Well, also about religion. At first it was about religion and Brett, but eventually it was just religion.
To start with, I learned that the reason Anne and Brett broke up the previous year was religious differences. Anne was a Mormon, and Brett was a regular Christian. In fact, Brett worked at a Christian book store -you know, the kind that keeps books about Mormons in the "cult" section. Brett would read those "Christian" books at work, and he would start debates with Anne on their next date. In no time, her feelings toward him soured. So Anne moved on and dated someone else.
For some reason, Anne's faith was one of the things that drew me to her. I usually didn't associate with such smiley people. I preferred people passionate and angsty, with a potty-mouth, like myself. Still, I liked the Mormons I had met. The seemed...authentic for the most part. They didn't feel pious. It still amuses me that Utahns associate Mormonism with piety, because it's very different in Florida. Perhaps being a religious minority and knowing that you are often alone in your beliefs and values forces you to be more authentic.
The title of Mormon seemed mysterious to me. I found myself attracted to the LDS church despite knowing nothing about it. In fact, though I had balked at most Christian religions, I imagined that if I were ever to join any church, it would probably be the Mormon church.
Wanna to hear a funny story that illustrates this fascination I had with the church? When I was at the start of my junior year in high school, I filled out a survey about my interest in college. One of the questions was "If you were to attend a church affiliated school, which religion would it be affiliated with?" I had no idea. I was officially Protestant, having been baptized Methodist as an infant. I was not a practicing Methodist, though. My mother had mostly taken my sister and I to the Church of Unity, a sort of non-doctrinal and mostly fellowship-based organization. I felt no devotion to it or belief in it. I had no devotion to any faith at all.
Yet there as I took the survey and scanned the list of religions, I saw "CJCLDS" listed for one of the religions. Not knowing what it meant, and for no particular reason, I checked the box.
It turned out that "CJCLDS" stood for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints - the Mormons.
Here is the real punchline: Two and a half years later, I began attending Brigham Young University, the LDS church's university based in Provo, Utah.
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