I woke up early this morning with the intent of finding my way to a little Lutheran church down the road. According to their website they have a folk music liturgy and are ethnically diverse. I like both of those things and thought a liturgical service might not be so bad. I took a shower and had some breakfast and couldn't make my way up off my couch. I have a myriad of reasons why I don't like going to church. This morning it was something between laziness, not wanting to talk to strangers, and definitely not wanting to risk a PTSD episode because it's been a rough weekend already, and I have to work later.
The last post-traumatic event in my life happened just the other day, as I was watching a documentary called, "The God Who Wasn't There." They spoke of how bloodthirsty Christians are and played scenes from that terrible fucking movie our dear diplomatic friend Mel Gibson made. And it threw me back to the good old days. I was a junior in high school and my parents and I went out for a movie night! How fun. I sat behind them because the theatre was packed. And then I became that girl. Who was sobbing uncontrollably the whole time. Because I did it. I killed him. Something frightening happens when you are convinced that you're the reason a rather prolific man had to be tortured because you get mad at your little brother, because you yelled back at your mom, because you don't want to kiss dating goodbye, because you discovered your privates all by yourself and liked it.
Guilt complex anyone?
And then there's the fact that I needed an emotional outlet for all the goddamned ABUSE I was suffering, and the only safe and respected way I could experience emotion was over my own guilt and shame, so all that bottled up goodness was directed toward one night at the movie theatre. What a healthy cycle that produced, guilt and shame fueling emotional depth.
And it's funny to me now, because I occasionally make someone impatient with how much grace I give myself. I give myself "too much" leeway, too much time to recoup, too much freedom. I allow myself to feel sorry for myself.
I'm rather proud of the progress I've made. I, like any idealist, would love to be a perfect balance. And I, like any abuse survivor, acknowledge how far I have to go. As well, I, like any ENFP, acknowledge how far I have come.
What is your experience of Easter this year? Happy, sad, traumatic, deep, beautiful, frightening?
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