Telling About Abuse

Sarjenka: The Turning Point

Rather than beginning in the beginning, I will begin
at a place that was the beginning of the end - the
end of my abuse legacy, the beginning of my healing.

A number of years ago, a newly-made feminist, I just
had made some very interesting discoveries about my
faith. One of those discoveries was the feminine
imagery of God. God was like a mother, the Scriptures
said, nourishing us, birthing us, crying out in labor.
Jesus himself had maternal qualities, longing to
gather His people under His wings as the hen gathers
her chicks.

It was supposed to excite me and make me feel good.

It disgusted me.

I was beginning to dislike God. Most remarkably, I was
beginning to dislike Jesus. I was beginning to see
Jesus as manipulative, self-pitying, threatening and
pushing my buttons, just like my mother.

Suddenly, I realized that I hated, loathed, detested
everything that had to do with motherhood. The posters
promoting the benefits breastfeeding made me feel
physically ill. If God was a "Mother" (even a little
bit), I wanted to have nothing to do with God.

I made an appointment with a pastor of a friend's
church at that time. He listened quietly as I spilled
my story to him. I told him everything. He listened,
without saying a word. He listened to me saying how
much I hated everything that had to do with
motherhood, and how much it all made me physically
sick. I told him I did not like my mother (an anathema
in Christian circles).

Finally he spoke. His first words to me were, "I am
not surprised at all . You
were abused."

I exploded in anger. "You people in the western
culture are always whining about abuse! Everybody is
crying abuse all the time, no matter what happens, no
matter how minor it is."

He backed down. "Okay, let's not call it that," he
conceded. "Can we, at least say that it wasn't
acceptable behavior?"

I nodded, choking on my tears.

He spoke to me. He told me that God is not like that.
That Jesus does not say to us, "go do what I say, or
else I will hurt myself/die on the cross." He spoke
some more, imparting a feeling of grace and acceptance
to me. I wasn't judged for my feelings. I was told
that it is okay to be angry and to feel hurt - and
that it doesn't mean that I am 'unforgiving'. I was
also told that it is okay for me not to like my
mother, or have any warm feelings towards her.

"You won't tell anyone what I told you?" I asked as I
was leaving.

He shook his head with a smile. "Yeah, I will tell
everyone about Sarjenka and her terrible crack habit."

We chuckled. He placed his hand on my shoulder as he
was seeing me out and said simply, "You are beloved of
God". The grace of that moment was overwhelming.

I chose that day to be a turning point in my
reconstruction of myself.

Sarjenka: Schadenfreude

Schadenfreude. A german word for "deriving pleasure
from someone else's misfortune." I don't think there
is a word in English that conveys the same meaning.
Glee? Gloating? No, that's not it. The emotion I am
thinking about is a lot more subtle, refined,
exquisite. Schadenfreude.

My mother perfected the art of of Schadenfreude.

I realized it only recently. I was leaving the city
for good. I was at an airport terminal trying to
re-pack my enormous bags and avoid a hefty $70 fine.
Embarassing? Frustrating? Stressful? Well, yes, you
could say that.

She was there to see me off. I looked around, but
could not see her, so I went back to re-organizing and
packing. Finally, I made it. The bags were sealed and
sent off on the conveyor belt. I left the counter with
a huge sense of relief. She was waiting for me nearby.

"I am so glad I got to see everything!" she said,
referring to my troubles. She looked so pleased. So
satisfied--as if she just had a nice, pleasant meal.

My misfortunes satisfied her, I realized suddenly. She
was feeding on them.

"To be honest, I don't understand your happiness," I
said drily. An hour later, I was boarding my plane.
Goodbye.

It wasn't an isolated incident, of course. As they say
on the Simpsons, "it's a rich tapestry."

The first incident I remember was back when I was 6
years old or so. I was taken to a doctor for a medical
test. Without going into details, it was a very
humiliating and somewhat painful experience. I left
the medical office blushing heavily but refusing to
cry.

As we were walking home, my mother informed me that I
could have avoided the procedure by lying. "But, I
know you are an honest girl, and you don't like to
lie. So I didn't tell you. I figured, since you are
honest, you can have your ---," and an obscene
reference to the medical exam followed.

Yes, I was honest. I disliked lying. She hated that
about me. She wished I would lie more.

But if that couldn't happen, she could at least enjoy
my misfortunes.

She walked slightly ahead of me, so pleased, so
satisfied, so amused by her own wit. I made a fist and
hit her as hard as I could. I don't regret it.

Sarjenka: The Point Of All The Songs

None of my things were fully safe. I never knew what
she would grab and toss into the garbage if I was
"bad". It could be a favorite item of clothing, a
tool, or a toy.  It would always be unexpected.
Anything could be taken away, if I was "bad" (namely
if I was crying, if I failed at cleaning my room, if I
was slouching, if I was squinting, or "destroying
myself" in some other way.)  Right now, I live in an
apartment filled with clutter and millions of things.
It is as if  I am trying to protect myself. If I have
many things, each individual thing matters less, and
it won't mean as much when it is taken away from me.

But, of course, it wasn't just the material things
that were taken away.

One day, she entered my room, and took away my songs.

Once, after a minor fight with my mother, I was
sulking quietly in my own room. I pulled out a tape
that I liked, and was listened to my favorite music. My
mother entered the room, and looked at me. "What is
the point of all the songs you are listening to, and of
all the books you are reading, if they are not helping
you become a better person?"

I understood perfectly. It is not okay for me to have
any inner life of my own, unless it is making me more
compliant with Her, more obedient to Her. She had to
be the ultimate standard by which my inner life would
be measured, evaluated, and judged. She would hold my
spirit in her hands, and decide which way it could go.

She would make sure that I didn't have any songs that
were not about her.