Intimidated to Obey

His voice commanded obedience. I would scurry in and find a place near or up front. I had my heavily read holy book, earmarked corners, highlighted, and underlined. 

I was dressed conservatively, very conscience and careful as not to cause any boy or man to sin with their eyes. That would be my fault entirely. 

His voice boomed again, he leaned over the pulpit, his bald head perspiring, the vein in the side of his head pulsing. 

He is "preaching". He is telling me what to do. He is telling me how to please god, by obeying him and his authority.

Afterwards, I run to him and tell him, I will obey, I concur, you are my authority. He hugs me. He tells me that I am a good girl.

Have I made everything alright now? Have I been saved? Is the universe corrected? Is the darkness at bay? Is the leprosy healed? 

I was doing all of these things with great effort to please this invisible and what I now understand to be imaginary force. 

I grew up feeling I could never please my natural father. That translated into this spiritual invisible father. I made every effort and every move toward pleasing. 

I failed both. Both were authoritative. Both were threatening. Both were forceful personalities, intimidating. 

I remember learning that how you see your natural father is how you will see or relate to god, well I guess I am totally fucked.

No, I do not believe in the supernatural. I do not rely on imagination to get me through my troubles or to be an explanation. 

I will not be intimidated into believing and into being controlled. That will not happen spiritually or otherwise. 

Now, that voice, it does not command me. If I heard it again, I would cringe, maybe scream or laugh.

He Rubbed My Back...

He rubbed my back... several times, often, regularly, as a common occurrence. The type of rub that was slow, that pulled you in, that was the full length of your back. It went slowly, up and down and there was some pressure to pull me in closer and talk about important things. 
These things were so important I had no right to pull back, no right to draw out some space. These things were important and intimate, I needed to come close, so close that I could feel and smell his breath. I could hear the licking of his tongue with his words. It flicked out in between sentences. 
Then I tell myself, what if I am making all of this up? What IF it is my imagination? My perception of the relationship; skewed by poor male relationships built from day one with my most primary one, my father. 
Has that and all that had followed up to this point damaged me this severely that I perceived the Pastor as a pervert?
Yet, my husband saw it. I brought it up, he saw it, and he agreed. On more than one occasion I begged for his protection or defense. 
I was left as wounded prey.
It built up and I eventually shut down and refused to attend anymore. 
Yes, I could have acted in a healthier and assertive way. I can "see" what I could have and should have done. I was not emotionally able. 
Now, I am very reactive to men. If I am shown any interest I sort of reply back like an aggressive dog. 
As far as if this contributed to my fall from grace, no. However, it did demonstrate how fake religious belief is for those in higher position. 
It is power and it is a mask. The ones below are more sincere but more likely to be abused in some form. It did not destroy my faith but it did help open my eyes. 

You are Hurt

I am having a hard time with this. I guess if I were honest, I would have to say that I am in denial. 

I get the daily updates and I see the Gofundme. I am sorry, but I read those updates very quickly. I skim them for the most important parts. You are alive. 

Then I think of you throughout the day. I imagine what you look like lying there. I imagine the beeping of the machines, the shuffling of nurses, the cold and uncomfortable hospital chairs. In my mind I am pacing.

I do not know what to say to you. Do I tell you everything will be alright? Will it? What does that mean? What does that look like? What if it will not be alright? I cannot say it. I cannot say it if there are still too many questions and unknowns. Where are you? Are you present in your body? Can you come back? It has been a series of holding my breathe, then crying, then being corrected on information, then holding my breathe again.

Yes, I am angry. Yes, I am sad. Yes, it is hard for me to have hope. No, I am not a neurologist. No, I do not understand what is happening.

I have seen several gofundme fundraisers for very serious causes. This time, it is for my family, for my cousin that was really raised next to me like a sister.

They have described your state as a “vegetative state”. Those words are blaring in my head. They are like a revving motor or a sounding horn that never lets up. Everything I am doing those words are echoing in the background, “Vegetative State”. Honestly, with all the progress in medicine they have not come up with a better fucking phrase!?

Yes, I am in denial and I am angry. I am accepting it from afar. I am over 13 hours apart from you; I have not seen you, how can it possibly sink in? I have my moments of breaking down, of crying, of hurting, however I pull it together real quick. I put it right back together into pieces of anger and tension.

The Story Begins

I wish that I could do THIS. Write and be organized. I wish that I could start from the beginning, tell you what happened, and then finish at the end. I wish that it made sense, that I were chronological, that I were logical. 
Alas, it is I. I jump, weave, tumble, tunnel, and end up having to go back with my tale between my legs. I not only missed it, I forgot the point completely. 
A lot is going on in the present. Yet, I am thinking of the past. 
I am wondering if I will ever "write that book". If it is even humanely possible. 
Would I need an elephant tranquilizer to quiet and slow myself into production? 
Tonight, I am thinking about "the book". 
I am thinking about the process and all of the parts that I cannot leave out. When is the last period dotted? The last thought grappled and freed? Is it for me or is it for an audience? Does anyone want to read a word of it? 
I guess that is not important. It simmers, it boils, and it wants to come out. The stories, the images, and the imprints. I can hear voices, these memories are sharp. They want to come out and breath and be known. I will tell you and I will tell myself that is ok in the process.