MY FLAVOR OF TRAUMA

Churches are places where little souls are stolen,

Because reality isn’t an option in the fairytale web they’re woven,

And Hanging Hell over a child’s head-

Offering a fatherly figure with a pretty brown beard instead-

Makes faith the safe choice and it’s easy when

A prefrontal cortex hasn’t developed yet.

As a girl I fell for every absurdity,

In my ignorance felt absolute certainty:

When Christ made the paralyzed walk, sea part, dead rise-

I was there for it; I was all in at five-

Talking about my ticket for the rapture by nine;

I’d have seen it all burn so I could get mine.

A fervor in my teens which grew dangerously bright,

After all I was paying my own price: living in fear of Hell my sacrifice.

My innocence was stolen when the church put a hammer in my hand, and made me a murderer of God.

I just wanted the affection of the elders and to

Feel the dopamine in the songs.

At home I was a bad girl who couldn’t hold her tongue-

I went through those church doors looking for unconditional love.

I left with the weight of the sin of the world:

A hefty cross for a scrawny little girl.

All my value was placed on my ability to control my emotions and obey,

But I was a child without any tools to self regulate!

Instead I learned guilt and fear and self hate-

Spent my youth anxious and depressed and irate,

Forcing myself to wash my mind in that faith:

Sometimes I knew it was real;

Sometimes I believed just in case like Pascal waged.

My growing mind was such a troubled place!

Dozens of journals and poems attest to my struggle and pain:

Childish handwriting smudged with tears-

Wasted youth spent living in fear,

Poems that flatter a god that was easier to hate,

Rhymes on wallowing in shame, pleading for faith,

Pondering the End of Days, fully believing I’d never dare stray.

You might have seen the bright side of me back then:

Excited about tent revivals and summer camp;

I was just a shy kid with no social life

The church was the only life this awkward preteen had.

So I fell hard, hook, line and sinker

Dogma filling the mind of a potential free thinker.

Trauma comes in many flavors and it found me:

My worst sin was always my struggle to believe…

The alternative eternal flames and gnashing of teeth

A fate I could also face for just a moment of being weak.

The church said that I sinned with the very thoughts I’d think:

My mind a place the devil could speak and God could read.

Such assertions could drive a little girl crazy

Leave lasting scars on a backslidden lady.

I remember the very day I left the fold;

I had dared to read some books besides the Bible at 22 years old.

No part of me could believe anymore,

Not even just in case to save my soul.

But after the trauma comes the stress disorder:

I lost everything I’d invested in and defined myself as.

Lonely alone in my head and fearing death,

People pleasing, internally retreating, angry and sad.

God was the first man I wasn’t good enough for:

Set a standard and a painful pattern in my life.

Always let them walk all over me like he did

Submissive side piece to bad men with good wives.

How do you learn self love and unlearn such self hate?

I had to study psychology to understand my fate,

Like I had to study science and history to discard the faith:

Courses the church would rather leave off the plate.

But I’m still finding ways to blame and shame myself,

Decades after I put that blaming book on the shelf.

Because as much as it preaches love

It won’t ever let you love yourself.

My flavor of trauma was inflicted with love

My childish brain struggled to understand,

Because after Sunday School crafts and snacks,

Came the hammer in my little hand.

I followed Jesus straight out of that church,

Cherry plucked the greater good from a religion that inflicted such hurt.

Now I live to testify of life after that prison,

Hoping someone drowning in dogma dares to listen.