Yesterday I attacked the diarist. Why did I attack the author of a work I admire? Why did I make a childish nuisance of myself on the thread? It took me hours to realize that my extreme reaction was a lingering result of the poisoning from my childhood, which still corrodes my relationships. The original title implied that we kossaks might be OK with the rightwing religious takeover of our schools and military institutions. The diarist intended it only as a "come read about this issue and why aren't we all yelling about it" call. I responded with 4 rudes: I objected to his title twice, and each time rudely. Just objecting is rude. Objecting rudely is a twofer. And low.
Because my hatred (yes, sadly, hatred) of Dominionism is so virulent, I went ballistic over the falsely-perceived (totally not intended) "slur." I wasn't prepared to discuss the definite merits of the body of Troutfishing's diary because I couldn't get past the title and, for hours, didn't even try. Crazy, right? I mean, Troutfishing and I are in total agreement on the subject of his diary, and I've been admiring his work for a while. Yes. Crazy.
You see, I went crazy in childhood and I'm still mad as a March hare. I usually manage to conceal my handicap from others. I take the obvious precautions in order to do so. I stay out of churchs, synagogues and temples. I stay out of religious diaries here on dKos. I avoid all preachers, priests, ministers, rabbis, imams as though they were the plague which a part of my brain believes they are. Intellectually, I know that most spiritual leaders are wonderful human beings, but I cannot get away from the fact that I believe they are selling snake oil, whether they know it or not.
I'm actually twisted on this subject. I normally steer clear of situations where my attitude toward religion can or will be seen by others. I've learned to not let a sweetly-offered courtesy such as "have a blessed day," from someone spoil more than 5 minutes of my day. I've learned to say "thank you" in response and make it sound sincere. Well, my response is sincere because I'm thanking them for their kindness, but "have a good day" elicits a warmer response from me, with a heartfelt "have a great day yourself." I'd hate to tell you how hard it is for me to reply courteously to an announcement from an acquaintaince or family member that s/he will say a prayer for me, and I doubt I ever sound sufficiently appreciative of the kindly-meant offers.
Deep in my heart I am always saying, "I don't want your prayers; I believed your God is real I'd consider him a demon a demon." I'm sure any reader who has gotten this far gets the sorry picture, and has drawn the appropriate conclusion: davidincleveland has a serious problem about religious belief. I know it to be serious problem; I am unable to share all of myself with any believers anywhere, because a frank statement of my opinion about their beliefs can only hurt them. I hate causing pain and try to avoid inflicting it.
I am ashamed of being like this. If I could change myself to a person who is tolerant of religious belief, I would gladly do so. I am not really an atheist by preference; I am an atheist by logical necessity. Yes, I also wish I had a soul. Knowing I'm not just going to die, but also cease to exist, is depressing. So how did I get this way? Where does my madness come from? For me, religion turned out to be like politics or sausages. Both of the latter are more readily consumed if the customer doesn't know the ingredients.
My parents were missionaries and my siblings and I were all raised on various West African mission stations. As children, we were taught to initiate "spontaneous" prayer and testimony in peer group settings. We were coached in what to say, rehearsed in bible verses to fit the expected occasions we faced.
When I was 13, I earned the right, via audition, to play a lead part in my high school radio drama class's production of Guys and Dolls. It is a play in which a Salvation Army Lassie falls in love with one of the neighborhood gangsters. Ecstatic over my successful audition, I told my mother all about it when I got home from school that day.
Mother sat me down and had a long talk with me. She told me what to say to my teacher, reminded me not to make it a private conversation in rejecting the role, exhorted me to make it an occasion to testify about my faith. I listened very carefully because I knew I would be closely examined on how convincing I was. I was well aware that, if she thought I hadn't sufficiently "stood up" for my faith, she would have me removed from the class.
Back home the next day, she questioned me closely on the details of my public rejection; what I said, my teacher's reaction, my classmates' reactions. When I was done, she nodded her head and smiled warmly; I was still her beloved child, a faithful son of God. I knew she felt I had convinced everyone in my classroom of my sincerity.
God help the missionary's child who allowed other children to offer the first prayers and testimonies or, worse, allowed an event to go by, testimonyless (prayerless was beyond the pale). A sib who was unforthcoming, or deemed insufficiently sincere-sounding, caught very holy hell later on, in the bosum of the family. He or she wasn't sworn at, ever. Nor was s/he physically abused; not over religious participation anyway. S/he was prayed over. Lectured. Admonished. Held up as a poor examples in front of his/her sibs.
Just writing about this, I'm wiping away tears of rage (just as I did as a child) as I remember the mental abuse some of my sibs took over this issue. And no, I was never abused that way; I was held up as the example my sibs should aspire to emulate.
I looked so righteous because I spent the years from 8 to 16 trying to pray away my gayness (didn't work but I tried). If this sorry little tale were amusing, I'd entitle it No, Bill Maher, you homophobic creep, I don't kneel for sex; my knees were worn out from praying before I reached puberty.
My mother had told me, when I was 8, that I had "homosexual tendencies, which are an abomination to the Lord." Yes, I remember it word for word; have never been able to forget it. As soon as she finished her private talk with me I went to the family dictionary and looked up the meaning of "homosexual."
As a bright child, I already knew the definition of "tendency." As a missionary's child, I already knew what "abomination" meant, and what happened to abominations. My father, Reverend __, the child-batterer, could throw out at least three abominations per sermon and usually did.
Mother could go several months without praying fervently against abominations, so when she warned me about my oncoming sexual nature I took it with utmost seriousness and horror. It isn't an image of hell that terrifies a young gay child in a fundie household --it is the absolute certainty of being rejected by God, family and society. At 16 I realized that I was wasting my time, brains and knees. Carrying a mountain of bitterness, I left my church, my home and my family's beliefs and headed out into the world. The bitterness is down to a merely-backbreaking duffle bagful, 49 years later, but the poison is still present enough to cause intellectual fevers at unexpected times.
Yesterday was one of those times. Today's diary, with all its uncomfortable self-exposure, is intended to serve as a cautionary tale: Sometimes, even around here, the seemingly most level-headed persons will act nasty-crazy, with no apparent actual cause. All of us are capable of responding to the demons in our memories instead of to the real-world event which triggers those ghosts. It could be a good idea to keep that thought in mind, both for oneself and for others.
Yesterday I failed to properly join in a top-ranked, first-rate diary by Troutfishing, because I was choked blind by a hatred still so strong, the very implication that I might be complacent about a fundie takeover of our soldiers' minds (in merely the title of the diary) had me spewing at both ends, and it was stinkin'. But none of that was the diarist's fault, and he reacted to my boorishness with unfailing courtesy and accomodation. How I reacted was completely my fault; don't mistake this diary for an excuse. My grandmother taught me that there is no excuse for bad manners. Nagging a diarist rudely is always bad manners.
