Phone with Cords II

I can't recall the details of why Denise and Alan had made their decision to leave The Way.  Part of it had come to a head when something  had happened in a restaurant. Seems it had to do with silencing some questions that Denise had posed and then she and Alan getting scapegoated. The problems she and Alan had involved Bob and Dottie who were their state and region coordinators.

My heart sank; I knew how close she and Alan were with Bob and Dottie. John and I too were endeared to Bob and Dottie. Every time I used to visit or call their home when they lived in North Carolina, I always felt like I was the most important person on earth.  I used to say they were masters at edifying others; something I wanted in my own life, to always believe in others and encourage them.

Yet Bob and Dottie had carried out Martindale's orders in 1995 to "mark and avoid" our local area leadership in North Carolina, Mike and Jane, who had been almost lifelong best friends with Bob and Dottie. I rationalized Bob and Dottie's carrying out that command with the fact that their hearts were right; they were doing the Father's will by carrying out the directive. They were helping to keep the Way Household spiritually clean. As we were taught, "We have no friends when it comes to the Word."

Just like the Old Testament prophets in their days had to separate the children of Israel from the unbelievers, Bob and Dottie had to carry out the mandate toward Mike and Jane. They had to protect the believers from possible spiritual contamination. Mike and Jane's adult son was expected to follow suit, to "mark and avoid" his parents. He refused and got marked and avoided too, along with the rest of their family.

John and I chose to continue with The Way which meant we would abide by the "mark and avoid" mandate toward Mike and Jane whom we had served with for over 10 years, who had been with us through two childbirths and my illnesses, who had saved my life at least once, who had accepted me after the shame of me copping out on my Corps commitments, who had officiated mine and John's wedding. It was a sobering moment, when we got the phone call late one night in '95, regarding their "mark and avoid" judgement.

"Mark and avoid" was the Biblical term used and a policy highly enforced in The Way during the 1990s. Once when I called it "excommunication," I was corrected.  It wasn't "excommunication;" it was a "biblical practice" put in place when people were "off the Word."  Romans 16 states to "mark and avoid" those that "cause division" and are "contrary." The Way didn't officially practice it after 2000; but unofficially it still happened.

It was the right thing to do; wasn't it?

As Denise shared with me, I felt for her. So many people had left The Way due to what they considered as being treated unfairly. I wondered when and if I would ever leave The Way.  I had had misgivings over the years, but I remained faithful. I felt if I ever left again, that'd be it. I'd already left two other times a couple decades back; three strikes and I'd be out for good. Appropriate analogy as the number three is the biblical number for completeness.

Denise and I talked for over an hour; I mainly listened. I wished these things wouldn't happen; why couldn't people just get along? I felt I should take a side but felt I didn't know the situation and that it was none of my business really. Denisse wasn't trying to get me to take a side; she simply vented in her own gentle way.

I tried to encourage her. I let her know that I respected her and Alan's decision and that she could call anytime and that we would change the guardianship.  I mentioned to her that I had started seeing a psychologist in latter 2000 and that it was helping me tremendously.

When I had told Joe, who oversaw The Way of North Carolina, that I was going to a psychologist, Joe asked if I had been mistreated by The Way. At the time I answered no but that living in Charlotte previously had been difficult; it had felt hard and rigid spiritually. He then shared  that The Way Household in Charlotte had been having lots of problems. Joe encouraged me to tell the psychologist everything, even if it was trouble I'd had with The Way. It was no secret to faithful Way followers that The Way had had problems.  It wasn't until at least a year later that I began to see how deep those problems went.

On Friday the phone rang; it was Ron, a Way believer that used to live in North Carolina and now in Tennessee. John and I were the substitute executors for his estate.

I answered the corded phone in the kitchen. I didn't walk to the den rocking chair but rather stood in the kitchen by the old-fashioned wooden ice chest replica.  Ron and I exchanged greetings and catch-up cordialities. He then told me the reason for his call; some circumstances had changed and he wanted to get all the executor legal paper work mailed back to him.

He called back the following Monday and talked with John.  Ron, along with his wife, had decided to leave the Ministry.  He didn't reveal that to me on Friday because he wanted to tell his decision to local leadership before letting John and I know.  He informed his local leadership on Sunday.

Ron, Denise and Alan, Bob and Dottie, Mike and Jane, John and Carol. We all knew each other.  The previous years we had served together at various times in the same Way Fellowships and areas.

It would be a year or so later, when I dared to do a google search on The Way, before I learned about a law suit that Ron filed against The Way.

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Click here for Phone with Cords I.

Click here to view the memoir index: Journey through Memoir (an index).

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Phone with Cords I

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Simply tell what happened Carol; where you were, internally and externally, at the time.   It's o.k. if you don't recall the physical details; you do recall the impact on your soul.

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It was a Monday or Tuesday sometime in July, 2001. The wall phone in the kitchen rang; it was Denise.  She was calling from Florida.

At the time my husband, John, and our almost teenage son and teenage daughter and I were living at the Westbrook Plaza house in Winston-Salem.  We had moved there sometime in the early spring of 2001, our fourth move in five years.

Part of our moving so much was due to John's employment; another reason was because of the no-mortgage policy of The Way. We wanted to continue as Way Household Fellowship Coordinators and remain in good standing in The Way and to "owe no man anything;" thus we followed the directive from Way Headquarters and had started renting, much to John's financial hesitancy to do so.

When we sold our house in Hickory in 1997, our mortgage was under $500 a month and that included escrow.  We then moved to Charlotte to be closer to the Way Household; our rent was over $900 a month.  John was not happy.  Our next move, in 1998, was to Greensboro to a much smaller condo than our previous living quarters. Rent was under $800. After that we moved to Winston-Salem on December 31, 1999, to another condo where rent was right at $800 and was continuing to go up.

Time for another move, if the savings was significant.  I refused to again pay over $800 a month for rent. We got the Westbrook house for under $700.

Despite the savings, John still wasn't happy and the quality of our housing continued to go down. It would bother him often, this no-mortgage policy.  He was becoming more and more disgruntled with the situation.

The Westbrook house was old, built in the 1920's.  It was a unique house and would serve well if someone wanted to invest in it to bring it up to date.  It had no storm windows and no central air; it did have three cooling window units and we used box fans to circulate the air and cool part of the house. There were no heat ducts that went to the upstairs.  We managed to keep it warm up there by leaving the stairway open for the heat to rise and using one of those economical and safe upright space-type heaters. The office, Sarah's bedroom, and a bath were upstairs; along with black widows which we promptly exterminated.

The den, living room, kitchen, two foyers, two bedrooms and one bathroom were downstairs. When I'd have the windows open in spring and summer the furniture in the den would get damp from humidity. We used to joke that we were camping inside.

The yard was a large corner lot with about ten or so giant oak trees. Autumn was a lot of work.  In spring oak trees sprouted everywhere; I liked them.  They reminded me of giant clover.  Of course we had to pull up the sprouts, except in one five-by-six-foot area behind the breezeway.  Baby oaks completely covered that square; there was no grass. One would think tiny people lived in that tiny oak forest.

With the long cord connected to its wall base in the kitchen, I walked with the receiver into the den and sat in the rocking chair.  Densie and I exchanged greetings and friendly catch-up talk.. She then told me the reason for her call; she and Alan were going to quit attending Way Fellowship after decades of involvement which had included serving as Way Corps graduates and as Way International staff.  Because she and Alan were guardians for our children, they felt they should let us know.

Alan and Denise had no children.  They were kind and principled people and were faithful to the rightly-divided Word. That was of utmost priority to John and I regarding our children; we wanted to make sure they had the accuracy and integrity of God's Word which could only truly be found within The Way International. Anyone who was hungering and searching for the undiluted and pure scripture would eventually come to The Household of The Way.

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Click here for Phone with Cords II.

Click here to view the memoir index: Journey through Memoir (an index).

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Trust and the "Assertive Bill of Rights"

The following is from a blog entry initially posted on July 28.

I've brought it back up, in an abridged version, for a friend.

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Trust is a huge issue when leaving any type of abusive relationship, including spiritual and/or cultic abuse. One of the biggies is trust in oneself. I know that has been the case for me.

A book on my classics list is "Take Back Your Life" by Janja Lalich and Madeline Tobias.

Chapter 10 is entitled "Building a Life." At different times with various challenges, I'll refer to that chapter. Perhaps the hints and helps in that chapter would seem like common sense to most people. For folks who have been immersed in totalistic, black/white, follow-the-leader thinking the suggestions can be crucial to recovery and connecting with their identity. Some of the suggestions, I soak up like a sponge.

The chapter, and other parts of the book, address the trust issue as well. One of the helps shared in Chapter 10 is the following.

"Assertive Bill of Rights

[.....] The following is a list of rights each person is entitled to in relation to self-expression:

*I have the right to evaluate my own behavior, thoughts, emotions, and to take responsibility for their initiation and consequences upon myself

* I have the right to decide whether I am responsible for solving other people's problems

* I have the right to change my mind

* I have the right to make mistakes -- and be responsible for them

* I have the right to be illogical in making decisions

* I have the right to say I don't know

* I have the right to say I don't understand

* I have the right to say I don't care

* I have the right to set my own priorities

* I have the right to say no without feeling guilty

*note: Adapted from "A Bill of Assertive Rights," in "When I Say No I Feel Guilty" by Manuel Smith (New York, Bantam Books, 1975). "

[end quote from Chapter 10]

To sum it up...I have the right to my humanness. So does every one else.

To life and humanity!

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Echoes

Click here to read about an introduction to memoir: Journey through Memoir: Introduction .

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non-subject:  "clothing"

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I stood at my gray school locker in the cream-color tiled hallway in Hickory High School.  The stale aroma of  waxed tile, not fragrant or odiferous but rather somewhere between a musty book and janitorial smell, filled my nostrils. If I wasn't standing there alone, I felt alone.  I wanted to be invisible.

At 16 years old, toward the end of 10th grade,  I wanted no one to sign my annual, The Hickoy Log; and no one did.  I placed it in my locker to take home later. I felt withdrawn.  I felt ugly.  Too often I felt paranoid and so very stupid and unintelligent, even though I continued to make the honor roll in academics.

I figured it might pass, this phase of feeling so stupid, this phase of feeling like I was insane, this phase of paranoia and withdrawnness. What was wrong with me?  The foreboding feeling was like a shadow, at times more dominant than others, but eternally present...lurking. Yet, when tripping, my mind and body were always free, at one with the universe; earthly cares were distant, non-important, mundane, beneath me.

In early June after the completion of 10th Grade, I headed southeast to the beach for a week of pure freedom.  Mike and Beth and Ron and I rented a cottage at Ocean Drive, South Carolina.  O.D., as Ocean Drive was called,  was the place to party.  I was the youngest of our crew of four. I don't know why my parents let me go.  Perhaps I had lied to them that a chaperone was going with us.  I seldom asked them permission for anything anyway, so I may have simply told them a bunch of us were going to the beach.

O.D. Boulevard, the main drag, ran parallel with the beach.  On the seaside of the boulevard were hotels and the pavilion; behind those lay the outstretched sand, day and night lapped by the wide salty Atlantic. The boulevard's west side was lined with hotels, restaurants, and cottages.  Our cottage was about two blocks inland, on a street that teed perpendicular with the boulevard.  The cottage was small and quaint, on stilts, with gray-white wooden siding and tiled floors.  Lots of the cottages were on stilts, in case of flooding.  Hurricanes are a regular occurence on the Southeast coast.

After we checked in on Saturday, we began the partying. That afternoon Ron pulled out the MDA.  It was nicknamed the love drug.  We were regular  MDA users; it was my favorite psychedelic along with mescaline, which made me laugh a lot.  MDA was hornifying.  After a dose, two people could make love for hours.  The world became magical; everyone was in love with everyone else.  The world was a wonderful place with nothing to fear; there was only love that radiated from all creation, only openness to share as one.

Beth, Mike, Ron, and I each swallowed a half gram of the bitter white powder.  I'd learned to tolerate the taste, often chasing it with Ginger Ale or orange juice.  It wasn't long before the drug took effect.  But it wasn't like regular MDA; something wasn't right.  I was afraid to leave the cottage; there was too much stimulation outside the walls, outside in the streets, outside with the lights. I have little recollection of following events other than a small glimpse of memory sitting naked on a bed, sweating, and stroking Ron's face.  Ron's face looked like a rose. I was fascinated with the shape and color.  I kept stroking and stroking it.

MDA, the love drug. I have no idea what happend over the next 14 hours in that cottage.  I'm sure we didn't sleep; MDA is not sleep inducing.

Mike and Beth, Ron and Carol again diving deep into dangerous territory.  We regularly tripped together; it was amazing we were still alive from the previous nine months of regularly delving into oneness with the universe.

Sometime Sunday afternoon, Ron was coaxing me to leave the cottage.  The four of us were still feeling the effects of the drug taken the day before.  Ron was a little concerned that the powder had been cut with strychnine, producing ill effects.  But he also explained to me that the experience of psychedelics at the beach was different than the experience inland.  Inland we were often out in the woods, where it was dark and quiet.  Or we were in a controlled environment with our particular music to take our minds wherever we supposedly commanded.  It was my first time taking psychedelics at the beach.

At the beach, the sound of the waves from the ocean produced a background echo, echo, echo, echo, echo.  The sound of all the different music from the open-aired cottage porches where people were partying, intensified the ocean roll.  The traffic with its constant hum produced an undercurrent echo, echo, echo, echo, echo.  People laughing and talking all around brought more stimulation to the senses and the echo, echo, echo, echo, echo. All that stimulation added to the intensity of the high.  "It's o.k.," Ron assured. "It's all just part of the scenery."

I timidly left the cottage to enter the mixed jungle with all its echos. I stuck close by Ron. We walked down the street; Ron with that boyhood grin on his face that always seemed to appear when we were high on psychedelics, our regular pass time.  We walked the two blocks to O.D. Boulevard.  On the left corner was a large cottage. The cottage was on stilts. We climbed the stairs to the screened-in L-shaped porch.  Music was blaring on the stereo.

I think Rick and Pam were there, along with Steve, David, Twirp, Ronda, Karen and other folks.  Now Mike and Beth and Ron and Carol showed up.  I was probably the youngest at 16.  Ron was 17 or 18. Some guys were girl watching as bikini clad young girls with shapely figures passed by on the sidewalk below.  Most people were sitting around the porch in chairs; mingling or spacing out while passing joints. Maybe they'd done some of the MDA too. I didn't smoke pot at the time. I'd quit 7 months earlier after overdosing on jimson seed.  The jimson seed had changed the chemistry in my body and for some reason every time I'd tried to smoke pot after the jimson seed experience, I'd get deathly paranoid.  So I'd quit toking; I only drank alcohol and used psychadelics and chemicals.  I seemed to handle those o.k., well, until the MDA experience the night before.

I took a seat at the far end of the porch, the side of the L that faced the side street perpendicular to O.D. Boulevard. It wasn't so busy with cars.  I don't know where Ron disappeared to. I just sat in my chair looking around and not saying anything and trying to make sense of my surroundings.  I couldn't talk; I was unable to retrieve words. I could think them, but I couldn't get the words to my tongue to say anything.  It scared me, but I knew it would pass.  It'll be o.k. once some of the MDA effects wear off, I assured myself.

David walked up to me.  With glassy eyes, a gentle grin, and intoxicated stupor he asked, "Carol, do you want a peanut butter sandwich and some milk?"  He had a boyish looking face, though he was at least 21 years old.  He blankly stared at me awaiting my answer.  I just stared back, never saying a word.  He staggered off, I guess to ask someone else.

By Monday, the MDA effect had subsided. Tuesday and Wednesday, I didn't do any drugs, other than alcohol.  When Thursday afternoon rolled around, we were ready to dive again, each ingesting another 1/2 gram of MDA. This time it was right.

We ventured out in the daylight and walked on the beach. We went to a park where Ron pushed me high in a swing.  As I pumped my legs, I could taste the clouds. This time the high was magical. The mix of echoes, colors, sounds, aromas, the wind...oh the blessed wind.  It was all beautiful.  We were all one; we were all in love.

Then back at the cottage, Ron's face no longer a rose.  It was him, fully him.  I was me, fully me.  Horny, naked, and sweating.

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Click here to view the memoir index: Journey through Memoir (an index).

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What is Your Agenda?

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In an email someone wrote to me, the person insinuated that I was using other people to push my own agenda. The person and I have never spoken and have communicated very little in type.  I really had to ponder the person's insinuation.  I had to reread our typed exchanges, the few we had.  I put myself in the other person's shoes. After study, I could understand at least one reason they may have jumped to that conclusion; I had not explained my motives or thinking sufficiently (seeing as the person and I do not know one another) behind something I wanted to post on my blog.  Had the individual known me, they probably wouldn't have jumped to the conclusion they did.

All that said, it really got me to examining my "agenda." What is an agenda? Do I have one?  If I do what is it?  Is it immoral or unethical?  Do I use others to advance it?

So I took my questions, pondered, and came up with some answers which I think are honest.

What is an agenda?
One definition of agenda is simply a list of things to do.  We all have that. One other slant on the word is hidden motives.  I think in the context of the conversation I refer to in my opening paragraph, the individual was insituating I had hidden motives.

Do I have hidden motives?  Possibly, so may every one else.  But it isn't something I choose to dwell on in myself or others.  I prefer and endeavor to take people as much as possible at face value, all the while endeavoring to not be naive to the human condition.  I also endeavor to be as upfront and transparent, perhaps quite clumsily at times, as I am able in given situations.

What is my agenda?
In the context of the situation described in my first paragraph, my 'agenda' (which isn't hidden) is to find my voice, to express it, to tell my story, to not be silenced.  I look at this as more of human need, not an agenda.  For me, it's almost literally breath for life, seeing as I struggled with asthma for decades partly due to silencing myself.  Others may not feel strongly about this need, to find there voice.  But I think everyone does to a point.  Some may find that voice not in words, but in music or work or family or art or any other creative endeavor.  I just happen to like to write.

Do I use others to push or promote it?
I really had to ponder this.  What does it mean to "use" someone?  In the context I'm speaking of (finding my voice and relaying my story), that would mean I develop relationships with other people only to have a story.  That, I do not do.  I don't even have that in mind when relating with others.  My relationships are real.   That said, I do not live in a bubble; there are others in my life.  So naturally when I tell my story there will be others involved.

I like the words of Fred Poole:  "I tend to oppose protecting the guilty."  I've thought about that quote a lot the past months as I have often struggled, sometimes deeply, with how to write my story without harming others and without telling another's story.  Their stories are their stories, not mine. However when our paths cross, our stories intertwine.  When I choose to post a memoir and make it 'blog public,' I often use pseudo names, not only of the 'innocent' but oftentimes of the 'guilty.'  In certain pieces, I've even let the 'innocent' know about a blog and asked their permission. Except for once, I've gotten positive responses.

Is my 'agenda' (as outlined above) immoral and unethical?
To me it isn't; it's human.  It's my story.  It's my voice. I will no longer be silenced.  I hope the same for other's, even if their story is one in which I am the 'guilty.'

If someone deems me as being unethical or immoral or disrespectful, so be it.  I'll take the gallows.

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Ghost Writing in Reverse

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The past week or so, I've been struggling with my writing.

This past Wednesday night, in the Authentic Writing Workshop, my struggle continued.  After the workshop, I was still struggling.

So, I closed my eyes (again) and asked myself, "What is it Carol?  Why isn't the writing flowing?"

I got a couple insights, that perhaps may be part of the issue.

1)  For the past couple weeks, much of my writing has been approached with an end in mind, like I'm trying to prove something or write to some sort of expectation.  Typically I write memoir and poetry with a beginning in mind and then see where the strands take me.  If I write with the end in mind, well...it's different.  That kind of writing I do in a narrative or an article-type piece.  Sometimes I might write like that with memoir, but not typically.  Ta da!  I'll just see where my next memoir piece takes me.

2)   I want to write memoir about certain experiences which took place on an internet online forum.    Since these incidents happened online, there is only one sense involved (of the general five senses) and that is sight.  There are no shapes and colors (other than the words on the computer screen), smells or tastes, voices high or low.  I am endeavoring to write about a world that seems like fiction; yet it isn't.  There are real people behind these keyboards, but they have screen names such as Bulwinkle or Dandy Rose or Spaghetti.  One may never know their real name, their 3-D name, the name they use everyday at work or play in the world of the other senses. Part of my challenge is to take this 2-D world, that is like another realm and write concretely about it.

It's kind of like a cousin to ghost writing....and I'm not the ghost....

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"No Other Explanation" ~greasespotcafe

I've spent much of my day reading and thinking. But that wasn't my initial plan for the day.  Ha!  I did wash some dishes, wash fruit, eat, exercise, respond to some emails, visit with my son and husband, and talked on the phone tonight in a conference call with some of my favorite people.

I was drawn today to a new listserv regarding discussion in the anti-cult movement.  Some of the contributors to the list I had read before. 
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In December, 2006, and January, 2007, I had a disagreement with the owner of GreasespotCafe (GSC), the anti-Way online forum offering support for ex-Way followers.  The owner had accused a man of posing as a woman who had communicated with me in private chat on the GSC chat function at the time.  In that private chat discussion the man, supposedly posing as a woman, conveyed to me intimate details about the romantic relationship 'she' had with himself. (Did you follow that? ...just read it again, if you didn't.)

Men, how would you feel if that accusation were thrown at you?  ....you were baiting an old friend (me) by deceptively posing as a woman and chatting in private chat [with the female friend from 25 years ago (me) with whom you would in a few days have an online reunion] and sharing with her (me) intimate information about your (as you were posing as a woman) romance with this man (you). 

Now, I understood why the GSC owner thought what he thought. This accused man and the GSC website owner had had previous run-ins. (But that's a whole 'nuther can of worms.) The accused man had the same Internet Service Provider address as the 'supposed' woman, so it could be one person posing as two.

However, when I shared with the GSC owner that the man had not posed as a woman, but rather that the real woman (she has the equipment to prove it ) and the real man had been living together and sharing the same Internet Service Provider at the time of the incidents (the man and woman were in process of breaking up at the time as well), the GSC owner wouldn't consider my explanation as valid. To the owner's credit, my only proof was that I had known the accused man in my past, that the accused shared with me verbally about his previous ill experiences with GSC (not that he didn't play into that as well), that the accused and I had spoken at length, that my husband and I had met face to face with the accused and discussed (among other things) the accusation, that the woman and I (at the time) had communicated only via email, and that I still was in a cult mindset of doubting myself and not being as assertive as I could have been.  So, the GSC owner, has a right to his opinion regarding what he thought of the accused man's character and possible behaviour. Though I disagreed with the owner, I had no problem with the owner having his own opinion.

When I relayed to the GSC owner what I had found out (as stated above in my run-on sentence) the owner's response was, "Carol, there can be no other explanation;" ie:  in the owner's opinion, the man had to have posed as a woman; there could be no other option. The owner also stated to me (regarding the accused) that he (the accused) was "baiting" me and that "he looks for people like you."  Those are close to, if not exact, quotes.  I kept my mouth shut, not sharing the exchanges publicly, until 5 months later when other false accusations and insinuations (involving the above as well as other scenarios) started flying around.

That's what bothered me.  The owner would not consider that he could be wrong.  That felt too much like The Way to me; it left a bad taste in my mouth along with more self-doubt and other stuff. At the time of the incident, I had left The Way (after 28 years of involvement) only 14 months previously.

The GSC owner was definitely wrong.  The woman (who I had lunch with later in the year..another story) shared with me that she was openly accused in the GSC public chat room of being someone she wasn't and she got emails from a moderator at GSC accusing her of posing and being someone she wasn't.  She forwarded me those emails.  She did write the moderator back telling him she had no idea what he was talking about (another story).  Her conclusion was, "Those people [GSC posters and moderators] are nuts!" This woman had never been with The Way.

Anyway, the whole scenario (along with a few others and lots more worms) blew up five months later in May, 2007.  At that time (and maybe still) the owner stated his initial judgment (from 5 months previously) of the man he falsely accused hadn't changed. Everyone involved (me included) was responding with high emotions.  I'm not saying I handled everything well.  In fact, because of how I handled the wormy scenarios, my name got a bad reputation at GSC. Not that I'm proud of that.  I wish I had handled things a bit differently. But I may have eventually gotten a bad reputation there anyway.

Shortly after the initial false accusation in December, 2006, (as stated above, there were more to come later), I really began to question some of the behaviours I was witnessing in this "support" forum.  Again, I will emphasize that I didn't handle the incidents the best and was also responding (possibly) with a cult-type mentality and I may have been over-responsive.

But it led me, in January 2007, to google "anti-cult cults" which led to Bernie's site, Another Look at Scientology.  Today, I found myself again reading Bernie's site, Lema Nal's Site, along with the listserv mentioned in my opening of this blog, and some linked articles.  The discussion is stimulating regarding the cult/anti-cult movements.  I don't keep on top of the studies and I'm not a psychology student; however I do my fair share of reading on the subjects of belief systems, the mind, group structures, etc.

I think open, respectful dialogue is a must in this field. Open discussions can (and hopefully will)  have benefits on a large scale in cultures everywhere. That said, people are still people and always will be.  That's not a bad thing...just sayin'.

My reading today brought to mind an except from Arthur Diekman's Them and Us: Cult Thinking and the Terrorist Threat.

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Click here for "More thoughts..." regarding the above.

Added note for any of the curious:  My screen name at the GreasespotCafe is I Love Bagpipes.  Currently I do not post on the GSC forums, but I have been posting blogs in the blog room.  One has to register as a member at Greasespot to view the blogs. My blog at GSC is entitled '77 thru '05 ~ ripples.

My blog entries at my GSC blog are mainly copied and pasted from this blog.  I only choose to post certain blog entries at my GSC blog, entries that I feel might catch the attention of and be of value to any folks recently exiting The Way that then join as members at GSC.

another note:  I've made quite a few edits to this blog entry, more than I usually edit. Hopefully it made the blog clearer...but maybe it is clear as mud!  I keep trying.  (I have a poem about that...stirring up mud.) My intent is not to attack GSC (well not much anyway), but rather to show how a similar cultic mindset can happen in those who say they don't have a cultic mindset and to (hopefully) somewhat concisely convey the tip of an iceberg.

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Trees Peek In

Click here to read about an introduction to memoir: Journey through Memoir: Introduction .
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It was my first homeopathic consultation.  I was a bit uncomfortable on my drive up the mountain; Diana's office was 1-1/2 hours from my home. I had read a little about homeopathy; it sounded weird. But I was getting desperate, and tired of steroids.

I had some concerns if homeopathy was biblical.  But I remembered Craig Martindale mentioning homeopathy in The Way's Advanced Class. So it must be o.k. as long as one didn't take it too far making it, instead of God, their sufficiency. My believing to get well was a constant struggle; I'd wonder if I was leaning too much on medical treatments. I often felt like the woman with the issue of blood in the Gospel of Luke who spent all her money on doctors and couldn't get well; except it was my husband's money.  But I had to breathe.

Unknown to Dr. Wilson, my allergist, I had thought about homeopathy before my next appointment with him; the appointment where he suggested homeopathy might be worth a try.  We were grasping at straws trying to get me off hydrocortisone, which I'd been taking twice a day for almost seven years.  Not to mention the intermittent prednisone, magnesium and other IVs, epinephrine, supplements, inhalers, theodur, and whatever other "bandaids" I needed to keep me breathing.  Yet I had improved since I had first started going to Great Smokies Medical Center.  I had found them (or rather they me) in 1985; that's when Dr. Laird and Dr. Barrie were there.  It was now around 1992. 

Diana's office was located in Asheville.   It was in large old house with some other alternative medicine practitioners. Each appeared to be independent services. The house was located in a beautiful large yard with a sloping hill.  Oak tress and willows graced the yard; I recall lots of shade. It must have been spring.

Connie, Dr. Wilson's wife, was also going to be present at my consultation.  She had only recently become a homeopath; Diana had been practicing for at least a decade.

Diana's office was upstairs.  The house was quiet as I ascended to the second floor.  I entered the door to the office. I don't think the door had her name on it, but rather she had told me the number that I'd find on the door.  It was an older, paneled, painted wooden door, I think it has an older-type doorknob, one of those round brass ones as opposed to the shiny gold juice-glass-shaped type. 

I entered the door into the waiting room. In it were a couple upholstered chairs and maybe a love seat.  There were some children's toys and big old windows that let the trees peek in.  It didn't feel like an office but rather a room in a home, like a parlor or small den.

Another old wooden door entered into Diana's office space.  The door was like the waiting room entry door, but maybe the doorknob was different, smaller.  Diana had a large stained wooden desk; it was real wood.  Even though it was large, it wasn't precocious.  It was placed in front of the large windows where the same trees could peek in.  There was one large wooden book shelf in the room and a couple upholstered chairs.  The office was smaller than the waiting area and also felt homey.

Diana was from Great Britain. She was probably in her early fifties; I was around thirty-three.  Diana had a down-to-earth gentle way about her, very real.  She was tall, at least to me; I'm short. Her hair had streaks of gray mixed with light brown that fell almost to her waste; she reminded me of a hippie.  Connie was younger than Diana.  She had short blond hair and was closer to my height; she was American.  I wasn't sure who I would end up with, Connie or Diana.  I didn't mind them both being there.

We began the homeopathic interview; that's what the first appointment is called.  I was told prior to the appointment that it would take a couple hours; it ended up taking six, which included a 45-minute lunch break.  As we went over various aspects of my life and health, we continued to find layers.  Diana asked if I had time that day to stay longer, especially since I lived 1-1/2 hours away.  Connie said she could stay as well.  They both helped me feel at ease and comfortable.  I had brought my lunch, which I did regularly those days; I had lots of food allergies. 

Toward the end of the interview, Diana and Connie spoke privately while I waited in the other room. I was concerned how much this was going to cost.  Six hours.  Insurance wouldn't touch homeopathy.

It wasn't long before they called me back in.  Connie informed me that she simply couldn't take my case; it was too complex.  Connie was a new practitioner and she was concerned she wouldn't be able to manage the case.

Diana looked at me.  With her tender voice, yet with serious gravity, she stated, "I will take your case.  But you need to know...it's going to get messy.  You've had lots and lots of suppression.  But if you're willing to give it a try, I'm willing to go it with you.  You'll need to continue your work with Dr. Wilson as well."

Yes. I was willing.

Oh how I grew to love Diana.  She was a Buddhist, but I didn't care.  She loved her work and she was good at what she did.  I also liked that she didn't believe homeopathy was a cure all; life is more complex than that.  She ended up holding my hand over the phone in wee morning hours when I couldn't breathe. She was almost always there for me.

"How much do I owe ya'll?" I asked, trying to hide my concern. If it was too much money for me at once, I felt sure we could work out payment arrangement.

Connie replied first.  "Nothing to me.  I've learned a lot just from being here in this interview.  Thanks for letting me join."

I looked at Diana.  "Sixty dollars," she replied.

My eyes got big and my jaw dropped, "Sixty dollars?!?  We just spent six hours together!"

"I've been on sabbatical for a year and haven't taken on any new patients.  You're my first as I'm coming off sabbatical.  I'd like this interview to be like an offering."  She smiled.  It was genuine.

I wrote the check for seventy-five.

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Twisted

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Could third time be a charm?

I have written two pieces; they both suck.

How in the hell can I ever write out the complex bizarre scenarios that took place at GreasespotCafe and then The Safety Net and then Safety Net women showing up at the Modchat forum for a cat fight and then the unsolicited phone calls and emails I've gotten from ex-Way (and one never-Way) folks over the past three years telling me of ill and abusive treatment  from certain prominent Greasespot posters, posters that accuse others of abuse, posters that have good reputations at Greasespot.  My reputation sucks over there; my name is mud apparently.   I could probably post "water is wet" and get negative points on my rating scale. Stupid rating scale. My husband has said more than once that much of the behavior at that place is like middle school.

I didn't go looking for trouble over there; the worms from all sorts of cans fell in my lap.  I was left wondering, "What the hell is this?"

Maybe the only way to write it is sequentially.  One bite a time.  The Way days, the homeschool days, the other days, the current days perhaps those are best left to non-sequintiality.  But GreasespotCafe? Every time I begin to write, I end up with an avalanche.  I end up in a web of contortions and wondering how the hell to ever plow through and articulate the mess.

Why?  Why do I want to write it out?  What does it even matter?

A few reasons.  I admit one of those is because I think the place is a hypocritical sewer pit.  Certain pillars there who are guilty of lying, bullying, and deceit turn around and self-righteously convict others of the same.  And I know it.  It's not "gossip."  The shit happened; people involved told me. Some of the stuff happened to me.

In spite of my dislike for the place, which I have clearly made known over there, I feel Greasespot has a meaningful purpose in helping people learn the side of The Way that is hidden to Way followers.   But what of Greasespot's hidden side? 

I hate sometimes that I reacted emotionally at the Spot regarding stuff I got tangled up with. What a mess; it was bizarre.  I would go to work some days and be crying and my boss would tell me, "Mean people do that kind of shit Carol. Mean people."  He was right. My boss was never with The Way.

I hate that I tried to protect certain people; others I'm glad I protected....and I still will.  They fess up to their humaness. But the belittlers and twisters?  I detest that inhumane, self-righteous, better-than-thou, my-crap-don't-stink mindset.  Sometimes I want to use their real names when I write. I don't know why it gets under my skin so bad, but it does.  But then another part of me thinks, "Hell, the belittlers are victims too."

I hate that I care. I wish I didn't care.

After Dr. Rawlins died, I went out to eat with the person (one of Doc's relatives) who had written Doc's obituary. The person was still with The Way at the time, and may still be.  They knew the problems The Way had and wanted to see it change.   

This person had wanted to be a writer and used to journal and had a desire to someday write.  That dream was crushed when the ex-spouse of the person burned all the person's journals, among some other abusive treatment.  That all happened decades back, before the person's involvement with The Way.  So, the relative was somewhat thrilled to write Doc's obituary.  The obit was published in The Winston-Salem Journal.

Dr. Rawlins delivered something like 16,000 babies in her medical career. From my understanding, she was well respected in her field. She must have been controversial at one point as she promoted breast-feeding during  the bottle feeding generation. She hosted the Titty Committee at her home, a support group for moms who were naturally filling their babe's tummies.  Doc was also good friends with Dr. Hulda Clark, a controversial figure in the conventional medical field.

GreasespotCafe posted an article announcing the death of Dr. Rawlins; she had been a prominent Way figure and loved by many. She got involved with The Way in the 1970's and was a faithful follower until her death in 2007.  With the announcement Greasespot posted a copy of the local newspaper obituary that my friend, Doc's relative, had authored.

The announcement brought discussion on the Greasespot forums.  At first, posters were complimentary of Dr. Rawlins.  But then comments turned south, which isn't unusual.  I have no problem with south-turning comments; we all have our dark side, including Dr. Rawlins.  What I have a problem with is hypocrisy.  That said, I may be a hypocrite myself at times.  I'm human; it's part of our condition.  But I try to own up when it happens, as much as I can.

Over lunch the person shared with me how they had felt a deep sense of accomplishment at having written about something close to their soul;  it had been decades since they'd done so. But then, some people at Greasespot took the author's words in that obituary and conjectured evil motives toward the author.  The author was crushed, of course, and angered wondering, "How could they do that?!?  How could they take what I had written by myself in good faith and twist it like that?!?" Of course the author knew the answer.

Not wanting to be subjected  to the frenzy, I don't think the obituary author ever posted at the Greasy Cafe. 

GreasespotCafe. What an appropriate name.

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Dialects

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I shall write.  If it comes out as fragments, then it's fragments.  If it comes out as avalanches, then it's avalanches.

I have written many avalanches, in journals and on online forums.  I've written much on forums in the past three-plus years.  Only three-plus?  Yes.  It will be four years the end of December; that was my first post on a forum which was on GreasespotCafe.  I had lurked there for maybe two years.

In the beginning when I first found the Cafe, which I found on a google search after I witnessed to a guy at Borders inviting him to a Way fellowship who, upon invitation, said he was going to go look up The Way on the web; when I found GreaseSpot I thought that people who posted there were nuts. The guy I witnessed to never did call me; after my google searching I learned why.  There was so much bad stuff on the net about The Way.  I'd never googled The Way because as followers, we were told to stay away from those kind of places on the net, the kind of places critical of The Way that spread lies about us. But now, I'd found one and was reading some crazy stuff.  These people were nuts; crazy freaking nuts!

One of the most bizarre things I read in my first few visits to GreaseSpot was that Rosalie Rivenbark, the third and current President of The Way, and Donna Martindale, the now ex-wife of the second President of The Way, were lesbians.  It was so absurd I had to laugh; Rev. Rivenbark and Donna?  Rev. Rivenbark, the retired school teacher from eastern North Carolina, with that east North Carolina southern accent, a lesbian? Not a country accent, but the sweet southern drawl-type accent.

Ahh, North Carolina dialects. I love this state of North Carolina; it's in my blood. I don't think I'll ever want to move.  I love the mountains especially.  Yet the Outerbanks are a magical and almost foreign place.  The native accent there is a Scottish brogue which I learned when I visited the Pioneer Movie Theater in Manteo and met the owner in May of 2004; I think it was 2004.  The Pioneer Theater where all seating is on one level, one long sloping level, and where we bought the old-time candy cigarettes. Only in North Carolina maybe, where tobacco had for so long brought wealth which recently was turning into lawsuits. 

The gentleman who owned the theater had a thick Scottish accent and I asked where he was from; his age was mid-70s.  He answered, "He-eah!  I'm from he-eah!  This is the native speech of tha Outa-banks!"  His speech was alive and enthusiastic.  He spoke of how his grandfather,or perhaps it was his great-grandfather, had come across the Atlantic to live here, at the Outerbanks, and settled.  His family patriarchs had been fishermen.  I enjoyed his accent and his story.

I wasn't quite sure I believed him until a few weeks later I was watching PBS on which aired a documentary-type feature about dialects in North Carolina.  By golly, the kind elderly gentleman, the owner of the Pioneer Theater in Manteo, this rugged man for he came across as a rugged yet with a genteel quality, wasn't pulling my leg at all.

Rev. Rivenbark doesn't have the kind of accent that the man from Manteo had.  Yet her accent is genteel and school-marmish.  But a lesbian?  The Way had taught harshly through the years regarding homosexuality.  How could the current president and the wife of the previous president be lesbians?  Craig Martindale, the second President of The Way, had headed up a witch hunt for homos, queers, back in the 90's. But even before that, when Dr.Wierwille the founder had been around, we were taught the lowest of the low of humanity was when a person chose to be a homo.

Back in the early '80s Drew, who was a Way Corps Grad and ordained clergy by The Way, had told me how at The Rock of Ages Festival he had found two queers in one of the bathrooms engaging in a blow job.  Drew told me he busted their ass.  I don't think he told me details, but I still have a picture in my mind about Drew's judgment toward those sinners, Drew's cowboy boots kicking the guys he'd caught in the act in one of those blue bathrooms with about 4 stalls.  I don't think the bathrooms were permanent structures on Way Headquarters grounds; I think they were erected only for festivals like the Rock of Ages when thousands of believers came "home," to the Way Headquarters, what had once been the Wierwille family farm. I don't know if my memory graphic is what Drew told me, or what I conjured up when he told me. At the time, I figured Drew was carrying out God's judgment toward the lowest of the low.

Rev. Rivenbark and Donna as lesbians?  I had to laugh.

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Getting Things Right

non-subject:  "getting things right"
(aww 11/04/09)
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I don't know if I can write tonight.  I'm tired.  I'm depressed.

I think so much about writing.  Sometimes when I go to write it all comes out in a jumble; a disjointed jumble.  That's what life is, or is it?  It's not disjointed; there are segues, so many segues.

Today I wanted to write an Epilogue II to my 1983 journal entries I recently finished transcribing.  I actually completed a project.

At first, when I completed the transcription and wrote the Epilogue, I felt like I'd come to a final chapter.  It was sobering.  The journal covers over a year when I was in The Way Corps; the same year that Craig Martindale was inaugurated as the 2nd president of The Way; the same year that Victor Paul Wierwille, the founder, revealed the only way the Mystery, The Ministry, could live; the same year my dad had his car wreck leaving him a quadriplegic until his death 13 years later; the same year I knew it was over between Luke and I, Luke who had been the father of the aborted life in my womb; the same year I failed again, the 2nd time in a row within a 5 to 6 year period, that I AWOLed from my Ministry commitment, from The Way Corps.

After completing the project and feeling I'd come to a final chapter, I then felt I'd only just begun. 

I didn't get around to writing an Epilogue II today. 

I'm back to crying again.

I've thought of writing more about Rhia's recent stay in our home.  I've thought about writing about the events that happened at GreasespotCafe beginning in 2006.  GreaseSpotCafe, the online anti-Way forum.  It bothers me that I don't have a voice at the main place folks seem to end up looking for information on The Way.

I've thought of going back and trying to post in the forums again at GreaseSpot; I quickly talk myself out of it.  To me it'd be kind of like going back to The Way.  My husband has expressed, on more than one occasion, rather tongue-in-cheek but yet not, "Carol, many of the people there need serious help."  I think of Charlene's recent article on fundamentalism.  Part of it I like, but part makes me uncomfortable.  I think it is the dogmatic approach against fundamentalism? In a sense, to me, that is still fundamentalism.  Not Christian fundamentalism, but rather a fundamentalism regarding ambiguity. That sounds like a contradiction of terms. I guess it's not ambiguity, but fundamentalism regarding intellectualism or open mindedness? If a person believes their way (belief system) is the right one and others wrong, even if they state their way is open to ideas, isn't that a type of fundamentalism?  I mean, what if the Islam or Christian fundies end up right? Not that I think that. But if they are right, then I could be bound for hell; so be it.

Am I wrong to say it's o.k. that a person still supports The Way; I mean if that person finds happiness there, if that person isn't harming others?  Do I believe The Way is harmful?  At this point, on the scale of 1 to 10, 10 being the worst, I'd say The Way is a 5 or 6.  The most harmful thing about The Way now, in my opinion, is the stifling of autonomy.  That, the stifling of autonomy, seems prevalent in many groups, schools, families, governments.

I still grieve.  I'm not a whiner; at least I don't think I am.  I often don't want to look at the past; on the other hand I do want to look at it.  But why?  What difference does it make?  And it is so damn complicated.  I want to be able to take a scene, a momentary scene, and see it, smell it, feel it.  But sometimes when I start to write, instead of a scene I get an avalanche and find my self buried under complexity.

If I rip away analogy, tear it off like wrapping paper to just see what is there, what will I find?  Do I believe it when I see it?  Do I believe that is what is there or do I think I make it up? Do I think I embellish?  Do I think I make it something it isn't?

Post Script, a few hours later:  Opinions.  Sometimes I feel pressure to "take sides" when it comes to The Way or any type absolute (fundamentalist) belief system.  I think of something I wrote some months back about "Crusades, Fence Sitters, and Yarn."  I do have opinions, I just need to recognize them and realize that they may change.  My opinions regarding The Way are just as valid as anyone else's.  For me, they should be more valid, huh?  It's not like I've had no experience....
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