The First Time

non-subject: "the first time"

(aww: 01/27/10)

********************

I lay in bed last night, awake into the wee hours of the morning, wondering about "the first time."  Roberta Flack's voice ran through my mind, "The first time, ever I saw your face..."

The first time.  The first time.

What "first time" do I write about?  Why do I sometimes run from my own writing, from what seems the hard events or subjects?  Do I think I'm inept at conveying my own life? Am I scared I'll lie?  Oh that relentless gremlin that visits me too damn often; that little voice with its grating, accusatory, snide, detestable sneers..."you're making that up. Who would believe you anyway and how do you even know if you can trust you're memory, or any intuitive sense you feel you may have?  It's hogwash you know."

The first time.  The first time.

Do I write about Marshall, my first love at 13?  The first time we had intercourse?  But I can't write about something I don't remember. I remember the erotic letters, the sex at other times, secret meetings in the woods, sex in my parent's home when my parents weren't there, sex in Marshall's bedroom when I'd sneak out at night.  I hid under his bed once when one of his parents came into the room.  We were both thirteen with little parental supervision.  But I don't remember the "first time."

The first time.  The first time.

Do I write about the first time I decided to search The Way International on the internet? It was the end of 2002 or beginning of 2003.  Most folks were adept at internet searches by then.  But not me.  I didn't like the computer or the net. I didn't own a cell phone either. I much preferred a slower pace and face-to-face people exchanges, books, the library card, and old-fashioned pen and paper.

Do I write about the first time I saw Mark, my true love from when I was 18? Yet I don't remember the details of the first time; I just recall an essence.  It seems we were in a hotel-type meeting room, but not a huge one.  I do remember falling in love with him and when we both stayed at someone's home overnight.  It was almost love at first site.

Do I write about the first time I decided to post on GreaseSpot Cafe, the anti-Way/ex-Way online forum?  The trembling in my hands being afraid of something of which I wasn't sure in the unknown territory of cyberspace, a foreign world to me at that time.

Do I write about the first time I grieved the abortion? Not only of the life in my womb but of the loss of  relationship later with the father of that life. The grief suppressed for over a quarter century, only to appear in raw pain as what could have been, what might have been, questioning so much of what was.  A grief that felt so very unjustified because the events were from over 25 years ago; yet it had been another part of life that had been swept under the rug. Or more accurately, thrown out in the receptacle.

Do I write about the first time I had an image in my mind of the babe that may have been had I not had the abortion?  A new-born boy with dark olive skin, dark eyes, a head full of coal hair, nursing at my breast. An image I initially allowed for maybe 60 seconds, then tossed aside as silly and ridiculous telling myself it never was a life.  Only to spend the next seven hours, after the image, doubled over with grief.

Do I write about the first time I had blood on my panties? Who would ever want to read about the first time a young woman spots blood on her underclothes?  Yet, it occurs every day all over the world.

I didn't want to be a girl.  I wanted to be a boy.  Boys didn't have to endure a monthly "period."  I'd thought, "What a stupid name to call it, 'period.' "  And my breasts were starting to get sore, especially when I'd ride my horse. I loved to canter.  Now I'd have to start wearing one of those irritating bras, so my boobies wouldn't hurt.

I dreaded talking to my mom to tell her I had blood on my panties.  But I did it.  She got out the awful-looking elastic band that held the Kotex pad in place, like all ladies used before the days of self adhesive pads.

I didn't want to grow up. I didn't want to be a girl.

I was around 11 when I first spotted. Lucky for me, I didn't spot again until I was 13.  I don't think I ever brought it up again with Mom.  I had figured out that when I was 11, I must have broken my hymen while out horseback riding. The spotting had happened one afternoon after I'd been riding bareback on Black Eagle.

I'm amazed I never got pregnant once Marshall and I became absorbed with each other, always together and groping each other every chance we could, at age 13 - periods and intercourse, the first time.

Laying in bed this morning, after replaying/reliving some of the firsts. I'll write about the blood on the panties.

My husband's alarm rang. It was 5:15 AM.  Another night of insomnia.

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

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surrender

non-subject ~ "other peoples stories"

(aww ~ 01/27/10)
***

I draw almost a blank with the subject "other people's stories."  I don't have authority to write another person's story; but other's stories inspire to continue penning my own.

The Bible is filled with other people's stories.

There was a time when my "true self" was who the Bible says I am, not so much in the stories, but in the doctrinal Pauline epistles, those letters supposedly addressed to the believers in this day and age.  If my story veered from the "Christ in me," that story wasn't really me; it wasn't "true," because the "real me" was the "Christ in me."  The past was to be "declared null and void."

Looking back, that mindset was soul murder.

The real me is Carol.  The real me is what I've lived, what I've felt, what I've experienced, what I've loved, what I've hated. Too often, I've hated myself.

I sat naked on the side of the bed.  The year was 1993, in latter December.  I would have been 35 years old. I was naked so I could breathe; clothing, even loose clothing, stifled me.  Plus I'd get so hot struggling for breath.

I sat naked, leaning forward, elbows propped on my knees. As anyone with asthma knows the leaning forward is an attempt to catch some air. Life-giving air, something we take for granted until it is robbed.  I refused to again go to the hospital.

I'd had continued bouts of pneumonia since late September. I'd taken my normal courses of action repeatedly. I'd gotten to know them well since developing the asthma in 1982.  Steroids. Antibiotics. Theodur. Epinephrine. My nebulizer. Intravenous drugs and an intravenous vitamin/mineral cocktail so I could god-damn breathe.  Breathe...

I was wheezing horribly.  A bit earlier, John, my husband, had injected the epinephrine via the needle and syringe into my upper arm. The elephant on my chest, the cement in my lungs, the fatigue, the horrid self-hatred from being unable to live up to the "Christ in me," unable to believe for my healing, the constant production of mucous, the ups and downs of trying to hope.

The homeopathy, the supplements, the drugs.  Why the fuck did none of it work?!! What was so damn wrong with me as a person that my own body would not respond?!!   It was supposed to respond, damn it!!  It was supposed to respond...

I would not go to the hospital, not again. I think John understood, and perhaps he too secretly prayed for my body's death, just to ease the misery, just for rest.  If I could only rest.

It was midnight as I sat on the side of our king-size bed; naked, sweating, struggling, my elbows on my knees, my head light, emotions reeling with fear and anxiety and self-hatred and thinking "this was it."  I wanted to die. But what about my kids?

My kids. They were only 4 and 6 years old.

Due to the recurrent pneumonia the past few months, we had to hire two people to come in our home to help care for the home and the children. Mark was in our fellowship and the girl, I can't recall her name now, was a teenage homeschooler.  In addition to Mark and the homeschool teen, our friend Ron, an ER physician, was coming by regularly to check on me.  Tanya, another friend and respiratory therapist, was also making routine stops. Like Mark, both Ron and Tanya were in our fellowship.

I looked at my nebulizer which sat on the three-tiered bookshelf by our bed.  The bedroom light was off, but the bathroom light was on.  The bathroom was adjacent to the bedroom and provided enough light for me to prepare and work the nebulizer.  But why wasn't the albuterol, the medicine that I mixed with saline and put into the neb medicine cup, why hadn't it been helping me!?!  It used to help.

Why was nothing helping!?!

I called my homeopath, Diana. She was in Nevada, half way across the country, at a Navajo healing conference. I loved Diana. To me, she was a true healer. She had given me the phone number at the conference center and told me to call if I needed her. Someone answered the phone. I asked for Diana. Then I heard her voice, on the phone line with me. An answered prayer. Between gasps and tears I told her, "I can't go again to the hospital; I won't go. It doesn't help.  I'd rather die. Nothing is helping, damn it! NOTHING!!! I won't it to end..."

She sat with me on the other end of the phone.  Her tender voice helped calm me a bit,  but I continued in my suffocative state. She listened to my heaves and the wheezing and the snot and the pain and the agony.

She stated something risky, but what else could she do? "Carol, this may sound strange, but can you try to get into the attack...to not fight it.  To somehow accept it."   "I'll try," I rattled.  After what seemed only a few minutes, but in reality was probably 15 or 20, we both hung up.  Her last words were that she was going to do a Buddhist, long-distance, meditative practice to see if she could have any effect from a distance.

Oh boy...was she trying to operate devil spirits to heal me?  I didn't care. It didn't matter. I needed to breathe.

My chest rattling, my body still propped on the side of the bed, I picked up the small bottle of albuterol liquid medication that sat beside the nebulizer on the bookshelf. I stared at the label on the bottle.  I turned it, looking it over, trying to think. Something wasn't right, but I didn't know what.

I sat the bottle down and picked up the nebulizer cup that holds the medication.  I unscrewed the top of the cup.  The top has a mouthpiece on it. The bottom part of the cup, that screws to the top, is connected to the tube that connects to the nebulizer, the machine that makes its droning, guttural medical sound as it works its magic of dispersing liquid into vapor that I then inhale into my lungs through the mouthpiece. I poured in the proper amount of albuterol and mixed it with the proper amount of saline.  I screwed the cap with its mouthpiece back onto the cup base. I switched the nebulizer on; the droning hum began.

But, instead of putting the mouthpiece into my mouth, I just held the medication cup, my hands wrapped around it like a coffee cup. The machine hummed. Through the handheld cup, the vapor evaporated into the room.  I held the cup for comfort; the medicine hadn't been helping for weeks.  But it used to help; it used to help...

Sitting and leaning forward, still propped with my elbows on my knees, naked and sweating and trembling from the epinephrine, holding the vaporizing neb cup for comfort, with the elephant on my chest and cement in my lungs... I closed my eyes to enter the attack, to try not to fight it.

Ashes

Dad's funeral was on a Monday or Tuesday, over a week after he died. Dad had chosen to be cremated.  I can't recall now if he was cremated in Virginia and then the ashes were shipped to North Carolina or if his body was shipped back to North Carolina to be cremated.  His ashes were put in an urn which is stored at a cemetery in Hickory. Mom's body now resides with Dad's ashes.  I guess I should go to the grave sight and visit every so often.

I got a sense that Dad respected the earth, like he desired to live in harmony with nature.  He seemed to enjoy stories of the indigenous peoples of this land; he had a deep respect for the American Indian. I wonder if that is why he chose cremation; something to do with what he felt was more natural and a way of natives.

Mom used to tell us kids that Dad was one-eighth Cherokee.  Though he had dark skin and high cheek bones, I've been told by others that he wasn't one-eighth Cherokee.  But who knows; his family hailed from eastern Tennessee so it wouldn't be surprising if there is mixed blood.  I don't know much about our family geneology; it wasn't really discussed growing up.

Dad had an attraction to the mystical.  He apparently enjoyed Edgar Alan Poe and even read Poe's works to us kids when we were young, not that that's a soothing choice of literature for young chlidren. When I was around eight or ten years old, Mom and Dad gave me a Ouija Board. But I never believed anything supernatural happened with the Yes-Yes board, though I wanted to believe. Dad also gave me Erich von Daniken's book Chariot of the Gods when I was in elementary school. I read the book and would stargaze through adolescence looking for extra-terrestial salvation.

I wrote a prose about Dad after he died.  It was read at his funeral.  I don't recall who read it.  I don't recall much about the service.

~*~

Mike and Jane, the previous Way Branch leaders in our area, came to Dad's service.  About four months prior to Dad's funeral, around October, 1995, they had been made "mark-and-avoid" by Craig Martindale, the second president of The Way. They were 1st Family Way Corps, long-timers. Mike was ordained clergy.

Mike and Jane had overseen The Way Corps Children's Camp every year at the Indiana Campus while The Way Corps parents of those children attended Corps Week at International Headquarters in Ohio. Corps Week was held each year in August right before the international Rock of Ages Festival at Headquarters; Rock of Ages was open to everyone.  Corps Week was open to only Way Corps. I never went to Corps week; I always volunteered to work Children's Camp.  I loved the Indiana Campus and the kids.

In latter 1994, Mike and Jane had been put on probation from The Way. When a believer was put on probation, they weren't allowed to come to fellowship or hang out with the believers, though Jane and I did go to lunch once. While on probation, the believer was to continue to tithe and communicate with their direct overseer regarding their progress with their "opportunity." We didn't have "problems" in The Way; we had "opportunities."  Then at the end of probation time, the powers that be decided whether the person on probation would be welcome back "into the household of believers" or if they would become mark-and-avoid. To my knowledge the believers in the Branch were never told what it was that Mike and Jane had specifically done wrong. 

The mark-and-avoid sentence was like excommunication from The Way. People were made mark-and-avoid because of what is stated in Romans 16:17 in the Bible, "...mark them which cause divisions and offences contrary to the doctrine which ye have learned, and avoid them." Romans 13:1-7 commanded us to obey our leadership or suffer damnation and judgement.  Mike and Jane had apparently disobeyed and reaped the consequences.  In The Way we didn't "punish," we simply allowed the "consequences of one's unbelief."  Mark-and-avoid was a consequence.

Mike had officiated mine and John's wedding; we were the first couple he married after he got ordained. Mike had prayed for me when it was speculated by the doctors at the hospital emergency room that I might have a tubal pregnancy. Our daughter was the result of the pregnancy; it wasn't tubal.

Jane had directed my and John's wedding. I wasn't even going to have a wedding but Jane encouraged me to have one; I'm glad we did. Mike and Jane helped with our children when I was sick and had to be hospitalized at various times. John and I used to watch their younger boys when the boys were little. Mike and Jane visited and encouraged Mom and Dad after Dad's accident; they would rearrange their home so Dad could maneuver his wheelchair more easily when Dad would occasionally attend fellowships. Mike and Jane opened their doors to me after I had AWOLed from The Way Corps. Jane had come to my rescue when I was suicidal.

I recall while they were on probation, I would think about them and of course pray. I would think about Jane in certain situations and I'd ask myself, "How would Jane handle this?" She seemed to endeavor to look at the good; she wasn't harsh and judgmental toward others. She would put herself in the other person's shoes.

While Mike and Jane had been on probation previous to their mark-and-avoid sentence, John and I had been serving directly with the Limb Leaders, Bob and Dottie, for about ten months. We then served with Jim and Joy, the new Way Corps in our Area, for about two months. Like Jane, Dottie too had saved my life through that same suicidal episode. In dire straights with a pistol beside me, I called Dottie on the phone. She lived two hours away so couldn't come to my aid. As she kept me on the phone, she wrote a note to Bob to call Mike and Jane to see if one of them could get to my house. Jane arrived at my door about fifteen minutes later. Dottie had her masters in psychology. I had seen her regularly for personal counseling to help with my emotional ups and downs. 

John and I felt loyalty to both Bob and Dottie and Mike and Jane. When Mike and Jane were made mark-and-avoid, John and I had to make a choice. We chose The Way. It was a difficult decision. Yet we believed Martindale walked with God, like Moses did in the Old Testament. We also had grown to trust Bob and Dottie and our new local Corps leadership, Jim and Joy.

After they were made mark-and-avoid when I was talking with a believer who was in process of deciding whether or not to continue with The Way, I told him that at at that point I would no longer want to go to Jane for advice on certain things because she would not give me the undiluted Word of God. I had begun to believe Mike and Jane hadn't been towing the line of "the Word;" they had been too tender. Rev. Martindale would sound out that pure Word of God, "It is written" and "thus saith the Lord." The word "saith" was to be pronounced 'seth,' not 'say-eth.' Dr. Wierwille had given that instruction more than once, how to properly pronounce the word, "sayeth."

Even though Mike and Jane were mark-and-avoid, they came to Dad's funeral. Jim and Joy were there. Bob and Dottie weren't; they may have moved to Florida by that time. I thanked Mike and Jane for coming; it was an awkward moment.  Yet I was genuinely thankful and I felt for them. I loved Mike and Jane. And I also loved Jim and Joy, Bob and Dottie, and Craig.

I saw Jane in the grocery store once after she and Mike were made mark-and-avoid. It was awkward. We spoke briefly, and I think we hugged.

~*~

At Dad's funeral I spoke with Cora. She and I met for the first time face to face at Dad's funeral; we had previously spoken on the phone. Cora worked with a social services home health agency. Cora was sweet, a petite black woman that walked with the use of crutches and braces on her legs.

We were in somewhat casual conversation when she said, "I talked to Mr. Hamby on that Monday before he fell ill. I told him that Monday that he wouldn't be able to come home. That was the last time I talked with him. He was a good man, your daddy was."

I think my heart stopped beating for a moment. Dad died the Friday after that Monday. He wanted more than anything to be able to come home. After hearing the news from Cora, I can't help but think that Daddy gave up. I understand that; he had fought hard to live life as fully as one can with limited use of one's body.

At the time Cora spoke with him, Dad was at the veteran's hospital in Virginia going through some rehab after surgery. That's where he died, alone. The hospital did not inform us until early on Friday that Dad had fallen ill on Wednesday and had gone to sleep and never reawakened. On Friday, there was a major snowstorm on the east coast and interstates were closed. None of the family could get to him. He died that evening. I'm thankful that Mom, myself, and my two children had visited him the weekend before. 

For years, I didn't say anything about what Cora told me, except to my husband and a couple close friends.

~*~

This is third in a three-part series:
Part 1: War Maims
Part 2: Heart Failure
Part 3: Ashes

One blog here. Two blogs there. Blogger blogger everywhere...

Last night our family gathered for an evening of Bear Rock Cafe and then cruising the REI store.  It was a blast.  We have so much fun together.

After our outtings we landed at my daughter's home for a visit.  One of her house mates, Jon, and one of her friends, Allison were hanging out watching comedian Ron White with the laser light shooting its dancing colors and circles all over the walls.  I love it! We then watched some youtube music videos with the laser lights a-jivin'.  It was way cool!

My daughter's housemates are all great young adults - intelligent, engaging, thoughtful, funny.  Plain old fun to be around, at least when I'm around them.  Jon, one of the house mates, is a charmer.  He really likes all things Japan.

Jon writes two articles a week for The Carolinian, as well as shares his culinary expertise on his blogs:  Worldly Eats: Confessions of a Foodie with its accompanying photos on Picasa  and his blog, The Dorm Room Gourmet, and his other blog, Burnt..eateries to avoid..

We got into a conversation about our blogs.  It reminded me of when I used to journal the old-fashioned way, pen in hand and writing on parchment usually bound in a book.  At times I'd run into other journalers and we would talk about journaling; it was a passion, like a treasure chest.

I currently have five public blogs.  Oh my!  The number may increase as time progresses. There was a time I said I'd never have a blog. Why would anyone want a blog?  Well, I ate those words, obviously.  But why five blogs?

When I journaled in books, I began to index the journals.  I also had different journals.  One was a "life journal."  Another a "book review journal."  And another a "poetry journal."  For awhile I had a "sketch journal."

So, why not various blogs?  It's much easier. than paper in books.  I realize there is something therapeutic about handwriting; however, I burnt out on handwriting.  I have at least 15 handwritten books.  I still use the pen at times.  But most often now I'm on the computer.

What if the entire internet crashes and I lose all my writing?  Oh well.  It's all temporal anyway.  It would have served its purpose for the time it served.  I'm not so attached that I'd crater over it.  I'd be disappointed, but life would go on.

GreaseSpot Cafe: In the Kitchen

non-subject:  "declaring independence"

(aww ~ Wednesday, 01/20/10)

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My laptop sat on the L-shaped bar in my kitchen, an area I had recently set up as a mobile office.

The bar is stained wood veneer and matches the kitchen counter tops which are on the opposite wall from the bar. From the eggshell-colored chair rail to the ceiling, printed vines extend in forest green tones. They are adorned with various fruits in hues of deep plum and various shades of purple. All on a marbled tan and cream background, a typical kitchen wallpaper. The kitchen cabinets, shelves, and un-papered walls are an eggshell color. The floor is vinyl tile, marbled with tan and cream hues. We have a black refrigerator and black ceramic double sink, a black glass-top stove, and a black double oven in the wall beside the stove.

Opposite the bar, light streams through the window above the double sink. Peering out the window and beyond the deck, our yard slopes upward for some 200 feet where it meets the woods crowded with tall white pines and other trees - a haven for birds, raccoons, snakes, spiders, and even the occasional deer.  Between the deck and the woods grows an array of vegetation. Along with the various grasses and weeds are a large oak, fig trees, an ornamental tree, an "umbrella tree" as I call it, blackberry vines, all sorts of hostas, tiger lilies, and various plants I don't know the names for.

I like our back yard.  I like our kitchen. I like my new mobile office area. I like my laptop.

I don't like curtains.

We have no curtains in our house.  All the windows have blinds of some sort.

The kitchen window blinds are off-white aluminum.  They stay raised all the time.  A red scarf is swagged across the top of the blinds and six design cut copper-like metal stars hang on a metal chain in a half-circle below the swag, each chain-end attached to either side of the blind headrail. Two red tassels and a tiny wooden miniature mandolin hang from the chain.

Dee gave me the chain with stars.  She had been my best friend in The Way when I left back in 2005.  We've only talked a few times since then; she still stands with The Way.

There is a fluorescent light in a recess above the sink.  I guess it's called a recess since the window has a recessed look. A decorative panel, painted in the eggshell shade, attaches to the ceiling and the cabinets that are on either side of the window. Behind the panel, nestles the above-the-sink fluorescent light bulb.  Hanging down from the panel is an ornamental stained glass rainbow.

Alyson made and gave the rainbow to me some 25 years ago.  Alyson and I were in the same Way fellowship at the time. I always liked Alyson.  It's nice to have a remembrance of her.

I decorated the windowsill above the sink with eight Art-o-mat pieces - six different blocks of various mediums and genres, one box containing "Peace" soap, and one pear-shaped sculpture.  In the middle on the sill is a 4-inch high djembe replica. Djembe is an African drum that is shaped like a chalis. Diane made the replica; she and I used to be in a drum circle together.

On the drum head sits a crafted wire human replica with a dark-brown wooden head and long purple yarn-hair. I think Leigh Adams, an Artomat artist, made the wire human which I have deemed Djembe Player. Djembe Player is only about two inches high. I have her bent so she sits on the drum head.

I like the life-memory trinkets on my windowsill.  I like the light streaming in.  I like watching the occasional spiders weave on the outside of the window.

I like James with whom I'm chatting on the computer while I sit at the kitchen bar on this Sunday in May, 2009.

I didn't like how I was trembling.

James could see see and hear me via my webcam but his cam and speakers were broken, so he responded to me in text.  That's a weird feeling, to chat with someone in that fashion, when the other party can see and hear me but I can only read their text.

James lives in Australia. He and I had become friends through a serendipitous online connection in May, 2007, after I'd experienced bizarre events and toxic webs through GreaseSpot Cafe, an online forum that tells the other side of The Way International. Yet few people know about the other side of the GreaseSpot Cafe.

From age seven, James was raised in the Jehovah's Witness Sect;  he dropped out when he was twenty-two.  At age thirty-five he began intense research on the JW's and totalistic groups and their tactics. As part of that research, for a period of about fifteen years or so, he joined or visited at least twenty-five various groups. He's a walking encycolpedia; yet down-to-earth and practical, able to cut through bullshit pretty well...at least for me. I hope he gets around to publishing his book some day; the manuscript sits at his home. These days he is into painting with oils and would prefer to retire a recluse and paint all day.  I imagine that would get boring for him though.

Now he was holding my hand, so to speak, as I trembled due to more antics from at least one member at GreaseSpot Cafe. What was it about the Cafe that made me tremble? How could an online forum have so much power over me to induce this fear? And the greater question, why did I allow it and what was I afraid of?

The fear and silencing power angered me.

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

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Picture Revelations ~ Number Nine

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Monday night, I pulled out the book How We Believe by Michael Shermer. A friend sent it to me, along with a couple other books, over a year ago. (Thanks Dawson!) It's been sitting on my shelf awaiting my eyes.  The time must be ripe;  I'm enjoying it immensely.

While reading it tonight, I got to thinking about "the personal relationship with God" or "with the Lord" or "with Jesus Christ." I recall those warm fuzzy feelings. I recall thinking I knew when God was at work within me.  I experienced when results would come seemingly out of 'nowhere.' I recall getting picture revelation two different times in my life and can describe it to this day. It was clear, precise, and accurate. I can't deny those things; they happened and/or I felt them.

BUT.....is it a relationship with God/the Lord/Jesus Christ/Whatever spiritual entity one wants to call it? Or is it a relationship with a belief, that causes the comfort, the warm fuzzies so to speak?

I used to tell people that when I spoke in tongues in my private prayer life, it was like making love with God - not sexually but intimately. Silenty praying in tongues was that intimate to me.  It was comforting.  For me, it was real.  It still is at times.

The answers, from seemingly nowhere at just the right time - which happen even more since I've left The Way, since I've quit speaking in tongues on a regular basis, since I've quit reading my Bible, since I've quit praying in the manner of "thanking the Father" for this or that - do those incidents occur because of supernatural intervention or rather because of innate human qualities of "pattern-seeking" and "self-organization" and perhaps intuition?

Then one has to define what one means by "intuition." Personally I think it's another sense, like the five traditional ones that we humans have.  Who ever decided we only have five senses?  We probably have a bunch.

On the other side of the coin, I also recall that there were a multitude of times I didn't get results when I needed them or prayed or whatever. Yet, I can't specifically recall those like I can the times I received the answers.

Perhaps the 'revelation' and answers are chance.  But the times the answers were there, seemingly out of nowhere...well, they were just too damn specific for me to be able (at this moment) to chalk up to chance.  I don't think the serendipities are "special" or even necessarily of supernatural intervention.  I think I think that they can all be explained within the realms of pattern seeking, intuitive sense, and life.  Oh and that "self-organizing" stuff.

Some may say or think that takes the zest out of life; depletes the thrill, the mystery, the wonder of it all.  For me it doesn't.  For me?  The self-organizing and pattern seeking, the intuitive sense, life happenings - are rich, and full, and lush with exploration and discovery.

I've always loved patterns.  Like the number nine.  What a fascinating number....casting out nines.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Believing Equals Receiving: Myth?

This stuff may seem (and maybe is) elementary to most folks; yet I think maybe it's just now really dawning upon me. Kind of like when one day it will be clear to me that The Way is a cult. Yes, I still waiver sometimes with that....not in my logic, but in my emotional attachment. (If that makes sense.)

So, at the risk of sounding rather stupid...below are some of the thoughts....

Note: The Way taught "believing equals receiving."
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When I awoke this past Saturday morning, my first conscious thought was..." 'Believing equals receiving' is a myth." I was stunned.

I then asked myself, "Is it?" I'm not sure.

That was followed with two more questions: "Is 'the power of belief' a myth?" Is it?" I'm not sure.

Later that same day I was thinking about belief and what is one thing that I believe. I believe my husband loves me. THAT is not a myth. I see it in action.

When in TWI, if a person had an illness (I developed chronic illnesses after four years with The Way), and if the person couldn't get well, they weren't believing enough. Yet that person might be trying everything they know to get well and still fall short of the result of wholeness. According to the doctrine, believing always works - like gravity on earth. It's an absolute. If the person were believing they would be healed. If not, no healing. End of story.

Since some months after leaving The Way, I've recognized this as "doctrine over person," but not as "myth." Myth - like Santa Clause or Zeus or flying reindeer. Or dare I say like an invisible entity that desires worship and grants promises and intervenes in human affairs sporadically? (Gosh that hurts to write....)

Who ever decided that "believing and receiving" was true and absolute!?! That's a somewhat rhetorical question, as I feel sure the answer goes back millenia. ...."If thou believest; all things are possible to him who believes."??

Yet it is so very hard to wrap my brain around the reality that this "absolute principle" ("believing equals receiving") is myth. It's almost impossible to wrap my heart around god as myth.

How does it feel, this inability to wrap my brain around these possibilities? It feels like brick walls. A cage, and I shake the bars hollering and hoping someone will hear. It feels like an impasse. A giant canyon with no bridge but the other side is in sight. It feels like the fish in the fishbowl bumping the glass, unable to swim beyond the transparent barrier...

It's o.k. Carol, to feel that way. It's understandable. Your feelings are not myth. You feel them.

Is "believing equals receiving" myth? I think so.
Is a theist god a myth? Right now I'm at 50/50. On a different day I might be 60/40 or 20/80.
Is a creator a myth? Bumfuzzled on this one.
When is it o.k. to believe a myth; when is it not o.k.? It's not o.k. if it harms...
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MRSA is not Flat

non-subject: "what happened"
(AWW ~ Wednesday, 01/13/10)

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What happened recently that causes me to feel like I'm writing nothing of value.  Recently?  I feel like that too often.

It's like I have nothing to write about.  It is like the earth is flat.  Flat.  Flat. All people are just milling around aimlessly. There doesn't seem to be cohesion...or at least I don't feel a part of it.  Life seems small.

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A week ago Monday I ended up at the doctor's office.

Over the previous weekend my right knee had developed some sort of infection.  I never cut it, at least to my knowledge.

I plopped down on the couch that Friday night and pulled up my pants leg thinking, Something is wrong with my knee.  It was hot, reddened, beginning to swell, and had a black dot in its center.

Saturday I slept for 19 hours.  My knee was continuing to worsen. I iced it.

Initially, the knee had an irritation that seemed like a carpet burn but without any abrasion.  I paid it no mind until it started hurting a few days later.  It started gradually swelling and developed a large bump with a black dot in the middle.

By Sunday I almost went to the Emergency Room, but told myself I could hold off until Monday morning for my regular doctor. Thoughts of gangrene and staph and blood infections and amputations went through my mind.  I elevated my leg and also decided to dress the area where the black dot was prominent.

What was that black dot?  My knee hadn't bled.  Was my body trying to push out a foreign invader?  Was it something left in my body from the hip replacement surgery 16 months ago?  But it was my right knee giving me the problem.  My left hip was the one replaced.

As I lay in bed Sunday I told myself to stop thinking about amputation; that was silly.  But maybe it wasn't.  Keith, a friend of ours, died from kidney failure within a few weeks after he got a cut on his leg.  Keith was in pretty good shape.

I calmed myself and told myself I'd call the doctor first thing Monday morning.  I'd started taking extra Vitamin C and I took a couple doses of homeopathic silica in case my body was trying to push out a foreign object.  I'd read and seen silica help in those circumstances.

By Sunday evening there was a boil on my knee, where the black dot had been.  Later that night I felt like my skin holding my knee was being stretched and at some point it would tear from the tension.  Like a suitcase that is packed to full and the corners rip.

Was this somehow associated with my period and hormones?  The knee stuff started at the beginning of my menstrual cycle and over five days had gotten worse.

Perhaps I've been smitten with a blight because I've posted some supportive links for gays on Facebook and Twitter.  I tossed that thought right away.

I silently spoke in tongues, an automatic reflex when danger is near, left over from Way indoctrination. I then thought, Father, please don't let my body succumb to another chronic condition. I caught myself.  Why am I praying; I don't even know if there is a heavenly Father?

Was it a healing response to something in my body?

I used to break out regularly with hives that would blister. Sometimes the itchy blisters still erupt on my toes or fingers.  They are like tiny pinheads in a patch that itch for 30 minutes, calm, and disappear.

In the wee morning hours of Monday, sometime between 3:30 AM when I visibly checked my knee, and 8:00 AM, when I checked it again, the boil had burst and begun to seep.  The doctor's office had an opening at 11:15 with the Physicians Assistant.

I sat on the doctor's table in my panties and shirt with one of the paper drapes across my legs while I waited for the PA and carefully took the dressing off my knee.  Gross.  I felt like I had leprosy.  What was happening?  I felt like I had some sort of skin-eating disease.

The PA entered and took a look at my inflamed seeping knee.  She was concerned. She took a culture and had me get x-rays to make sure the bacteria, whatever it was, hadn't gotten into my knee joint. She gave me a prescription for some sulfa drugs, SMZ/TMP DS.

The culture was positive for staph. MRSA.  My stomach turned; my heart sank. Why couldn't it have just been a spider bite?

What had I done to contract MRSA?  How could I be so stupid as to not have looked something up on the web?  I was embarrassed and felt tainted.

Tainted.

I used to feel that way when I'd be so sick with asthma and my body would make enough mucous to produce a whole family of ectoplasmic entities, and I'd wheeze and I'd break out in hives and I wouldn't respond to treatments. I would feel at fault and would get angry with my body; I had hated my body.  I had felt grotesque, a blight, a sorry excuse for a believer, a sorry excuse for a mother, a sorry excuse for a human, a problem that needed to be fixed.  Why couldn't I believe to be healed or at least believe to breathe freely?  Better yet, why couldn't Jesus come back and give me my new body that was promised in the scriptures, the same scriptures that promised me healing....if I'd only believe.

Shame; deep, deep shame had coursed through my veins. I can't go back there.  I shan't go back.

How did I ever get MRSA?  I haven't been to any social clubs and no one in my family has it?  Does this mean I have to watch out and be extra careful to not get cut?  Was my immune system that whacked out that I'd just spontaneously erupt with MRSA?

So what does MRSA have to do with the world being flat? Of me feeling like there is no cohesion?

I want to backpack part of the Applachain Trail this summer with my son.  It isn't flat.

I shall hike.

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

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Benefit of the Doubt

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I've written a couple memoir-type pieces in the last couple days, pieces I need to go back over and edit a bit as well as look up some dates and information.  I prefer if I could just remember the exact timing of events instead of having to look them up.  But alas, I don't have perfect recall and thus sometimes depend on dates I've recorded in journals and in files, the 3-D paper kind not the 2-D computer kind.

I was talking with my friend, April, the other day.  We were discussing book reviews.  I mentioned to her how I used to keep a journal of my own personal book reviews.  When I'd read a book, I'd write something about it in my book review journal.  At some point I got tired of doing that and quit the practice.  In the past year or so I've written a couple reviews on Amazon.

I have to say that I don't know if I've ever read a "bad" book.  It dawned on me as I was talking with April, that I tend to recall what it is that resonates with me when I read a book.  I don't know if I've ever said that such and such is a terrible book.

For example Rick Warren's, "A Purpose Driven Life." It's not a book I'd recommend for folks recovering from spiritual abuse.  When I read it, I found the suggestions/directives/recommendations too binding, restrictive, suffocating for me.  They felt too much like formulas that were prevalent in The Way.  However, the book did have a chapter or section regarding "fellowship" or relationships with others and the importance of being genuine and authentic.  That part hit home for me and that was the kernel I kept from the book.

Authenticity was something lacking greatly in my last years in The Way.

I recall much unsolicited advice from well-meaning Way believers.  Some would advise and suggest to me regarding my health challenges, my kids, and my home decor.  It was almost like some (many?) Way followers were consistently looking for what was wrong in a person or situation, looking how to improve it or her or him, and not giving ample credit for what was right.  I guess that is called "fault-finding." I continue to see it in society as well; a cynicism that I'm not sure is healthy.

I do think healthy scepticism is a good thing.  Cynicism though can cut off creative thinking and solutions...or soulutions.  (That's misspelled on purpose.) I'd much rather be part of helping find answers and insights, being open to ideas and possibilities, than to stifling exploration and questions because my cynicism doesn't allow such.

I think some people think that when someone is kind or friendly that that someone isn't being honest.  It seems (too often) folks align honesty with criticism. It's like for a person to be honest, they must be cynical or critical. Yet the two are not synonyms...honesty and criticism.

Anyway in talking with April it dawned on me that perhaps I give the benefit of the doubt too often.  Perhaps that is one way I've ended up in some toxic group relationships?  Perhaps I'm not critical enough when engaging new relationships within groups?  Perhaps I don't want to see the ugly side?

I have asked myself the common factors in these toxic relationships.  I found two:  myself and ex-cult members.  That is the only place I have experienced toxic relationships and people concluding ulterior motives; it was with certain ex-cult followers or groups of ex-cultees.  I haven't experienced that attitude to such a marked degree outside of those ex-cult relationships.  I imagine this isn't exclusive to ex-cult members but also (to some extent) in abuse victims and survivors.  Trust gets maligned and in some cases annihilated.

Still my book reviews will probably continue to emphasize what I like about a book and not what I don't like.
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entry - house dreams

I feel dry.  Nothing to write of.  Yet images continue to run through my mind.

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Dreams.  I so often night-dream of houses.  A recent dream was of "The Kaleidoscope Theatre", as it was called in my dream, a huge building like the giant First Baptist Church that takes up a city block in downtown Hickory in North Carolina.  Or better yet, like the ostentatious pink Cinderella-looking church in Charlotte which a driver can't help but see.  I wonder if anyone has had a fender-bender due to its distraction?

Except the "The Kaleidoscope" wasn't a church at all; it was an architectural maze.

On one end of The Kaleidoscope was The Branch Restaurant with a lobby ceiling that was at least eight stories high. Six giant twisted fabric vines, about two feet each in diameter, hung from the ceiling and hid the ceiling with their fabric foliage.  These vines turned into stairs that attached to the floor of the Branch Restaurant lobby.

The mystery was that it was impossible to climb up the vines, though one could climb down the vines. A comrade and I tried to climb up the vines, but abandoned the attempt.  The vines kept turning and twisting making ascent impossible.  Instead we exited the building via the giant front lobby doors to discover that this building was not simply one building, but street blocks of buildings stacked one against another, not vertically, but horizontally, with tiny entrances to separate abodes. Entrances so small, one had to squeeze to get through. Yet once inside colorful huge rooms with endless connections were everywhere. Huge interiors of houses, each house with a name such as Cherry Red and  Red Candy, all within this architectural monstrosity.  Dwellers of the homes had no idea their dwelling was connected to other dwellings, for us dwellers never went outside.

That is until I began to explore, going from one room in our home to another. It seems I started out with other family members, but they eventually dropped out of the journey. The comrade, whom I met in The Branch lobby after my decent down a vine, was a dweller from another attached home.

The vines of The Branch Restaurant connected to an octagonal-shaped hallway some eight stories up from the lobby floor. Since the ceiling wasn't visible from the lobby floor, neither was the octagon.  Along the hallway, doorways, with names written above them, led to the various houses.  Hours earlier, while exploring my home dwelling with its endless colorful gigantic rooms, I had ended my long journey coming out of the door labeled Cherry Red.  That's when I had discovered the vines and grappled down one of them to the stairs and then to The Branch lobby floor where I met the comrade. We exited the building through the lobby door and discovered another world.

This dream was a first, the array of houses connected to The Branch, an elegant restaurant. Though the houses in my numerous night-dreams are mostly complex and huge, I don't recall dreaming of one of this magnitude.

I think my various house dreams signify my life.  For years I lived in the dingy part of my house dreams; a section of the house that was gray and dirty and needed lots of cleaning that was endless. I knew there were other parts to whatever house I was dreaming about, but I could only envision those parts.  In my dreams I eventually ventured in to visit the lush areas.  Recently I've even lived in the nicer areas of the house.

"The Kaleidoscope Theatre." Perhaps there is much more to discover and scribble than I realize.
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Another Awakening

Click here to read about an introduction to memoir: Journey through Memoir: Introduction
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I sat on our king size bed. My toe tips rested on the hardwood floor. I was relaying to John about my trip to Stauton. I had gotten back home a few nights earlier.

The trip was a mix of emotions. I was thrilled to embrace Crae again; to laugh and share and simply be. I took notice how she and Peter lived in the moment. Accomplishing was not always necessary; one could just be.

Before folks arrived for the gathering, Crae presented me her Corps ring as gift. On the trip home on the airplane my heart was in my throat. What was I thinking to accept such a gift? I had AWOLed from the Way Corps twice. Tears trickled down my cheeks with gratitude mixed with unworthiness. After the plane landed I called her to let her know I had arrived safely and to tell her I should not have accepted that gift. It represented so much. She too had shed tears, but said that the ring was for me; it represented faithfulness.

At the Stauton gathering, I got to meet Paul and his wife. We had connected on GreasespotCafe, the ex-Way online forum, my first online forum experience. Prior to that I never knew such a venue existed. A whole new world had opened up to me, in more ways than one. Paul was as genuine online as he was in person. I felt engaged with our discussions about psychology and the inner workings of the mind.

And Nina; we finally got to meet face to face. If I were to ever become a lesbian, I'd pick Nina. I had never been so close to a woman in my entire life. In less than a year we had grown as one. Our relationship was via internet and phone. Hours and hours, through her two GSC affairs and my one, through my reunion with Luke and the grieving of the abortion from over 25 years ago, through my continued confusion about The Way.

There was Dawson, Willow's brother. I didn't feel the warmth toward Dawson that I did toward Paul or Crae or Nina. Yet he had been such a help, especially in how I was supposed to relate to Willow. Willow and her husband were State and Region leaders for The Way. My children and Willow's children had been good friends. Leaving The Way made that relationship awkward, to say the least.

Like myself, Rhodey, the GreasespotCafe owner and administrator, had arrived early to the Texas gathering. Rhodey is his screen name; his real name is Duke. I had previously determined to not bring up the interview. It was now November, four months after the interview.

In July, Duke had interviewed me over the phone about my involvement with The Way; it had taken a few hours. He told me he would listen and edit the interview and then get back with me in a couple weeks, before he posted and aired it to the public via the GSC forum. I had been very nervous. I'd only exited The Way 8 months prior to the podcast interview. Yet he was kind and gentle during the interview.

When I didn't hear from him, I asked him about it a couple times via Personal Messenger on the forum. Once sometime in August (I think), and the other around the beginning of October (I think). I wondered if I had done something wrong in the interview, or if for some reason it shouldn't be aired. I thought maybe Duke had PMed me and perhaps there was a technical glitch and I didn't receive the PM.

His first response, in August, was polite and friendly. He said he had some personal stuff come up and that he'd back in touch in a couple weeks.

His second response, in October,  was terse and short. One sentence: "I told you I was busy and I'd get back to you when I was ready." Or something like that. There was no greeting nor closing. I'm not sure if he signed his name.

Upon reading it I immediately went into "subservient/obedient follower" mode; it was habit. I must have bothered him with my petty need for an update on the interview. He was under spiritual pressure with running the site; Sara had alluded to that more than once. He must be right; I must be wrong. He was the authority.

I wrote him an apology for not being more considerate of his time. I thanked him for all his work with GSC, providing a support network for folks who left The Way.

I never heard back from Duke, not even after my written apology. I didn't have his phone number to give him a call; he was very private. Even if I had it, I probably wouldn't have called. Now it was November and I still knew nothing about the interview from the beginning of July. Two weeks had turned into four months. It did happen; didn't it? He did interview me? It was kind of like it never happened.

At the time I hadn't mentioned to anyone about the PM exchanges, or lack thereof. I don't think I even told my husband. I felt stupid; like I was a nuisance. Silence seemed the proper response.

I dare not bring it up now, at the bar-b-que. I felt like I was walking on eggshells around Duke. Besides Sara had confided in me that Duke had told her it was the hardest interview he had ever had to edit and review; it triggered too close to home for him. I didn't want to burden him and I couldn't let on what Sara had told me.

As I sat at the kitchen bar in Crae's home, talk went on between Duke and a couple others. Duke told them that The Way was closely monitoring the Stauton gathering via the Greasespot website as updates were posted by Duke and others at the gathering. Greasespotters called the Way spies the Way GB. Ha! Duke said something like there was twenty-four hour round the clock surveillance? It seems he stated that the number of Way GB monitors was around 80 to 100?

Whatever the number, I had thought to myself, "That's crazy. The Way isn't that interested in this gathering."

But I dare not voice my opinion out loud. After all, what did I know. My knowledge as a newbie to ex-Way world was continually flipping back and forth. What was real. What were my thoughts. What were indoctrinated thoughts. What were lies. What was truth. I doubted so much of my own experiences, continually questioning myself.

After the opening supper, folks gathered out on the porch; all except for Dawson's mom. She sat at the dining room table indoors. She was never involved with The Way. Here was Dawson, her son, an ex-Way Corps grad who now was adamantly opposed to The Way. I understood that. Then there was her daughter, Willow and Willow's husband serving as Way Region Leaders, who just as adamantly (or more so) supported The Way. I understood that too.

I joined the porch group. I mainly listened as people shared various experiences. I commented a couple times. The main subject was talk about The Way and its dark side, of course. Mocking statements went around. The atmosphere reminded me somewhat of Way leadership meetings, where we would discuss others and our importance and the impact The Way had on the spiritual and cultural realm. I pushed that feeling aside; it was just me. This was different. It had to be. Most, if not all, the folks had exited The Way over 10 to 20 years ago.

I went inside.

For the next hour or so I sat with Dawson's mom. It was delightful. Our time together was one of the highlights of my weekend. I had met her before when she had visited Willow. She shared with me about her husband and her 5 children. We talked about Willow and her husband and their children. Willow's daughter and my daughter were still pretty good friends, even though my daughter had quit going to fellowships. Willow's daughter was still involved. Dawson's mom and I didn't discuss The Way.

Late Saturday night Crae, myself, Peter, and Nina sat around the fire pit and belly laughed. Oh my god. We shared different incidents from our year in residence together in the Corps. Crae and I had been good friends and had even gone Lightbearers together. The 4 of us were up until the wee morning hours. It was good exercise, that belly laughter.

The next morning some of the folks who had come in for the weekend gathered for a Sunday morning fellowship in Peter and Crae's living room. There were around 15 people. After the worship and teaching part, I didn't talk much. I mainly eavesdropped. I'm not a gossiper but I learn a lot by listening. Again Way faults, manipulations, abuses were being discussed. I understood their anger. I had enjoyed the teachings and worship part that morning, but the after-talk was wearisome for me. Again it felt like a Way leadership meeting.

I went upstairs and laid down and fell asleep. When I awoke, everyone had left.

Now I was back home, in my bedroom. As I relayed the incidents and my mixed feelings to my husband I said, "But their hearts are right."

That was immediately followed by, "That's what I used to say about Way leadership, isn't it?"

But this is different. It had to be.

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