Protected: Jesus Saved Me, part one

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Here Goes Nothing

I have deconverted from christianity.

 

It is so difficult to write that – not because I’m ashamed, but because it changes everything.

 

I have a story, a whole process that brought me to this point and I want to share it here. It may take me awhile to get it out, but it is coming. For now, it is enough that I’ve shared this.

The Beginnings Of Little Brother

On September 17 I had what we think was a high tear in my bag of waters that sealed back up. We assumed labor would start soon so we canceled our dinner plans that night. Nothing started. All week after that I was getting stop & start contractions/cramping, but nothing that seemed “real”. The following Saturday I went to the birth photo exhibit/nurse-in/birth story circle at Artprize. It was amazing and all the pictures and stories made me weepy and nostalgic. During the story time I started getting contractions and they continued as we walked Artprize. Eventually I wanted to go home and mop the floor, sure something was happening. When I nursed WeeMan down to sleep that night, though, they stopped.

Sunday morning I woke up with horrible heartburn. My shifting around in bed woke up WeeMan and he nursed for a while. At about 7am I felt a tinkle of liquid just as I had the weekend before, except that this time the tinkle turned into a never-ending stream. I sat around on the couch, surfing the net for a bit before having my first contraction at 7:45. They stayed six minutes apart for 45 minutes. The contractions were all in my back, but manageable. Then they jumped to three minutes apart, and then two minutes apart. I was swaying and dancing. WeeMan thought it was a game and danced along.

My midwife arrived probably as I was transitioning – contractions were just getting unbearable, I was nauseous and feeling incredibly hot. About 10 minutes (?) after she arrived my contractions changed. I could feel Atticus moving down. She started telling me to take off my underwear quickly (lol) & after just a couple of those contractions, I got on my hands & knees and bent over the couch. One long push spanning two contractions & he came flying out.

Little Brother, 7lbs 6oz 19in, was born after just under two hours of labor ❤

Password

I have recently published two password protected posts and expect to post a few more in the future. These posts are personal memories from the church I grew up in. I was torn about whether to tell these stories. I do not want to stir up trouble or use this blog to gossip. I do want to expose injustice. The level of secrecy and hidden injustice bothers me deeply and I believe staying silent makes me part of the problem.. After months of weighing the issue, I chose to handle it in this way.

1. I will not use names.

2. I will make my posts password protected. There are very few people (I can only think of two or three) to whom I would deny the password.

If you would like the password, feel free to message me. If you accept the password, please handle the information you read with respect for all parties involved.

Protected: More Sex Problems

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Protected: Sex Problems

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Rose Colored Daydreams

I often feel lost without my mother. I have few memories of her parenting to judge and emulate. After her death I spent many an hour daydreaming about what life would be like if she were still alive. The truth was, I didn’t have many memories of her and the ones I did have involved hospital beds and whirring machines. Curled up after a verbal or physical attack, I would tell myself that my mother was looking down and she knew. She knew I was hurting. She knew I felt desperately alone.  She knew me and even though no one else loved me, she did. I needed to believe that someone was witnessing my hell. I needed to believe that my mom would have been outraged. I needed to believe that my mom would have saved me. To this day, my memories of her are rose colored. In my mind she is a saint. She never raised her voice or became impatient. She never made a mistake or disciplined in anger.

I wonder if she would be proud of my gentle parenting choices?

I remembered something tonight, a story my mother would  tell of her babyhood. See she wasn’t raised by her biological parents; she was raised by her aunt and uncle. How this came to be was quite simple. For financial reasons, my mother’s parents needed a place to stay while pregnant with my mother. They stayed with my great uncle. After my mother’s birth they, for whatever reason, chose to let my mother cry in her crib at night. My great aunt was driven to tears at the sound of the baby’s cries. Finally she began getting up with my mother and walking the hallway with her to get her back to sleep. Night after night of this created a bond between aunt and niece. When my grandparents were finally ready to move out, my great aunt refused to allow them to take “her” baby away. Somehow she convinced them to leave her my mother.

This story resonated with me tonight in a whole new way. My great aunt was a gentle parent. My mother was raised by a woman who could not bear a baby’s cries. How could that not have impacted her? How could that not have made my mother gentle as well?

I would like to think that my mother is looking down and she knows. She knows how I refuse to perpetuate pain. She knows how I answer my child’s voice whenever he calls. She knows how I refuse to allow my child to believe himself unloved or disrespected. She know how I fail and try again. She knows and she approves. She knows and she is proud of me. Rose colored? Perhaps. But my mother was raised by a gentle woman, so perhaps my daydreams are not too far off.

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