March 15, 2005

• I keep thinking about the concept of Father God, Abba. It seems that Christ always called God, Abba, except when he was on the cross and quoted the Psalm beginning My God, My God why have you forsaken me.

  
  

  When it comes to God, sometimes it is easier for me to look at God as a distant authority figure, a discipliner. Even when I was fully into the occult, I had difficulty with mother goddess as well. That kind of intimacy with a father or a mother was so absent in my life that I feel very akward in dealing with God in those terms.

  
  

  I am often envious of others who seem to have had the blessing of a loving home. Even my kids sometimes send me up the wall when they complain about how hard their lives are, they have no idea what a hard life is. Their idea of a hard life is having to do homework, maybe being refused the chance to go someplace they want, and being made accountable for their actions. They do not have to face what I faced every day growing up.

  
  

  Haven’t written much about my past lately, and am feeling like a bit should be shared. Perhaps it will help others to see that it is not always disobedience or rebellion when a person has difficulty dealing with a loving God. My feeling is that God understands the hurts and pains, and makes allowances, at least I hope He does.

  
  

  A bit of pre-history.

  
  

  Both my parents were alcoholics. My father was a mean, angry drunk, and my mom would hide her alcohol, starting to drink from rising until sleeping. But she would be more likely to pass out than to rage.

  
  

  I knew from day one that I was not wanted. My sister told me that my father pushed my mom down a flight of stairs when he found out that she was pregnant with me. She stayed out in the cold until he passed out and she could come into the house.

  
  

  I think that early on I learned not to cry. My mom told me that my father, when I was six months old laid me across his lap and beat me because I cried when he yelled. I remember once holding my first son at six months and looking at him and trying hard to figure out how a person could beat someone so helpless as a baby.

  
  

  From the time I could toddle I learned to be very wary in my house. My father would come home at all hours, raging. I had to learn hard how to smile at the right time, not to cough during TV shows, to say the right thing and not be noticed or make any noise whatsoever. And even being asleep at night was not safe. One night he took exception that I was sleeping and came in, dragged me out of bed by my hair, spun me around and slung me across the room. He had a handful of hair, and I was up against the opposite wall of the room.

  
  

  Most of my life I was wearing long sleeved shirts to hide bruises. And when they said that if I didn’t do something they would kill me, I know they meant it, there were three attempts on my life before I was in school, one by a knife, one a bullet, and one being choked until I passed out.

  
  

  At school I was the odd one out. People knew I was different, and that caused a lot of problems. Teachers noticed and made comments on report cards. I had to hide out at school, pretending to be like a kid, but the kids knew I was a fraud, so I was terribly alone, one of the two or three kids that were so different in a classroom. And kids can be brutal. Perhaps the one thing that I discipline my kids the most for is when they make deragatory comments about each other or are mean about another child. Then they get grounded big time.

  
  

  My parents would also fight among themselves. I would often wake up and hear their arguments, the throwing of things, and shake in terror, wondering if I would somehow be dragged into the fight. And if so, would I know the right thing to say, whose side to take, etc. If my father threw something at me I learned not to duck. If he beat me I had to cry the right amount of tears, too few or too many would gain further beatings. I had to learn not to react or show my fear.

  
  

  My sister and brother got out of the house before I was old enough to remember them. They would come to visit, but not stay long. I found out later that they too were abused but not to the extent that I was abused.

  
  

  From early on my father could not keep his hands off of me, but the worst of the abuse was yet to come. He would paw my body, find bars of soap between my legs when I was in the bathtub, but I had no inkling what this was all leading up to. Anytime I was near him I was in terror, so I did not know that he was pretty much preparing me for future actions that would be awful. My mom knew what was going on and would give me advice like pretend you don’t see him calling you over to the sofa, etc. Advice I couldn’t take unless I wanted to risk my life. So not only did I have to handle awful touch, but I also had to handle guilt placed on me by her words that I couldn’t comply with.

  
  

  She also would report to me in great detail the horrors she had to deal with in the marriage bed, and the whores my father slept around with. She was quite the detective, calling to see if she heard his voice in the background, finding match books, etc. And she laid even more trendils of terror by how she had me relate to him. Pretending to be my friend, telling me to drop to the ground, crawl to my room, and pretend to be asleep if my father came home at night. So the crawling and pretending got to be terror as well.

  
  

  There were no grandparents around or any other relatives. And as typical of an abusive household, very little interaction with others. But the neighborhood kids thought my father was the greatest for he gave them candy when they ran to meet him. Only I knew the terror inside the house, and I really felt as if my life would be in danger if I spoke one word of what went on. But again, this is the ok stuff. What went on from the age of 8 on was way worse. And it was at the age of 8 I gave up on God.

  
  

  Now if you just look at the above, what kind of image of father God would you get? You would have an authoritarian figure, a brute who would strike out in rage. One that you had to placate with works, do the right things, or be hurt. Mother would be no better, for often her intervention only served to make the father go into a rage. This is a God you would not want to attract the attention of, you would tiptoe around, and you would frantically seek the right words and phrases around. Legalism would be very comforting because you would know where you stood if you followed a massive set of rules. There would be no love, kindness, gentleness.

  
  

  People talk about surrendering to God. As a child I had to surrender to what my parents wanted, but it was not for my best interests, it was to control, manipulate, and for their own self-gratification. So I have to struggle hard to see that God is not like them, that any surrender is for my joy and peace. The lessons of childhood are not always that easily undone.

  
  

  Have to get off for now, but I am curious if this sort of helps explain why things can be difficult for one who grew up in abuse. I know it is not an excuse, and that I have to sort through these things and gain a truer picture of God, but sometimes it takes longer than people feel it ought to, because the damage is so deep.

  
  

  Heather

  • 2:11 pm
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