Letter to an ex

Dear catholic church:

It’s been a while. You haven’t changed one bit! You still have the same manipulative face I remember from years ago. How nice! But, wait. Have you gained weight?

I must warn you that in this missive I recur to the use of expelatives. Please rest assured that still, like back in the day when you and I were one, I use them more for comedic purposes than as a form of insult. Except for when I’m trying to insult. Although, catholic church, I was never able to convince you of this quirkiness of my personality, was I? No; you frowned upon me and reminded me what an undeserving sinner I was being for using such words! Oh well. Also, I recommend you read this letter in a British accent because it is scientifically proven (by me) that Brit-speak makes everything sound ever more elegant.

It was a bumpy ride for you and I, wasn’t it? I hadn’t brought myself to organize my thoughts about you, until well, I did. And this is the culmination of my soul-searching, or what you would call my being heretic. Ah, semantics schmantics!

Have you noticed yet how I insist upon referring to you simply as catholic church? The reason for this is that  I don’t believe you, or the god you created for your convenience, deserve the courtesy of capital letters in your names.

You and I, catholic church, we go back. Way back. It all started shortly after I was born, with my christening. My parents brought me to you in an action based on love I’m sure, with the certainty that they were doing the best they knew up until that point. Even now I remember being quite young and wondering out loud why do babies have to be baptized, only to get for a response an obvious “to free them from original sin”. The unspoken implication that babies are filthy and awful until baptized stuck with me for years. Unbaptized baby? Gross.

Yes, catholic church, such is your appealing charm! Because — heaven forbid–  should we ever dare believe we are born complete, beautiful, perfect and amazing! No, no, no, what tragedy that would be. Besides, by setting “us”, the baptized, aside as true deservers of the grace of god you weed out the (ugh) unbaptized trash. You know, those poor lost souls that refuse to join your flanks, and need your fervent –albeit  condescending– prayers. If they only knew of the wonders within you! Because obviously, forming part of your ranks is guarantee of morality, never-ending love and compassion. Except for when it isn’t. Like when one of my buddies in church group ended knocking up his girlfriend, marrying her (because that is the law of god, of course!), only to beat her and abuse her physically and emotionally throughout their marriage. But serves her right because bitch must submit to her husband’s will, right? That’s what you told me in so many of the masses I attended.

And speaking of mass, I must admit this is quite the shaky territory for me. I spent many years resenting you deeply for the countless hours of childhood I lost every month in your pointless gatherings. But then, one day I realized I should be thankful! Yes, because sitting in church provided the opportunity to perfect the art of spacing out, talent which would later prove extremely useful in my need to mentally escape school, my other ex to whom I shall write a letter soon. But I digress. Back to mass. Oh! Before such an important detail escapes me, you know in your temples, those imposingly huge and life-like figures of the blood-dripping christ? Really. fucking. creepy. And totally unnecessary, if you ask me. As a child, more than once I had nightmares because of this. Your jesus terrified me. But then again, that’s probably what you were going for, anyway. Fear. ‘Cuz that’s how you roll.

When I hit my teens I was your perfect catch– young, insecure, desperate to fit in. You can’t deny the fact that I was a trooper:  Church group! Religious retreats! Special masses! Church fair! Worship concert! Raffles! I did it all, all for you.  But then, my dear ex, things started to, how shall I put this… not add up.

I think it all began with the money. Your constant need for money! It was difficult to quiet my mind when the possibility of questioning first took me by surprise. Why all the money if I thought that for the poor was the kingdom of heavens? I would shush myself immediately. The nerve of me, not trusting what these wise men (always men) say! Add to that the visible luxury in the Vatican, with its abundant invaluable works of art and gold, and the costs of rings, chains, and other pimp-like accessories so traditional in your pope and his bishops, and my stomach wanted to turn. Thoughts of Where is the preaching by example?! Where is the love for the poor?! assaulted me and left me scared. Many times I wondered if you were being greedy, but it wasn’t until too long ago I finally said it like it is: FO SHO’ BITCH IS BEIN’ FUCKIN GREEDY!

Then the falling-out-of-love continued when I noticed how you are with women. Why would it be such a terrible thing to have a woman for a leader, church? What is so threatening about a priestess? Is it just that you’re stubborn and set in your ways? Because even if you allege to have legit reasons why a woman can’t lead your troops, nothing you say will hold as valid in my book. Women are human beings, just like men. You’re just not being fair.

You’ve gotten away with so many things because you’re a sneaky bitch, church. Though I can’t  say the same about your priests. I won’t even talk about the idiot of a priest that served in my local church, who kept asking for money to fund “renovations” when the only renovation I kept seeing was  his pimped-out truck get even more pimped-out with wider wheels, full audio/bass system and whatnot. The same idiot that was later caught in a shady neighborhood buying cocaine. Maybe he was looking for something to dip his communion bread in? His masses were so boring I don’t blame him for wanting to put an extra kick to it.

Every sin I can think of I have seen embodied in one of your selected leaders. In the case of vanity, there was once a priest (or bishop? or something equally fucked up like that) that was standing outside the church after mass. When we were done talking with him, he extended his hand to have his ring kissed. Seriously. I recall clearly the instant awkward feeling of something being terribly wrong. Like I’m being violated. Not in a physical way, obviously. And I certainly don’t mean to subtract importance of the pain of those who have been physically violated, but that’s the most accurate way I can describe it. I don’t care if it was meant to be a sign of reverence, respect, or whatever (and why should I revere him, or anyone else for that matter?) . It was stupid and really disgusting, and part of me (the sane part) wanted to tell him to KISS THIS while offering my middle finger. Instead, I did as I was expected to. And I felt dirty.

I  also won’t talk about the part in which your asshole representatives, those who speak in YOUR GOD’S NAME abuse children, because that’s  like beating a dead horse.  Your followers remain blinded, as they know about this and do nothing. I give them the benefit of the doubt because perhaps they honestly haven’t awakened to the power in their hands to change this mess around. They still give you money without realizing they are helping fund these abuses, the injustice, the broken innocence of children. For the first time in my life, I feel free enough to say it: Your followers, those who give you money, knowingly or not, are paying to have children raped. Does that sound too radical, church? Because my intention is not to ruffle any feathers, heavens, no! It’s simply to put some light on the fact that, by ignoring, your followers are accepting. By sponsoring you they are sponsoring ANYTHING AND EVERYTHING you do, including rape. But I won’t talk about it, no.

The people who believe in you will say that I’m judging the entire institution because of a few bad weeds. They’re only human! They’re not perfect! Only god is perfect! (biggest lie ever, by the way). They still defend you, even when you have toyed with their emotions more times than I can count. Remember? All unbaptized dead babies go to limbo. Oh wait! New memo: There is no limbo! I could almost see your earthly leaders smacking their knee while laughing hysterically We fucking got them… AGAIN! Haaaaaa!

At this point I will be fair and say that obviously not everyone is bad, not everyone is awful. I’m sure many of your people live beautiful lives, put their money where their mouth is. I know that there is still some good left in you! And many out there still believe and cling to your every word. And you know what? That’s ok. If it helps them in any way to feel happier, fuller, with more love for themselves and others, then I’m genuinely happy for them. Sadly church, for a while now I’ve felt like the good are the exception to your rule. To put it simply, the impunity behind atrocious acts in your upper levels lets me know for sure that I did the right thing when I left you to never look back.

You must know today, church, it has taken me years to identify, disassemble and re-arrange so many patterns of thought you gave me. Precious, timeless gifts that I accepted without questioning, such as the story about Mary being a virgin, how the poor are the only worthy of heaven (which resonated in my head with guilt whenever I thought about the awesomeness of being a millionaire), the threat of burning eternally in the fires of hell, or the so many illustrative stories you offered on rape, killing your enemies, sacrificing your son if god tells you to– only you won’t have to because GOD WAS KIDDING. Psyche!

Something else you must know about me, church, is that after breaking up with any boyfriend I  had the habit of getting rid of any present he had given me. You were not the exception. I feel at peace that these pearls of wisdom will not be transferred to my daughter’s mind, at least not by me, and not by force of sheer, boring, monotonous repetition in your masses.

One idea that I’ll be particularly happy to not pass along is hell. Hell. Hell? You had quite the bunch of imaginative/drug consuming/lie telling/all of the above people writing your script! Too bad I don’t believe you any more, catholic church. Otherwise you could still bully me and threaten (or is it gently guide? Lines are so blurry with you I get confused!) me into behaving the way you want.

On the other hand, the idea of heaven was appealing– for a little while. Then, upon further contemplation, I concluded that it just sounds really fucking boring. So let me get this straight: I have to be a fucking boring prude all my life so I can continue being a fucking boring prude in the afterlife– FOREVER? Bitch. Please.

I know better now. My heaven is here. My heaven is now.

I look back and regardless of all the things that happened between us, I’m pleased to discover I don’t hate you. Hate is a word that I choose not to use often. I disagree with you. I do not accept any of what you, the church, represent. I have made my choice understanding that others will make theirs’, and that you serve a purpose in some peoples’ lives. I’m cool with that.

Yes, it’s been years since you and I parted ways — or, better said, since I severed you off like a gangrened, useless limb. If any of the stories I heard in all those church retreats were true, right now I should be stealing, doing drugs, sleeping around, and generally being an immoral, sad human being. Ironically, this is the happiest I have ever been in my life, church. I feel like when I rid myself of you once and for all, I found me. And, you know what? I really like me. In fact, I deeply love, respect and honor me.

Lastly, and pardon my forwardness, but may I ask you a favor? If any of your clan members feel the need, the call, or the obligation to pray for my soul, let them know that although I have nothing against such practice, they can completely skip any parts about “helping me find my path back to the heavenly father” and save themselves some time. He is not my father. How can you even know if it’s a father, why not a mother? Oh, right. Because you made him up.

I don’t blame you for our break-up, catholic church. I really don’t. I blame myself for not questioning before what was going on around me; the implicit messages you give; your need to use shame, fear and degradation to keep your herd in shape.

I don’t blame you because I know with all my being that our relationship shouldn’t have happened like this in the first place. Maybe if I had been given a choice — just like I was allowed to freely choose who to vote for, and who I will spend my life with–  there’s a chance you and I wouldn’t be exes. Maybe we would be cordial acquaintances, courteous to each other, with an opportunity to decide for ourselves if we want to mingle further. But I also know better than to dwell on the what ifs. I’ll just assume that you and I weren’t meant for each other. And, actually, that thought brings me peace.

For all of these reasons, I now give my daughter this gift. The gift of choice.

Yours nevermore,

Caro

P.S. If you’re a believer and read past the first bitch and fuck, I MADE YOU SIN! HA!

This is my sober mind, imagine if I smoked pot

So. I’ve discovered that being away from home opens a door to infinite possibilities, such as making up shit as you go moving yourself to look deep into your memories and get more out of them than you ever did before.

Let me see if I can explain myself adequately. Maybe you have a memory from when you were a kid, and when you think about that ‘x’ incident in particular, you always remember the exact same details, the same dialogue, the same feelings. Then maybe, one day you find yourself staring at the wall as you think about that ‘x’ memory again. Only this time, you magnify it. You amplify it. You go deep into your brain, seeing the ‘x’ situation almost as if it were happening in front of you. You’re suddenly  reliving that memory in its entirety. And that’s when things start getting interesting because by reaching deeper, you can access parts of that memory you didn’t even remember existed.

Except, are you really? Are you remembering actual happenings? Or are you remembering details you added to the story at some point in your life, things that now feel familiar –because you’ve thought them before– so now you’re assuming them to be true?

*Insert mystified look no less powerful than Blue Steel.

You see, here’s the part where I get all wtf/did that happen/what is real? and it all gets blurry as I question many experience from my life. Because, well, have they happened at all?

And this is the part where you go whaa..? I know it sounds weird. Bear with me.

My reason for constantly questioning reality starts with the fact that I don’t even know how to accurately define reality. If you tell me that reality is everything that’s real I’ll punch you in the face. Because what is real? If I convince myself over the years that when we were three years old YOU stole my favorite Barbie (you bitch!), if I get myself to honestly and with all my being believe what I say when I accuse you of such action, will it matter that you deny it? Will it matter that you try to reason with me into thinking otherwise?

No.

Because maybe you don’t remember when you stole it.

See? SEE WHAT I MEAN? A person convinced of their truth will find a way to make their truth THE truth (side note: Hey! This fucking sounds like religion!). So yeah, what if I just keep telling myself that you don’t remember what happened, that you must have buried it deep inside because you felt so bad. But it was totally you. And it’s ok, I forgive you.

What if I repeat the same Barbie crime story over and over until you start doubting yourself? What if my conviction is so strong you find it harder to deny there may be some truth to what I say? What if, eventually, I convince you to the point where you start having memories of when you took my Barbie? Yes, that Barbie THAT YOU NEVER TOOK.

To quote a study on real, implanted and fabricated memories:

A questionnaire was sent to participants’ parents asking about six highly emotional, stressful events (e.g., serious animal attack) which the participant may have experienced in childhood. Next, across three sessions, interviewers encouraged participants (N = 77) to “recover” a memory for a false event using guided
imagery and repeated retrieval attempts. In the first interview, they were asked about
one real and one false event, both introduced as true according to their parents. In
two subsequent interviews, they were reinterviewed about the false event. Finally,
after the third inquiry about the false event, participants were asked to fabricate a
memory report. Results indicated that 26% of participants “recovered” a complete
memory for the false experience and another 30% recalled aspects of the false experience.

Read full study here.

Are you now as fascinated in the subject of reality as I am? Because if you’re not I’ll have to keep repeating how you’ve always found this subject amazingly interesting… until you start remembering how it has always fascinated you. *snort*

Do you see what I’m getting at with all this seemingly nonsense rambling? It’s perplexing and it makes me wonder. I wonder about how many people will sit in jail for years because of witnesses who remember clearly their face as the aggressor, when they really weren’t. I wonder about how many adults live bitter lives drowned in a memory of unhappiness or abuse when maybe, just maybe, it’s all an idea that sprouted out of control until no longer distinguishable as a myth.

If I focus too much on these examples, it all becomes overwhelmingly intimidating, borderline terrifying. But then there’s the other side of the spectrum, and I also wonder: I wonder if there are people who have used this particular potential of our mind for their benefit, for creating memories of a happier life, for erasing that which they want no longer as part of their story. I wonder if the mechanics work the same in this approach, and if there is a point where it is no longer ‘denial’ and it becomes absolute truth.

First we have a lie — the one we tell knowingly, in full understanding that we’re deceiving (by little or much), usually with the objective of getting something in our favor; and then we have the stage of really believing the lie we told, at which point it is no longer a lie, but our reality. The line between both scenarios is blurry at best.

An innocent example: We visited Stephen’s parents in December ’08 and Stephen forgot one of his coats at their place. Months went by, and the next fall we found ourselves planning another trip to visit them. “You’ll get to pick up your green plaid jacket” I reminded him. Reminded. As in, I had this perfectly clear visual in my head of his green plaid jacket. “Plaid? I don’t own any plaid jackets” he dared challenge. Me. Challenge me! Oh no he didn’t!

“Yes you do! Remember? The one you left at your parents’! You forgot already what it looks like? JEEEEEEEEEZZZ” and the man, as stubborn stoic as always, refused to admit that I WAS RIGHT AND HE WAS WRONG. Because of course I had to be right. I remembered that jacket clearly.

Lo and behold, we arrived at the in-laws’, nine months after our last visit, to find…. an all-green corduroy jacket he had left behind last time.

I don’t know how to describe how weird I felt when I saw the jacket. It wasn’t plaid, as I had sworn it was. It was plain. Solid color. What kind of a fucking glitch in the system made me change– in my head– what it looked like? And why? We can agree that this isn’t something I was doing to serve me a purpose, I couldn’t care less if husbando has green, plaid or fluffy pink jackets. So, why did this happen and, more importantly, WHAT OTHER MEMORIES DO I HOLD AS ABSOLUTELY TRUE THAT MAYBE AREN’T?

My head just exploded.

Random thought

Is the spork the bisexual of cutlery? Or is it more of a hermaphrodite?

I’m confused.

Passion, story-telling and Isabel Allende

Chilean writer Isabel Allende is what I can best describe as my girl crush. I grew up listening to her name on the news, seeing her books in the stores, and overall wondering what the big stink about her was. Her book and best-selling sensation The House of Spirits was published the same year I was born, so you could say that I was familiar with the name from a very early age.

For the longest time I grouped Allende and all her books under the category “stuff my mother would read”. That wasn’t necessarily a compliment.

It was until about six months ago, now that I live two countries away and I find myself missing all things home-related, that in a streak of nostalgia I decided to give Allende a chance. Of all places, I came across her book Picture in Sepia in our local library. The book was in Spanish (her and my first language). I? In bliss.

If you haven’t read her novels, I encourage you to give her a try. All her books are available in English and, in my opinion, very much worth your time.

Listen to her tales of passion. I did, and now I’m off to a good day.