Into the Mysterious Dark

It's hard to call myself Catholic , at least as it's understood in the treacherous, deceitful, dark, and perverted way it is being viewed, and in so many ways proven to be, in the US right now. Even if it weren't riotingly painful for me to discuss the sex abuse scandals, there are so many infuriating discussions right now that warrant otherwise. Needless to say, one of them is the virtual civil war dividing cardinals, bishops, priests, and lay people alike in declaring the issue to be latent homosexuality, instead of sick, pedopheliac perversions as they actually are (or just plain ol' hetero perversions that we're all far too familiar with). And blaming any and all popes, especially Pope Francis, in a terribly obvious ploy for power and attention. Amidst these discussions are the random shouts of declaration that "These terribly treacherous things are not why I'M Catholic!" Maybe I'm just embittered (if I'm honest, there's no maybe abo

I am in tears as I write this. Pope Francis' homily today has taken the rusted knife already stabbed into my side from these sex scandals overhauling the Church and has twisted it, all while he begs relief from accusations and places yet another layer of blame on the victims. So today I ask myself, what do you do when your father abandons you? What do you do when the only earthly embodiment of a paternal figure you have ever had has turned on you, a sex assault victim, and has left you out in the cold? What do you do when the last safe place you had has turned into the very hell and nightmare you have fled? You scream. You curse. You demand better of God, because He is the only One Who can provide it. You flip Him off, shouting and sobbing until your lungs are sore that you can't take any more hurt. You can't take any more reminder that you are a burden on those who violated you, both by their actions and by their standing by and watching, simply because you are a

In light of recent events, more horrifically awful and satanic and demoralizing than I can possibly comprehend, I wanted to pen a few words. They are regarding the flurry of activity in defending the Church and its precepts in the face of such an unbelievable and disgusting revelation of some of the worst kinds of violation on every level and idea. Now, I will say this: I am a Catholic. I am still a Catholic, and by the grace of God, despite losing my inner repose, my sleep, and my appetite in the face of these recent events, I will remain one, my heart, mind, soul, and body grafted onto the Eucharist so closely that leaving Him would kill me. But I am also the victim of a sexual assault; a violation that took place when I was a very young child, too young to understand its evil until I was much older and more ready to handle the pocket of Hell, self-hatred, and pain that came with it. My nausea is not just in the face of the details of these people's stories of trauma; it is als

I'll cut straight to the chase today, not having the patience to write a hooking intro.  My decided topic today:  I'm sick of chastity talks, and the chastity movement.  Here's why.  Other than the obvious, that they are more concerned with preaching abstinence (the dry turkey sandwich of the teachings on sexuality going around right now), the biggest issue I have with the chastity movement is that it still addresses, much like its promiscuous adversary, the human person as an object for claiming--as fresh ground to be marked for one, and only one gardener (note that it's women who are always designated the untainted soil, because male virginity isn't a topic worthy of addressing, apparently) while completely missing the point of teaching healthy sexuality in the first place:  You are not an object, and you shouldn't treat yourself, or someone else, as one either.  "Think about your future spouse when you're out on a date with someo

Speaking on the phone the other day with a friend of mine, one of the few who knows all the ins and outs of my current novel-writing adventures, she asked me, "Is this going to become a series of books, once you're done with this one?" The question took me aback, for more than one reason, and spawned enough introspection to justify a blog post. I mean, for years I was convinced I would never finish this story, and now that I'm SO close to its end, I felt the need to self-indulge in some writer-introspection. We've all heard it, whether you're a writer or not: "You're going to starve. Writers don't make anything." "That's nice. I'm sure you'll do well." (Insert a stifled gag at the obvious patronizing.) "You know, it's nearly impossible to get into writing now." "I could never do something like that. That's...great." The older I've gotten, and the more I've written, the more I

As most of you have seen, a couple of days ago, I posted a blog about the issues of treating mental illness, suicidal tendencies/ideation, and depression by purely spiritual means. The response to this post was surprising, to say the least. When I posted it, it was more nervewracking because of how exposed I was willingly making myself, but I posted it anyway because I hoped in my heart of hearts that it would touch somebody else who had experienced the profound guilt and misery at not being healed of their torment by faith alone. There were responses of that nature, and they filled my heart with profound sadness and simultaneous love to know that my dark past can help someone, and I was glad I'd shared it. Other responses, however, were not so favorable. This post isn't to call those responders out, or to be petty or cruel and trash them. That is not, nor will ever be, my intention in posting ANYTHING on my blog. There are, however, several ideologies and lines of thinkin

Let me start out by saying two things: one, I have been suicidal off and on from the time I was 6 years old; two, no, this post is not a cry for help or attention. I have dealt with my demons and wrestle them daily, and you don't need to worry about me. (Really; I use homeopathic anti-depressants and have been to therapy, and I have several emotional accountability partners who check on me constantly). But in the light of Anthony Bourdain and Kate Spade's passing, and the horrible things people are saying about them (from a supposedly "Christian" standpoint), I cannot in good conscience sit back and not share my own heart in the midst of these things. As you small group of my readers know well, so many of my posts are fueled by anger or outrage, or both. This post is not an exception. You may be wondering, what pissed me off this time? Why, the homily a deacon at my church gave this past weekend. Let me give you a brief glimpse into what he said, verbatim: "I

Here you have it. A handy-dandy list of what NOT to do when someone confesses body image issues. 1.) Don't gasp, shout, wail, or sob. Alright, I know these sound dramatic, but let me tell you, coming from someone with severe body image issues myself, this rings true across the board. Be EXTREMELY sensitive of how you react to someone who is vulnerable enough with you to tell you about their insecurities with anything, but most especially with body image issues. The smallest overt reaction of any kind, be it horror, shock, or dismay, will come across to the person as a reaction to themselves, not what they're saying. It takes a special kind of strength to be able to confess these issues out loud, especially for someone who has lived with these incessant lies in their ears day in and day out. Your reaction of shock may be a legitimate one, being that you could never imagine this person thinking of themselves as ugly. I completely understand that. But YOU need to understand

I spent most of yesterday afternoon seething in anger, pounding my steering wheel in rage and biting my lip until my whole mouth ached. Why I was angry doesn't matter. Once I calmed down enough to think clearly, I reminded myself that it didn't matter why. I was angry, and that that was okay, and that as long as I didn't decide to plow into the wrong direction of traffic because of my anger, there was nothing wrong with letting that fire pound through me in my emotion.  It's sad how often I have to remind myself that anger, in and of itself, isn't a sin.  It's also sad how often I have to remind myself that this isn't my fault, my aversion to the natural inclination of anger.  I can hear your inner questions now, dying with curiosity to know why I was angry. Is that just because I'm female? I know that sounds trite, but really think about it. If I were a man writing this, and I wrote about the subject of anger, how would you react to his

I vividly remember the Good Friday when I first experienced the haunting reality of that day. I was 12, and per my mom's annual tradition, she stayed home from work and we kids stayed home from school. Being old enough to understand what the Passion was, but not yet old enough to have seen the film that bore its name, I remember wandering through that day in a foggy, grey area of subconscious sorrow and intellectual consternation, having no idea why that day felt so heavy. I was always told it was of grave importance, but I'd never felt it like this before. I knew that Christ had died (it wasn't until years later that I knew He'd died for me , as though He'd come only for me), but the earth's soil lapping up His blood, the ground splitting open in rage, and the skies weeping down their protest hadn't yet touched the dark, ignorant caverns of my soul's eye. My heart was still encased in deep, impenetrable ice, and I didn't know it yet. There w

You would think there would be a strange comfort In finding so many women who suffer as you do Women who are woken in the middle of the night Hyperventilating Screaming Cursing At facing the same tainted face in the mirror As you do. You want to throw your arms around them Provide them comfort you can't give yourself Because no one should live the way you do. No one should torture themselves the way you do. No one should hate themselves the way you do. No one should wish to disappear as you do. There's no longer such a thing as Hiding from triggers. They are Everywhere. Time passes, and it does start to help. You can broach the subject And not feel suffocating fear at who will hear you Because they understand. They know that fear, too. #MeToo, they all say And you weep not because you were alone But because we were all alone together. And you have never wanted to take revenge more In your entire life. Vengeance is mine, says the Lord, And you turn y

Since I was conscious of myself as a person (which was at the very ripe age of three years old), I have been aware of the shape of my body. It couldn't be helped, really. Nevermind the dark period of my life when I was six years old (detailed in my recent blog post,  "Chastity Talk from a Rape Victim" ), which certainly didn't help. I was always very aware of the shape of my body. Like any young girl, you wait eagerly for the initiation of breasts (which was a total let down; they're so annoying and a total pain in the butt). There was always this fascination with who I was, in the shape of my person. When your awareness of your placement in the world in an existential way comes at so young an age, you find yourself examining everything about you and the little world you inhabit in great detail. The first time I was made fun of for my weight was when I was six by my cousin and his friends. Looking back, I know that I didn't weigh any more than the average si