Spiritual Abuse

December 28, 2017 By HallieZ Leave a Comment

Under My Umbrella

Unless you were raised in fundamentalist evangelical Christianity, you might not get this, but I am going to try.

There is a teaching about an umbrella.

Yes. Like, “under my umbrella, ella, ella…” anywho…

This umbrella embodies the spiritual covering, the protection that your father, your husband, or some other man has over you.

When you submit to this covering, this umbrella, your dad (or whoever) has over you, EVERYTHING WILL BE BLESSED!! This is because you’re obeying Jesus, who clearly said in the Bible, “thou shalt have a huge umbrella over your head, and that umbrella shall be called man”. (that was my sarcastic voice, FYI. Obviously, this is not something Jesus, or His Father said)

When I left my husband, I got the distinct impression, that to some men in my life, I was fair game. That since I had walked out from under the protection of my husband spiritual umbrella, I was now subject to theirs. As I investigated this topic, in the years before I left my husband, I had realized this was not a scriptural concept at all. It was a concept made up by men who wanted to control women and have power over them. This is very sad. This is also very sick and *&$@ed up. This is NOT a Jesus sort of thing.

Yesterday and today I was asking God to help me find an image of the protection God has given me. The negative words, judgments, statements, and beliefs about me are many. Most of them have come from trusted men in my life.

I walked into the shop today, and as I was browsing through the cards I saw this. Water collected in my eyes. This was exactly what I had asked for. The title of this piece is “Speechless”.

I may speak. I may not. But I do believe I am covered and protected with an umbrella of LOVE.

“Speechless” by Catrin Welz-Stein.

If you wanna read more about the umbrella nonsense, I liked how this girl wrote about it. And she’s got a special diagram, too!!

December 18, 2017 By HallieZ 9 Comments

christmas ramblings on shunning

Sometimes I think about what it is like to be shunned. I really don’t like thinking about it. Even as I write the word “shunning”, I wonder if that’s the best word to use. The people who are shunning me keep saying they’re not shunning me.

As if saying that they are not, makes it not so.

If, however, it looks like shunning, and smells like it, and meets the definition… I suspect it is, indeed, shunning.

Sometimes, I’d like to know what they’re doing. Are they practicing “church discipline”? I’m not even sure what that means. Especially since they’re not my church, they’re my family. Are they “protecting” their family? I can’t imagine what they’re protecting them from since I’m dangerous only in the sense that I believe every person is a human with their own brain with which to make decisions.

Maybe that is, in fact, the most dangerous thing, maybe that’s what we all need to be protected from, people who think for themselves. Maybe we all need to be protected from seeing the joy in life, the hope and freedom that comes when you take responsibility for your own life, for your own thoughts, for your own beliefs.

This is my second Christmas being shunned by my family.

My mother, my father, and my seven younger siblings.

This is my second Christmas missing out on all the memories, the moments that I longed for the many years I was overseas.

I wonder to myself will they even think about me on that day?

Do they remember their big sister, the first year she had a camera and took pictures of everyone? There were not a lot of pictures being taken for a while, maybe our family didn’t have a camera, maybe my parents were too busy with other things to think about taking pictures. Maybe they were too tired. I don’t know. But there weren’t many pictures of holidays for a long time, and then they were a lot, because I got a camera, and loved capturing all those memories.

I wonder if my siblings know how much they were in every beat of my heart, all those years. Do they know about the gifts I would plan ahead for each of them? How I thought about what cookies everyone would like to eat, and tried to talk my mom into buying more sugar and more butter, so we could make extra of the best ones, to store in big gallon jars under the butcher block.

I wonder if they remember the year I was in China, and didn’t have the money to send them gifts, so I wrote them each a letter, and asked my dad to print it for them. I was such a young mom… with two little babies… in a cold, new country. My littlest sisters were 10 and 12 by the, I think.

I wonder if they have turned me into a devil, or just someone who doesn’t exist.

They have joined forces to make me fear I don’t exist.

Unanswered text messages and un-return phone calls. Vacant looks when I run into them out in public. Did anyone ever really know me at all? Is the person I was for 35 years suddenly gone? How did they sleep at night? I can’t imagine the pain I would feel if I kicked my child out of my life. I can’t imagine removing my child from a family photo, from our family existance. I can’t imagine anything horrible enough that I wouldn’t answer my child’s phone call.

At night sometimes, one of my children will get scared, or worried, or just wake up for no reason. They will come to my bed and climb in. One of them in particular steals my pillow, she wants a warm one, that I’ve been sleeping on, instead of the cold one next to me, waiting for a kid to climb in bed.

I think about the authority that this child has, to come get in my bed.

Never imagining for a second that would send her away. Never imagining for a second that would say “you may not ever again climb in bed with me, no matter how scared or alone you are”.

I think about how that’s the way I approach God, kind of barging in to the space God occupies. Sort of expecting that when God said “I will always be with you, even to the ends of the earth”, They meant it with all Their heart. I just take it for granted that when They said “to the heights, the depths, nothing can separate you from my love”, They meant it.

If ever the love of God was to be found in the world, don’t you think we would find it first in the love of a parent?

Every time one of my kids climbs in bed with me, I imagine myself being parented like that, even now, a grown ass woman. I think about how I am worthy of being loved like that, worthy of being safe like that.

I’m so safe inside of love, so warm, so secure. And no divorce, no opinion, no fear, will ever be able to separate me from this love.

I often try to understand why I’m being shunned. I tried to understand why anyone thinks it’s OK to treat me like this. I don’t. I never well. I actually understand less every day that I’m further away from that kind of spiritual abuse. I was talking to my counselor about this, and the word mystery was used. Accepting mystery. It’s OK if I never understand. It’s OK if they kick me out forever. Its ok if they never actually see me. I will be a better parent to my own children.

The pain I’ve experienced in being rejected, is a motivation for me, an urge to push through pain, and to try to show up every day, in love, to be with my children.

I hate Christmas for the reminder that I have been rejected. I hate Christmas for the sorrow of identifying so much with Mary and Joseph. I hate Christmas for knowing what it’s like to be turned away from a warm cozy inn, full of life and laughter and warmth. I hate Christmas for that idea I’m supposed to be grateful they sent me to sleep in a stable full of shit

I love Christmas for the pain of identifying with Mary and Joseph. I love Christmas for knowing that my house will be full of light and love, and that no one will ever be sent to sleep in the shed. I love Christmas for knowing that love and light and joy comes from the homeless… the humble.

I love Christmas for the opportunity to embrace the pain and to push on toward healing. I love Christmas for the joy of embracing the sorrow, along with the good memories. I love knowing that it’s OK for me to miss them, it’s OK to hope they miss me, it’s OK to love them, and it’s OK to be inexplicably and wildly angry they put me out of my family.

I take a lot of comfort in the stories of people who live through similar experiences. I take even more comfort in the lives of the ones for victoriously move through these experiences. I take comfort from the people who put their arms around me, and acknowledge that the pain will never go away. And tell me I will be happy, and find joy again. They tell me to love my kids, and that will help to heal my heart.

I wish I had a moral. Or a solution with which to end this post.

It’s just what it is. I don’t like it. I don’t have a nice happy ending, because I’m still right inside of this moment.

There are far too many of us, kids of fundamentalist evangelical families, who have been put out of our families of origin. For them, who have comforted me in this season, I am thankful.

November 14, 2017 By HallieZ 10 Comments

You made me a feminist

I am a feminist.

You taught me that was a dirty word.

Mad-at-God, that word.

The most bitter of humanity, that word.

Rejecting all the beauty that was in me, a woman-child that word.

When did you plant the seed, I ask myself, elbow deep in suds, giving thanks for the gift of knowing how to dirty these dishes with real, wholesome food.

Was it when you held me at your breast, and fed me the gift of love and connection, belonging and health, in a culture that scorned you and told you to cover up?

Was it when you loaded us in the bike trailer, and I watched your brown, powerful legs take us to library story time, or helped you fill the back with groceries, and tucked the baby in safely, propped up with blankets.

Perhaps the seeds were planted when he marveled at your smarts, around the dinner table, or when you looked in each other’s eyes, and laughed, your strength together a wonder to behold.

There was a time, when you told me I could be, and do anything I wanted. Maybe it was then.

But I can pinpoint the time the seed germinated.

It was when you told me a higher education would be a waste “because you’ll end up a wife and mother and won’t be using your education”.

And then I think about when the seed sent out a tentative sprout.

When you used word’s like “biblical womanhood” but didn’t mention Deborah, or Abigail, or Jael.

When you preached Proverbs 31 at me but never pointed out that god/Jesus had NEVER EVER said that I HAD TO BE AND DO ALL THOSE THINGS.

When I couldn’t drive a car alone because I would be raped.

I mustn’t wear a swimsuit because my body was bad, my budding curves a delicious invitation to sin.

When you turned my friends away, because they came with boy parts instead of girl.

As I watched your joy fade, your enthusiasm wane, your exhaustion become one with our life.

You made me a feminist when I couldn’t have a job, because I’d smoke pot and I didn’t need a job because money makes you independent and god doesn’t want women to be independent. We NEED TO NEED each other. And I’d get raped.

And the seed sent out a stronger, longer lasting leaf.

When you told me that a woman was good enough to play a piano in Church, lead a worship song, teach boys and girls alike (as LONG as they were under 18). But ABSOLUTLY, she was too emotional and too weak and too small to say anything remotely resembling spiritual instruction if there were grown men in the room.

You made me a feminist when I crossed the ocean to come “home”, my small daughters in tow. On Christmas day, I watched you serve my teenage sisters the portions YOU thought appropriate, as you did every other day of their lives. Because they were too fat. And you couldn’t take a break from reminding them of their not-enough-ness, even on Christmas, for all the friends and family to see.

You made me a feminist when I learned you were weighing them to make sure they were losing weight.

I hid in the bathroom, that day, away from the laughter and the stories, the gifts, and what looked like my sister’s shame, but was actually yours. And I cried too hard to breath.

You made me a feminist when someone asked me how many, of the 8 children in my family had a bachelors degree. I said “ONE”. They asked “which one?” and I answered, “the only male child”.

I don’t know if a seedling is a good analogy anymore…

I think we have to move to a baby dragon, just hatching out of an egg.

You made me a feminist when I watched you push that woman to stay with her man, told her to submit, told her to cook better food, do her laundry more, pray for him harder… and all along, he was selling her body, and his daughter’s online. *

Perhaps you made me a feminist in the hours I spent, crying on the phone, just trying to stay alive. Your voice, a shred of hope, far away, but close enough to keep me fighting.

When you told me a girl has to have sex with her husband, whenever he wants. Because it’s his right.

You made me a feminist when I told you everything, shaken to the core, unable to go on. When I detailed the years and nights of trauma, the abuse and the horror, and you told me god’s command was for me to stay.

When you used the most intimate sorrow and pain in my life to prove to me that I was powerless.

You know when the dragon spread her wings, and breathed fire for the first time? When the dragon exploded into full feminist flame?

When you told me stay, and model the cycle of victimhood and base survival for my daughters. When you told me to teach my son that a woman is worthless and deserves nothing. When you told me my children would never rise up to call me blessed if I walked away from my husband.

You made me a feminist when you raised me to be a critical thinker, but brought the axe down swiftly when I used my brain to think thoughts different from yours.

I marched at the women’s march, and you judged me. You didn’t listen when I told you why.

It’s crazy, I think to myself, rinsing the last of the dishes.

You raised me so powerful and strong, you called out the deepest beauty in me, as a woman, and then you tried to crush it. I keep thinking “someday, I will understand”. But the truth of the matter is, every day, I understand less.

I am powerful. I am humble.

I am strong. I am weak.

I am feminine.

I am angry. I am forgiving.

I hold on tight to what I have. I throw it all to the wind.

I am a feminist.

And this is what you made me.

PS I If you want to know what I mean by feminist, I am using this pretty simple definition from Merriam-Webster

1:the theory of the political, economic, and social equality of the sexes

2:organized activity on behalf of women’s rights and interests

PS II If you are guessing I wrote this for my parents, you are partly right. I also wrote this for all the voices that lied to me and tricked me. I’d like to believe they meant well, but it gets harder and harder to believe that. I also think I need to say, speaking of the painful parts of life, and the things I have come to believe are not true in NO WAY erases all the true and good portions of my family life.

*This reference is NOT to my to-be-ex-husband. This is in reference to a Church leader who I knew very well, and a situation to which I was privy, as it unfolded.

October 22, 2017 By HallieZ 4 Comments

A Way Out

Love brings me a way out every. Single. Time.

I was working at an event this weekend, representing the company for which I recently started working. My brother owns this event, and I knew that some of my family members would be working there. I had emotionally prepared myself to see them, and, though anxious, felt pretty peaceful. The further we get into this being shunned thing, the more compassion I feel for them, and peace about seeing them in public. Maybe they don’t want my compassion, but they have it! Having EVERYTHING IN THE WHOLE WORLD figured out and BEING RIGHT ABOUT ALL THE SHIT is exhausting and unsustainable. Maybe it will work out for them, I don’t know.

So I was doing pretty well, better than I would have a few months ago.

Until.

My nieces and nephew walked by with an Aunt.

I last laid eye on them 3 months ago.

I last played with them more than a year ago.

I hardly recognized the 2 littlest. They certainly didn’t recognize me.

It was too much. Yeah. All the crying.

But what happened next?

Love showed up in a boss who offered me compassion and let me run away from my work for a bit.

Love showed up in a BFF who was already planning to stop and have lunch with me… timing ended up perfect, she got there right after I lost all composure, with a big, juicy burger. I got to sit in her van with her and breath and stuff my face and feel safe and loved.

Love showed up in a vendor/friend gifting me a massage in her booth… moving the pain and sorrow right out of my shoulders.

Love showed up in the lady who ran the booth across from me, saw me fall apart, and bravely asked me, a stranger, if she could help.

Love was there when I called my Grande and asked her if I could party with her on Thanksgiving, and she joyfully welcomed me into her holiday, warts and all.

Love interrupted my sobbing on the way home from work with a double rainbow that popped out for a just a second.

Things come and go in my life that feel to painful to survive.

I tell you this without reservation. When I stay open and look for LOVE, no matter what, it always finds me.

August 22, 2017 By HallieZ 9 Comments

My Depression in 3 Parts

I want to tell you a bit about my journey with depression.

Hello depression. Sucks to meet you
Maybe I’m better?
And… here we go again

It is scary to do this. Well, every blog post is scary for me. My experience in life tells me that vulnerability and telling your story will get you crucified. One of my life goals is to be vulnerable in a healthy way, and I really want to tell my story in a way that honors the stories of others.

I’ll just keep trying, one day at a time, and sometimes I will screw up, and sometimes I won’t, and I am going to daily choose to accept the grace and love and mercy that is offered to me as a gift, in my humanity.

Hello depression. Sucks to meet you

I’ve described her as a medusa.

Some people have had depression lurking about through most of their life.

Some meet it post partum.

Some people find that depression comes like a slow, creeping flood.

My depression came like a 20 foot tsunami.

I had been working off and on with a therapist for 2 years already, while I was living in China. We were working on a lot of different things, and I write more about that here.

Never had depression been on our radar, actually.

But then, there was a series of months, when my heart’s blinders came off, so to speak. The lens through which I had been looking at my world wasn’t clear any longer. The signs of trouble that I had been watching, recording, and trying to dismiss, could no longer be explained away.

I couldn’t leave China, to return to the USA for “help”, because, if I did, I would have to give up the adoption of my son, and that wasn’t an option for me.

The words “severe depression” were used over Skype, by a professional. For legal reasons, I couldn’t be diagnosed across state and national lines, via the internet, so we didn’t use the word DIAGNOSED at this time. But if I had been in the USA, I would have been diagnosed at that time.

This came in the midst of a depressive episode that had me virtually non-functional. I would get out of bed in the morning, get my kids fed, put a tv show on for them in my room, and climb back in bed. I would lay there, in a fetal position, crying, until they needed something, a diaper, food, whatever. I couldn’t answer emails. I couldn’t cook food. My body had moved into survival mode. I did JUST enough to keep us alive and keep my kids healthy, and no more. I wanted to die, but I loved my kids too much to leave them. In a way, they saved my life. Now I know this is a pretty common sentiment of parents with depression.

In China, SSRI’s like Zoloft (medication for depression) are available over the counter. I didn’t know where to get them, or how to ask for them. My therapist and doctor in the USA told me I needed to start medication ASAP, but it was really hard to accept that. It was also really hard to tell the Christians I knew that I needed help like this.

The religious culture in which I had been raised looked down on medication as ungodly and depression as something weaklings, with no faith in God, make up. This set a foundation of fear and anxiety that would take me a long time to unravel.

The expat Christian culture we were involved with never spoke of depression, unless it was a sort of “claiming” of happiness and feeling good. I had lived there for 7 years, and didn’t know of ANYONE who was on antidepressants, or admitted to experiencing depression. When I finally worked up the courage to call my missions director and tell her about it, she quickly said “if you had diabetes, and needed insulin, I would tell you to get it. You are sick, and you need medicine. TAKE THE MEDICINE!!!” I am forever grateful to her.

I asked a local friend to go get the medication for me, and she did. I remember her standing at my door, with the bag in her hand, and feeling like sobbing. I was screaming in my head.

“I am SICK, I want to be OK. I want to LIVE. DAMN IT, I WANT TO LIVE”.

Damn. It is really hard to write this.

The first pill on my tongue felt like a scream into a void, and like a tiny taste of oxygen. It felt like it might be hope.

There were a lot of people telling me it was bad to take this medication. Telling me I was sinning. Their voices piled on top of each other, and told me that I was weak and bad and small and unworthy of love or kindness, since I needed this medication. It hurt more deeply than I even know how to express.

I was in daily communication with 2 friends in America on a 3-way conversation app. They were one of my lifelines. I remember talking about the medication, describing the night sweats, as my body adjusted. I talked about feeling tired, and about the hope I was afraid to feel. About 3 weeks after I started taking Zoloft, something happened with the kids, that a month earlier, would have left me seething with anger. This day, I was level headed and able to deal with it. That’s when I knew the medication was starting to work.

At the same time, I was meeting weekly with 2 precious women to talk and pray together. We were all 3 pretty different, and a lot alike. They were the first people in my daily life to whom I disclosed my depression. At the time, they may not have understood fully what I was describing, but they showed up with love and compassion at a time when I needed that more than anything else.

Early on in this adventure, I knew I wasn’t going to do this secretly. I told everyone who wanted to talk about it what was going on in my life. I said that I was using medication for depression. I shared that I was having weekly sessions with my therapist. I spoke the words “I am not ok”. And guess what? A lot of other women weren’t, either. I found out that faith workers all over the world were going through stuff like me. I found out that most of us were on medication for depression and anxiety. It broke my heart for my sisters.

From my journal in July 2014

When you are a Christ follower, in the today’s western world, the dark places in your mind can be something

Taboo.

The elephant in the room

The-place-of-which-we-shall-not-speak

In those dark places…

The only things that gets you out of bed is your children’s needs, and love for them that drives you to movement.

Even the smallest mishap feels like a meteor just landed on your house.

Finding that you are 3 dollars short at the grocery story feels like the end of the world. Like, you ACTUALLY WON’T make it through this.

I look at the people around me in line at McDonalds

and the only words I can access are “f*** you”

Maybe I’m better?

If you don’t know me in real life, you wouldn’t know that I’m hecka granola natural. As in, the first time I ever took an over the counter painkiller, I was 18. I watched most of my 7 siblings be born at home, and I can make a mean garlic oil for earaches.

I have used supplement, homeopathy, and essential oils as my first defense for all manner of health related whatnots my whole life. I was tested for thyroid everything, did work on my adrenals, and on and on and on before I started using allopathic medication for depression. During the time I was on medication, I was also in the care of a naturopathic doctor, and using a wide variety of natural products to keep me going.

The year after we moved back from China, I was able to wean off anti-depressants. It had become very clear that the depression I dealt with was situational, a result of years of toxicity in my marriage and home.

The most frustrating side effect for me while on medication was weight gain. While using Zoloft, I gained about 40 lbs, and weighed more than I had even weighed pregnant! After I weaned off them, I was using supplements and eating really well, and was able to lose about 20 pounds.

During that year, my husband and I were doing counseling 1- 2 times a week with a local professional. It was amazing to have an in-person relationship with a therapist, and made me even more grateful for the work my counselor had done with me on skype for so long. I had a lot of hope during that time that we could find solutions to the issues that were a breeding ground for depression, and I truly enjoyed not being dependent on medication for that year.

And… here we go again

In late 2016, it became clear that my situation was not going to change. The toxic things that were happening in my home and marriage were not going to stop, and it was time for me to make the choices to change my life. This time, I recognized the signs of depression a lot earlier than I did the first time around. The anger, the fear, the sleepless nights. I was able to ask for help, and get it. I also filed for divorce. Once again, I chose to be open about what I was experiencing, and this time, the loudest voices against me came from my own family.

“demonic influence”

“poisonous chemicals”

“proof you are weak”

“lying about your experience”

“denying God’s sovereignty”

“rebellion”

Many more phrases and accusations were leveled against me by people I had trusted and loved. It hurt more than anything I had been through in my life, but not as much as staying in the place of darkness and fear where I had lived for so long.

From my journal Aug 2016

I can’t find you, right now, in this situation

in my agony

in my heartbreak

in my loss

I know you are here, I know you are with me, but I can’t feel you. I can’t touch you. I can’t see you. And my heart screams

“did you leave me?”

“am I alone”

This week I am letting go of the things and the one I love. I am letting go of my hopes and dreams. My heart is shattered, and I can’t find you.

At this point, I am on a perfect-for-me blend of anti-depressants, anti-anxiety medication. I also use L-Theanine, Vitamin supplements, and, when I’m on top of things, whole food diet to be healthy. I continue to have weekly session with my therapist, and I check in with lots of people who love me and know me well. I stay open about where I am emotionally, and I am daily learning to let myself feel the things I feel, and heal. My medical team has a plan that will lead to me weaning off the medications eventually. I am excited about that, for a lot of reasons, but I also know some people need to stay on them a lot longer, or maybe for many many years. It just depends on the kind of depression you experience, and what your life is like.

It is hard for me to use god-words, religion words, Bible words, at this point in my healing, because those are the words that have been used to slice through my heart and personhood with great authority and conviction. The words of their “god” have been used to manipulate and control me, and I have no energy for that nonsense any more.

I am deeply aware of those who have experienced spiritual abuse like me, and that friends I have can’t use god words either. I worry that if I use god words, I’ll trigger you, or scare you, or make you think I don’t love you, that I don’t want to be with you.

At the same time, God is so real and present to me, I have to try to find the words to express…

The DIVINE one, who knows and breaths life, hope, light, and love, has been in and around, over and above me my whole life. The presence of GOD throughout every phase of my depression has been undeniable. The words of Peter in the gospel of John stop me in my tracks on a daily basis “Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life, and we have believed, and have come to know, that you are the Holy One of God”.

From my journal August 2016

I am so tired. Sad. Tired of being sad.

I need joy-light to come into my head and my life.

Every word they speak is a land mine; their mouths breath out poison gas,

their throats are gaping graves.

Their tongues slick as mudslides, let their so-called wisdom wreck them.

But you will welcome me with open arms when I run for cover to you.

Ps 5

RESOURCES

If you think you might be depressed check out this quiz. AND TALK TO YOUR DOCTOR!

Overseas Religious Workers check out:

Careport Counseling

Velvet Ashes

What I’m Writing