Caught up - II

That summer was one of the best and worst I can remember. Best because I met my sister*, Mixee. We all loved her. But I love her the most. We are kindred spirits. But back to the story:

So, all of us girls in the neighborhood would hang out in the afternoons while the kids played. We'd chat, laugh, discuss, bitch, gossip (in a nice way). Mixee really was the most open (wiiiide open, KWIM?) one of us. Even though I knew the other girls longer, I connected with Mixee best. We both have white mothers and black fathers. She was the first black friend that I had since I joined the church. Go 'head. Read that last sentence again. I think I have to. I don't think I realized that until now. But the point of all this is that she brought out something in me that no one else up until this point has. I was so drawn to her because through her, I felt like myself again. My other sister*, S, pointed out that I was a totally different person around Mixee. I was raw and real and dare I say, fun.

It was the worst because I realized that the glass house I had been living in had some very serious cracks in it. Looking back, I thought I was above certain temptations. I am not going to go into details about that part. I'm not trying to create any mystery or excitement. What I will say, is that I had lost who I was. I had forgotten what it was about me that made me happy. I felt like I was trapped in my life. As a result, I stopped eating, smiling, socializing. All of it. I was depressed. Most of you might remember that. You know, the month where I lost 25 pounds? It ended up lasting for close to three years.

During that time, I felt overwhelmed and trapped with being a wife, mother, caregiver, manager, decision maker, all-a-dat. I wanted to escape. But I couldn't. I loved my fantastic husband. He really is amazing. I did't want to hurt him. I was committed to my children. I didn't want them to grow up as children of a mother that ran away. Those two things were really non-choices.

While in the course of therapy, I had an epiphany. As I was crying and discussing my situation and beliefs, the topic of religion came up. Here's how the conversation went:

Therapist: So right now, Patricia is being raised Mormon, right?

Me: Yes.

T: But as she grows up, she might choose not to continue to be Mormon. So, would that be ok?

Me: Ummmmm, yeah, I guess so.

I can't say that I believed what I had said. I knew that the answer I gave was the 'correct' answer. I knew that I was 'supposed' to say that she had a choice. You all know as well as I know, that there really IS no choice. It's expected. It's a given. Up until that point, I had always assumed that she would grow up and marry in the temple and have a million kids and be an active member of the church. I never asked her what she thought about this. I never even entertained the thought that she might want to do something else.

And then a couple of weeks later it hit me. Like a fucking ton of bricks! I DO HAVE A CHOICE! I can choose to go to church or not. I can choose. I mean, I do have agency, right? But I fought it. I doubted myself. I felt guilty. Like I was being selfish. Like I was letting my family down. Like Satan really had a grasp on me. I hated Sundays. I hated going to church. I hated having to see people and put on a show. I hated my life again.

What made me really stop going to church was the four hours of alone time in my house. Really. No one offended me. I didn't find out terrible things about Joseph Smith. I just plain didn't wanna. That's it. I kept up the illusion of going to church by only attending sacrament meeting. But I knew I wasn't fooling anyone. Not anyone who really was paying attention anyway. It was easy to stop coming to church all together when we changed wards.

I tried to attend for a couple of weeks. I really did. I intended to start anew in our new ward. It wasn't the same. I didn't want to have to be on my best behavior for people I didn't know or care to get to know. I didn't like to be the newcomer. I'd skip RS to go to my friend's house. Her backyard is adjacent to the church parking lot. (Psssst! wanna know a secret? Once, she wasn't home, and I stayed and talked to her husband. ALONE!)

That's the gist. I've skipped stuff. When I went to Hawaii, I had my 'first' coffee. I'm pretty sure it was on this day. It was an iced vanilla latte. I remembered quickly that I don't like milky sweet coffee drinks. I'm a black girl. (pun intended) It took me almost two years before I could get a cup of coffee and not feel like I had to sneak around. I've had alcohol. I like it. I haven't been shitty drunk once. Really Brandi. I wasn't shitty. Just a little buzzed.

So, why am I telling you bitches all this? It's my blog. So I'll do whatever the hell I want. That's why. There's more to this story. Like why I think I'm not just rebelling. And why I most likely won't go back. And why I am thankful for people who can present information in an unbiased, educated, respectful way. I'll tell it another day. Oh shit!! I forgot to tell you about one more really important thing!!!

It was a conversation/lesson in Sunday school that took place before I moved. I don't remember what it was about, but the person said something about being converted by the social aspects of the church. That eventually that goes away, and the person is left with nothing. She hit the nail on the head for me. Hence the title.

I'll finish this story but not tonight. I have to get up early to take my daughter to seminary.

*Let the records show: I do not have any blood related sisters. The aforementioned 'sisters' are my bestest girlfriends. They have held my hand and heart through the toughest times in my life. I love them with all my heart.