So from my post yesterday I’ve decided to consider my words here:

“When I left the church I literally became an introvert, not my natural inclination. I literally went underground. If anyone thinks that spiritual abuse ends when you finally get up and walk out you are mistaken. It can get even uglier (depending on circumstances) after you walk away, even when you still call yourself a Christian. It can be brutal. I think this also can depend on one’s personality. I’m sad in so many ways for the days and weeks and years that I wasted grieving a world that never gave me a second thought after I left, while I sat on the computer looking desperately for help in Christian forums for the spiritually abused and hurting Christians which often can lead to further abuse. Ironic. I poured through books. Christian books, Christian authors who wrote about abuse, about legalism, about literalism, about denominations, about who is right and who is wrong, who is righteous and who is carnal.”

I’d like to climb back into this space to expand on this a bit. Yesterday’s post was a rant.  I’ve blogged about all that stuff years ago.  As the years go by though I often find myself shocked by the commitment of time and money that went into trying to sort it all out both intellectually and emotionally.  I’m not sure if I’ll ever be able to put words into the physical despair.  I always want to go there.  Always.  I likely will, probably have and can’t remember it and am too tired to bother looking through my archives for it.  Some of it will come out in my stories I will try to tell.

This post I think will be about the highlighted part above.

I noticed I typed the word “sad” in my above quote.  I’ve had a lot of sad in my life.  I remember when I wrote that word I wondered if I should change it to “regret.”  I chose sad.  After pondering it maybe the correct phrasing would be, “sad regret.”  Though I think most of us who regret are sad about it.  I want to paint a picture of who I am during those years in my 30’s & 40’s as a result of spiritual abuse.  I was devastated and wasted.  I was a stay at home mom with chronic illness and emotional stuff that was being poked day after day night after night year after year. In hindsight, bleak.  Our children were in school, Biker Dude at work, and I was alone for hours wandering in a house, a library full of books, Christian books, authors from various denominations and theological positions, and a dinosaur computer (though not at the time) that I turned to after reading the book The Subtle Power of Spiritual Abuse.  I found the forum that Jeff (co-author of the book) started many years ago.  This isn’t easy to admit.  I don’t like how I feel remembering it.  Tears well up in my eyes.  There were many years that I feel were wasted searching.  I was very much alone.

I developed social anxiety and a panic disorder.  I was suffering with *PTSD-like symptoms.  There’s more to all of this but will leave it at that for now.  One of my former friends use to say that God never gives us more than we can bear.  I use to think to myself, ‘Yes He does!’  I’d look around at my friends and think they’ve got their own burdens to bear that God allows.  I’m not adding to God’s load by sharing mine.

So what do I mean by “very much alone” . . . good question?  I think I mean I had too much time on my hands.  I wasn’t working out of the home (had my reasons) and what happened in the church paralyzed me with fear. There I was, stuck.  How did I spend my time alone?  I was a profuse reader and writer.  I took copious notes and studied.  It’s like I was getting ready to teach a university class or something.  It’s like I was trying to heal myself and heal the world all at the same time.  I was desperately looking for the one Christian truth that was true.  I didn’t know it was elusive.  I didn’t know squat.  Though I thought all these authors of books from then and now knew. Then I realized they all knew differently.  Then I tried to make the differences insignificant.  All the while there I am with my various Bibles at hand along with Strong’s and Unger’s and note books and note paper galore.  Ink, ink and more ink. Copious piles of ink and paper in this drawer, in that drawer, in the closet, in the library, in the desk, in the china cabinet, in the kitchen buffet drawers, in my Bibles, in my books, in my purse. The bookmarked websites, here, there, everywhere.  The underlining in my Bibles.  The notes in the margins.   The prayers. Oh the prayers.  Without ceasing. The prayers.  Prostrate on the floor, tears shampooing the carpet.  On my knees, sore as the knee caps bore the weight of this thin but often frail frame.

If Jesus can die by crucifixion I can damn well kneel to pray.  

Sitting on the bed gazing as the seasons passed by and sometimes not seeing anything but winter.  Page after page in my journal of poetry, things written meant for books, prayers wondering if this season, winter, would ever end.  The nights, in the dark, laying in bed, sitting on the couch, in the lazy-boy, searching the sky, the moon, the stars . . . grasping for Him. His truth.  The many spiritual baptisms in the tub and the shower.  Every moment, every cell, all Jesus all the time.  I never felt He left me.  I knew I had to keep praying, keep searching . . . the truth would come.  I’d find the right denomination, the correct exegesis, the true Biblical interpretation.  I’d find the people who were waiting for me, for our family.  God would lead.

In a very odd way the people who died at Jonestown just came to mind.  

I’m not churchless during this time.  Though we left the one church after years and walked away from our lay youth ministry, we remained.  I remained in church for many more years. At that time, I’m still surrounded by people, by activity, by shared beliefs and the hope that this church will work. Thing is, it was more of the same.  When I realized it, I walked.  But I still searched.  I, alone in the house spent hours everyday pouring through resources and praying.  The topic of spiritual abuse came out into the open. Books were written.  I read them all.

Picture me then.

I’m alone, curled up in the black computer desk chair in the computer room.  I read on the screen.  I glance at my Bible, I look outside, what season is it?  The clock ticks away the seconds, minutes, hours.  The kids will be home soon.  Didn’t they just leave for school?  You need to stop, to pull yourself away from this search, this place of pain.  You are alone here.  No one knows you do this.  God knows.  Yes.  Is there more to life than this?  Yes.  Did I miss it?  Yes.  There’s so much I missed by sitting there every day, my pacing the floor, praying, reading, studying, crying dehydrated tears, aching, sleepless, tormented, afraid, isolated and torn. That’s what I regret with sadness.  I stopped living.  I beat myself up for not being able to figure it out.  Everything became hyper-spiritualized. Everything was a spiritual war.  When I say I beat myself up I mean mentally and physically.   I felt like shit.  Listen, if you feel like that you are not living.  I use to be a fun loving person. 

Suddenly I found myself in an abyss I couldn’t climb out of but I didn’t know it at the time.  Part of me wonders if I’m still here in this blogging world for those who don’t know they are in an abyss.  Don’t hurt yourself. Don’t do it.  You are not shit.  You are not trash.  You are not stupid.  You aren’t.  Breathe.  Take a walk.  Pick up your camera.  Change the dialogue in your head.  I know it’s a huge task.  Take 10 seconds and change the dialogue.  It’s a start.  Find something that is creative.  I don’t care if your crocheting is crooked, nor should you.  Garden.  Paint.  Start a blog. Breathe.  Live.

• *I was eventually diagnosed with PTSD and later with C-PTSD which is complex trauma. Not just one event, but several, one on top of another. Many layers, having their primary roots in the first 20 years of my life. I’ve resurrected this post since it’s resurrection time in the Christian community and though my profile here is low, I am reminded of those who are still hurting and it’s my way of saying that I’ve been there and I understand from my own personal experience.

This posted has been edited from the original 2015 post.