My New Tat–let’s get this conversation started

My New Tat–let’s get this conversation started

There go my hopes of becoming Young Women’s President. But seriously, it’s my first, and only ever, tat (Truthfully, I don’t want to be president of anything). I can’t imagine coming up with a reason to get another one, but to be honest, up until the last few years, I never thought I’d find a good enough reason to get this one. But I did come up with a good reason, and it has a whole lot to do with my recent absence from the blog scene. Come to think of it, it also has a whole lot to do with my recent absences from church too. Mostly though, it has everything to do with suicide.

I first got the idea for the tattoo after I took  my oldest grandchild to live with his father in Utah, and threw my daughter out on the streets. It wasn’t as cold-hearted as it sounds, though. I knew how much it hurt to have her son taken from her arms, and I knew the dangers she would be facing as a homeless female. I was at my wits end, and so was she, and I knew, just as she did, that hitting rock-bottom was a necessary step if she was to ever recover from alcoholism and drug abuse. Just before I helped her pack her bags in my Illinois apartment and board the plane to the streets of Utah where should be near her son, I prayed, I cried, I consulted with her father (my ex-husband), and then she and I talked about her suicidal ideation and the fact that she would need to address it if she were to come out of the upcoming chapter in her life alive. It was tough on everyone involved, and as a mother, I was terrified for the well-being of my only daughter. She was so lucky that the baby’s father was willing to give her the opportunity to have regular contact with her son. I knew that she felt her son would be better off without her in his life at all, but being able to see him regularly helped keep her going.

During my daughter’s tenure on the streets, I discovered Project Semicolon. As a writer and an English teacher, it was pretty easy for me to see the metaphor of myself as the author of a sentence that could have been over by adding a period, yet furthering the idea by adding a semicolon and going on. I thought of those times just before my divorce when I truly felt that dying was preferable to staying in an emotionally abusive marriage. I understood how my daughter felt, so I didn’t even hesitate. I called my daughter and told her, “We have to do this.”

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When she was finally on the path to sobriety, she was quite clear with me about the relationship between childhood molestation, religion, drugs and alcohol, and mental illness–all leading to her suicidal ideation. She was molested by a male cousin mere weeks following my separation from my first husband. This was about the same time that she was baptized, and her attacker was double her age. Although she was coerced, she went for years feeling as if she should have been able to stop the attack, so she told no one. At church she was taught about the importance of sexual purity and chastity, and of course, she was told that only those who were “pure and chaste” could enter into the temple to be married for time and all eternity.  In her young mind, she was doomed. It was no wonder that she frequently begged to go to Relief Society with me, instead of attending her Young Women’s classes. By that time, she had completely given up on herself, and reasoned that since she was already “impure,” she had no reason to keep up the charade. This was about the same time she began to joke about “going to hell,” and started smoking. I began getting regular calls from her school, too. She was skipping classes so she could sleep in after sneaking out at nights (she’d wait until she could hear me snoring–remember, I was a single mom). Of course, her nightly escapades introduced her to drugs and alcohol. She became severely depressed; who wouldn’t after all that? Her family knew what she was up to, and so did all the kids at school and church, so she developed social anxiety as well. She began avoiding everyone but her drinking/drug buddies.  Street drugs, alcohol, and even cigarettes became a sort of treatment for her depression and anxiety; it was a vicious cycle leading to addiction.

Recovery from addiction is an uphill battle, especially when you have no supportive family nearby. By supportive, I mean physically, financially, emotionally, and morally. Alongside my husband, my daughter is my very best friend, but for the past few years she has lived more than 75 miles away from me. Her recovery was spurred by the discovery of her second pregnancy, just months after she’d gotten herself off the streets. Before her baby was six months old, she divorced her new husband who was ardently headed in the opposite direction from her new path.

Being a single mom is never easy, I know that, having done it with four kids over a period of ten years, but she had complicating factors on top of those previously mentioned, including post-traumatic stress, no high school diploma, no car, a part-time job, and ADD exacerbated by drug and alcohol abuse. To make matters worse, she pointed out to me, studies have proven that even marijuana can cause permanent brain damage in adolescents, and who knows what damage has been caused by other drugs?

Despite the fact that she had gone back to high school, and gotten a job and counseling, she fought immense guilt. Day after day, as she struggled to get herself out of bed, put food on the table and diapers on the baby, find time for homework,  make sure her bills were paid, and get her daughter to daycare and herself to work (both without a car),  she heard that little voice in her head screaming, “IF ONLY . . .”

She was drowning in guilt, and I knew she was suicidal. In fact, she told me, she’d have committed suicide months ago, if it hadn’t been for her solid belief that no one would care enough to check in on her if she just didn’t show up for work or answer her phone one day, and that her baby could have been alone in her apartment for days before her mother’s body was discovered. It was devastating for me to contemplate this, but her daughter’s presence was the only thing keeping her alive.

I couldn’t stand watching it any longer, and despite the fact that I am not in the best of financial or living circumstances, I drove to her home (I moved back to Utah after finishing grad school in Chicago, so I could be with my kids and grandkids), and told her to pack up her things. She needed physical and moral support, and I was the only one willing to help; no one else has yet been able to accept that she is serious about giving up her past, including most of the bishops she’s had to deal with. The first thing we did was to get our tattoos.

Tattoos

It was a bit difficult for us to find an open tattoo parlor that looked clean and trustworthy. After all, despite the fact that I am a Democrat, I’m still a good Mormon girl, remember? We settled on Garage, Tattoo in Ogden, Utah. I told Thad, our artist, that we’d give him a shout-out, but more importantly, it’s a place where we were not questioned or harassed because of our religious preference, and Thad was friendly, understanding, and professional. As you can see, he did a great job. My daughter’s tat is on the inside of her wrist, where it is not visible to anyone but herself. It tells that there will be better days, and I hope the fact that it matches mine will remind her that I’ve got her back.

Mine is on top. I chose my quote from Shakespeare’s Hamlet, “To thine own self be true.”  It’s a bit of good advice from Papa Polonius that I did not follow until well after my divorce, and I am a much happier person now that I am doing things not to impress others or make them happy, but because it is the right choice for me.  It is on the outside facing me, where I see it constantly. I wanted it to be where my daughter could see it constantly as well, and know that no matter what, I’ve got her back.

I’m the ward chorister, so everyone at church can see it if they actually look up from their hymnbook while they are singing. I wanted it to be visible, because I want people to ask me about it. Unfortunately no one at church has, and I was afraid of that. After all, tattoos carry a very strong stigma at church. But I want people to understand how pervasive suicidal ideation is. I want people to know that the way they handle tough situations such as finding out they have a gay member in their ward, or learning that their teen daughter is pregnant, or even just reacting uncomfortably to someone because they are different, can contribute to suicidal ideation. I want everyone to understand that suicidal ideation is actually a normal response when bad situations feel inescapable and when people believe that no one understands, or wants to (especially at church). We have to be ready and willing to listen to another’s story without judgment and with compassion. We have to get beyond that religious stigma telling us that suicidal thoughts come from evil deeds, and we need to learn unconditional acceptance of others who make different choices from our own.

I LOVE having my little granddaughter and both of my best friends in my home.  Things have become a bit crowded and messy, but there’s a lot more love and laughter, and my daughter makes me get out and go on walks with her on a regular basis. She’s getting out of the house when she’s not at work, and I’m getting healthier. Most importantly, she’s got access to the things that are keeping her happy and functioning: people who will listen to her story and love her just as she is.

 

Congratulations!

Now EVERYBODY is free to marry the person of their choice.

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I learned about it on Facebook. I get more accurate news there, even if it is wildly conflated along party lines. The nice thing about Facebook is that I get both points of view, nearly simultaneously, and it is so much easier to get a clear picture that way.  After all, there are many sides to every story.

So this morning I got the post from a gay friend first. Next I heard from a conservative relative, and following that, this from my visiting teaching partner:

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Here is the complete text from the LDS Church’s press release:

“The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints acknowledges that following today’s ruling by the Supreme Court, same-sex marriages are now legal in the United States. The Court’s decision does not alter the Lord’s doctrine that marriage is a union between a man and a woman ordained by God. While showing respect for those who think differently, the Church will continue to teach and promote marriage between a man and a woman as a central part of our doctrine and practice.”

I don’t know my new partner well, and the conversation that followed proved it.

I couldn't have said it better.

I couldn’t have said it better. And so in the spirit of the day:

  #ProudtoLove

Consider yourself hugged

Oh, there are so many things I want to talk about today. I am so behind on my posts that I am full of things I want to write to catch myself up. And even though I haven’t really addressed issues such as abortion, gun control, housing for homeless, climate change, or feminism yet, I have decided to talk about something I talk about  a lot. Something that is near and dear to my heart: homosexuality.

Some of my family members agree in spirit, that homosexuality is not a choice; but none of them have any interest in joining any sort of campaign showing support to gay people. I can understand those who are afraid that their ward members might not understand, but this is not the case with my family members who live nearby. The reason for their reticence is very simple. As my conservative neighbor, who agrees with them, says, “I don’t march around telling people I’m straight; why do they need to march around telling people they’re gay?”  Wow. If it were only that simple.

Imagine this scenario. You were born with blonde hair. You grew up with blonde hair.  When you look in the mirror, you see blonde hair.  You can dye your hair and pretend that your blonde hair doesn’t exist, but deep down you know that your hair is blonde. People tell you that it’s not true, that you’re not really blonde. They tell you that they disagree with you about being blonde. They tell you that a loving Heavenly Father would never allow any of his children to be born blonde, and that you can stop being blonde if you pray hard enough.  People make fun of you, they tell blonde jokes and threaten to hurt you because you are blonde. They tell you that being blonde is a sin, and that you absolutely MUST give up your blondness if you ever want to go to heaven.

Yes He does.

You want those people to understand that what they say is not true. You want them to understand that you HAVE tried to pray your blonde away. You want them to understand that you’ve died your hair black, but the blonde roots keep coming back. You want them to understand that their words hurt. You will never tell them that you once thought that the only way to get away from your blondness was suicide. You have studied your scriptures, listened to general conference, and prayed, and there is one thing you KNOW for sure. God doesn’t care that you’re blonde, he loves you unconditionally.

I don’t exactly know what a gay person goes through, but there is one thing I know. I was loud and awkward as a kid.  I’ve worn glasses since I was two, and sometimes my clothes weren’t as stylish as the ones the other kids wore.  And now that I’m older, I’m fat too. I do know what it’s like to be bullied. I know the frustration of having studied hard and come to a true knowledge of a much-debated subject (like evolution and climate change), only to be told that despite my education, I’m STILL wrong. And yes, Molly, I even know what it’s like to have a firm knowledge of the Gospel of Jesus Christ and a deep understanding of His love for me, only to be told that I am not Christian because I am Mormon, or that I am leading people astray because I actually believe in any sort of god or book of religion.

It hurts to be misunderstood. It hurts to have loved ones tell you that you don’t know what you are talking about even though you know that you do. I have never been truly suicidal, but I do know that I would have been if had lived in a situation where so-called Christian family members teased, bullied and preached against me because I couldn’t see without my glasses.

I get it. I know why they have gay pride parades.  It’s the one time when GLBTs can be surrounded by others who are like them and have a chance to show that they deserve respect because they are human beings–and hopefully, they will be heard. I want gay people to know that it is NOT Christian to judge someone or say hurtful things because they are different. I want them to know that even though I am a Mormon, I never would have voted for proposition 8. I want to give them a hug and try to reassure them that there are Christians and Mormons who truly understand.

There is a gay pride parade in Salt Lake this Sunday, and I REALLY want to march with Mormons Building Bridges, or at least to help run the hugging booth.  I normally ride the train into SLC because our only car has black transmission fluid (it’s supposed to be red). We were told that the transmission would last longer if we don’t change out the fluid, and we really do need to wait until August so that we can get a good loan on a good car. But the train doesn’t run on Sundays. Family members who live close by just don’t see the need to go. My visiting teacher is marching with her family in the parade on Sunday, but her car will be full of family members, so I can’t ride along.

Blogging is my only way to participate this year, so I decided I’d better do it loud and proud. I’m a Christian. I’m a Mormon. I’m trying to be like Jesus, and love everyone just as he asked me to do. I hope you hear me.

Consider yourself hugged.

*** “Molly Mormon” is a term often used to refer to Ultra-Conservative Mormons who adhere strictly, and often blindly, to misunderstood or outdated teachings of the LDS church.

“This is not the God and the Christ that I Believe in”

I may be a late-comer to the bandwagon on this issue. I found this just two days ago as I was taking a closer look at Jim Dabakis’ website. And as I read, I knew I could not remain silent.  Dabakis  is pleading for help because this is an LDS issue, and Dabakis is not LDS.  But Dabakis is gay, and I am not.  I may not be able to completely understand what a gay person goes through, but I think I can understand what a gay person in the church goes through.  Especially here in Utah.  And when one member of the church sends anonymous letter of condemnation to another member, there’s a serious problem. This is the third or fourth letter of this kind, and the recipient’s sister explains:

Erik is an active member of the ward.  I’m assuming he hasn’t been to church in a couple weeks so the author must have assumed he had left the church. The letter was left on my parents front door in a plain white envelope. My parents as well as Erik live in South Ogden. This is the third or fourth letter left for him. It greatly upsets my parents.

The letter:

Left on the doorstep. And NOT THE FIRST TIME

The words I have to describe this horrific letter are inadequate, but let me give it a try.  Aside from the vile rhetoric in this letter, there are three glaring problems with the author’s argument: Continue reading