Shunning

Adventures in Recovery ~ Sending Out An SOS

December 2, 2010
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by Calulu

A few days ago I got an SOS call from work. Rosie called with that most dire of all emergencies, they were out of toilet paper. Where’s Mr. Whipple when you need him?

Since we’re an artsy bunch we’re not the most practical and we tend to run out of things or have massive fail on things practical. During my fundamentalist years I used to beat myself up internally about my lack of domestic ability and interest. Now I realize I’m simply hard wired very differently than the perfect wives and housekeepers I knew at church. And that’s okay.

Took me a long time to realize it didn’t matter a hill of beans to the universe if I was practical or impractical or if my living room was cluttered with art supplies or pristine.

Back to the tale of no tush paper. I laughed when Rosie called, picked up my purse and stopped by the local grocery store before dropping the rolls off at work. I didn’t mind at all. Answering SOS calls is something I’m good at.

But it made me think back to those days at Possum Creek Fellowship, back to my leaving. Before I left you could pick up the phone, put in a yell for help, an SOS, to a dear sister or brother and usually count on someone stepping up to meet your need. I remember once in particular when my husband had to be hospitalized suddenly I called up a friend at church and she took my kids for a few days until the crisis passed. Later people brought meals for us so I didn’t have to care for my husband and worry about cooking at the same time.

After I left I couldn’t escape the judgment and torment those same brothers and sisters felt compelled to heap on me. I knew better than to ever ask for help. And if I didn’t know better I had an encounter right after switching churches that showed me all too well that there would be no more help at all.

Visionary daughters quiz

November 21, 2010
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Over on the NLQ forum, we’ve all been taking Visionary Daughter’s “Are You A Fool?” quiz ~ it’s annoyingly hilarious ~ and I thought No Longer Quivering readers who aren’t on the forum might like the chance to join in on the fun.

Here’s question #1:

How do you respond when criticized/corrected?

1) I hate it! I get angry and defensive.

2) I usually laugh it off. (Sometimes I roll my eyes.)

3) If I get criticized for the same thing enough times, I usually start to take it seriously..

4) I’m thankful for the smallest hint of reproof and take it very seriously.

Take the Quiz!!

What do you think?

Adventures in Recovery ~ The Big Truth

November 21, 2010
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by Calulu

Midnight. I’m in my kerchief and the hubby is in his cap when from the lawn across the street there arose such a clatter….

Unfortunately for us it wasn’t jolly old Saint Nick or even The Grinch with his little dog Max, it was merely our neighbors, the Bumpasses. Their name isn’t really ‘Bumpass’ but after they moved in they proved by their behavior that they had to be related to the original Bumpasses in the movie, ‘The Christmas Story’ And yes, they have a pile of hound dogs that would gladly eat your turkey if they could get to it.

The Bumpasses got along with no one in the neighborhood and now they were busy cementing their reputation as the neighborhood jerks by trying to move a travel trailer at midnight. There was just one big problem with the trailer. It was sitting on six flat tires, like it had been since July back when they showed up with it.

This trailer was a complete eyesore, think Cousin Eddie in the movie, ‘Christmas Vacation’. Busted out windows replaced with plywood, rust here and there, peeling paint. I watched for two hours from the safety of my dormer window as the Bumpasses screamed, swore and strained to get the tenement on wheels to move. The only thing that happened is it’s sitting cockeyed where they left it and there are huge gouges in the blacktop from the rims cutting through the flat tires.

Dispelled ~ One Girl’s Journey in a Home School Cult ~ Part 4 : The Darkness Sets In

November 18, 2010
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Please note: The content contained herein does not necessarily reflect the values and opinions of the NLQ blog and its administrators.

by Chandra

The next morning was back to business as usual in our home. There would be no mention of my suicide attempt until I would bring it up, nearly ten years later. I knew waking that morning that Christ himself had pulled me through last night, even at fourteen. I didn’t know though, how I would get through the days and years ahead of me, that I had yet to live.

Emotionally I was spent. Going through puberty was difficult enough, and even more difficult because that also was a topic off limits to discuss. Sexual “things” were just not dealt with in our home, and like everything else that my mom and dad wanted to hide from, was swept under the rug. I had been on an emotional roller coaster in the last several months, ranging in emotions from being openly rejected to wishful hoping that somehow this scandal could be reversed: and I would once again be welcomed into loving arms by the only community that I knew.

Once everyone’s positions and the issues had been exposed, I was left alone. Alone. I hate that word…what I had remaining in my life were three things: my journal, my Bible, and my cat. I sank into a deep, deep depression.

Oh, I covered it well. I had to. But deep down there was a daily nagging, a restless wondering of, I have no one. I have no friends and no one to confide in. No one to talk to. Nightly for years, I would cry myself to sleep on my pillow, silently praying out to God “to just give me one friend, any friend, someone that I can talk to.” Those are still painful moments for me to remember and recall.

Adventures in Recovery ~ Pearl Clutching

November 16, 2010
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by Calulu

The other day I had to attend a meeting at work. One of the big subjects was a new dress code. Now, instead of our usual jeans or casual skirts with tees, we’d have to wear business attire. The boss was insistent that if you couldn’t wear pearls with your ensemble and look appropriate then you were under dressed for work. My jaw dropped when she suggested pearls and a twin set. Most everyone else in the room started clutching their pearls by voicing negative opinions. No one on the work team felt happy about the new rules.

Bosslady was especially concerned with the fact that there we were at a team meeting and three of us were wearing flip flops in late October. For added giggles our own very old team member was busily violating that Letitia Baldrige rule of no whites after Labor Day with her white leather flats. Oh heaven forfend! Polite society is affronted!

I bit my tongue and didn’t point out that at a 7 am business meeting she’s lucky we’re not all rolling in wearing pajamas and slippers with our hair standing straight up like Don King troll dolls.

I feel especially bad for 24 year old Erica as all she owns are jeans, tees and sneakers.

There’s nothing wrong with trying to appear civil in an uncivil world but who decides what is civil and what isn’t?

Dispelled ~ One Girl’s Journey in a Home School Cult ~ Part 3: Drinking the Kool-aid

November 12, 2010
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by Chandra

I was a tender fourteen when my world fell apart. My parents had become entrenched and enmeshed with The Movement and because of this, The Movement had become everything in our life. The Movement had become a feudal lord, demanding everything from us: time, money, and resources. My family felt that The Movement WAS our family and it was The Movement that we served- from the rising of the sun to the setting of it.

John and Candi, and their four children, had become to us closer than blood. It was The Movement that joined us- heart, body, mind, and spirit. We lived and breathed for The Movement, and followed John and Candi’s every lead. My mom and dad were John and Candi’s devoted second-in-command leaders. Our two families were a potent force, having climbed The Movement’s social ladder to the head of the State of Missouri’s homeschool organization in just a few short years.

But through all of cult-like demands of The Movement, and my family’s worship of it, there was a teenage girl who longed to be free, understood, and accepted.

The 49 Character Qualities of Ruth #23: The Decision

November 4, 2010
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by RazingRuth

As we stood outside the courtroom, it was clear where the lines were drawn. The divide in the room was less physical, as the space was small, but it was a mental and emotional chasm as large as the Grand Canyon. My attorney had told me to be prepared for an emotional outburst from my mother. My attorney warned me that my father might become overly warm and try to entice me to “drop this whole charade”. About my father, she was correct. As soon as we crossed the threshold from hallway to courtroom, my father turned on the charm and charisma. He held the door for me and as I passed, the jerk actually smiled. We took seats in the small gallery and by virtue of it’s lack of chairs, my father stood behind me. When my attorney went to the counsellor’s table behind the gate, my dad put his hand on my shoulder and patted it reassuringly. The judge, hearing another case, looked up just as my father did this and I thought, surely, my case was sunk. Here was this girl trying to run away from such a loving, concerned father, right? No judge would see through his gesture to the controlling message the gesture betrayed. No judge would see his smile for the manipulation it was, right? I had been trained by years of brainwashing to believe that the world would always see my father as a righteous man.

My attorney returned to the gallery area and softly confronted my father. Asking him to take his hands off me and step away. He acted hurt, but obeyed. My mother sat staring straight ahead this entire time. She didn’t look at me. My heart ached for her and my resolve started to dip. I knew that by continuing this, I was putting her in harms way. I knew she couldn’t look at me because of his orders.

The Dead Village: Living With Disapproval

November 2, 2010
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by Sierra

Leaving quiverfull/patriarchal Christianity means losing approval. It means your parents, children, or spouse may reject you – or worse, implicitly disapprove while claiming to maintain a loving bond. That means that every time you talk, there’s another dagger through your heart – the feeling that you’ll never again have their respect (if you ever did in the first place) or be a whole person in their eyes (if you ever were).

It almost certainly means your community evaporates like a holographic illusion. You walk away, and it’s like you left behind a burning village with only ghosts pacing the streets. Sometimes they haunt you – follow you into your new life, reminding you at every false step that you’re on the wrong path, that they know what you really need, that you need to stop this foolish stubborn sinful willfulness and surrender to God. He loves you – the ghosts remind you when your heart is crushed – and there you went and walked away from him. Shame, shame, shame, shame, shame. But if you’re penitent enough, he’ll take you back, they say. Except there is no going back. There are no living things left in the village.

You are accused. Suddenly you’re worse than your abusers – sometimes the abused person you tried to defend tells you it’s all your fault. Sometimes your children curse your face. When you finally drop leaden umbrella of protection under which you were staggering, others accuse you of exposing them to the elements. Their pain is your fault, they say. Shame, shame, shame.