Unraveled
If the sweater doesn’t fit, take apart the stitches and make something new.
What was your thread?
The loose one. The one no one else could seem to see, but that you couldn’t stop glancing at. Running your finger over its insistent protrusion. Maybe it felt soft and alluring. Or maybe it was itchy. Gnawing at your skin. Poking at the soft parts of you, the tender flesh that had not yet calloused to its existence.
Can a loving god and the concept of hell really coexist?
God is all knowing, all seeing, all powerful, put all things into motion…and this is the best plan he could come up with?
If Adam and Eve lived in a world with no sorrow, no pain, no death and had no knowledge of good and evil…then how was “for you will surely die” even an understandable consequence, much less a fair one?
Is it really “free will” when the alternative is eternal suffering?
What was it that made you tug?
Gently at first. Then more firmly.
Making friends with the wrong people. Reading the wrong books. Watching the wrong movies. Listening to the wrong activists. Asking the wrong questions, like, is the world really a safer place when divided between us and them?
Realizing none of the things you were taught to be afraid of were actually dangerous, except to those who wished to secure your mind, your money, your vote, their own comfort.
Where did the string slide easily through your fingers and where did it catch and tangle?
The stitches coming undone, row, after, row, after row.
If the word “homosexuality” didn’t appear in any copy of the Bible until 1947 and the company responsible later retracted their mistranslation, then is it actually a sin?1
If I no longer believe the Bible is the infallible dictation of The Almighty, then what is its purpose in my life?
What if purity culture was not only bullshit, but really harmful ideology?
Do I really want anyone else to have the power to tell me what to do with my body?
How much beauty and joy have I missed out on because of fear and shame?
When was the moment you knew too much, saw too far behind the curtain?
The threads parting to reveal what was hidden.
Finding out that while your pastor was posting Instagram photos of himself at a Black Lives Matter march, he was also telling his most urban satellite campus to send all the people of color on their worship team to lead worship for the online broadcast, so that the church would look more diverse.
Sitting in a Zoom call in 2020 with your fellow church staff members and location pastors, talking about how we can minister to and lead people during such unprecedented times, when the lead pastor interrupts to say “move on” because what we’re supposed to be discussing is creative ways to get people to watch online and give us more money.
Resigning from your staff position and being told not to show up at church on Sunday.
When did you realize that hand-me-down sweater no longer fit, that you no longer wanted to contort yourself to squeeze into it?
That even if you could put it back together again, you didn’t want to.
The moment it became clear that “Love your neighbor” did not extend to immigrants, trans folks, or being willing to wear a mask during a global pandemic.
Listening to a new pastor in a new city in a new state rage from the pulpit about seeing pride flag stickers on classroom doors during his son’s high school tour.
Realizing just how many people would rather believe in the retribution of an angry god than the science of climate change.
Hearing people try to justify genocide with scripture verses.
Knowing that the people who claim to care so much about children’s lives will continue to offer nothing but thoughts and prayers after the latest school shooting.
Seeing people with red hats in one hand and Bibles in the other vote for their new lord, savior, and king.
Watching people choose outdated, uneducated, and cruel opinions over truth and love.
What was your unraveling?
Do I actually believe any of this, or was I told I had to in order to be safe, to be loved? Did the rules keep me safe, or did they just keep me compliant? In a world built of rules, can love ever really be unconditional? If god isn’t love are they worthy of my worship?
When you were finished, did you also look at the pile of threads at your feet and realize this is what it feels like to breathe?
The best thing I ever did was pull myself apart and then knit myself back together into something new — wiser, kinder, more curious, more free.
A me of my own making.
While I was finishing up this post and creating the artwork for it, I had a dream. This isn’t unusual, I have dreams all the time. Most of them really weird and very hazy come morning. I even have a few recurring scenarios that have popped up now and again since I was a kid. Their meanings aren’t hard to sus out, since they usually point to feeling anxious, stuck, or out of control in some way. The fact that this one was not that, and that it lingered pretty clearly in my mind even hours after waking up, was what made it so different.
In this dream, I was me, but I was also observing a second me. As if I was split into two versions of myself. Getting the opportunity to see myself from an outside perspective. I was going to summer camp, driving in this insane, carpet-lined van with two other people (who I think were Isaac and Darcy from Heartstopper??2). I was telling them all about my previous camp experiences and what a disaster they were. How I didn’t fit in, didn’t know the unspoken rules, and felt so awkward trying to earn the acceptance and admiration of my peers.
At one point, I told them a story about having packed this huge suitcase full of clothes, a different outfit for every day, and that one of my bunkmates had rolled their eyes and said “It’s camp. We just re-wear the same clothes every day.” There was no anxiety in the telling of this story, just a humorous, teenagers-am-I-right? vibe. But now I was excited to have the fun camp experience I never really got to have when I was younger.
The second version of me was already at camp and she was older and wiser and confident. In fact, as we pulled into the campground, there she was, walking along the driveway dressed in what looked like an intentionally wacky outfit — jeans, cowboy boots, and a denim vest that said something like “Need help? Ask meeee!” in stitched-on letters — with a clipboard in hand. It occurred to me then that this version of me wasn’t a camper, but a counselor, roaming about to wrangle the newbies and help them get settled in.
Simultaneously, I had the thought that I hadn’t packed any bags, but she had, though I had no idea what she’d packed for us because I hadn’t supervised or double checked the bag against any sort of camp-prep list. And instead of being panicked at this thought, I felt relieved. I realized I trusted her, this other, newer version of myself. Trusted that she knew what she was doing and had packed whatever we needed, and I didn’t need to worry about any of it, but could just relax and have fun.
From there, things devolved into my usual dream ridiculousness (something involving a friend’s cat who hated me and would intentionally taunt me, acting like it wanted to be petted, only to bite my hand, but it was so cute I couldn’t resist and kept trying to win it over, and then it jumped on a train and I had to go rescue it).
But for a minute there, I think my brain was trying to tell me something. Something like: You’ve done the work, now trust yourself.
Go put on that new sweater and enjoy your life, because you’ve got this.
❤️🩹 @religious.harm.recovery Megan’s posts and her email newsletter have been really helpful in identifying the ways in which religious authoritarianism has impacted my brain and body. If, like me, you grew up in evangelicalism, her recent post on how purity culture creates disconnect from our bodies and effects things way beyond sex (like your relationship with food, or even rest), may be particularly enlightening.
📚 Books continue to be the 🐐 when it comes to the best ways to disassociate. Case in point: I’ve read 30 books so far this year. Here’s my top 3 fiction & non-fiction so far:
Fiction: Heartstopper by Alice Oseman, Water Moon by Samantha Sotto Yambao, I’m Starting to Worry About This Black Box of Doom by Jason Pargin
Non-fic: Cleavage by Jennifer Finney Boylan, Gathering Moss by Robin Wall Kimmerer, Natural Magic by Renée Bergland
🎧 My music tastes are best described as the sad girlies, the mad girlies, and the queer girlies (none of which are mutually exclusive). If you also like to process your rage via music, here are a few of my current fave angry women songs:
🤗 And then don’t forget to take a moment to breathe and celebrate how far you’ve come on your journey.
My latest book/TV obsession! Nick + Charlie 4ever. ❤️