The Story

Hi my faithful blog readers,

I wrote this for a guest blog: but for a number of reasons decided not to use it. Let me know what you think !

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Hi all,

To give you some background, I was the first of three children: my parents became christians when I was three, and became slowly more and more involved with the more fundamentalist side of christianity. We believed in modest dressing, homeschooling (We used for the most part Rod and Staff), the use of the 'rod' to discipline children (in this case, a fibreglass rod made by my father) and that the Bible was "truth alone". Whilst not classing ourselves as quiverfull (my mother had a hysterectomy before joining the movement), we were part of a church that practiced that way of living, as well as the things I have mentioned before. To the outsider, we were the ideal, albeit a little eccentric, family: we had all the boxes ticked.

The truth? We didn't. Just like many other families in our church, we were a family that clung to their beliefs to hide the reality of the family life. And that reality sadly involved abuse: physically, sexually and emotionally. In our particular family, the main abuser was my father. In later years it would be revealed that he was a serial pedophile, with a penchant for bestiality. Unfortunately, it was the same for so many other families: a number of girls around my age all experienced some form of abuse: this was something that was systematically carried out by a number of prominent church members, including deacons. To this day, it is unclear whether these men knew about the others' wrong doings, but it is clear that the minister at least knew something of my father's indiscretions (according to my father later, he had partially confessed to him): and yet chose to do nothing. My father at various points, also felt led to take a second wife, but thankfully, and ironically, in direct opposition to the 'submissive wife' doctrine, my mother denied him that opportunity.

After some falling out with various churches we were involved in (mostly over doctrine and personal disputes) and we moved to a rural area, we began vaguely drifting from the strict religious standings we once had: I was able to attend a small public school in the area, even though I was removed from classes that were classed as dangerous or Satanic (eg, when Emily Rodda or Harry Potter books were read). Ironically, I myself was still so indoctrinated, I wrote a whole speech for a speech contest about the evils of yoga and meditation: I was only 12 at the time. Even at that young age I truly believed that evolution was a big lie, that those books/music/yoga/meditation were of the devil and perhaps more scarily,I could tell you precisely why.

However the more time I spent at school, the more I began to question my beliefs. The things, people and places that I had been told were so awful, evil and bad: weren't.

It was without a doubt, this questioning of the facts that led me to finally report my father when I was 15. It was the most terrifying thing I have ever done. For it to be acomplished, I had to lie to my family: a huge deal for someone whom had been severely punished for such a sin years before (spanked with the rod by my father so hard that I had bruises, marks, and pain for several days afterwards: I was only around 10 at the time). Unfortunately, due to Department of Child Safety mistakes and ignorance, I was left in the home until I finally left aged 17. The trauma of being left behind was huge, and set me far back in my healing/recovery process: you imagine being told you were a liar, that you had set it all up with your friend (whom had also reported my father) to split the family because you were rebelling, and that you had gotten it all from a book? The trauma of that alone, still haunts me, even though I know the truth now. If only it was all as pretty as the explanations and defences.

I wrote on my blog:

The events after that (the denial by my father, the subsequent decision of my mother to believe him) shut me down emotionally: I put my happy face on: I didn't want to destroy my family. I remember reading my bible over and over again, trying to work out why God had made my father like the person he was, and why I couldn't forgive my father honestly, truly and deeply the way I was supposed to. How I had been taught to (and was being told to), more importantly. So I shut down, and tried to make everyone happy.

During my final few years at home, I never mourned what was happening to my family. I chose survival, I think. Shutting down, was to me anyway, was the only way I knew how to deal with it. Mum often called me cold (particularly to her), and yes, I believe I was. I think the huge impact her initial decision has made on our relationship is irreversible, even though I still call her mother, consider her a close friend, and admire and love her deeply for her decisions since then.

My parents were finally divorced after further troubling revelations about my father were made and the true extent of his depravity was revealed (he was then arrested), the year after I had left home.

The long term effects of growing up in such an environment are many and varied. Just in the girls that I am aware of (including myself), depression, anxiety, PTSD, eating disorders, and varying mental illnesses, are all shared 'watermarks' of this past that we share. All have had varying relationship issues and struggled (and still do at times) with learning how to relate to a world we were told for so many years to have nothing to do with. I call the 'leavers' "quiverfull/fundamentalist refugees": because that is what it is like for these second (sometimes first) generations whom have left and now have nothing: and know nothing about intergrating back into "normal" society: and whom struggle to do so for years to come. True, some have managed to find some form of middle ground, but the trauma of leaving haunts every one of us in each of our own ways. The impact is undeniable.

When my mother was divorced, she struggled also. For a time she remained judgemental and critical, particularly of my lifestyle choices (I was living out of wedlock with my now-husband at the time). She has since drifted into a more conventional form of christianity, a move speeded along by the departure of my father from her life. Now she is a hip, pants wearing, bubbly and bright person whom is very self-contained and self-confident.

As for my father, he served approximately 3.5 years of a 8 year sentence (for 116 charges), and was recently released on parole. He has never accepted my mother divorcing him and still sends letters to her explaining the biblical reasons why they shouldn't be divorced, even though she has requested no contact.

The story continues. As for me, I am now married, attend university: appear to do all the "normal" things: but as I once wrote:

Perhaps it was all a dream. A dream lasting 21 years. I smile at the irony. Whereas many of my peers are more concerned about passing university and living it up on the weekends, in my world, I worry about lawyers and court dates: and about how to best appear at least semi functioning to the world. I occupy a world full of dark, lurking corners and momentary flashes of brightness, boldness and beauty.

I see the world differently too. I can spot a fundamentalist family anywhere, and I can quote to you grim statistic after statistic of childhood sexual abuse. I can tell you how paedophiles work, and how that they aren’t much different in appearance to you. I can tell you about the long-term repercussions that come from growing up in a fundamentalist community, and what it is like to wear only dresses for a great deal of your childhood. I can tell you about destroyed families and divorce. I can give you examples too, of how the child protection system is failing those that need it most.

How and why do I know these things? Because I grew up in such a community, my father is convicted paedophile: and I was one of his many victims: victims he abused over a thirty year period. And I was left behind by the child protection services: people that are supposed to protect us, the child victims, but in my case at least, chose to protect the monster behind the mask.

Ah yes, this is my reality.

Jo

Missing Pieces, Furniture and Love.

Well, here I am. Finally surrounded by furniture all my own, and my own things: things I have chosen and some I have been given. But all things that hold a special place in my heart: things I love.

But yet, there are pieces missing...

The just 'going on two year old': whom is never mentioned but always there. I can see him with his bright blonde curls and blue eyes: and I say "him" because I have always thought of "him" as the first boy child. I have never discussed "Gabriel" on this blog for many reasons: mostly because I feel so uncomfortable. I feel my pregnancy, brief as it was, wasn't legitimate: I didn't have the positive pregnancy test, barely any pregnancy symptoms and it was virtually over before it began. The pregnancy that never happened until it was over. Almost two years later, and I still don't know how or why it ended: choices that I made at the time, which I would repeat today. I chose to lose our baby in our home surrounded with our love. I remember sitting crying on the stairs, knowing what was happening, but also knowing that to go to a hospital would mean more intrusion and that our creation would be simply counted as "chemical pregnancy" or worse, as a "spontaneous abortion".

Another reason I don't speak about it a lot on here, is because it drives me crazy when I visit other's blogs and they have memorials to their lost babies listing their all their miscarriage details from date to weight (if applicable). Now I have always respected their choices to do whatever they like with their blog, but I won't comment/follow religously if that sort of stuff is up there. To close to the bone I guess. And thus I have chosen not have the same sort of memorial here in my own space: I prefer to keep the memorial to myself, tucked away in some shadowy, mystical corner of my mind and heart. A place for Gabriel alone, which will always be his.

In fact the only reason I have written something now was because it has been 2 years since we lost him. And well, no matter however brief, how illegitmate his stay on earth was to others, he deserves at the very least, a blog entry devoted simply to him. He is an important part of my life story: my glimpse of something beautiful and precious which I fear I will never have again. I won't say that I am ok with it, but I am living with it.


Living, breathing, surviving.

The story of my life.

Jo

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Please note: I would have gone to seek medical help if I had any complications. In this case, as I was young, fit and healthy, I saw no need to go to the doctors/hospital. Early term miscarriages are very common.

Regular Scheduling

Hi All,

Well I could I could write a big thing about the "loss" of Michael Jackson, but honestly? He never had much of an impact on me growing up: nonchristian music being banned and all (but we did listen to ABBA: go figure). I think my Mum before she moved into Christianity liked the Jackson 5 and some of MJ's solo stuff (at least: she might still: do you Mum?). But, his death did shock me. I will admit that I thought he would live (more likely be preserved) for forever.


But on to the regular scheduling (which is sadly missing from our televisions at the moment: its all MJ):

There has been some interesting talk on No Longing Quivering (and to a lesser degree on Free Jinger) about whether the adult abuser in a fundamentalist and/or christian family can be an actual "Christian". A commenter called "rejoice" writes:

As a matter of fact, it is very sad, more than sad, that this character type of
a man has been associated with a Christian husband/father. It simply is not
true. Most of America claims to be Christian. Following Christ is the definition
of a Christian...not a harsh, unloving, arragant demanding man.

I must point out to "rejoice" and others that share that opinion that these are men that for all intents and purposes, do follow Christ. Apart from their "abusive" side, these are men that know their doctrine and follow it, to the extreme many times. Yours is a faith that preaches forgiveness: a doctrine I, and many others, followed in dealing with these men: were told by the church to follow in dealing with these men, in fact. I am not saying that these men didn't use the biblical doctrine for their own purposes at times, but they also honestly believed in Christ/Jesus, the Bible alone, etc. If you were to meet them on the street, without knowing the full picture, or during one of their "forgiveness periods", you would say that they were fantastic Christians, that they embodied the way Christ turns around lives etc.

As for the association remark: NLQ is filled with similar stories: all men, whom for all intents and purposes, were (acted like) Christians but whom in the privacy of their homes turned into psychopaths, narcissists etc. There is a patten there, seeping under the surface of families that appear to have escaped the "dark belly of the beast" and have lived the quiverfull/fundamental ideal sucessfully.

The scary, uncontrollable thing, that all of us at both NLQ and FJ are fighting against, is the insidious way that these men work, and the way that the "extreme end" of Christianity allow them to, often without any major consequences until it is too late.

Jo

Thoughts on Carri and Religous Refugees

Of late, I have been following the story of Carri Chmielewski.

Carri is a fundamentalist christian, quiverfull woman, whom was pregnant with her 9th child and was planning a UC (unassisted homebirth) birth. I had been following her blog on and off for quite some time: she was an extremely creative person and I enjoyed reading about her projects etc.

Unfortunately it ended tragically, when she suffered Amniotic Fluid Embolism (AFE), lost her son, and nearly lost her own life.


For more details on the story, you can go to No Longer Qivering, and Salon.

I found this whole story just horrific. It was like watching a car wreck: you knew something was going to go wrong: at best she didn't even know whether it was twins or not! The midwife should be investigated.

There has been huge online debate about the situation...Which has lead into some interesting, open conversations... with a wide variety of people including fundamentalists. It's an interesting mix when snarkers and fundamentalists meet!


I ended up writing to one of them:

I have often wondered what people still in the movement think of cases such as
ExQ84 and mine (we are pretty similar except I wasn't involved with Gothard:
left because of similar abuse type issues: and I know many others that had the
same problems with it).

I recognise and appreciate that many in the movement aren't the same people as the people that brought us up. But, I have heard of too many cases (Approximately 90% of the families I knew growing up have since seperated due to abuse issues), where systematic, long term physical, emotional and sexual abuse has occurred, and where the belief system has backed it up (for just one out of many examples it was spanking with a fibreglass rod that my father had made especially for that purpose). And they (well in my Mother's case with the spanking) well and truly thought they were doing the right thing: even though I recieved welts and bruises from the thing....

It was just a really unhealthy way of living, particularly in
families where the fathers already had control issues. The "head of the
household" ideal created a scenario of systematic abuse throughout the church:
from ministers to deacons, to the congregation.

And the real kicker was that we appeared so "fantastic" so "together" to everyone else: to other members of the conregation, to the "worldly".

Now, like I said, I am not saying that your particular family, or even your wider church community, are involved in any of this, but it does and is still happening in others. And now (just like any strict religion) there is a huge wave of people best described as Quiverfull/Fundamentalist refugees: second (sometimes first) generations whom have left and now have nothing: and know nothing about intergrating back into "normal" society: and whom struggle to do so for years to come: true, some find a middle ground, but I know many (including myself) whom have completely left any form of religion because our experiences with it have been soooo twisted: that need to do so because it would be emotionally unhealthy for them to return to any sort of religion.

I guess I am really interested in the phenomenon of the "religious refugees": particularly quiverfull/fundamentalist ones. And since being involved with No Longer Qivering in particular, I have realised there are a lot of them out there: particularly from the 'second generation'.


These are people that are trying to intergrate themselves into a community they have had little to no experience of, and in some cases have been taught since birth to shun at best, hate at worse. They are truly refugees to what we would class as 'normal' society: no different to any other sort of refugees (whether it through envirnomental, war, famine etc): a overwhelming culture shock to anyone. Throw into the mix the fact that some of these have been abused: and you end up with intergration picture that might take years, or even a lifetime...

But still it is interesting... :)

Straightening the record.

Hi,

To be frank, I don't know how to begin this post. It isn't because I don't have a lot to say: I just don't know how to say it.

How do I say that I feel like I am in absolute limbo: in the space between danger and success, brightness and darkness? I sat down and wrote a whole blog entry on it, but it doesn't feel quite right for this moment. I had been having one of my bad days that day: I was tired and frustrated: a bad mix for anyone, but lethal and life sapping to me.

I would like to make something perfectly clear and straighten the record. I do not hate the church. Do I dislike some of the practices that I was involved with when I was growing up? Absolutely yes. Do I distrust most organised religions? Yes. Will I speak up when someone heads in that direction and give them a run down of my experiences with the church? Yes, without hesitation. But does that mean I hate the church? No. In fact, there are times I wish I was back in a church simply for the support offered. But for me, the trade off simply isn't worth it. I like the flexibility and the freedom. I don't have to believe in a God anymore. I can believe whatever I choose to: and to me that is " more precious than rubies". And more importantly, I am not forced to be linked to a certain gender role for the rest of my life: another choice I do not take for granted.

I savour the fact that I can choose all these things, because I didn't have the choice for quite a while.

Jo

In Reply.

In reply to Tracey Spicer's Editorial

Dear Tracey,

These cases anger me greatly. I was left behind by the department as well. But I am one of the lucky ones. I am still alive. But that does not mean the department's choices don't impact me still, 6 years later. You try living with a monster, a serial pedophile for 3 years after reporting him. It's crazy. It's not fair. And above all, it's not right.

As I read the above comments I get the feeling that people think that abuse only happens in the lower echlons of society. Not true. My family (at least from the outside) appeared like a middle class, stable, albeit super conservative, good Christian family. No one did drugs, drank alcohol nor any of the things that the commenters above seem to think are risk factors for abuse.

Inside of course, my family was just as dysfunctional (if not more) than those families that you are portraying as the "bad ones".

And why was I left? According to my FOI (freedom of information) documents the following factors contributed to the decision DOCS made:

Workload pressures

Lack of understanding around childhood sexual abuse

Believing the testimony of the adult abuser as compared with the testimony of the children

The inexperience of Child Safety Officers in relation to interviewing children whom have been sexually abused.

Confusion over conclusive and evidentiary material versus identification of risk and harm.

Does this not paint a picture of a high level of problems with the system that is supposed to protect victims? I can't even start to discuss in depth the horrific way my case was handled.

And now, I am suing. For the other victims whom have no voice. For those victims you listed Tracey, and the hundreds still out there. Victims that need someone to fight for some final, albeit hollow justice. I will do my best for them. It is the least I can do.

Blog Update

Hi All,

As you can probably tell I have updated my blog: given it a new crisp look.

The old layout was feeling a little tired, so I decided to give it some zip!! :)

An update is coming, I promise.

Tell me what you think!!

Jo

My Holy Grail

Hi all,



Of late, I have been astounded by the number of people that I know that have fallen pregnant: I swear, it's a conspiracy. My next door neighbour gave birth just before I moved in: I still haven't been able to fully meet her: sure we say hi, whenever we meet but that's it. And the sad thing is that I know we could be friends: she is around my age, her husband works at the same place as my husband used to: a million and one different things that are similar: but she has the baby, and I don't. And that stops me: it hurts enough just walking past her house and seeing her through the window cuddling and playing with her little one, and all the baby things surrounding them. Her happiness alone makes me jealous: haven't I dealt with enough for a just the one small reward? Why her? And not me?


Babies have always been to me the Holy Grail. The ultimate, the one thing I would most before I die. A baby born of me, that is all mine, that I can raise how I want. I often joke that I was never really worried about the husband or the career: all I ever wanted were children: the husband part was highly negotiable, and pffft to the career.


Well, I got the husband. And no children. Or least any that you can talk about in polite society: any that a large part of society classes as children anyway. Or for that fact, no positive pregnancy tests. For me it's always too late: my body is either playing tricks (which for it, sounds about right 90% of the time), or has shut down to make it all go away. Either way, here I am still waiting.


And I don't know how much longer I will be waiting. I've decided to postpone the pushing on doors, finding out what's wrong. I have my own suspicions, and what we know from past tests etc. But right now, the timing is all wrong. Financially, we are in one hell of a mess, and my head space isn't too good right now. Our marriage is under pressure: from both in and out: under seige, I guess you could say. We are working on it, fighting for it. It's survived everything else, no reason it won't survive now. But it's not a place I would go out intentionally to bring a child into (via medical treatments etc).


That's not to say I am giving up on the dream. I wouldn't refuse a child if the miracle was to happen on its own either. We would deal with all the crap and make it the best world it could possibly be for a child of ours. But still, I want to be in the best place I can be in for our child (particularly emotional health-wise). And I am not there yet. I want to be, but right now, I am not.


It means a huge reorientation to my world outlook. For a start, I am trying my best to not see the spare room as a future baby nursery (and therefore have decorating fantasies about aforesaid room), but instead as an office/spare room. But there are constant reminders, everywhere. Particularly people, with their questions and jokes about babies now that we are married. They hurt too: particularly when I turn around and tell them and all they say is "oh well it will happen one day: you're still young: why are you even worried to start with?". It stings. It feels like a slap in the face. Yes, it might happen, but it might require complicated, expensive medical treatments: and if I am having problems now, when I am supposed to be the most fertile, indeed, the most capable, of falling pregnant, it obviously won't bode well for me later... Add in my Crohn's Disease, and the future possiblities with that, and I don't know what I am looking at.

Love,

Jo

Hope & Ignorance.

Post No. 241.

My father is out.

I found out out the day he was getting out: which would be yesterday, people. One of the worst days of my life I think.

I honestly didn't think he would. I was trying to be ignorant. Trying to live on hope. Least whilst he was in there I didn't have to think about him. Now I do. I worry. Worry for my family, my friends. But more importantly my life: my way of living. Whilst he was in there, I didn't need to worry about him reading my online work, of following my life virtually. And yes, I am aware that was foolish of me. But I felt safe, safe enough for this blog, safe enough to have an online presence. Now all of a sudden I don't feel safe. The guideposts have changed. I refuse to stop but: to make everything private and go away. That would be letting him win: when he should be the one shut up, shut out, shut away.

Coincidently, yesterday happened to be the day that I got my FOI stuff back from DOC's and the police. Reading my statement makes me sick. The things he did to me, to the others, the things that happened behind the scenes. The behaviour of all involved: the police, DOCs, and even some of the parents makes me sick, makes me angry. What happened was unfair, not only to me, but to all others: especially to them. Some waited for years for justice (and a poor justice it ended up being too), and there are yet others out there whom are still waiting, whom will be probably always waiting.

It is for them I feel the saddest. I hope that they have managed to find their closure in another way. I hope they have healed and become as whole as they can.

That is a hope I hold for all of us.

If you lose hope, somehow you lose the vitality that keeps life moving, you lose that courage to be, that quality that helps you to go on in spite of all. And so today I still have a dream.

Martin Luther King, Jr., The Trumpet of Conscience, 1968

Depression, Dreams And Lullabies

Hi All,



More often than not, people don't believe me when I tell them that I struggle with depression/
anxiety issues, and have for several years. Because I appear really very bubbly, bright and 'with it", people are always stunned when I say that I have fought with sucidal thoughts for years, or come from the background that I have. It's like that unless you fit in a certain box, or show certain emotions, that you must be 'ok': that depression only hits a certain group of people.



It's not so. It can hit anyone, anytime, anywhere.



Living with depression is like having a black curtain over the world: you no longer want to deal with anything. You want it all to go away. And yes, sometimes the curtain does get taken away: I do occasionally have good days, where getting out of bed is no longer a job in and of itself, and that is something which keeps me going through the bad.

When I realised that the way I was dealing with things (in the past) was actually quite negative, and creating huge problems in and of itself. I was shutting down when bad things happened: I kept my happy face on.

For an example, when I first reported my father, I remember sitting in Home Ec block with Amy, telling her about it, and getting really mad: mad at my father, mad at the world. She kept surprisingly calm and got me out of there to the counsellors office where I told the whole sorry story. I don't know how I would have dealt with it if she hadn't been there. Gotten more and more crazy I think, and I wouldn't be here.

The events after that (the denial by my father, the subsequent decision of my mother to believe him) shut me down emotionally: I put my happy face on: I didn't want to destroy my family. I remember reading my bible over and over again, trying to work out why God had made my father like the person he was, and why I couldn't forgive my father honestly, truly and deeply the way I was supposed to. How I had been taught to (and was being told to), more importantly. So I shut down, and tried to make everyone happy.

During my final few years at home, I never mourned what was happening to my family. I chose survival, I think. Shutting down, was to me anyway, was the only way I knew how to deal with it. Mum often called me cold (particularly to her), and yes, I believe I was. I think the huge impact her intial decision has made on our relationship is irreversable, even though I still call her mother, consider her a close friend, and admire and love her deeply for her decisions since then.

I slowly thawed out over the years after leaving home: let go of some of my emotional barriers...probably too quickly than is wise and safe for my emotional health sometimes: no leading to some of the problems I have discussed above. Now I try to deal with stuff as it comes along: to the best of my ability, but I don't think the big "D" will ever leave me. I am stuck with it for life. I just have to work with it: fight it, to the best of my ability.

Love,

Jo