Easter

Easter. I was raised in church, so for me, Easter is about Christ rising, saving us from our sins. It is about being saved. It is about eternal grace. It is about the love of the cross. It is a time to remember when we accepted Christ’s gift, and were saved.

Easter weekend and all it stands for is a constant reminder of my sins, of the things I have done that can not be forgiven, of the fact I am going to hell.

It’s a day that I’ve put on a happy face and proclaimed “I’m saved!” along with the rest of my friends and family. It’s a day that I’ve spent remembering how Jesus wiped away my sins….except, He didn’t. He couldn’t. Nothing and no one can wipe away the things I’ve done. No savior, no matter how loving and good could ever forgive me. It is what it is.

This weekend, I’m struggling to put on that happy face. I’m just coming off being sick. My defenses are down because of that. My bubble has been popped by Bea. I just don’t have it in me to pretend. I’m snappy, my temper is short, there is no patience in me. I don’t want to be social, to talk to to people and smile. I don’t want to greet our guests, and talk about how my family is doing. I don’t want to smile and nod when my mom proclaims my “accomplishments” with Kat and her ABA and homeschooling and autism insurance coverage; let alone to talk about those things and answer questions. I can’t pull the facade together. It’s not there, it’s not in me to act like things are perfect. Things are so far from perfect. I don’t even know where to start. I hate feeling like this, being like this. I can hear, and feel myself reacting in anger, in frustration, but I can’t stop it. The fact that I am mean is only further proof that I’m bad.

So, I avoid people as much as I can, claim I’m still feeling sick, dissociate without meaning to. I take a shower and end up cutting myself with a razor someone left sitting on the shelf. I stuff myself with carrot cake and Reese’s eggs and run to the bathroom to throw up. It’s not a good weekend.

It’s made worse because of what I know, what I remember. A snapshot, a wisp of a memory, something I don’t want to grab onto, but that I can’t seem to stop from looking at. It’s like when you pass the scene of an accident– most people driving by can’t help but look at the wreckage. And so I look at the horror of the snapshot in my mind. It makes me question everything. Summer. 1996. I was 12. We’re at the pool. Up north. Kenny and I. His hand had been between my legs, and my mom had walked up. He moves back, and she doesn’t notice. I lean towards him, and kiss him, a real kiss, in front of her. He pushes me back, disgusted, shocked. My mom is horrified. I’m in trouble. I don’t have a memory of that, a snapshot, but I have this…feeling…this knowing, that I was talked to about having a crush, and acting appropriate, because what I did was not appropriate. I want to vomit. I feel cold. Abandoned. She didn’t see what was right in front of her. I’m being a drama queen, but I feel like she left me. Like she didn’t care enough to ask, to think, to do anything. I don’t know.

That’s it. There’s nothing more. No before, no after to the memory. Just a wispy snapshot, nothing, not even a moment really. But it’s enough. It’s yet another sin to add to the list.

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9 thoughts on “Easter

  1. Oh, Alice. My heart cries for you. I can only imagine that at some level, the 12 year old you wanted to be “found out” and yet your mother stopped at the surface of what she saw. How could she not wonder why her 12 year old was really kissing a 20 something man? Where were the questions about his part in it? I’m so sorry.

    As for not being able to keep up the perfect appearance, I know that it’s hard on you to give it up, but I can’t help but think that showing more of the full you to the world will benefit your life in the long run. But it sure is scary giving up that coping mechanism, isn’t it? I know that I was afraid that people wouldn’t like the fuller me. What I have found is that the people I value like the fuller me just as well or better than the mask. The best part is that I’m more present, so even simple relationships are far more satisfying than they were in the past.

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    • It is so scary to give it up. I think people wont like “just me.” And just me is feelimg pretty mean and angry these days….she’s not cute and perky and nice and good. Its hard to give up the image of that, to show people the ugly. Being more present is both scary and a releif. I wish i knew how to explain that. It just is.

      I don’t know what my mother thought. I don’t even know what i was thinking. All i have is the confusion and hurt of being pushed away, and the pain from the look on my mom’s face. Ugh. Apparently, today is a “poor me” day. Whine, whine. Sorry. Thank you…xx

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  2. The ‘sin’ is god’s who allows such things to happen to children and adolescents, or more pointedly, that asshole, Kenny. Of course you kissed him. You were innocent, showing affection innocently.
    Your Mom did leave you, wrapped up in her own stuff. You have a big heart, some day you will forgive her, but probably not fully until she knows the depth of your hurt; the depths of what you endured because she wasn’t there.

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    • Oh patricia….thank you. I don’t know if she really left, but it feels that way. I’m 31 years old and i feel like an abandoned child. (More whining….) I’ll never tell her. It just won’t happen. As much as part of me wants to, wants amswers, I still follow the rule of not upsetting her. Ugh. This is crazy, huh? Thank you for validating that she left. Xx

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      • It’s perfectly OK to say or not say to you Mom. Oddly I always felt I had to protect my Mom from just hearing the details. But if she’s not been so overly hysterical about just about everything, if she’d heard the details of what her sons had done, I would not have had to shoulder the burdens of their sins alone.
        So I get it. Spare another just from hearing the truth? Yes, That’s exactly what I did. Not sharing until after her death. Keeping the facade of normal family for her until after she died. It can’t hurt her now.
        Geez, I was the one who suffered it, forced to be silent with it because of her shaming me into that silence.

        After my comment I had to wonder about ‘Dad’ too. Parents are supposed to protect us and when they fail, even if unintentionally, we suffer. I get so mad about your sufferings from where they failed, and what that guy did.
        “Sometimes I feel like a motherless child…”

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      • Thank you. I feel like there is my life here, my real life where the truth is coming out, slowly, but surely, and then life with my mom….ugh. Mothers are hard, aren’t they? And how is it that things were so backwards, you and i taking care of our mothers needs? Isnt it supposed to be the other way around? My heart is so sad for you, the little girl who was not alllowed to tell. Its not right.

        My Dad…its odd, but I’m not angery with him, not even a little. He worked a lot, he let my mom run the show, he followed her lead. He is very clueless….its likely he would be diagnosed with aspergers if he were a kid today. He was present when he was home….i feel like if he had known, he would have saved me. Its dumb, I am 31 years old, and i still think my father is a super hero, that he can do anything. I don’t know. I feel more sad that i didn’t go to him. It seems, even now, if my mom were out of the picture, my only concern about my dad finding out would be that he would kill Kenny. I don’t know.
        ❤️xx

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  3. Your blogs are so authentic. I feel and hear your pain. I am sorry you still blame yourself for what happened but hopefully as you continue to work with Bea that will change. It has done that for me. This process of healing takes a long time and is a lot of work. Glad you are not pretending things are perfect right now. They will get better in the long run.

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    • I think writing is the place i am authentic. Bea said today that i am finding my voice in writing. I think she might be right. I’m too tired to pretend anymore right now. Thank you for all your kind words and support. Xx

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