Body Image Blues (ED TW- if youre trying to recover from an ED, please go carefully.)

Ok, I know I’m broaching a very controversial topic here, and I don’t do it to offend, but I am starting to wonder when the backlash against skinny people will tip over into mandatory weight checks. I feel like I don’t have the right to be the size I am a lot of the time. It’s getting to the point where I have panic attacks in bikinis and want to wear baggy clothes all the time. I guess this is the unintended consequence of the body positive movement- why can’t every body shape be ok? I guess it’s not cool to be skinny any more, and I feel guilty that I can’t put weight on. Jeans don’t fit and I feel like I walk into most shops and I’m immediately discriminated against for having a size 28 back. It’s upsetting and panic-inducing. It would be great to have a range of clothes to buy that genuinely cover all sizes, not just the sizes retailers think are ok. Body image issues come in all shapes and sizes, and I have them too.

Before some people out there tell me to stop whinging and get a grip, let me tell you that it has been difficult to buy clothes that fit well since being a teenager. Bras used to upset me because none of them fit round the back, and I thought that was because my boobs were too little, inducing a complex that’s lasted to this day and not helped by my ex. Shorts terrify my because my scars are on show- faded though they are, they can be seen on closer inspection. I hate dresses and skirts but like their colours and shapes- at one point, I bought loads I could never wear because of my terror of someone slipping a hand up them.

I have had problems being judged before because of how I look. In ballet school, I was called up twice before the head of contemporary dance and asked whether I had a problem. I eat well, and at that time I was permanently hungry as a side effect of my training. Of course, the weight loss that followed was seen as the start of anorexia or bulimia. I have never felt so ashamed of my size as I did then.

I used to like being slender and healthy, but after these experiences it feels like a crime to be the size I am. I feel like I’ve been shamed because of my weight and because I work out, dance, do Pilates and yoga and Zumba. I feel like people look at me when I go to the gym and think that I’m probably going to go home and throw all my food up, which I’m not.

I wonder if this is partly the paranoia that comes with PTSD or whether it’s society. On the one hand, I’m judged for my body and objectified. On the other, I’m praised and told I have no right to complain.

It’s an upsetting, crazy-making vicious circle.

Does anyone have any advice? I’m going to talk to Dr K about it, and hope that I can finally accept my body without upset or shame.

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Still worrying, still wondering.

I’m going to go to therapy tomorrow and talk to Dr K about the last post I wrote. I still feel like there’s more to talk about with it. I think it’s still bothering me because I feel like the mania is clouding my real feelings. I want to cry but I can’t. I want to get upset and hide in a ball but I can’t, because I get distracted and suddenly I’m laughing for no reason and feeling cheerful, but it isn’t real cheerfulness. It’s some sort of bubbled effervescent fizz, tasty but short-lived, and there’s the speeded-up-ness and the irritation to contend with. I get worried when I’m like this because it’s dangerous. If something catastrophic was to happen I would be energetic and capable enough to do something drastic. I don’t want to not be happy, I just want to not be this frenetically speeded-up.

The thing that’s been bothering me today, apart from my mania and the thing I wrote about last time, is my scars. I know that compared to others, they are not big. I know that the ones on my legs and hips are pretty small compared to some. The problem is, the UK has been experiencing a lot of warm weather recently and I’ve been peeling off my customary, long-sleeved layers. I am seeing more of my scars, and I still can’t like or accept them. I know that J calls them my battle scars, that Dr K says that they’re not big or visible, and that scars are good things in some cultures. I want to believe that they are acceptable and that I am not this shredded mess. The scars on my hips actually disgust me still. I hate them.

J has never criticised my scars. He has never criticised anything about my body. He is always lovely and sweet about me, and he would never make me feel uncomfortable- so why am I making myself feel this way?

I’ll start again on the vitamin E oil again, and I am going to talk to Dr K about these feelings too. My mum might have hit the nail on the head- she said the reason I might feel so bad about my scars is because I have a lot of horrible memories that surface whenever I see them. The ones on my arm remind me of that time I wrote about here: https://battybeth108.wordpress.com/2013/06/26/bad-day/ That day, I wound up in A & E because of my self harm. The ones on my hips remind me of the early days of my depression, of the later days just before I met J, and the later days than that just before I went into hospital. The faint ones left on my calves remind me of being thirteen, fourteen, fifteen and sixteen. I hate the fact that each set of scars throws my mind back in time to when I was at my worst. I hate how they look and what they make me feel.

If anyone has any suggestions about how to help myself come to terms with what I’ve done to my skin, and maybe some help as to trying to reduce the appearance of my scars, it would be welcome. I feel so guilty and upset when I think of them- and then, worse still, I get distracted all over again and when I next think of them, I haven’t dealt with what I’m feeling so I go back into those feelings again.

Apologies if some of this makes no sense, but I’ve taken over an hour to write this because I’m just so distractible and my head is everywhere. This is what I hate about mania- can’t concentrate for five minutes solid.

Therapy is not for the faint hearted.

EDIT: PTSD has screwed up my timelines. I was fifteen, not fourteen, when this all happened- still, I was a child.

I have held off writing about this because I have not wanted to. It’s too much. It validates some of the weird almost-phobias I have about certain things and the anxiety that comes with them.

MASSIVE TRIGGER WARNING. I’m going to talk about some really upsetting stuff. I was FOURTEEN when it happened and I’m still struggling to really process it without dissociating and feeling weird.

Ok, on with this.

I’ve been neglecting my WordPress account as of late. I have been overwhelmingly happy. That sounds good, but I’m actually realising that I’m hypomanic. It’s the first time I’ve caught the feeling so early, the first time I’ve realised that I’m starting on the rollercoaster of mania again. I am praying that I don’t get too far ahead with it and that it doesn’t make me ill again. The crashes are almost more than I can bear. J spotted my mania for what it was, and actually, Dr K picked up on it, asking me if I felt speeded-up when I was in therapy on Thursday. She was right- I felt like my head was buzzing and the thoughts were just zooming round, three thoughts a nanosecond. She encouraged me to take some deep breaths, massage my temples, try and breathe through the rattling, zinging thoughts bouncing in my skull.

I kept thinking that there was something I wanted to tell her. I was trying to pin a thought down to tell her about, but the overlying detritus in my skull kept distracting me. I’m horribly distractible at the minute- it’s awful, I feel fragmented. Happy, loud, joyful, but all over the place.

We kept talking. I felt irritated with myself, annoyed that Dr K must think I was wasting time. We started talking about the Church again, that I might be feeling manic because it’s just been Easter and I used to get so manic at Easter because of Spring Harvest, the Christian event I used to go to. I was talking about how the Church often made me feel dirty, guilty, wrong, for enjoying sex or thinking about it even, but then something stormed into my mind and I was swamped by it.

Here was that elusive thought I had been chasing. Here was that thing that had been evading my grasp in the darkest corners of my psyche- a shameful memory that I’d pushed away every time I’d thought of it. I suddenly remembered- and I told Dr K about something that happened when I was newly in that six-year relationship with my ex.

I’m having problems writing this now. I am actually shying away from it again, shying away from the awkwardness, the upset, the hurt and the pain of a fourteen-year-old girl. I’m trying to quell my anxiety and tell it that I was not to blame, that I was fourteen and I was innocent. Dr K and I talked about that, my innocence. She called me a lamb to the slaughter. She was right.

I was adventurous with my ex, at fourteen. I was in love and full of hormones and trying to control them, because the Church told me I was a sinner if I didn’t stay totally pure… problem was, my ex was good at flattering his way through my defences. I succumbed gladly, letting him in, and I would deal with the guilt later. I didn’t want the Church or my parents to find out that I was enjoying getting close to my new boyfriend. I wanted to enjoy our teenage make-out sessions, I didn’t want to let the guilt swallow me or be banned from seeing him.

That time, we were round at his grandparents’ house. He had been sent to live there at the age of eleven, ostensibly to attend the nearby secondary school, but I remember him telling me that he had hit his sister when he was younger. I suspect more than hitting happened to that poor girl, but I will never know. At any rate, he treated his grandparents as second parents, and they idolised him, particularly his grandfather. D was a tall, stout man, loud and cheerful, often ready with a glass of wine for me and my ex and a home-made dinner on the table. His wife was sweet and kind, quite quiet, and an excellent cook with a nice smile. I took to them pretty quickly.

I’d been to my ex’s grandparents’ house before, but this time when the two of us went off upstairs, my ex left the door open a bit. I was confused. When I went to shut the door, he explained that he needed to leave it like that so he could hear if his grandfather came upstairs. I was nervous and uncomfortable, but my ex soon stopped those feelings with well-placed seduction, and soon, I wasn’t wearing a stitch of clothing. He had most of his still on.

I didn’t hear anything to start with, I was too distracted, but there was a squeak of floorboards and I noticed that my ex’s grandad, D, was walking away from the door down the hall towards the room next door. I jerked upright and asked my ex if he had seen us. He told me that he was sure he hadn’t seen anything, and tried to get me to resume what we’d just been doing. I still felt uncomfortable and weird and asked him if I should put some clothes on. He still said it was fine and that I should get back to what we were doing. I slipped into the bedcovers, pulling them up above my breasts, and asked him if D could hear us. My ex said no, he couldn’t, he was on the computer in the other room and would be there for a long time. Eventually he persuaded me to get back to what we were doing before, but I now jumped at every squeaky floorboard and didn’t feel comfortable in the slightest.

Dr K asked whether I wondered whether the two had talked together about this, and I explained that yes, they had. My ex had casually told me over the phone the very next night that his grandad had seen us together and next time I went there to visit, we were to keep the door shut and he would knock if he wanted us.

I had never felt quite as ashamed of myself as that moment. His grandfather had seen me naked, in the throes of passion. He’d seen me giving myself to someone I thought I could trust. In that moment, I was completely humiliated.

That’s not the worst of it by far.

After that incident, the door was kept shut sometimes, but other times it ‘somehow’ crept open again. I often bumped into D when returning from the bathroom. The hugs D would give me got longer, and he had added a kiss on the cheek to his greeting to me. I was often the subject of discussion at the dinner table- or maybe, should I say, my anatomy was the subject of discussion- my ‘nice legs’, the top that showed too much cleavage and resulted in D fanning himself with a large hand. I felt permanently uncomfortable at that house, always watched, always observed and commented on. My ex and D would banter back and forth over the table, D sometimes slipping me into conversation in a really inappropriate way, usually under the guise of congratulating my ex that he was going out with me. D’s wife and I would sit and laugh, or at least, we’d pretend to. That woman was as much under the thumb as I was, and I feel awful that she’s still there.

Dr K then voiced the awful link that I’d been trying to deny.

She wondered aloud whether my ex and his grandfather had set me up between them.

All of a sudden, the feelings I was flooded with in Dr K’s office were the feelings of a hurt, scared fourteen-year-old. I sniffed, child-like all of a sudden, and I said, “But that’s not fair…”

I cried like a child then. My bottom lip wobbled as it hasn’t done since I was about that age. Dr K gently explained that if this was true, I was being groomed, at that age, to take whatever my ex wanted to dish out on me next. I was certain of it, I explained back to her- why the hell would you leave a door open if you wanted to mess about?! Why was D in the room next door for so long when there was no computer up there?! Why was I always the butt of the jokes, the object for admiration, the target of the most awful shame I’d ever had then? My hurt, fourteen-year-old self convinced it was her who was the dirty one, that it was her who should have been better, purer, that she should have said no to sex. She stopped wearing skirts and dresses because of the boy she was dating sliding his hands under them at every opportunity, in the wrong places, in front of his fucking grandfather at the dinner table…

Dr K let me sob for at least fifteen minutes, talking to me as I grieved for a piece of my past that should not have been that way. I was fourteen. Fourteen-year-olds should not be displayed like a piece of meat as a favour to some perverted old man. I feel disgusted even now, thinking about D, and I still look out for him in the supermarket, in the street, driving in his car…

Dr K was amazing whilst I sat and let it sink in that truly, it was NOT my fault that I ended up so badly abused whilst with my ex- he was only copying what he’d seen his father and grandfather do. Dr K thinks the whole family is riddled with abuse and pain, and he was passing on what was normal- although, he saw the whole episode mentioned above as a joke, so Dr K agrees with me that he KNEW it was bad and awful, what he did, but my ex did it anyway because that’s who he is.

I thought about the messed up, mixed up kid I was then and let her know (that part of me that is her, who’s hidden this memory’s awful consequences deep inside her) that I didn’t blame her or think she was bad. I thought the Church was bad, that D and my ex were awful, that Dr K thought I was ‘an innocent flower’. Someone described like that could never be wicked or bad, or deserve what they got. I managed to calm down slowly, realise where I was again, let Dr K ground me and help me to remember where I was and what was happening today and now.

I am shocked that this happened to me. I know that this memory is completely true, because I kept shoving it down into the darkness in my head whenever it came bouncing out again. I need only see a certain front door or see a certain car and I’m back there again, on that sunny day where he and his pervert of a grandfather robbed me of my dignity.

I was aware that therapy would not be easy, but I never knew that it would be this tough.

I hope that I can, one day, tell this to my parents, but I doubt it. I will have to put some other spin on it to make it more palatable for them, because they’re still Christians and I broke every fucking purity law in the book when that happened to me. I know that part of them would be horrified for me, but I wonder whether part of them will be horrified with me for doing what I did. I hope not.

I’ve hinted to J that I remembered a bad thing, but we haven’t had time to chat tonight- he’s had a bad day and needs to rest. That’s ok. When he can be strong enough again, when he feels ok, I’ll tell him. That will probably be tomorrow. If I can’t tell him directly, I will send him this post to let him know that although this happened to me, it can’t affect us. I refuse to let two scumbags even impact in any way the amazing thing I have with J.

I cling to the fact that he has seen me at my worst, that he was one of the first people I confessed the first rape to, the person I rang at three in the morning in fear for my life and the person who quelled a panic attack in fifteen minutes flat, fought my voices and won, and loves me for the person I am under all my issues.

Life optional.

Dear brain,

Please do not do this to me. Please stop giving me days where all I can do is hide in the house and flinch whenever anyone passes the window or door. Please do not give me the world’s shortest attention span. Please stop your constant guilt-tripping, your self-hatred. Please, please stop it.

I am sick of having all my plans derailed by panic attack. I hate the paranoia. I cannot stand hearing the voices of the dark passenger say all that hateful shit to me. I don’t want to live through another day where I feel like a little girl, terrified and alone and wanting the bad dream to end.

Today was that day. I lived in a nightmare all day. I waited for it to go or for me to wake up, but I couldn’t do it. I have been in my onesie, huddled up on the sofa, the tingling of my skin reminding me that yes, I did take a shower, but the disgust inside still claiming I am dirty.

I had to tell my mum I couldn’t do class because I was terrified to step outside the front door. She STILL doesn’t quite get why I couldn’t. She is angry with my ex for intimidating me, but tells me to go to class anyway, because I will beat him that way. I wish she was right. I wanted to scream on the way home from the tube this morning. I was convinced he was going to be waiting for me, in a dark little flat in London. Thank gods my mum doesn’t get it, though. At least that means she is safe from all this bullshit that invades my head on a daily basis.

Brain, do me a favour. Let me not feel this socially and emotionally inadequate. I am so tired of the endless guilt! I left my mum with the impression I am ok now, and she told me I had to tell her when I am feeling bad. I can’t. I am so conditioned to rely on myself, I don’t even want to ring up J and let him know. He is close to me, and I don’t want to bring him down either.

One day, you tell me, I will whinge so much that both my family and J will tell me to shut up.

On that day, you tell me, this little dream of “it’ll all be ok” will end forever, and back will come the self-harm, the pain, the suicidal intentions and of course, the dark passenger will break down the door in my mind. Already smoky, threatening tendrils are creeping from underneath it and tapping me on the shoulder again.

On days like this, brain, you make me believe that there is nothing left for me. You pull me to my knees with a barbed wire noose around my throat. I hurt everywhere, and I think you secretly enjoy it.

I want to sleep and forget, but you even make my dreams hell. Where is there to run now, what with your constant abuse making every safe haven another lie?

I don’t know what to do. I want help now, but it’s four months down the line.

I knew this would happen once I left J and my family. Today, I wanted to get on the first plane out of the country and be back with him, taking my family too, but instead I was trapped in my living room, feeling useless.

Thanks, brain. Seeing him everywhere I go is a real treat… not. That, and seeing people who don’t exist; reliving anniversaries of arguments and trauma in flashbacks (emotional, mental or physical); de-realisation; dissociation; and of course, depression.

I feel so fragile, and it is all your fault.

 

Oh no, wait, it isn’t.

 

 

It’s his.

A personal demon.

TRIGGER WARNING- discussion of religion and a weird cult-ish thing that happened to me as a 16-year-old. Also self harm is mentioned.

 

Oh, religion.

Why tell me I am being tested? You think mental illness is a test? You think it’s something I could pass with flying colours? Hahaha, I don’t think.

This us not a test. This is not something your weak prayers to the magic beans in the sky can heal. This is forever.

I will be stuck with this agony all of my life. I will not escape. Of course, I might have breaks now and then, but you don’t understand that this is permanent and painful.

Your faith cannot heal these cracks in my mind. Your wishful thinking is flawed if you think you can fix this, and you are fundamentally cruel to suggest that a wish from you can heal me. Have I not been trying to heal my fucking self? Were my efforts inferior to yours?

Yes, this is a curse- a demon within me, but you nor your magician can drive it out. I need earthly, practical help- good people to love me, good people to talk to me and good doctors to prescribe medicine that will work.

I have tried to heal myself with your lies before. I have believed in this falsehood and I have thought I was a cracked vessel being tested. Well, you smashed me. I am in pieces, and it is all your fault.

So good luck trying to fix me, you fools, because there is nothing that your religion can do that has worked or will work. I will be proud of me for my progress alone, without your fallacy, insecurity, and lies.

I wrote this when I was angry the other day- my family is Christian and I am not, and I was in church and hating it as usual. I wrote this, read it just now… and realised that this is something I never talk about.

I never discuss religion. I hate talking about Christianity because of my past. I hate thinking about how many people are blinkered by commandments men gave when not listening to the truth.

Before I go any further, I have to say two things. One, that I do not hate Christianity as a whole. Two, that I was once a hardcore Evangelical Christian.

The reason I never discuss religion is because I have been so wounded by it. I have been put through the mill by intolerant people in the Church, its rules and laws, hypocritical preachers and horrible misunderstandings. I have also been loved, nurtured and supported by some beautiful people in the Church who continue to love me unconditionally today. I never want to speak out because of this, and I never go into my weird personal belief systems (which involve karma, a pantheon of gods and a hell of a lot of other weird shit) because I don’t want to be that Christian-basher. I don’t want to bash people because they practice a religion I don’t believe in.

However, my silence costs me.

It occurred, after I’d written that, that I am one day going to have to start looking at what happened to me in the Church and understand what it’s done to the rest of my life as a consequence. I was young and it scarred me. I was stupid and naive and foolish and trusting that something that told me it was good was not good for me.

So, I am going to explain.

I was always a sort-of Christian but never really found faith til I was eleven and went on a week away, with my church and thousands of other Christians from all over everywhere. I strongly believed I sensed the presence of God, and I then became the thing I wish I hadn’t- blind. I started from then to compromise a lot of me, starting with my free systems of thought. I started thinking that unless it had a big tick from God, I couldn’t do it. Of course, who does God talk through? The Church! The vicar! The Bible!

So I read the Bible, joined in all the youth stuff more at Church, which my parents were delighted about, and set about trying to convince my friends that it was a good way to go. I lost my free mind and struggled with things as a result. Take, for example, gay marriage. Some of you on here will know I’m bisexual, and it was just starting to kick in to my 11 year old self. I didn’t realise I was finding women attractive, but something about the anti-gay laws bothered me a little. I used to ignore it and move on.

I grew up, got more into the Christian scene, went to the holidays away a lot and started to believe that I was sent by God on a mission to do something, whilst at the same time believing I was not worthy enough to walk on the same earth as my family or friends. I believed that only God could love me as long as I was doing something he wanted me to do. I felt horribly guilty for being myself. Part of the symptoms of whatever this is involves a huge sex drive at certain points in the year, for no reason, and my risky behaviour with a guy I met at one of the Christian events excited and sickened me in equal measure. I began to think that I was the blackest sinner who walked the earth.

Next came my depression, and I was crippled with worse self loathing. I cried out for help every night. Nothing worked. I was dying inside, and starting to experiment with self harm. I succeeded in making a mess of myself with bunsen burners, a penknife of my dad’s, finally the scissors I have mentioned… I thought I was not trusting in God enough, that I didn’t have enough faith, that I didn’t believe enough. I thought I was at fault for being so weak.

Then, I met my ex. Bad grew to worse. He was a serious serious Christian too, and I had what I think is my first delusion. I’ve had one other since then which is too distressing to talk about right now.

He made me so close to him we even prayed together. He fabricated a world where me, my best girl friend (whom I was falling in love with) and him were angels, sent to Earth to serve God and protect the human race from the coming apocalypse. He wrote a huge story about us which I contributed to, believing that I was remembering things about Heaven when I believe I was hallucinating. We all three of us picked out Bible passages which we believed clearly showed the impending apocalypse. He told me my best friend was to be the antichrist, and I would have to kill her.

That was where my beautiful friend B freaked out.

She said there was no way she was killing someone, and that this was wrong, and the Bible said not to kill anyone. We split up and she got into bad company, alcohol and cutting. She really burned herself once, and I remember helping her change dressings for it and begging her to stop.

B, if you ever see this, I am so so sorry for the way we treated you. I am sorry I let myself become so brainwashed. I am sorry he kept me from you when you were dying inside too. I am sorry for everything, and I hope if you can’t forgive me, then please forget me. I am sorry.

Anyway, the delusion deepened. I realised that I was set apart, as was he, and we had lost B to the Devil. I still tried to save her, whilst feverishly looking up more of revelation and pinning it to world events. Eventually, we got found out by our parents, and he was told by his grandfather that he didn’t think it was true, but to keep being a Christian and believe in God… apparently.

I pretended to go along with my parents, but I was already so delusional I truly believed I was an angel. I saw demons. I heard the voice of God. I started interpreting my dreams like some modern-day Joseph. I believed this delusion for a year and a half, and it destroyed my friendship with B, it undermined my sanity, it brought my depression back and I hated myself so much that I would often wish I was going to die, just so I could go to Heaven and be “perfect”.

At the same time as this, the church I’d grown up in had some changes. My youth leader was a closet lesbian, but found a girlfriend and was kicked out of the church. She has been an inspiration and a guiding light- somehow she kept her faith and has a wife and family. At the time, her friends turned on her and people she had known for years denounced her. She was friendless, and it hurt me too because I loved her quirkiness and her sense of humour, her larger than life-ness. My bisexuality was surfacing too, and I was more than a little frightened. I was clearly going to hell too. Why did I want my best girl friend to kiss me? Why the hell was I so attracted to my other best girl friend at school?

When I moved away to London, the church I joined preached inclusion but practiced cliquiness. I was on the outskirts all the time despite my efforts to fit. I constantly felt on edge, and it was very rare I was asked to an event by the youth of that church. It was huge, and I got lost, in a sea of people who all knew each other but not me.

My burden of guilt worsened with all this, and the cutting was worse, and the self-loathing was worse, and the notion of sin was unbearable. I could literally feel the flames of hell.

Then my ex decided he was an atheist, and I beat myself up even more. I had fallen for an atheist. I was a bad Christian. I was evil. I had started to believe our faith would pull us through, but not even that was true. The ends of the delusion were only just trailing away, and I felt the void of that faith slap me like stinging Arctic wind.

The bottom plummeted out of my faith not long after the delusion had completely gone. I realised I was cheated and alone, after all I had given to the church and God. I realised that I was fooling myself now if I thought I was a Christian, and that I had come to this horrible moment without my ex pressurising me.

The thing that sealed it was trying to get into a new church. It was close to the new ballet school I had gone to after my depression resulted in me being kicked out after running away. I remember walking in and because I don’t dress conventionally, attracting stares from just about everyone. I left after trying to put myself through three sermons where autonomy was bashed and becoming a sheep was praised, my old wounds still smarting.

Being in that angelic delusion was like being in a cult. I was so so shaken to the core when I realised it was all just a lie, and that my ex was stringing me along towards the end of it ‘because he cared,’ and he ‘didn’t want to hurt me, just to let me down gently.’ It was as if someone had come along and turned off the gravity switch. I was a mess, a wreck with no core belief system any more and no solidity. My prayers hadn’t felt listened to since I was 13, and my natural optimism had kept it all going. There is nothing more soul destroying than realising you have fooled yourself.

Besides all that, I have had people in the Church tell me that I am weak for having a mental illness and that I should just pray more, that I do not have enough faith so how can I get better; I have had people say my mother’s cancer was a test of our faiths as a family; that I ‘really need to think about how I dress to come to church’ and that being gay is a choice and a wrong choice. I am damaged enough by what happened. I don’t need to hear that bigoted shit any more, and I have sat in a sermon that has basically said that anyone who was not in that church was going to hell.

I am not trying to condemn Christianity as a whole. I do not want to be an Christianity-basher rallying point. I have met Christians whom I treasure, including Z, who loves me as me and not as a thing to be saved. I am just scarred and I have issues to solve, and this is one of them.

Do not try to exorcise me of this demon, church, because you created it. Nothing you do can get rid, unless you can fast-track me a psychiatrist appointment to help start my diagnosis. Don’t tell me that I am hearing lies unless they are yours.

I’m sorry if this post has hurt anybody. I honestly don’t mind if you believe in God of any sort. I am the damaged one here.

I’m also sorry if this is jumbled but it is so hard to write this without remembering it all in huge painful chunks. I may not touch this again, because I feel sick every time I think of it.