Posted in Anxiety, Depression, Memories

How Anxiety Almost Terminated My Marriage

Past relationships are always a hard thing to talk about. Whether you talk to a partner about them, or a family member, or even a stranger. You always get that feeling that they aren’t going to understand what you went through, and more often than not, you are met with someone that tries to downplay your feelings. I can’t tell you how many times people respond with, “Why didn’t you just leave?”

Some of us don’t. Some of us stay in that abusive relationship because it is something we’ve always known. I’ve always experienced a father who threw dishes at me since I was 6. I always experienced that alcohol made someone pick a child off the ground and throw them into the wall, or on the couch. I’ve always experienced that feeling like you are constantly walking on egg shells, expecting the worst to happen.

So when I met Cory, I expected nothing more. He was the first person I gave in to. The first person I fell in love with. The first person I went out publicly with, and the first person I started sharing my past with. It didn’t start out abusive. It started like most romances do, butterflies and hand holding. Cuddling late into the night, talking. Somewhere over the course of our dating relationship, he stopped paying for meals. He stopped wanting to hold hands publicly. He started getting angry for things that were out of my control. Things like our landlord not fixing the heater faster than four days. Things like that would always end with me being reminded how stupid I was. How useless I was. How ugly I was. When the words didn’t make me cry, out would come the fists, or the slapping. I’d been beaten so much as a child that I was almost numb to it. At the end of every day, Cory would always come back and tell me he loved me and that he was sorry. I was helpless. I was a scared mouse, happy to have found someone who would always forgive me for my mistakes, always stuck in that terrifying mouse trap. Notice that my mistakes were hardly anything I was doing, just merely existing. Abusive people twist your mind and make you thankful for them. That staying with them is the best thing that’s ever happened to you because without them you are nothing but a pile of garbage. You begin to think this is what love is. Then one day I found out that he slept with his ex. Cory cheated, and when I confronted him, he told me he was poly-amorous. Essentially able to love multiple people through sex- was his definition. He apologized and said he loved me, and I believed him until after nearly 3 months of him cheating and coming back to apologize did the light bulb in my head finally turn on. We terminated our relationship immediately when I stopped being that terrified mouse. The little rodent that would always take his apologies like they were the words of god. I wasn’t his little pet or puppet anymore.

Years later I meet my (now) husband, Patrick. We fall in love. We have our ups, and our downs. Once in a blue moon we have  our verbal fights, but we have never laid hands on one another in anger. He has always listened about my past with Cory, and hugged me through the nightmares, the tears as I eventually overcame the abuse. I made an effort to find my father, to get to know him and overcome the fears I had as a child. Patrick made me feel whole again. He made everything from my childhood, my being raped, by broken relationship from my father, and my past relationships better. He made me better. So when gay marriage became legal in California, we went and immediately got married, that week, in the courthouse. It was small, with just 6 people from my side of the family, but it was beautiful. I’ll never forget the way he smiled at me as I tried to repeat my vows from the pastor through tears and stutters.

We had been married for nearly two years before we started to experiment with things inside the bedroom. It’s not as if we were bored of our usual encounter, but we had just become so comfortable with each other, we started telling each other about certain fantasies. Eventually we both agreed that we would like to try having someone else in the bedroom with us. So we picked someone out together, invited them over, things heated up, and eventually the night came and went. The next morning after the third wheel left, we decided that this was something that wasn’t for us. We liked our bedroom stuff better when it was just us. I don’t mean to put down others at all, but this was just something we both felt. We felt as though it was less intimate with someone else, and the residual feelings that I had from my past relationship with Cory had started to creep back. The feeling and fear that I would be cheated on. I was honest with Patrick about my fears after we came to the conclusion that we liked it being just the two of us, and he assured me nothing would happen unless I was there with him and comfortable.

 

So, we were happy. We hadn’t had anything major happen in our marriage since, it was beautiful and peaceful. Until last week when Patrick was sitting in bed with me and asked if I remembered our third wheel. I had told him yes and asked why he was brought up, for I had not thought about that guy in a while. Patrick then went on to tell me that he had been talking to him for a little while, and the third wheel was telling him about being a caregiver. Third wheel apparently went on to tell my husband that a caregiver was someone who would provide financially and sexually, all the things that they needed.

Immediately the fears of cheating came back to me. I never forbid Patrick from talking to anyone, and tried to trust him. I never wanted to be that person in a relationship who asked to see his phone or text messages. However, the way I was feeling made me ask to read the message to see the context in which it was presented because the whole conversation took me right back to how I felt when I was cheated on by Cory.

Reading over the messages, I saw how Third Wheel was constantly hinting towards my husband about being sexual. How he was shifting the conversation slightly by asking sexual questions here or there. Patrick would always respond with, “my husband and I do this,” or things to similar effect, but when Patrick typed those responses back, Third Wheel would come back with, “Oh that’s turning me on.”

I kept reading these messages back and forth until I got past the caregiver section, and when I got to the bottom after Third Wheel explained what a caregiver was, I saw the words from my husband say, “Do you want me to be that for you?”

Immediately my heart was broken. It hurt so bad to see something like that, because I was reading that as Patrick offering. Patrick offering to be something like that for someone else and nobody had talked to me about anything beforehand. I took that as cheating. Especially because of what happened to me in my past relationship.

 

I immediately told Patrick how I felt and when he reached out to me, I pushed his hand away and started crying. I hit a super low point. Immediately my anxiety and depression came in, and I felt those feelings surging back. The feeling of being that terrified mouse. Waiting to be hit, to be slapped, to be called names, to feel the pain, and then hear the apology. Patrick tried to say that he didn’t mean for it to come across that way and he was sorry, but I screamed at him that he sounded just like Cory. That his apology was garbage and that it didn’t matter what the intent was because it’s what happened.

At the end of the day, he sent someone a message about sexual things, and Third Wheel responded with, “that’s turning me on.” Which seemed like key words to me, about where a conversation was going. I cried for hours, and Patrick cried alongside me. We talked back and forth, and he assured me he didn’t mean anything by it. That he was just learning what a caregiver was and was confused because it seemed like Third Wheel was wanting him to be that. Patrick said when he asked if that’s what Third Wheel wanted him to be, it wasn’t because he was offering, but Patrick was just trying to make it clear as to what the intent was.

It’s taken me days to get over it. I clocked Third Wheel on facebook. I told Patrick that I couldn’t handle them talking or messaging each other anymore. Patrick has respected my feelings. Patrick has assured me that he didn’t mean it to seem like he was propositioning someone outside of our marriage. He said he knows how I went through an abusive relationship, and if I have to be that crazy spouse that wants to check his phone, to simply ask and take it. He said he has nothing to hide and wants to be married to me. That he wants to grow old with me. Have kids with me. That he’s simply too damn old and tired as he is now to even try and play those cheating games.

I know what he is saying is the truth, but it’s hard when you’ve grown up like this. When you went through abuse throughout your whole childhood from an alcoholic with a bad temper. It’s hard when you’ve been raped by someone you trusted, to overcome the anxiety that keeps you from feeling safe or trusting someone again. It’s hard to not feel like someone is going to cheat on you again when you went through that already with someone in the past. Luckily, I found someone who is empathetic with the way that I feel. I can only hope more people are out there like Patrick, and that those empathetic individuals find those out there that are broken, like me.

I hope that others mend themselves, and are able to get over those bumps in the road, built by the past. I know today was a rant and it has been a while since I’ve done an update, but this is where my mind has been the past week. This is what I have been trying to overcome mentally.

I feel better, and Patrick texts me multiple times throughout his work period, talking to me about his shift, what he wants for dinner, and even the cutesy things like complimenting me, or saying he misses me. I just feel so stupid for letting my past relationships, and past experiences almost terminate our marriage. Almost ruin something so good, pure and beautiful.

 

If you managed to make it all of the way through my jumbled text rant from my brain, I am:

1) Sorry

2) Thankful for all the kind words that people have sent me. I know I am a little broken, but this blog and the kind words from different readers whether it be in the comments or getting emails, means a lot. I genuinely appreciate you kind souls out there.

Posted in Anxiety, Depression

“Why Do You Let Past Fears Control You?

Make them fears your bitch.

I love my sister and I know she didn’t mean to come from a hostile place, but this is something people who suffer from anxiety or depression deal with every day.

We constantly deal with people trying to tell us to “just get over it”. It’s like, “I never thought of that,” right? Just don’t let it affect you, pick yourself up by your bootstraps and move on, stronger than you were before. There lies the problem, however, I would give anything to not let anxiety or depression strike me in this way. To not feel like I can’t breathe, or like my heart is going to detach itself from my body and run out of my chest. To not get “over emotional” to jokes or “take things too seriously”. I would love to not have a dream and have it strike me to the core, making me afraid to wander through my own home, fearful that past demons would be just around the corner. I would give anything to not push my husband’s hand away on my bad days, because his touch reminds me of my dream I had the night before, and even though he’s never hurt me the way others have, my brain still connects a loving hand to a rapists.
People who suffer from anxiety or depression don’t choose to feel that panic or that constant “inability to breathe” feeling. We don’t get excited to share our fears with others, and would prefer to keep it to ourselves, let it fester until something “crazy” like suicide crosses our mind. The feelings, or in my case yesterday: rape memories, come back and fill your headspace with a darkness so thick, it makes you unable to stand.  Unable to think clearly. Unable to function.
We feel helpless. We feel alone. And comments like the one above only solidify it. They make us feel like we ARE crazy. Like there IS something wrong with us specifically and that others could never understand how we feel. If I hadn’t married the wonderful supportive man that I did, I know I would have followed through on some of my more darker thoughts.  I would have harmed myself in ways that I probably wouldn’t be alive today.

This is something people need to understand more. Not just post on social media about being available when a celebrity dies due to suicide when linked to depression. 

The mindset of “just get over it” needs to change.

Posted in Anxiety, Depression, Dreams

Rape Victim/Rape Survivor

I could feel his hands rubbing over my shirt. Sliding them down my body as if they were slow moving snails without leaving evidence of their travels. His hands reaching down, rubbing me over my sweatpants.

Myself, not even understanding what’s going on, still drunk on my deep sleep. That cloudy hangover, intent on making sure to keep my eyes closed. Maybe it was my brain trying to make me sleep through it, to not remember.

I laid there, trying to breathe normally, thinking this had to be a dream. I didn’t know what was going on, why I was being touched. Why I was being rubbed this way. I tried to be still, dead weight like a heavy log, as if that would stop him from pulling down my sweatpants.

I laid there, still, exposed, eyes closed, praying to myself not to move. If I didn’t move then he would see that I wasn’t saying yes to this. That I didn’t want this. I was wrong, as he put his mouth on me. Immediately my body went into panic mode.

I’d never felt that feeling before, being only seven years old, but in my gut- deep in my soul, I knew that this was wrong. My body ignored my brain praying to hold still, and began the attempt to wriggle away. But like a worm in a birds mouth, the predator had already started upon his prey.

Immediately the gentle rubbing ceased as his hands became solid blocks of iron. One hand holding my lower body still, while his hand that was rubbing my chest grabbed at my throat. I tried to push his hand away and started my feeble attempt at a call for my mother, but when I made the slightest whisper, I felt pain as a hand was slapped down over my mouth.

Then that demonic face stopped working my lower half, and presented itself before mine. I could feel his breath, hot and humid. The spittle coming off his mouth as he explained to me in a hushed gravely voice that if anyone were to found out about this, he’d kill them, and then me. He reminded me that I wouldn’t want to cause others pain, when we could just play, and move on. Nobody had to get hurt.

I was so scared. I kept trying to wriggle away, to get away from thus man I’ve known for so long. This man that used to babysit my sister and I. This man that used to make us feel so safe when mommy and daddy were gone. The man that gave us our first green apple. Who laughed when we said it was sour, but squealed in delight with every bite. I let out another attempt to call for help, but was met with a slap to the face, and then his heavy hand covering my mouth.  His hand was so large compared to my small face, I found it hard to breathe, for his hand all but sealed most of my nostrils from any air coming in or out.

His mouth went back to my lower body, as I laid there, pinned and helpless. I cried silently. The tears rolling down my cheeks. Afraid to move, afraid to be hit. Afraid to call for help and have anyone else experience this. I wanted our dog. I wanted my mom. I wanted to sleep. I wanted anything than to be here with my uncle.

Then a feeling washed over me, an explosion of something that in my brain. It caused me to convulse and cry out against the hand on my mouth. I didn’t know what it was but I knew without a doubt that it was the most confused I’d ever been in my life. How could fear and pain lead me to a sensation that felt….good, but still left my gut knotted and  constantly telling me something was horribly wrong with the whole situation.

My uncle removed his hand from my mouth, let go of my body, and withdrew his mouth from my lower half. I immediately grabbed my sweats and pulled them up over my waist, rolled over and tried to go to sleep. It felt like the process of covering myself and rolling over took years, and I’ll never forget him sounding hurt when he said, “oh come on, don’t be like that.”

I rolled onto my stomach, pushed my face into my pillow and cried. I tried to ignore the pain in my face, to ignore the warmth from where he hit me, to ignore that feeling of wanting to die or to be anywhere but here.

I’m sorry for not posting my workouts for yesterday and today. This is where my mind went Monday morning. This is what I’ve been battling. I’ve been trying to get myself out of bed. To face the day. But when I start to move, my brain betrays me and shows me images of that night.

For example: Today I slept through all three of my alarms and still had to force myself out of bed at noon.

It’s debilitating. I thought I was past this. I hadn’t thought about my Uncle Oggy since elementary school. But here I was, afraid to go outside.

Here I was, pushing away from my husband, telling him not to touch me. Making him sleep as far as he can on the other side of our bed, while I sat there and cried myself to sleep.

I wonder if Oggy knows how painful that one incident is for me. Still. Nearly 20 years later, I can still remember it, still fear him, as if it happened yesterday.

I remember the way his breath smelled, the way the sheets made my skin itch, the sound of his voice, and the cold feeling of death I felt on the inside, when someone I trusted violated me in such a way.

I wonder if other rape victims are this broken. Are still this affected.

I wonder if I’m crazy, hurting my husband, making him feel like hes doing something wrong, when some days the memories flood back and I become this cold shell of who I usually am.
I wonder if other rape victims call this surviving.

Some days…I just can’t do this. I can’t breathe. I can’t just…be.

Posted in Anxiety, Depression

Fighting Sleep Meds

Today I have to wake up early.

My mother wants me and my husband to drive a few hours south with her and her husband this morning so that we can scope out a few campsites and see if the river there has a good swimming location. I’m slightly annoyed because she knew that my sister and I made plans to play Pathfinder (game like Dungeons and Dragons) today. Anyone who has played that type of game knows that you need a few hours to get immersed in it, and we were already short on time because my husband works at 6am tomorrow, so we can’t stay up late into the night. Add on to that, my sister and brother are kate to everything- it’s their thing- so we have to start by 2pm. Which means we won’t start toll 4pm, which lets us play for  3 hours before my husband needs to be in bed for work tomorrow. 

However, telling my mother “No” turns her into a whiny 4 year old and it’s just easier to tell her that we will go earlier, so that we can get back in time for our already scheduled game day. So I’m fighting my sleep medicine, forcing myself to get out of bed. 7:45 has my alarm ringing, and I’ve finally just begun to move off the bed. Ignoring the urge to just hit snooze and embrace sleep. I’m making my way to shower and grab a cup of coffee.
There are worse things I could be doing with my morning than going for a drive in the sun, right?

At least that’s what I keep telling my super annoyed and decaffeinated brain.

Good morning.

Posted in Anxiety, Depression, Failed to Exercise, Weight Loss Journey

400lbs – Weight Loss Journey, Day 2

This morning I was awoken to a knock at my door.
Not my front door to my house, mind you, but a knock at my bedroom door. Turns out, it was my sister. This was something I hadn’t been prepared for, since it was mine and my husband’s home that we lived in, alone.

She had come in to let me know that my mother had apparently been trying to call me since 6AM, and it was 2 hours of failed calls when she sent my sister to retrieve me. My father was having chest pains and he had to leave the family business to go to the emergency room. He runs a local rubberstamp company, which handles all sorts of self inking/woodmount stamps as well as street signs, endorsement stamps and more. My mother is the front end person, and the person who handles the books, while my father is the one who makes all of the products and cuts the material into specific sizes before using a laser to engrave whatever the customer wanted.

A few months back, before I had started to delve deeper into my depression, he had started showing me the ropes and how to create and manufacture the store’s products. While he was in the emergency room, my mother needed someone else to help fulfill orders because she never learned how to do it herself. They can’t afford customers not getting orders, because this business was how they paid their rent, their livelihood.

Without thinking, or showering, I put on clothes and grabbed my old uniform, while my sister made me a cup of coffee and gave me a ride to drop me off at the store. I spent most of the day doing things my mother was unable to do- go to the bank, drop orders off at the local USPS. Then heading back to the business in an attempt to help out the best I could. When it got a little slower, I took a break to drive down south one city over in order to give my old high school two boxes of books. Our library was also unable to get the funding for more books so they reached out for donations from our community.

Once I dropped them off and got back, we got the notice that my father was apparently healthy. They said his blood had an “oxygen rate of 100%, which was uncommon for life smokers”, and said that he was in great shape, but to follow up with his primary care physician. It made my mother much calmer, but worried me a little because he is the kind of man who has cut off a finger on the saw at the family business and didn’t run to the ER because he’s simply that “tough guy” that doesn’t do that kind of thing.

By the time I had gotten home, my sister, my workout buddy, had already started getting ready to go to her night job. We decided it would be best for the both of us to be held accountable and make tomorrow a double day.

So that’s where we are at, a family health scare and a busy day- but no excuses. We will hold ourselves accountable and do our double day tomorrow.

Be wary T25, we are coming for Speed 1.0 and Total Body Circuit. We will kick its ass, and we will get healthier.

If you’re interested in buying something from my parent’s business to help keep their livelihood secure, feel free to check out what they can do at EurekaRubberStamp.com

Posted in Anxiety, Depression, Personal Accountability, Weight Loss Journey

400lb Man Does Calisthenics, T25 – Day 1 – Cardio

It starts off great.

Basically, you pop in the disc and watch as an extremely fit and attractive man smiles and talks you through the movements.

There is a woman to the right on the screen, and her name is Tanya. Tanya is your friend. Tanya does the modified version of the workout. Be like Tanya.

Initially I didn’t think I’d need Tanya’s assistance, but Sean T quickly proved me wrong as every minute went by- the workout ramped up. He called it “building the progression,” I called it “unfair and torture.” I was expecting some sort of beginners disc, or a learning the ropes easy day.

Before I knew it the movement changed and I’m learning a new set, trying to copy what Tanya is doing, and then I hear the group on the tv start cheering as Sean says “we’re going to the burnout.” Basically he takes the hardest set of each move you learned and crunches them together in quick repetition.

He was a monster. An evil, smiling monster. I quickly found solace in mimicking Tanya, sweat pouring down my face, breathing heavily, and praying to myself in repeated whispers, telling myself I could do this.

Before I knew It, we had already done 20 minutes of the workout from hell. I was apparently gasping for breath because my workout buddy was constantly reminding me to breath, and not give in to the panic that she has clearly seen upon my face.

I remember closing my eyes the last thirty seconds, pushing my body- No, willing it to move in tune with Tanya, to finish the workout strong. The second Sean called time, my sister wanted a high five. I clapped a high five, resisting the urge to throw up my morning coffee and grabbed a cup of water as she did the “cooldown” which is essentially 5 more minutes of agony.
I embraced death on my porch but apparently it didn’t hug me back, and my sister caught this photo of us:

She wants to do the next one tomorrow. All I can say is-

Fuck Sean T.

Fuck T25.

It’s hard.”

However, I’m tired of being this overweight, and I NEED to do the program in order to change.

I have to put in the work. I have to.

Posted in Anxiety, Depression, Personal Accountability

“No News is Good News” is what they say

Or something like that, right?
Today was a good day. I went out for a drive with my husband, ran a couple of errands, and hung out with our dogs.
We even went to our mothers house to have dinner with our dad, sister and brother. We made build your own nachos, talked around the table about random stuff, and after dinner-played dominos. 

The game was called “Chickenfoot” I believe and the idea was that you play dominos like normal but when someone plays a double, you had to have the next three dominos play off of the said double, if you can’t play-draw a domino and pass. First one to go out wins the round. Add up points on your dominos when someone goes out- loser has the most points. Additional rounds, with keeping score, are added to each previous total.
Needless to say I lost. But I had fun. I had some genuine laughs and the day didn’t feel like I was fighting that mental battle against myself.
It seems like something so simple to people who haven’t met that dark shadow of doubt and depression, but to people like us- it’s what motivates you to try again the next day. 

It’s what makes you grit your teeth and bear the pain of a down day, in hopes the next one is considered an “up day”.

So, I’m going to bed, prepared for either. An up day, or a down day.

Goodnight.

Posted in Anxiety, Depression, Personal Accountability

Advice for Depression (Unusual)

Yesterday, one of my Facebook friend posted that they were fearful of opening up. That recently they’ve felt like a bad parent and essentially a slob that ate too much and isn’t working out.

All I saw were people trying to point out the good things in their life and it just bothered me.

Below is my reply, and I hope it helps others as she’s claimed it’s helped her.

Enjoy:
I don’t know. 

I deal with this kind of crap often. I can lie and say that it gets easier. I can say that you’re not a bad mother and that you’re fabulous and yada yada yada.


The only thing I’m going to say is it sucks, I go through it too., and You aren’t alone. I know I hate it when people tell me “look on the bright side”, etc. “But you have a beautiful husband, family, blah blah blah”. 

That doesn’t change the fact that you feel this way. 

I’d just like to ask you to find the root cause. 


Mine is my weight and feeling invalid and alone. Having my daily workout buddy, Natasha, pushes that fear back and makes me feel like I can breathe again.


It’s hard to talk about it because you’ll have those people telling you to just be happy, and to just buck up. Grow a spine, have tougher skin.

Not many people will tell you to fester in it. Bathe in it until you find out what the cause is. Then take it one step at a time to cleanse it. One step. One day. At a time.

I know that anything other than those baby steps just makes it worse for me.

Posted in Anxiety, Depression, Personal Accountability

Get Back -Anxiety – Get Back!

I am so determined to fight this today. I woke up in bed by my second alarm. 

Yesterday was hard. Hell, it was soul crushing. I hit a really dark place after being compared to something so sick and twisted, for merely loving and marrying the person that I did.
I forced myself to go for a drive on the sunshine, to get out of the house out of fear I’d do something I’d regret. The kind sentiments received from people here and on Facebook was so unbelievably helpful when I did actually get home, I can’t thank my peers enough.

Your words gave me strength for today. To live and shine brighter than I did the night before.

I shouldn’t get saddened by their comparisons of me and pedophiles, I should feel pity. Pity for those who are so blinded by their faith that they didn’t take a few minutes to realize the difference between homosexuality and bestiality. 

Those people are what’s wrong with the world. Those people are the messed up ones. The ones who can’t see the beauty in others, or go throughout life without attempting the “my way or the highway” approach.

If they return? I’ll be stronger and more prepared for them. I’ll be able to tell them “no thank you.” I’ll be able to tell them to bugger off when they make gross comparisons. I’ll be able to have a backbone because I’ll be prepared for them to be ignorant.

I won’t be blindsided by their hate and ignorance. I won’t feel that self loathing for being my beautiful self.

Posted in Anxiety, Depression

In case you were feeling good about yourself- There’s a Jehovah’s Witness ringing your doorbell.

I have been rather open about my struggle with mental stability and how nightmares fill my dreamspace, how sleep aids allow me to go to bed without that paranoia that I’m being watched, how I can’t stand the thought of being around others out of fear for not being accepted.

I even thought that I handled myself pretty well today. I got out of bed on time, and actually woke up before my first alarm. I jumped up, made plans to take our spare books to our local high school library, visit my mom, and even possibly visit my sister. I made plans to take the dogs for a walk, even though it’s a particularly cloudy day, I was genuinely excited to feel the sunshine against my skin. I had even put on clothes, short of putting on shoes.

That’s when the doorbell rang. I went to go answer the door, making sure to look through the glass above the door to see who was there, and noticed two well dressed men. My mind immediately went to thinking they were police of some sort, coming to tell me we did something wrong with parking or got a complaint from a neighbor somehow. Strange thoughts, I know, but this is where my mind goes- we don’t get people coming to our house before 10:00AM ringing our doorbell wanting to talk.

I open the door cautiously, fearing that this could be some sort of home invasion scheme. However, I am greeted with smiling faces asking if I had a few minutes to talk. I stepped outside with my cup of coffee to be immediately handed a piece of paper. An invitation to the “2017 Convention of Jehovah’s Witnesses.” Now, my insides were burning, while my brain kept telling me to run into the house and shut the door, but my mother raised me better than to be an ass to strangers so I politely took the slip of paper as the man, taking off his tan colored cowboy looking hat, began telling me about the convention and how it was a chance to get a step closer to god.

I stood there, nodding my head, doing my best to listen as he finished his speech, and zoned back in as he asked me, “So can we count on you and your wife being there?”

I was dumbstruck, and replied, “My wife?”

“Of course,” he replied, “women are most certainly welcome at the convention, I mean, that isn’t a promise ring you have on, right?” I then noticed that he was gesturing towards my wedding band. My band that my husband of many years put on my finger as we said our vows in the local courthouse once marriage was made legal for us.

I almost started to cry, but fought back the burning sensation in my throat. I don’t know where the words came from, but I replied, “I am not married to a woman. This isn’t a promise ring. It’s a ring that my husband gave me on our wedding day. Do you even allow gays to be there?”

Instantly the mood between us on my porch had changed. I thought that my words were going to come out tough, but hearing them come out of my mouth, I had noticed that they seemed innocent. Calm. The man on the right just continued to stare at me, as the man with the tan suit put his tan hat back on and said, “It depends on where you are asking they go.” He then began to pull out the bible, and said, “Let me show you a passage…Corinthians…” He muttered to himself as he began flipping through the pages of this faded bible, “Chapter one…let me look, there we go.”

He then went on to paraphrase that the passage there said that people may commit crimes like adultery and the wrong use of genitalia, but that God would always wash their sins clean if they seek to renew themselves and ask for forgiveness. I told him, that doesn’t answer my question. I then said flatly, “If my husband and I go, would people object. Would people turn us away, or attack us? Would they attack us because of the words in this bible, or would they attack us because they personally interpret us to be immoral?”

He responded by telling me, “It depends. We ask that people don’t publicly show their sins, as not to intentionally cause a disturbance. I am sure nobody would mind the two of you going, so long as you don’t provoke anything.”

This is where I started to feel that fear. That hurt. That pain. That anxiety creeping back.

“So you mean, if I sat there at the event, that we paid to go to, to pray for whatever lord. If we supported your cause, but merely sat together at a pew, and held hands like straight people do, we wouldn’t be welcome?”

He then smiled to me, “My boy, let me tell you a story. Pedophiles think that what they do is moral, do they not. They would continue to touch youngsters, in places they should never be touched because the pedophiles thinks what he is doing is right. I mean, wouldn’t you object to pedophilia? Aren’t those people morally wrong for what they do? I mean, I am afraid to admit your people would attack us before any of us attacked you. I know this because San Francisco pride wanted to have pedophiles marching in their parade, and we didn’t think that was right. So when we objected to pedophiles being praised by the gays, they attacked us. Gays attacked us for not wanting children to be assaulted. Can you believe that? Are you really wanting to practice the sin of homosexuality and support pedophilia?”

I was so confused by his words. Frustrated would be the more accurate term I guess, but confused was used because I didn’t understand that train of thought, or his reasoning. I mean, since when have gays promoted pedophilia? Since when did holding my husband’s hand publicly become a statement to others that I promote pedophilia?

He continued on, “It’s not too late you know, people who think that it’s okay to touch children, or fornicate with animals are able to recover. They can ask for His forgiveness, and God will help them change to be better people.”

I was so hurt. This person. This stranger, came to my house. A house I just bought with my husband. He came into our yard, and stood on my porch. Walked past the lawn that we mowed together not three days ago, and compared us to pedophiles and those who practice bestiality. I’m crushed. Crushed that this is how people view us. I hate myself for not getting angry. For not pushing him off my porch. For telling him to take his bible and his hateful ignorant words and shove them where the good Lord split him.

Instead, I shook his hand. Thanked him for his time, And let him leave.

 

I hate myself. I hate that I let them get to me. I hate that I didn’t tell him off. That I lacked the courage. All I want to do is cry. Sit in my bed, with my dog, and cry.