Dear ____,
I'm so conflicted when it comes to you. As if anyone was unconvinced of that by now.
Its just that when you start talking sweet, talking about Jupiter's 27th moon, or making me blush with sex references, I want to call you sweet names. Like honey, or baby, or darling. I want to hold your hand. I want to kiss you.
But I don't!
I want to be your friend without any romantic entanglements to ruin it. Which is why I don't call you sweet names. Which is why I will never hold your hand or kiss you. Which is why I'll stay with my husband. Because I do love him. I just love you too.
And you make jokes about us; all three of us, and I wonder if you know how much I wish that was the way the world worked!
I'm terrified that I'll lose you again, somewhere in the abyss of memory and our friendship will be ruined because I can't stop my heart from leaping every time you message me.
Monday, June 17, 2013
Sunday, June 9, 2013
The existence of Children.
Dear ____,
I want to snuggle you. I want to tell you I love you. I even, I hesitate to say, want to have children with you. You are such a beautiful person, inside and out. You are sweet and kind and sometimes you are just what I need.
I can't shake the image of a little girl, our little girl, cuddled up with you reading a story. I think you would be a wonderful father. And I hope, one day, that you find the woman to make you a father. I wish it could be me.
I love you. I love you so much, but I love ______ too. And I can't just stop that. I can't just give up on him. And I know this isn't going to be the beginnings of a polyamorous relationship, because I'm pretty sure I'm the only one here who would be cool with that.
I love too much. I think too much. I wish too much.
I just can't stop seeing a little girl with curly hair and a bow, curled up in your lap while you read to her. And I can't stop the butterflies I get when I think of that image. The longing I have to make that a reality and not just my imagination.
You said sexy was in the eye of the beholder and that I had every potential to be a mother. How would you react if I told you that I want to be a mother? That I want to be the mother of your daughter? I want to believe that you would want the same thing. I want to believe that you would find me attractive... dare I say, sexy?
In the meantime, I daydream and feel guilty and worried. I don't want to harm our friendship. And I don't want to lose ______ either.
Maybe in the next life, I'll find you sooner.
I want to snuggle you. I want to tell you I love you. I even, I hesitate to say, want to have children with you. You are such a beautiful person, inside and out. You are sweet and kind and sometimes you are just what I need.
I can't shake the image of a little girl, our little girl, cuddled up with you reading a story. I think you would be a wonderful father. And I hope, one day, that you find the woman to make you a father. I wish it could be me.
I love you. I love you so much, but I love ______ too. And I can't just stop that. I can't just give up on him. And I know this isn't going to be the beginnings of a polyamorous relationship, because I'm pretty sure I'm the only one here who would be cool with that.
I love too much. I think too much. I wish too much.
I just can't stop seeing a little girl with curly hair and a bow, curled up in your lap while you read to her. And I can't stop the butterflies I get when I think of that image. The longing I have to make that a reality and not just my imagination.
You said sexy was in the eye of the beholder and that I had every potential to be a mother. How would you react if I told you that I want to be a mother? That I want to be the mother of your daughter? I want to believe that you would want the same thing. I want to believe that you would find me attractive... dare I say, sexy?
In the meantime, I daydream and feel guilty and worried. I don't want to harm our friendship. And I don't want to lose ______ either.
Maybe in the next life, I'll find you sooner.
Thursday, June 6, 2013
A God Complex
Dear God,
My mother wonders why you and I aren't on speaking terms. She wonders why I no longer believe in you. It's obvious to everyone that I wanted to. I've tried to.
The reason, God, is that I can't trust you. It all comes down to that, really. I can't trust you to be the "loving" and "benevolent" God people claim you are. I can't trust the God of the Bible. I can't trust in you at all.
You don't wonder why, because you are omnipotent, or so they say. But in case there is any confusion, I'll spell it out for you.
When I was a little girl I was molested by a friend. A girl friend. And I realized that I liked girls. I was intrigued by the idea of a vagina and breasts. I wanted to touch and caress and prod these things. I wanted to learn more about them. I wanted to be sexual with these body parts, even though I had no idea what that meant, because I was far too young to know what sex was.
I wasn't completely naive. I realized, quite quickly that being with girls, while being a girl, was very wrong and that I shouldn't be having those feelings. So I prayed that you would make me a man. I asked you to make me a man, because then I could be with a woman and you wouldn't hate me. I could speak in Church, be a pastor, do anything I wanted to; if I were a man. I developed the worst kind of penis envy.
As I got a little older, I realized that becoming a man would actually make you hate me as well, because I would be changing the person you had made. The person you created would be altered and, in reality, I would still be a woman sleeping with a woman. And then there was the pesky problem of my attraction to men as well.
If you created me, then am I not perfect as I am?
The other reason I can't trust you, God, is because of ___. You allowed him into our lives. You allowed him to abuse us. You allowed him to break us. You allowed that. You didn't have to. You didn't have to stand by and just watch. You could've saved us, because you are all powerful, are you not?
Instead, we were beaten, starved, abused, etc. for fifteen years. FIFTEEN YEARS, God. Are you listening? FIFTEEN. Not two or three. FIFTEEN. My mother believed you wanted us to be there. That you brought him to us. That you are good and know everything. You had a reason, a purpose.
What kind of purpose did you have?
What possible purpose could you have, allowing a tyrant to belittle, berate, beat and abuse two small children? What reason is there for that?
What greater purpose was served while my brother screamed for mercy? While he cried out to YOU? What greater purpose was served there, God?
You allowed men into our lives. Men who claimed to be of you. You allowed them to play puppeteer with the tyrant you had already given us. You allowed cruelties that still give me nightmares.
___ used to say that you were a gentleman. That you allowed everything to happen because it had to happen to make us who we are. He would say that while he made excuses for his abuses. He was abused, so he didn't know any better. His sexuality was damaged by his parents, so it was okay to damage mine and my brother's. He was damaged, so that gave him the right to continue the damage. He made excuses for everything, even for you.
Yes, I'm angry. I'm an atheist because I am angry. Because I have lost all the belief I ever had in you.
Can you blame me?
My mother wonders why you and I aren't on speaking terms. She wonders why I no longer believe in you. It's obvious to everyone that I wanted to. I've tried to.
The reason, God, is that I can't trust you. It all comes down to that, really. I can't trust you to be the "loving" and "benevolent" God people claim you are. I can't trust the God of the Bible. I can't trust in you at all.
You don't wonder why, because you are omnipotent, or so they say. But in case there is any confusion, I'll spell it out for you.
When I was a little girl I was molested by a friend. A girl friend. And I realized that I liked girls. I was intrigued by the idea of a vagina and breasts. I wanted to touch and caress and prod these things. I wanted to learn more about them. I wanted to be sexual with these body parts, even though I had no idea what that meant, because I was far too young to know what sex was.
I wasn't completely naive. I realized, quite quickly that being with girls, while being a girl, was very wrong and that I shouldn't be having those feelings. So I prayed that you would make me a man. I asked you to make me a man, because then I could be with a woman and you wouldn't hate me. I could speak in Church, be a pastor, do anything I wanted to; if I were a man. I developed the worst kind of penis envy.
As I got a little older, I realized that becoming a man would actually make you hate me as well, because I would be changing the person you had made. The person you created would be altered and, in reality, I would still be a woman sleeping with a woman. And then there was the pesky problem of my attraction to men as well.
If you created me, then am I not perfect as I am?
The other reason I can't trust you, God, is because of ___. You allowed him into our lives. You allowed him to abuse us. You allowed him to break us. You allowed that. You didn't have to. You didn't have to stand by and just watch. You could've saved us, because you are all powerful, are you not?
Instead, we were beaten, starved, abused, etc. for fifteen years. FIFTEEN YEARS, God. Are you listening? FIFTEEN. Not two or three. FIFTEEN. My mother believed you wanted us to be there. That you brought him to us. That you are good and know everything. You had a reason, a purpose.
What kind of purpose did you have?
What possible purpose could you have, allowing a tyrant to belittle, berate, beat and abuse two small children? What reason is there for that?
What greater purpose was served while my brother screamed for mercy? While he cried out to YOU? What greater purpose was served there, God?
You allowed men into our lives. Men who claimed to be of you. You allowed them to play puppeteer with the tyrant you had already given us. You allowed cruelties that still give me nightmares.
___ used to say that you were a gentleman. That you allowed everything to happen because it had to happen to make us who we are. He would say that while he made excuses for his abuses. He was abused, so he didn't know any better. His sexuality was damaged by his parents, so it was okay to damage mine and my brother's. He was damaged, so that gave him the right to continue the damage. He made excuses for everything, even for you.
Yes, I'm angry. I'm an atheist because I am angry. Because I have lost all the belief I ever had in you.
Can you blame me?
Monday, June 3, 2013
Mon frère
Mon frère,
I am sorry. I am sorry that I didn't protect you from ___. I'm sorry I wasn't able to protect you from _______ or ___. I am sorry that I let my own fears prevent me from being strong when you needed strength the most. I am sorry I didn't rescue you and that because of my weakness you were so damaged by someone who should've protected us.
I'm sorry. I'm sorry that saying it over and over isn't enough and that it won't undo all the damage that has been done.
I feel so guilty. I hear you screaming in my nightmares. I hear you crying out to God for mercy, even though I cover my ears and I run as far as I can. I can still hear it. I hear it all the time. How could anyone not understand your lack of faith in a God so cruel that he allowed such abuses to continue? That men who claimed to be from him would prescribe such cruelty?
I see your poor little burnt fingers. I see your tears and your anguish, staring at a plate of vegetables from last week. I hear your stomach growling because you've not eaten in two days. You eye the cabinets and the refrigerator, all padlocked to prevent you from eating until you've eaten those withered vegetables. How could anyone not understand your revulsion? How could anyone question?
Even when I stuck up for you, even when I tried to protect you, I failed. I failed miserably. He still tortured you. He still hurt you and I still hear you screaming when I close my eyes.
How could we believe in a God that would allow such horrors? How could we trust ever again, when the person we had trusted the most abused us?
I am sorry that ___ believed he had to be the dominant one, the alpha male. I'm sorry that I was incapable of protecting you, when I should've fought with tooth and nail. I remember being so scared for you and so scared that I, too, would be punished so severely. That I would be starved. Weren't we all starved anyway? Starved of love as well as food. I was too scared. I was a coward.
I'm still a coward. I can't stand up to him. Even now I can't protect any of us from him. I'm so sorry, mon frère. I'm sorry that saying "I'm sorry" is never going to be enough to undo the damage, to stop the hurt and the nightmares. I'm sorry that I've never been strong enough to protect you.
I am sorry. I am sorry that I didn't protect you from ___. I'm sorry I wasn't able to protect you from _______ or ___. I am sorry that I let my own fears prevent me from being strong when you needed strength the most. I am sorry I didn't rescue you and that because of my weakness you were so damaged by someone who should've protected us.
I'm sorry. I'm sorry that saying it over and over isn't enough and that it won't undo all the damage that has been done.
I feel so guilty. I hear you screaming in my nightmares. I hear you crying out to God for mercy, even though I cover my ears and I run as far as I can. I can still hear it. I hear it all the time. How could anyone not understand your lack of faith in a God so cruel that he allowed such abuses to continue? That men who claimed to be from him would prescribe such cruelty?
I see your poor little burnt fingers. I see your tears and your anguish, staring at a plate of vegetables from last week. I hear your stomach growling because you've not eaten in two days. You eye the cabinets and the refrigerator, all padlocked to prevent you from eating until you've eaten those withered vegetables. How could anyone not understand your revulsion? How could anyone question?
Even when I stuck up for you, even when I tried to protect you, I failed. I failed miserably. He still tortured you. He still hurt you and I still hear you screaming when I close my eyes.
How could we believe in a God that would allow such horrors? How could we trust ever again, when the person we had trusted the most abused us?
I am sorry that ___ believed he had to be the dominant one, the alpha male. I'm sorry that I was incapable of protecting you, when I should've fought with tooth and nail. I remember being so scared for you and so scared that I, too, would be punished so severely. That I would be starved. Weren't we all starved anyway? Starved of love as well as food. I was too scared. I was a coward.
I'm still a coward. I can't stand up to him. Even now I can't protect any of us from him. I'm so sorry, mon frère. I'm sorry that saying "I'm sorry" is never going to be enough to undo the damage, to stop the hurt and the nightmares. I'm sorry that I've never been strong enough to protect you.
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