It was a cool day...summer was coming and I was eager to get to mass. I had no idea that on this day I would attend my last mass for 11 years.
I had become Catholic just two years before after having struggled my way through many experiences/religions/ministries and other failed spiritual experiments. I equate it to shopping for the perfect dress. Nothing seemed to "fit" or help me grow in a way that would draw me closer to God. I lived in constant tension always seeking God but doing things that pushed me further and further away from him. I had been married to a man who was a fallen-away Catholic but still clung to the identity. I had three sons in three years. I had married at 18 and was very confused and in a lot of pain even though my children were the best thing to ever happen to me.
My childhood was riddled with pain and I never felt myself loved, accepted, or understood. As an adult I repeatedly found myself saying, "They don't understand! That's not what I meant. Why can't anyone see the pain I'm in and understand I didn't MEAN it that way?" I was judging myself by my intentions while others were looking at my actions. I didn't see that they didn't line up and I would become devastated at even the slightest critique of my personality flaws or things that needed to be worked on and improved in my life. I hated myself so totally I could not handle even a slight comment about errors or mistakes and would go into deep depressions if someone "saw through my facade" and dared to encourage me to grow up. I wore a mask and if it slipped and you saw the horrendously pained child behind the adult I "pretended" to be I became terrified and you had to leave my life and the sooner the better. I could not handle being seen for who I was, I wanted you to see the illusion and I was an actress that could have won an Oscar for my portrayals of myself as an adult/mother/wife because in my mind I was garbage and I KNEW it.
I attended college when my sons were small and graduated with honors in social work. I attended graduate school but the seminary I attended led me down a path that was unsatisfying and I felt God calling me in a new direction. That direction came at a horrible cost. My oldest son died on May 20, 1996 from massive head injuries sustained in a car accident. His friend and the driver was also killed. He was my middle son's best friend so he lost a brother and best friend in one horrible tragedy. I was serving in a ministry in the United Methodist Church and was horrified to find that my faith had failed me totally. I had nothing to sustain my free fall into black depression that left me unable to get out of bed, care for myself, or even want to live. I spent days lying in bed crying in sorrow because I had woke up and was still alive. I called it the "morning devastation". Every day I woke up, remembered my son was dead and caved in crying. Everything in me wanted to die, to just go and join my son. But I knew I had two other sons who desperately needed me and I willed myself to exist for their sake. I felt I was useless to them and that increased my guilt and depression. So I divorced, left the job, and started working at a treatment center as an addictions counselor.
The first year after my son died was hell. Our first Memorial Day without him, our first 4th of July without him, you get the picture. It was horrendous. My son Johnny was a passionate lover of Christmas. He loved it so much he told me once, "Just call me Mr. Christmas" and he always handed out the family gifts to everyone. He often donned a Santa hat and enjoyed being with tons of friends, and was a gifted baseball player. The first Christmas without him was rolling around and I decided since my kids and I were hurting so much we were discontinuing Christmas. Cancelled due to lack of interest indefinitely. No tree, no stockings, no mention of it would be permitted in my presence. I acted like it made me angry but in fact I felt horrible deep and raw pain and also fear. I would break down. I couldn't do it. One night after crying and drinking too much I got out the nativity set I had. I set it up on the counter and got a hammer. I decided I'd had enough of the holiday pressure and I looked at each piece animals, people, and all the accessories and a huge burning rage built inside of me. It started flowing out of my body as hot tears scorched my face. A lifetime without feeling loved or wanted and always losing ONLY the ones I cared about while being left with people who hated me was more than I could stand. My sons were the only exception to that rule and without them I would have ended my life. I know that. My love for them MADE me keep going. But at that moment I was enraged. Everyone else gets to have their kids for the holidays. They get to laugh, have dinner, sing carols, open gifts and totally take for granted that they were all alive and well. The injustice of my life blew the lid off the volcano seething in my soul. I felt a torrent of anger so strong I could hear my heart beating in my ears and I saw red, I literally saw red. I began smashing each piece of that nativity set into powder. I was yelling, crying, smashing, and the pain was just flowing into my hand as each piece was pulverized. After I finished I was spent emotionally and physically. My hand ached and my head was screaming in pain from the yelling and boiling rage I was in and the realization of the depths of my anger truly frightened me. I hurriedly cleaned up the mess and acted like nothing happened. I put the mask back on and proceeded to "ignore" Christmas and avoid the stores until was over.
After I left the ministry I was in I was totally walled off from God. I became obsessed with "contacting" my deceased son and experimented with psychics, and all sort of devices to try to "reach" him. I didn't feel a connection to God so I was trying to do what my childhood taught me to do. I was relying on myself because surrender and trust in anyone (including God) would be perceived as weakness and weak people didn't make it. If you wanted to survive you had to do it with your nails dug in and your heart walled off in rage. Drive them away before they hurt you. And I did it well. I mastered the art of alienating people and driving them away. I knew deep down I was unworthy of good people in my life. My childhood left me convinced that I was garbage and "no one who truly knows me will love me" so might as well do them a favor and get them away from this tainted woman as fast as possible. I was "saving them" and sparing myself trusting and caring about someone who would just end up using me or hurting me and why bother?
If you asked people who knew me I had two reports, those who saw through the mask and cared and those who saw through the mask and shook their heads. What was funny was that I thought no one saw through the mask. Life is like that...we all have people who care and those who don't. Those who cared would have described me as: caring, hilarious, intelligent, wounded, sad, and empathic. Those who didn't care would have described me as: always having to be the center of attention, angry, defiant, intolerant, sarcastic, and moody. Both were correct in many ways and there was still this very wounded child in the center of my heart where the emptiness existed and I told no one. I can't count the number of nights I would fall asleep with a wet pillow, crying because the emptiness hurt like a deep ache and I didn't know what to do to fix it, fill it, or heal it. I just numbed the pain with alcohol and inappropriate relationships, partying, and raging about the injustices in life. I would rage about the little old lady who was driving too slow all the way up to the way the government should work because I knew everything. I railed at God and whoa to anyone who dared mention Him in my presence. You were going down.
I met someone at a single's dance and we were living together for 7 years. During that time I had dreams that my dead son would talk to me and tell me to "have masses said for him" and that he needed them. I had no exposure to that faith at that time so I was confused. I did not know what to do. I took as much money as possible and began donating to every Catholic Church I could find asking them to say masses for my son. I then figured I should attend some of these masses since they were saying them for my son. I had no idea what the benefit was (if any) but he asked and I will always be his mother and I did as he asked and then some. While in a parish office giving a donation for some masses and going over the calendar of when he would be on the list I saw a flyer. It said, "Interested in learning more about the Catholic faith?" and I thought "I sure am". So I grabbed one. It was an advertisement for RCIA classes. I was living in Mt Morris at that time and so I started attending RCIA classes. There are no coincidences with God and the entire class was filled with people in HORRIBLE pain. All of us had someone who died and were struggling. Every week someone melted down and we would stop the class and attend to their pain so that they could work through it and draw closer to God. Everyone had pretty much had their meltdown but me. I was hiding well behind my thick mask I had constructed as a child and I wasn't divulging any information.
It fell off at...you guessed it...at Christmas. They were having a Birthday Party for Jesus in our RCIA class. They were also serving my favorite, carrot cake, and I wasn't eating anything that included Christmas. I was pouting. A sister of St Joseph/retired school teacher was part of our power-packed teaching team. She was so gentle and caring. She came up to me and gave me a card. She said that each person's card was given after praying which would be appropriate. She then wrote a hand written message for each person and that was no small feat. Our class had 12 students so she really put time and effort into this. I eagerly opened my card for I cared for this woman deeply. I pulled out a card that had....OH YES....a nativity set on it. I was stunned. Inside it she had written, "Sometimes we need to go back and start over." I started bawling really loud like a little kid. My heart melted. The sister came over and they stopped everything as they always did when one of us was having a meltdown. I told everyone about the smashed nativity set and expected them to recoil in horror but instead everyone (over 25 people) stood in line to hug me, comfort me and tell me I would be OK. For the first time I willingly let people see the wounded child and she was loved and accepted. Then the head instructor asked if she could help me with anything. I blew my nose, wiped my eyes and said, "Yeah I want some birthday cake". Everyone laughed and the party resumed with me feeling a little embarrassed but better than I had felt in years. I ate a HUGE piece of cake and tucked that card away in my purse. God bless you Joanne, you were a nun, and that was something I always longed to be. I used to pray as a little girl that God would "make me a good Catholic so I could be a nun and go to heaven". I gave it up after my childhood abuse feeling too "impure" for it and resolved that I was never going to go to heaven. I appreciate to this day the love that sister gave me and I pray for her. She was the hands and heart of Jesus to me. I love you dear sister, I have tears in my eyes remembering you.
I became a Catholic at the Easter Vigil on April 22, 2000. It was a glorious time and I enjoyed attending mass. Somewhere along the way the issues that weren't addressed fully lay inside my soul slowly eating away at the progress I would attempt to make. Due to some incorrect advice I received I was told that it was "OK" to do something that I now know to be a mortal sin. I am positive he had no idea of how damaged I was in that area of my life and how I would distort his "permission" to do something that would almost cause me to end my life. I became addicted to this and a few other vices related to it and began descending into darkness. I had two lives; the dark me and the light me. I lived in two separate worlds and I sincerely did not want my life that way. I was living immorally and attending mass while living a sinful life in "secret". I knew I was an evil person and this just confirmed it in my mind. I was lost in a maze and couldn't find my way out.
During that time I had bariatric surgery and lost 150 pounds. My addiction increased in intensity and became severe as I was engaging in it up to 12 times a day. Still if I just organize myself better, or repent harder I'm sure I can get this all under control. It was so futile because I did not see that I could not manage my own shattered life and that surrender is the path to victory. I still viewed surrender as a sign of being a wimp and a sell out. Real people took charge, they managed their problems and "got themselves together" and maybe a better day planner, or this college course, or this self-help book, or this priest, or this church, onward the list grew as I sank deeper and deeper into despair. I began engaging in counting rituals, certain numbers of these prayers, endless novenas and self abusive behavior to "get myself in line". After all I am a social worker, I know how to fix this, right?? The pain of my childhood swelled until I could no longer control the torrent of my passions, drives, urges, and thoughts. The further I sank into my addiction the more convinced I was evil, horrible, unlovable and unforgivable. I was convinced I was getting too far out, like a swimmer who is afraid they are going to drown before they can make it back to shore. I kept rationalizing that the next holy day or a certain feast day was the "last" time but it came and went and I sank deeper into despair.
All of these things were the hurricane brewing when I stepped into church for noon mass. The sanctuary always smelled of oil soap and old books. I loved that smell so much and found my usual seat. The church was full that Sunday. Statues were everywhere reminding me of what I could never attain, a holy life. I loved St Therese the most as she was my confirmation saint. I loved her simple theology and how she lived out her faith...simple but not easy. I settled in and got my worship resources organized. I always hate flipping around so I would get all the pages in order so I would be ready. The sounds of people packing the pews with mumblings and greetings were everywhere.
That day was one of shocking revelation as the priest of that particular parish making a shocking announcement that triggered horrible childhood memories for me. I had went to 7 years of therapy for post-traumatic stress disorder and hadn't had a flashback in years. I was considered in "full remission". I worked hard on my recovery and was proud of it. But the other addictions were an acting out of the abuses I endured so I was re-abusing myself over and over and becoming sicker every day. Suddenly the familiar symptoms of a total flashback were overwhelming me. My heart was racing and I could hear it pounding in my ears, the freaking out feeling, the overwhelming feelings of being trapped with no escape, the flashes of memories and the feelings of sheer and total terror began rushing in like a tsunami wave of destruction. I barely heard heard him reading his letter as my terror rose and rose and I was having difficulty breathing. I was shocked...there were small children and teenagers present and these parents had no warning. Altar servers were there, and a "buddy" as the priest called him who then stood up and started praising him for "being so honest". My flashback began flooding over me deeper and deeper until I was hearing everything from really far away. I saw the priest speaking but could hear no sound except my pulsing heart and a high pitched screaming child. Through therapy I came to know that was my memory of my own screaming. I heard it then and I knew I had to get out of there. Tears ran down my flushed face, my hands shook, and my body began to sweat profusely. The horrifying slide show of memories was playing and each slide brought newer and stronger feelings of horror and terror. I then had the horrifying realization that I had been alone with that man in a confessional....I had told him secrets/confidences! I began to freak out and "lose it" and I knew then that it was over for me. I jumped up, grabbed my purse and made myself walk and not run as I marched from the 2nd row all the way out the door shaking, hallucinating horrible memories, and feeling terror, panic, claustrophobia, and confusion. I made sure I slammed the door loudly so that I could remember that I was NEVER GOING BACK. I should have never driven home in that state but thankfully I only lived 2 miles away. I went into my usual steps I was trained to do...lemon herbal tea, wrapping myself in a blanket, and soft music with my back against a wall so I couldn't be startled. I would become confused and feel like there was no separation between me and the air and atmosphere so I was afraid my skin would dissolve and I would disappear. It was horrifying and I had to wrap in a blanket to "hold my skin on". The waves went on for what seemed like an eternity. I rocked trying to comfort myself holding my rag doll and sobbing.
After 4 hours I was over the worst of it and I slept for 11 hours. When I woke up I was angry. I felt like I went to church to worship not hear a confession. I was confused and I was finished with the church. What little rein the church had on my addictions was now gone. What would happen to me? I didn't care at that moment, I was running panicked into the wilderness of my own sin and had no idea where to go or who would help me.
