The Church Of My Childhood

Trigger Warning: Trauma, Power Over Victims of Adverse Childhood Experiences

Not My Photo 

So about god. 

As I've said previously, I use the term god, higher power, spirit of the universe, etc, interchangeably. 

I've certainly had my time at defying god. I have trouble with the all-seeing, all-knowing, santa-clause version who keeps a naughty and nice list. I was initially raised with this deity in the sky who judged ferociously. The people in my life that administered Catholicism were few and far between with the matching spiritual principles purported and promised if one remained close to god.  

Sidebar: 

I need to add that there was a great man from my childhood who served in the most wonderful of ways. Father Barrett was a safe and, dare I say, Godly priest. And I've heard more spiritual things about his works since his death. It seems especially tragic to me that the horrors I suffered occurred during his tenure. 

I have nothing but safety and goodness where Father Barrett is concerned. 
When I discovered through recovery what had happened to me at St. Mary's, I wanted to go to him and ask for counsel on how best to move forward from the terrible memories imbedded in my flesh and soul. But I decided that the tragedy of such news was better served being shared elsewhere. I did not want to burden Father Barrett with this knowledge in the twilight of his life. 

More on that work later in this piece. 

Given that the church I was raised in was rife with sexual predators, it's no wonder that I had an extreme and adverse reaction to men and women of the cloth whenever I saw them later in life. I only spent kindergarten and first grade at St. Mary's in Westbrook, but it was more than enough to squelch this young, vulnerable child's search for anything godly. 
Nearing the core of my sexual abuse history: For me, 625 Main Street in Westbrook is a site that represents all that is unholy with the Catholic Church. I have memories of being savaged by nuns and a young priest at this site. Their appetite for violence and exploitation against this wonderful, beautiful child was without equal. I have a distinct memory of them attacking me as a group, usually in the basement bathroom of the church. I will spare the reader with the details of these unwanted and damaging encounters from when I was five and six years old. 

My experiences at this most unholy of sites became what appeared to be the cornerstone of my trauma history. It is no wonder I have struggled with faith as a result. At my very core exists a god that is punishing and demands submission in order to provide protection from the great, unknown (or worse yet, known) dangers that await followers who stray from the path. 

Fifty years later, I am still working to peel away layer upon layer of shame disguised as spiritual judgement. 

This feeling can be intensified when the prospect of relief in recovery is presented as a spiritual solution. While most methods of recovery leave the spiritual aspect up to the individual, the collective conscience can sound an awful lot like the need to submit in order to recover. 

I believe that what is described as an addicts ego can often have roots in this refusal to submit yet again. So many addicts and alcoholics I've worked with (professionally and personally) can clearly point out their own adverse childhood experiences. Yet those ensconced in their professional positions or well-rooted recovery will often poo poo the painful reality of those that actively suffer at the hands of addiction. 

During my recovery from trauma, I have spoken with hundreds of survivors of adverse childhood experiences. One of the saddest parts of being sexually abused is the apparent ability of perpetrators to spot young folks who are vulnerable to abuse. It is as if the first traumatic sexual experience I suffered placed an invisible neon sign above my head that said I was open to being abused. After my experience at St Mary's, the misconduct was delivered again, and again. 

As I aged, and puberty began to have it's way with my body, I began to explore the only sexual dynamic I knew . . . Being exploited. Imagine a vulnerable, 13 year-old boy showing up at a renowned cruising spot and being picked up by men two and three times their own age. Add to that an incredibly homophobic society where other closeted members of the community were forced into silence of what they witnessed, because to report would mean coming out to a hostile world, and being attached to the abuse by association and stereotyping. After all, all us gay folks are after your children. That's the message I received in spades, based on my activity as a young boy. And this belief was reinforced by the homophobic society I was raised in. 

This was the second layer of a foundation that kept me from faith . . . Judgement. In my adolescent mind, I was the one committing the sin by searching in the shadows for connection. My bike trips, and bus rides into Portland to look for sex were accompanied by the only mentors and messages I had at my disposal. Those mentors were trauma, and the perverse spiritual messages that went along with being raped, All these adverse childhood experiences perpetuated the dynamic of exploitation. And that's who I searched for, and what I found there during adolescence. 

There was no one in my world to talk to about my budding sexuality, and my only companions were these negative messages and experiences. I was, therefore, the perpetrator of these instances. I had no reason or yardstick of recovery to believe otherwise. 

As an adult, I became complicit in the silence. I would avoid certain things, telling myself that I was with folks who could consent. But I continued to witness behaviors that reinforced my beliefs that I was sexually damaged beyond repair, and that god would surely punish me for my most horrible of sins . . . Being gay, and seeking sex with men. 
By this time, drugs and alcohol were my only solution for relief from some power greater than me. But even as a young, stoned and drunken adolescent, I couldn't escape the feelings of shame and guilt about who I was. So I tried to get higher. 

Not much room for a loving, accepting, and compassionate god in all of that mess. 
While some folks are blessed (or cursed) with the ability to stop using substances on their own, I needed professional, medical, and community help to get sober. But even here, on the tail end of the 1980's homophobia was alive and well in treatment modalities. Some suggested that the work I was doing to get sober would "cure" my sexuality as well. 

Thank God (Capital G emphasis) for people who began suggesting that my higher power could be of my own definition. This scared the shit out of me, given my decision making process. But they promised that I could re-define the god concept in a way that was personally empowering and life sustaining. 

It was a small, but important beginning. 

When I lived in Serenity House on 30 Mellen Street during early sobriety, I had a hard time sleeping. Every time I closed my eyes, trauma memories would flood my mind. I had to have something greater than me to offer me comfort. I pictured god as a big, fluffy cloud that could hold me. My perception of god needed to be without arms, legs and other body parts that could hurt me. Sometimes, I could even imagine myself enveloped in this cloud of complete love and comfort. Not bad for a raving lunatic with 90 days of sobriety. 

I remember my first summer sober. I worked in a local organization's home learn to swim program. I would drive from residence to residence and teach neighborhood kids to swim in a homeowner's pool. I was driving through Cumberland, in-between appointments. I smoked cigarettes then, so I was chain-smoking and cranking heavy metal rock and roll. I was also absolutely bananas that particular day. I drove by a church and tromped on the breaks. 

There was a sign in front of the church, who's location has long since left me. The sign gave me my first glimpse into the unconditional love from something beyond me that I was searching for. It simply read: 

All Loving

All Knowing

All Caring

I wrote it down in my journal that was my constant companion during this time. I had found a working definition for my god concept. 

Now . . . Over the years, I have vacillated back and forth (sometimes, to dangerous extremes) with just who and what god is in my life. I mean, How can an all loving, all knowing, and all caring god let the things that had happened to me be out for my best interest? 

There have been times of rage toward god too. Since a mentor of mine told me that his higher power had big shoulders, I figured an occasional "Go f*ck yourself!" wouldn't hurt god's feelings. I journaled to god, I raged at god, I abandoned god, and I vilified any person or institution who purported to do "God's work" while doing tangible damage to individuals or society at large. 

And I practiced prayer and meditation as well. I did prayers that other Queer people felt comfortable with. I modeled their spirituality, because mine was a complete mess (Can you say judgement?). And I practiced, practiced, practiced. 

I wish I could point to a particular white light moment or epiphany where I all of a sudden just "got it" where god is concerned. The truth is, it's an ongoing lesson for me, and one in which I am willing to journey forth. 

I remember sitting in the balcony of a church on Congress Street one day. I was in the balcony, and I just started praying for a god personal to me. One without judgement (whose judgement?) that I could truly embrace. I looked up at the alter, and just above it were symbolic icons of several religions. I didn't know at the time that I was sitting in a UU church that believes all are welcome. Imagine that! There I sat in a church that welcomed all of us. A place that would engage in civil rights struggles on my behalf, and I was asking for acceptance from God. Kind of makes me giggle now. 

And yet, I struggled (Struggle!) with the idea that a spiritual life is necessary insurance to prevent an otherwise horrible end. And when some fresh trauma memory, or a real-life struggle of someone close to me appears, or we lose another person to this awful disease of addiction, or someone says "Enough!" and checks out permanently from their trauma history, I rail against this absolute power of a supreme being that has elected to be so harsh as to abandon a soul in pain. And I wonder . . . Will the day come where my higher power will abandon me? Will I be one of those poor lost souls that will suffer immeasurably when god washes its hands of my predicaments? 

And I discover my deepest fear. That maybe god won't be there after all. Maybe, I truly am alone, and my footwork along this path won't be enough. Maybe I'm not going to make it. 

Or worse yet, maybe I must submit to a power greater than myself in order to prevent further suffering. Why do religions insist on pledging allegiance? Why does God's fragile ego require my kneeling and subservience in order to be effective in my life? 

I know these are age-old questions, but I also know that having been forced to submit makes even the asking of these questions all the more difficult. 

And I really don't have any answers. Not for me, and certainly not for anyone else. 

Lately, my mind keeps returning to my time at St. Mary's. Not for the traumatic memories, but for the lessons taught to that young, beautiful, and vulnerable child. I'm searching for the connections between childhood rape and my resistance to the spiritual. I use the term god, because it's easy. Not because I believe there is the monotheistic, white bearded fellow in the heavens waiting to pounce on my imperfections. 

But he's there. He's in the fiber of my being. And though I know he exists as a myth, perpetuated by humans who desperately sought control of a small and defenseless child, I shudder at the thought of his presence. 

I've easily transitioned to other spiritual beliefs, and look at my devotional practices as a buffet table of easily accessible skills sets that are there for the taking, and free to all to use, or not use, without judgement. I have worked for that belief of ultimate forgiveness and unquestionable love. 

So what do I do with this other guy?  

Regarding "More on that work"

I returned to the church of my childhood as a sober man. I knocked on the door of the rectory and asked the priest in attendance for a moment of his time. We went to the church that has since been torn down and I disclosed to him what had happened to me in the building next door. 

The priest wept as I revealed my story. By the time I was finished, tears were streaming down his face. He told me how sorry he was that any of that had happened to me and asked me what I needed. 

I told him I needed a moment of time to tour the old building where the church had once been. I wanted to offer up a prayer where the alter once stood. He obliged me and we toured the old building. Our last stop was the site of the old church before the remodeling. 

I walked to the place where the alter had been and hit my knees. I offered up a prayer, but I don't recall what it was then. I think it was a check-in with god about how I survived and had forgiven. 

I thanked the priest and left. 

There was and is so much work left to do. But I realize now that in my moment at the alter, I did not submit to the abuse. I reached for a better version of myself in order to attain wellness. 

Maybe that's the answer?