The Cacophany

Sometimes it's beautiful, other times all I can do is retreat back in shock & horror...

All these people with all their religions/ faiths/ walks- whatever you want to call them.

They swear what they believe is true. That their solution of how the world makes sense is the ultimate reality.

• The world was created in literally seven days.
• The world was created because of a sonic boom
• The world is floating around the the back of a turtle
• The world is the dream of the gods
• Mankind is naturally sinful, have to repent and have that sin taken away to enter unto God.
• Mankind will live many lives and become gods and goddesses.
• Mankind will cease to be after this life.

So many conflicting stories. It seems most believers equally certain of their tale. Many believers unwilling to look at could part of what they believe be wrong? [Even if just a little bit.] All fighting, warring, committed to help others "see the truth" even if by force if needs be.

My question is, if it's truth, then why do you need to force them? Is it really the end of the world if not everyone knows it, because there's bound to be someone who misses the REAL truth of how this world came to be, the existence [and nature] of god, and what is in the hereafter. Yes the world is small now because of the fast technology at our finger tips, but it was not always so, and some parts of the world are still far off because they have not that [at their fingertips.] I cannot believe God can be so cruel and unjust. Nature doesn't expose God for what he or she is. It is something that has to be assumed with the best data given.

I know my ideas about god and this world have changed a number of times. It will probably continue to change as my understanding/ knowledge increases.

Amidst the cacophony is one sweet note that all of them share. That is where I will [and do] live- love. Service. Self-sacrifice. Not because I know of [or desire] some great reward, but because I know that is what's right. I will continue to prune the wrong notes in my own life until all that is left is a beautiful melody saying simply "It is good to do good. Be the good."

The Runaway's

Whenever I think about how my mom left my dad, I can't help but think of this song:


My mom and dad had been arguing back and forth. It was a lot of yelling. I could hear mostly my mom from the other side of house. My little brother, who was 9 at the time, would come into my bed to sleep with me because he was so frightened by the yelling. We were both afraid. I would have nightmares of it turning into physical altercations. Laying the the bed, we bore our souls- our fears and nightmares.

I don't remember how [I think my brother told my mom], but my mom found out about our nightmares. She said they weren't nightmares- they were happening. I looked at her warily. At twelve I knew the difference between my dreams and reality. I had never seen Dad strike her. By time she found out about the nightmares, I had seen her try to strike him. Dad always reflected the attempts by brushing it aside.

Mostly the arguments would be over she thought Dad was trying to control her, and then he would reply that he wanted to make sure she was taking her meds. Other then that, Mom could do as she pleased. If she wanted to volunteer, she could, If she wanted to work, she could. If she wanted to stay home, she could. I was old enough to stay home for a few hours and keep an eye on my brother. That had always been the policy, and we would go to a friend's house for a few hours while Mom worked when I was younger. It was frustrating, Dad wasn't controlling, but yet at the same time I wanted to believe her. Because why would she lie to me?

.... so came the day...

She didn't steal us away in the dark of the night. That would have been too hard. One day after school Kyle and I came home to find suitcases packed.

"What is this?" I asked.
"We're leaving." my mom declared.
"On a trip?"
"No, I'm tired of your father's abusive behavior. We're leaving him."
"I'll leave a note..."
"No!" she screamed, "I don't want him to find us... He doesn't want to be a family anymore."

I dutifully helped pack up the car with the suitcases, not understanding. We ended up in a women's shelter in a nearby town. There were about half a dozen women there with their children. Most of the other women had bruises on them. The some of  the other children recoiled from strangers out of fear. I could smell the fear there. My mom called my grandfather to tell him what had happened.

Meanwhile, after work my dad came home as usual. I can only imagine what it was like for him to come home with no one there. No note which would have been strange. We usually left notes for everything, even if we were going to only be out for a bit. I'm sure fear gripped him. I do know that my grandfather called my father to tell him what happened. I think grandpa must of sensed something was off. The police came, and took away my mom. We met our grandparents at the police station, and they took us to my dad [there was a policy to not directly release kids to potential abusers.] Dad was overjoyed to have us back home. Mom was admitted again into a hospital. She hadn't been taking her medication in over 6 months. She decided to keep living at the women's shelter at first after she was discharged to sort things out. She would come and visit us frequently at home. Eventually she moved back in with the understanding that if she were to leave again, that was it.

Time passed. It appeared wounds healed. But 6 months after that, she decided she wanted to leave again. This time, I pleaded with her to leave a note because last time we left, it scared Dad. After some pressing, she agreed. So again, we packed up and went to another women's shelter. Mom was angry with the last one because she thought they had turned on her with the police. She refused to believe it could be her father that turned her in. We stayed at that women's shelter some time. It worked better than the last. It was still scary. We had to be buzzed in for safety. There was a lot of fear from the other women and children. My mom seemed to be happy, healing and stepping out on her own, which I was happy to see. Unfortunately, she didn't remain happy...

Oath Breaker

"What bothers you so much about Lola walking away from Mormonism?", asked my sister, Rose.
"That she broke her covenants..." answered Beth.

Rose told me about her conversation with Beth in hesitation. With the understanding that I can probably never talk to Beth about it. I wish she would have though. I wish she had asked about it. How I felt about it. What thought went into my breaking my covenants. Because Beth was right. I did break my promises that I had made. (By the way, I don't feel bad sharing these, you can find these just as easily using a google search).

1) I promised to follow my husband as he followed God. 
    [Which I don't think she could really say I broke because my husband and I did fall
    away from the church together.]
2) I promised to tithe to the church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints 
    [Which I stopped doing because of my disbelief of the Church. I cannot in good conscience
    give money to an organization I don't believe in.]
3) I promised to avoid all light mindedness, loud laughter, evil speaking of the Lord's anointed, 
     the taking of the name of God in vain, and every other unholy and impure practice...
     Guilty as charged, minus the speaking ill of Jesus and swearing by using God's name.
     I find that experience life and it's joy is much better than not allowing myself to feel.
     Furthermore, I find "every other unholy and impure practice" to be ambiguous...
4) I promised to be faithful to my spouse. No problems there.
5) I promised to consecrate myself, my time, talents, and everything with which the God
     has blesses me, or with which he may bless me, to the Church of 
     Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

I'm pretty sure that number 5 is the sticking point. The thing is though I individually substituted "God" for "The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints". I wanted to walk out, but couldn't without social implications or being afraid of how my soon to be husband and I would be wed. I call "foul" for putting such pressure on me in a high value time in my life. I wanted to get married. I wanted to marry Jesse.

So yes, I am an oath breaker. Not ordinarily so. I take my promises quite seriously. My father taught me that my word is my bond.

Feels like a terrible confession...

... when it's really probably just me being rather human.

I'm jealous of my husband.

I'm jealous that he gets to leave the house most days without the kids in tow. This one could be said over and over because it is such a big thing to me right now. I feel isolated. I feel like I can't go accomplish what otherwise I could if there were no kids or at least less kids. I love my children. I do, but having so many so close together is a challenge. Having 2 of them be under the autism umbrella makes it even more of a challenge. I am often discouraged because I feel like I can never make all the progress with all my children that I would like to. Part because of motivation. Part because of energy. Part because of pure lack of being able to do it all myself because of time constraints and pure lack of ability. And then I get momentarily angry with God and want to say to Him, "Why the did you give me all of this?! I can't fucking do this!!!"

I'm jealous that he gets to further his education above and beyond anything I will ever accomplish. Because he's so much more intelligent than I am.

I'm jealous he IS smarter than me. Don't get me wrong. My husband NEVER willfully makes me feel stupid. He is considerate and compassionate. He values my "intelligence" [which is in quotes because my intelligence is not so much related to academia as it is people. Not that it isn't important to be smart about people and being able to read them, but in society it is usually an undervalued skill.]

I'm jealous that he gets to pursue so many of his dreams and I feel I have to give mine up over and over. So much so that sometimes I can't even think of what I would dream if I could have any reasonable expectation of reaching it. Seriously, part of the reason I think I can't decide what I would want to do with my life is because I know that it will probably not happen. Again not because he so much discourages me, but because I have these other obligations [called raising kids] to tend to before I could even entertain it. I would have to find the childcare and spend his money to do it. Which of course I feel guilty for the latter. Because he's the one working. I'm not [according to society anyhow.]

I'm jealous because often the kids act like the like him better than me. I know they just love their father. And they should. But I feel a little thrown under the bus there.

I know I'm not the only one with this confession. I know there's out there who have it worse than me because their husbands willfully to make them feel lessor. But know even if you husband was good about not trying to make you feel that way, you could still feel that way.

Into the waters

Usually I would have written something like this under my real name on my religion blog, but because I feel rather exposed because of the material, I'm posting it here, so please forgive me.

I think the first real religious choice I made for myself was being baptized. I was raised in a non-denominational Christian household. While there was no real set age to get baptized, there was still this unspoken guideline that you were supposed to be baptized [as a child] by 8-years-old. Thankfully, my parents didn't really push it. They figured I would make that choice when I was ready. I realize [now] though, I was still expected to choose what they chose.

 

I could have just as easily been any other religion, depending on what the tradition of my family had been. From a young age, I thought, "What are the chances they are right?" Not because I knew much about other religions traditions as much as I knew some believed in God and/ or Christ and some didn't. I didn't want to give my life and energy to a fairy tale.

So I waited. I was 12 when I got baptized. I'm still not certain if I chose it more out of expectation or pure acceptance of Jesus Christ. Don't get me wrong. I believe in Christ. I believe He was a good dude and that He probably is the link to help me get back to God [because of my own imperfections]. But other Christians would call me less of a Christian because of my non-literalism when concerning the Bible. And as time has gone on, I've taken less literally.

I made the choice to be re-baptized, into Mormonism, when I was 18. Again. This I really wonder if I had understood and known all I know now, would I have made that choice? I seriously doubt it. And because of Mormons believing being baptized by proxy for their kindred dead, I have been literally baptized so many times that I cannot count or recall it. Each time because someone else told me it's what was expected of me. But I walked into the water of my free will. The "authorized" person put their one hand behind me, raise their hand and said their words, dunk me entirely under the water, and lift me out of the water again. It was an emotionally moving experience each time. 

I still am doubtful that baptism in itself will or did save me. Yeah it was me giving my life to God. In that I was sincere, even if I think the act itself was unnecessary.

Surely She deserved it

I get rather tired of that line. And lines like it.

"She deserved to be verbally abused." "She deserved to be beaten." "She deserved to be raped."


What alternative reality do you live in? How can a victim ever deserve ill treatment?


When I was 16, I was dating 2 guys. Both of the guys knew I was dating the other. I made it very clear that they were not expected to be exclusive either. One was that good boy next door, Jack. He had a good heart, big smile, but was super shy. He was afraid to hold my hand, let alone give me a kiss. He was just super shy and super awkward with girls. The other guy was Chad. The bad ass mother fucker that my dad did NOT approve of at all. He was fun, sociable, hilarious, adventuresome and probably a few years too old for me.

Well, after a football game one day, I went to a party at Chad's with my friend Tonya. I had been to a few of his parties. They usually were innocent enough. We'd have some punch, eat some food, play some very silly games, and go home around midnight. There were lots of people there. There was Chad's brother, Jo (who I was really good friends with); Jo's girlfriend, Monique; and at least a dozen other people.

Well this party was a bit different. I had called my dad, and told him I would be going to my friend's Tonya's party afterward. No big deal. My dad wasn't crazy about the idea [because remember he didn't like Chad], but he trusted my judgment. Someone there. I don't know for sure who [but I would bet Chad], spiked the punch that night.

He asked me to have sex with him that night, and...














But he didn't listen. I couldn't fight him. Even if I had been sober. He was bigger and strong than me. I had done everything I should have done. I was with lots of people on a date. I was with people I trusted. I even checked in with my dad [on the way to the party]. I was wearing a damned sweatshirt and blue jeans that night (so it's not like I was dressed provocatively). And Chad still raped me. Thankfully, I blacked out about the time he was removing my bra. I don't remember any of it.

The thing was I was ashamed. Even though I did nothing wrong. My dad asked me if anything happened, and I felt so ashamed that I let Chad take advantage of me, that I lied to him and told him I just fell asleep on Chad's couch. I never pressed charges because I felt like I enabled him. I look back and I have to ask myself, "How?" I was doing everything I was supposed to be doing.

So this is for all you posers out there. Who say that men shouldn't be accountable for their ideas in their heads. This is for all of you that say that women deserve to be raped. Would you say that of your friend, daughter, sister, mother? Because there's lots of victims out there. Most of them like me. They were afraid to tell their tale because they thought they were guilty of some crime when the crime was inflicted upon them. Or they are afraid no one would believe them. I know people would have believed me about Chad. That wasn't the issue at all. He had a rep as a player. I thought it was just a rep and he was just misunderstood. Sadly, I know that I wasn't Chad's last victim. 6 months later, he raped a even younger girl and got her pregnant. So eventually, he did pay his price. But I wonder how many suffered before that occurred.

Victims, don't be afraid as I was. You did nothing wrong. You are wonderful, beautiful, fabulous. Get help and heal.

Sacrificial Offerings

After my mom had tried to take her life, my dad sent her to the best hospital he could. Unfortunately, that meant she was shipped out of state. Daddy missed her so. I would see him up at night pondering if he had done the right thing, sending her away from the family. But mommy was sick. Like any illness, she needed treatment from doctors.

We would drive hours to see her on long weekends. She would warmly embrace us when we came to see her. We would visit, play games, walk on the grounds. I can't remember how long she was there, but to my mind it seemed dreadfully long. I missed my mommy. I missed her baking with me, reading to me, and singing to me. She had a voice of an angel. If ever I was upset or just to talk to me, she would sing to me. It was our special language. She would teach me all kinds of things: math, science, grammar, and how to laugh all with song. Eventually the time came, mom got to come home. The doctors said she was well enough to come home.

It was a wonderful day. We left bright and early. We stayed overnight like usual, but instead of going back to the hospital the next day Daddy, Mommy, Kyle and I went to the zoo.  Kyle held onto to Mommy's and I onto Daddy's so that they could also hold hands. I don't remember so much the animals that we saw as much as the wonderful feeling of my family being together again. We were whole.

On the way back home, I rested my head on side of my chair. Kyle fell asleep in his car seat. Mommy and Daddy were talking, thinking that I was asleep.
"I'm glad you're coming home," Daddy said as he squeezed mommy's hand.
Mommy smiled painfully, "Yes, but I have to keep seeing a doctor."
"It's just a precaution. I don't want to see anything happen to you, Maggie."
"I know, Ron."
"That's why I asked to be given my own store to manage instead of traveling so much."
"What?!"
"I stepped down as regional manager. I want to be close to you, Maggie. The company agreed to make the manager of a new branch they are opening."
"But you love that job."
"It's just a job, Maggie. You and the kids mean more to me than my job. I want to be there for you. What if I had been away on business in Iowa when.... I can't do that. Not right now. Maybe down the road, I can again. Mr. Felzer was understanding and said if I ever change my mind that the job is mine. But right now, Maggie, this is what I feel needs to be done."

So Daddy went on. He stepped down from the regional manager. I would have never known if it had not been for me hearing their conversation. Daddy never brought it up. He was happy to be around.

Mommy started seeing a new doctor- Dr Miranda. She said that Mommy had something called Multiple Personalities Disorder, that's why her moods changed so fast. Sometimes she was really sad. Sometimes she'd get really mad. Sometimes she just couldn't stop doing stuff, and then you just got out of her way. If I didn't get out of her way, I'd end up getting smacked on the rear end which I figured I earned anyhow.

Eventually, we bought a new house in the next town over. By then, I was 8. I wasn't too happy with it. Leaving all of my best friends in my old town, neighborhood, and class for all new people. So Daddy & Mommy decided that perhaps my brother and I should see Dr Miranda too.

The day we saw her was the first day we had ever met her. She was frumpy and had short grey hair stacked on her head. She looked kind enough, but something seemed strange. She had my mom, brother, and I sit down. Mommy talked about how she when she acted different ways it was because other people were taking over.

"Do you ever feel that way, Lola? Like someone else is taking over?"
"No, not really."
"I do!" Kyle said excitedly, "and they are going to take over the world."
I rolled my eyes, "Kyle, I don't think that's what she means..."
"... no they take over. Do you have feelings?"
"Everyone has feelings. Of course."
"Name your feelings."
"Well, when I'm sad I'm might cry. Or when I'm happy I might smile or laugh..."
"No. I mean NAME your feelings. Give them names."
"You mean like people?"
"Yes."
"...."
"My mad guy is named Carl!" yelled Kyle.
Dr Miranda smiled.
"How about this... draw a picture of you feeling the feeling. What does the face look like?"
I drew a picture of me feeling sad, happy, angry, nervous...

Afterward, Dr Miranda called my dad in.
"I'm sorry Mr Dahl, but they all have Multiple Personality Disorder."
"LIAR!" I yelled running toward her. "I don't have no other people in me and you know it!"
"Lola. Settle down," my father said strictly, "What do you mean?"
"She asked us about our feelings and then told us to name them."
"You mean like sad, happy, mad? There's nothing wrong with that sweety."
"No, Daddy. She said to give them human names."
My dad narrowed his eyes at her, "Dr Miranda, you're fired." He stalked out angrily. I don't think I had ever seen him that mad.

"But Ron, what will we do? I still have to be seen." panicked my mom.
"Not by that quack you won't."
Silently we all got in the car.

A Resolution

My biggest fear in life is that I will turn out just like my mother...


You see my mother abused me. Emotionally. Spiritually. Physically. It left all kinds of interesting scars. For the most part, I think I have forgiven my mother. Trust me, I'll be discussing my issues with my mom and the stories behind it at some length here. Yes, I've healed. But there's still scars. There's still others suffering from abuse in other arenas that I think need to hear my tale to hear that they can escape their world of abuse. My mother was the number one reason though why I am Lola Dahl [or why I am currently using a pseudonym in other words.] She cannot handle the truth. Any attempt on my part of examining the truth is automatically perceived [by her] as my non-forgiveness rather than my attempt to deal with my past and it's emotional baggage.

Because like it or not. The things in my past have formed who I am today.

I find myself at times sounding like her. Acting like her. It makes me sick to my stomach. Literally. I know really in my heart of hearts I am no where near as bad as her. But she wasn't always bad. Sometimes she was quite good. She was quite loving, caring, fantastic even.

But I hear her when I get frustrated with my children. I see her when I need to just do my thing but I resist out of guilt. This pattern is so eerily familiar, the little hairs stand on the back of my neck. I feel so conflicted to do anything other than mother, but ironically I think if she had done something other than just mother I think she would have been oh so much more content with life. I see her when I spank my kids. Note I said spank. And I spank very lightly and sparingly. She used her hand [or at times a wooden spoon] and usually left red marks on my bottom. I hear her when I raise my voice at my kids most of all.

So my resolution. Not to. Well, not as much. I resolve to be a better mother by trying to be calm. Understand their point of view. Meet them. Consider their personalities in my disciplining of them. But mostly love them. Do stuff with them. That is what my mother did right when I was young. I will aid them in their dreaming and fun. And I will aid myself in finding my own dreams and let myself be a non-mom from time to time.