I often get criticized by people for how much I bag on religion. I get comments like 'how can you ask for tolerance and you're so intolerant of religious people?' Of course this is in reference to my homosexuality. Because I guess I'm supposed to be devoid of flaws or opinions of my own. I usually ignore those kind of comments but today I want to address them. First off someone's religious beliefs are more of a choice than someone's sexuality. This includes my own religious beliefs or lack thereof. Secondly, very few people can say that someone else's sexuality and how they expressed said sexuality left them mentally and emotionally scarred. I can say that about religion. As I mentioned before my father was a preacher, a man of God. Well a man of a Bronze Age created fairy tale translated by misogynists in the Middle Ages. You wanna know why I have hostility for religion? You wanna know why I don't just dislike devout Christians but am disgusted by them? I will tell you and at the same time explain the title of this blog.
From as early as I can remember to up until the day he died my father wasted no opportunity to beat my ashy black ass. He had MS so as that progressed he began to rely on me more. The mental abuse got kicked up a notch. But let's focus on the visible--well the physical scars I have for now. My father had anger issues. He had issues with feminine attributes in men. He had issues with cognitive dissonance. He has problems with himself. His own father physically abused my father and his seven siblings. It was called discipline. It was called being a good father. I call it bullshit. My father would regale me and my brother of tales of his father viciously beating himself and siblings until they snitched on another with a misty look in his eye. He'd entertain us by telling about how his sisters would have puddles of blood to clean up afterwards like he was remembering a fond memory. My father romanticized his my grandfather's abusive tendencies. When I was younger I listened with youthful reverence of my 'holy heritage'. I had no idea I was being nostalgia about violence.
One of my earliest 'whoopings' was when I was six years old. I was in the first grade and we taken class portraits. I had ADHD my parents refused to medicate me for so I had a tough time focusing during the solo shots. I managed to press through that but the group photo was going to be a trial. I got bored five seconds in and turned to talk to another girl about something I don't remember now. Everyone else was reacting to me fucking up the picture. Personally I love that picture. It reminds me of the last supper where the center of action is in the middle and all of these various characters are reacting so vividly to what the main character was doing. Despite this I knew my father would never see it this way. In the days coming until we got the prints I put it in the back of my mind. I tried hard to forget they even existed.
When the prints finally came out I knew I was doomed. A child should never have to cry on the way home because they know they are going to get their body bloodied and bruised. When he finally saw the prints he was furious. He told me that I was never going to make that mistake again. He dragged me into his room, got on top of me and with his belt he etched into my back scars that would stay with me forever. To this day I never smile in pictures.He was always relentless when he whooped me. I could never please him. If I cried too much he told me to shut up or he would give me something to cry about. If I tried to soldier it out he said I was acting like it didn't hurt and he gave me more.
I used to be terrified whenever I spoke to him. I was a smart and funny kid but I couldn't be that way around him. I was afraid he'd hit me because he would mistake something I would say. I guess that was the point, for me to fear him as we feared The Lord. But we were supposed to love God, I was supposed to love my daddy. How does fear have any place in love? Apparently you made room. At school I was a different person than I was at home. At home I really tried not to speak. I always kept at least a foot between and me and if he got too irritated I made sure I was near the door. He would yell all the time for even the simplest shit. When yelling wasn't enough he got violent. But this wasn't because he was mad or hated me. Oh no it was because he loved me. So this explains why I love assholes who abuse my ass to this day.
He wouldn't always use a belt. He utilized a multitude of household items such as brushes, broomsticks, shoes and anything he could grab. I wish I could get more into detail but I've blocked out most of this shit and I'm barely making it through this blog post as is. Sometimes when he felt like going green he'd make me go out and get my own switch from a bush or willow tree. If I got a weak switch he'd beat me with that and then send me out to get a stronger one and beat me again. I'd have welts on my legs with blood and puss pouring out in a volume that matched the tears that flowed from my swollen eyes. This was how he showed he loved me.
I remember one time I was sitting down letting him cut my hair and I was afraid of the buzzing of the clippers near my ears. It reminded me of the bees and bugs I as terrified of as a child. My father used to torment me by putting them in my face or jars and force me touch them. He said he was helping me but he was just being an asshole. I'm still traumatized by that. Anyway I was sitting there in the chair terrified and he got sick of my fidgeting and was going to 'whoop' me. I had already hade enough of this. I took a stand. I took off my own belt and I said I was going to beat him now. He laughed, grabbed the belt and murdered my ass with both.
Another time when I was ten the teacher called in my parents to complain about my behavior in class. Mostly my lack of participation and focus was because they wouldn't medical my ass. I want to say I remember the teacher saying 'drug this child!' or something similar. My father had his own medicine. When we got home he told me to get a switch. I got the switch, stripped naked and hid under my bed. A normal parent would of just let the kid hid. I was crying and scared. I had done nothing wrong. He pulled the bed apart and then dragged me over to him. On another situation similar when I got a bad report card I came home automatically and gave him a choice of which belt he wanted to beat me with. He chose both.
Along with this physical abuse was the constant batterings to my self esteem disguised as religious teachings. I was taught I was nothing without God. I was formed and shaped iniquity. I was born a sinner and was wicked. Nothing good that flowed from me was really from me. It was from God because goodness did not naturally exist in me. However I was also taught God didn't make mistakes. I was wonderfully and beautifully made. My body was God's temple but also the devil's playground. I always thought the devil was misunderstood. I could relate to everyone thinking I was evil for no damn reason. I wanted to marry him. That's another blog post.