I Sometimes Wish I Could Go Back
I hear a lot of people who've been through a faith transition declare emphatically that they would never want to go back to who they were before. They're so much more open to ideas now, so much more logical and scientific, so much more compassionate. And, well, I understand that point of view. There are many gifts of a faith transition that I wouldn't give up. I think I am more compassionate, less judgmental, and more likely to listen to people speaking truth who I'd have rejected before because they didn't fit in my authority box.
But--I also wish almost every day that I could go back to who I was then. Maybe this is because so many members of my immediate and extended family are still more orthodox and orthopraxy Mormons. Maybe it's because I still have some lingering scars and that I haven't completely moved on to a new worldview. But honestly, I think it's just because there's a reason that people hold tight to religious views. Safety and happiness. It feels like those were taken away from me more than I gave them up willingly, and I wish I could have them back.
First, safety. I'm not sure I would have said this directly if you'd asked me, but I truly believed that I had a protective safety net around me because I was faithful and orthodox. I believed (and I'm pretty sure I was regularly told this was true) that wearing garments and paying tithing and going to church and generally "keeping my covenants" would keep my family safe. Sometimes people would prevaricate about whether this safety was literal or spiritual, but as it turned out, I wasn't safe at all.
Plenty of people told me after my daughter died that I needed to just hold to the church and everything would be fine because we'd see my daughter again in the after-life and nothing would be lost. But you know what? That wasn't true. Every day, I could see our family moving on without her and things were lost. I genuinely could not see how God could restore those things to us.
One Sunday in particular, I remember sitting in church, braiding my three daughters' hair, watching them hold hands and just be so happy together, and I broke down in tears because my fourth daughter wasn't there. That special moment could never be given back to us with my fourth daughter there. Sure, you can say that other things would be given that are worth far more, but I guess I just stopped believing that as day after day, moment after moment, there were losses that grew and grew with the passage of time.
I also heard a lot that I must have done something wrong or I must be not doing something I was supposed to do because I didn't ever feel any sense of "peace" about what had happened to me. I never felt this surety that God had my daughter in His hands and that this was what was supposed to happen. I don't have any evidence one way or the other, but it seemed to be that it was a terrible accident and it shouldn't have happened. It didn't have to happen. There was no good in it happening.
In some ways, I feel like I experienced PTSD in trying to recover from this loss. Not only the loss of my daughter, but the loss of my sense of safety, and the loss of my sense of fitting into my community. Because I didn't fit anymore. Any time I raised my hand, everyone cringed because I was going to say something that didn't jibe with the manual or what other people wanted to believe.
A lot of the time, when people told me things like--this terrible loss will help your family focus on getting to the celestial kingdom so you can be an eternal family. And I realized that people said crap like this not because it would help *me* (the grieving parent) feel better, but because it made them feel better. It made them believe that this loss would never happen to them, or that if it did, they'd do a better job managing it than I did. I was so angry that I had to deal with my grief and their crappiness silently, but was also aware that I had (at least silently) said such things lots of times to other people, because I was still living in that comfortable bubble.
Happiness. I went through various stages of depression after my daughter's death. I was suicidal for a number of years, but I don't know if I'm ever really going to be normal again. I remember my husband saying when we got married that one of the things he loved most about me was that I was so happy all the time. And I was. I didn't know how not to be happy. I felt like I had control of my life, control of the universe, and control of my emotions. I achieved a long list of things I wanted to achieve. My life was how I wanted it to be, and it was good.
Until it wasn't good anymore, and I had no idea how to control anything. Every time my kids left the house, I was terrified they'd never come back home. I knew now that I had no way of making them safe. Random stuff kills people all the time. And somehow you have to learn to live with that after the veil of pretend safety has been stripped away. I didn't want to deal with that and I didn't know how to be happy again. I'm still working on this, and I'm frustrated that it takes so much effort to have even a tiny bit of the happiness I used to take so much for granted.
So, yes, if given a choice, I'd go back in a second. It may be selfish and benighted, but I would. It's why I would never, ever try to make someone else understand what I'm going through if they don't want to. I would never cause someone else to have a faith crisis, not even my worst enemy. Let them live in that bubble. I'll deal with the pain of rejection and protect them because I still wish I could go back.
But--I also wish almost every day that I could go back to who I was then. Maybe this is because so many members of my immediate and extended family are still more orthodox and orthopraxy Mormons. Maybe it's because I still have some lingering scars and that I haven't completely moved on to a new worldview. But honestly, I think it's just because there's a reason that people hold tight to religious views. Safety and happiness. It feels like those were taken away from me more than I gave them up willingly, and I wish I could have them back.
First, safety. I'm not sure I would have said this directly if you'd asked me, but I truly believed that I had a protective safety net around me because I was faithful and orthodox. I believed (and I'm pretty sure I was regularly told this was true) that wearing garments and paying tithing and going to church and generally "keeping my covenants" would keep my family safe. Sometimes people would prevaricate about whether this safety was literal or spiritual, but as it turned out, I wasn't safe at all.
Plenty of people told me after my daughter died that I needed to just hold to the church and everything would be fine because we'd see my daughter again in the after-life and nothing would be lost. But you know what? That wasn't true. Every day, I could see our family moving on without her and things were lost. I genuinely could not see how God could restore those things to us.
One Sunday in particular, I remember sitting in church, braiding my three daughters' hair, watching them hold hands and just be so happy together, and I broke down in tears because my fourth daughter wasn't there. That special moment could never be given back to us with my fourth daughter there. Sure, you can say that other things would be given that are worth far more, but I guess I just stopped believing that as day after day, moment after moment, there were losses that grew and grew with the passage of time.
I also heard a lot that I must have done something wrong or I must be not doing something I was supposed to do because I didn't ever feel any sense of "peace" about what had happened to me. I never felt this surety that God had my daughter in His hands and that this was what was supposed to happen. I don't have any evidence one way or the other, but it seemed to be that it was a terrible accident and it shouldn't have happened. It didn't have to happen. There was no good in it happening.
In some ways, I feel like I experienced PTSD in trying to recover from this loss. Not only the loss of my daughter, but the loss of my sense of safety, and the loss of my sense of fitting into my community. Because I didn't fit anymore. Any time I raised my hand, everyone cringed because I was going to say something that didn't jibe with the manual or what other people wanted to believe.
A lot of the time, when people told me things like--this terrible loss will help your family focus on getting to the celestial kingdom so you can be an eternal family. And I realized that people said crap like this not because it would help *me* (the grieving parent) feel better, but because it made them feel better. It made them believe that this loss would never happen to them, or that if it did, they'd do a better job managing it than I did. I was so angry that I had to deal with my grief and their crappiness silently, but was also aware that I had (at least silently) said such things lots of times to other people, because I was still living in that comfortable bubble.
Happiness. I went through various stages of depression after my daughter's death. I was suicidal for a number of years, but I don't know if I'm ever really going to be normal again. I remember my husband saying when we got married that one of the things he loved most about me was that I was so happy all the time. And I was. I didn't know how not to be happy. I felt like I had control of my life, control of the universe, and control of my emotions. I achieved a long list of things I wanted to achieve. My life was how I wanted it to be, and it was good.
Until it wasn't good anymore, and I had no idea how to control anything. Every time my kids left the house, I was terrified they'd never come back home. I knew now that I had no way of making them safe. Random stuff kills people all the time. And somehow you have to learn to live with that after the veil of pretend safety has been stripped away. I didn't want to deal with that and I didn't know how to be happy again. I'm still working on this, and I'm frustrated that it takes so much effort to have even a tiny bit of the happiness I used to take so much for granted.
So, yes, if given a choice, I'd go back in a second. It may be selfish and benighted, but I would. It's why I would never, ever try to make someone else understand what I'm going through if they don't want to. I would never cause someone else to have a faith crisis, not even my worst enemy. Let them live in that bubble. I'll deal with the pain of rejection and protect them because I still wish I could go back.
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