Confessions of a Fallen Christian

I've held out as long as possible against writing this post because I know that it will concern virtually all of my Christian friends/acquaintances/family. I know pretty much all of you are aware of my prodigal return to Christianity after struggling with my faith for years, but I haven't shared many of the details with most of you.

My faith is somewhat more, um, radical than it once was. I could not be more different than the Christian I was 10 years ago and still be a Christian. Please don't worry about me - my Christianity is so much more genuine to me now than it's ever been since it's not just what my parents believe ... it's what I've thrashed out for myself. I don't believe there is one best type of Christianity since we are all different.

I read Evolving in Monkey Town by Rachel Held Evans (and also her awesome blog) last fall, - I don't think it would be an overstatement to say that she saved my Christianity. The primary reason that her book made such an impact on me is that it showed me that I could still be a Christian and not have to buy the “whole package,” so to speak. I could be a Christian and not believe in the inerrency of the Bible. I could be a Christian and not have all the answers as to how God chooses who to send to heaven or hell. I can observe the barbaric, fickle God of the Old Testament and not have to reconcile him to the unorthodox, loving Jesus of the New.

I don't believe the Bible is inerrant...there, I've said it! I've discussed it in my blogosphere but have never told actually told anybody.

I DO believe in its inspiration - but the men who wrote it were still only men. They were but recording about their impressions of God, but their impressions were not necessarily correct.

I just could never have gone back to using the Bible as the blueprint to life, as the sole and exclusive authority. Especially when I became interested in human rights as a career and yet God had permitted, nay, commanded the Israelites to commit genocide. Especially when I'm emerging from patriarchy and the very mention of sexism brings a bad taste to my mouth and God as depicted by the Bible is a mean misogynist. Especially since I am so convinced that gays cannot help who they are and why should they be sent to hell because of who God made them? The excuses for these and other of God's actions that were drilled into me as a child now strike me as hollow, weak arguments. I know myself well enough to know I could never re-enter a relationship with a God who actually literally performed those deeds, even though I'm dying and should be thinking about the eternity question.

I know that I have been told time and time again (and told others this, myself) that any seeming inconsistencies in the Bible are due to my lack of understanding and God’s ways are high above ours - but, to be honest, that’s a little insulting. God made us intelligent, rational creatures in his image, but when we have questions we’re just to blindly accept that somehow God works it all out?

It's been so liberating, to not have to worry about, as a Christian, rationalizing and stretching the Bible to make sense. It's a lot of work!

I'm so happy. Please don't worry, don't be scandalized...I promise I'm not dropping off the edge into heresy. This makes so much sense!

Hey Lawdy Mama

In all the years since the Years of the Locust ended, Mama has never mentioned her contribution to that miserable era. While I would gladly lay all the blame of it at the feet of the Stepfather, I know within myself that Mama was quite enthusiastic, herself, about imposing that suffocating lifestyle upon us, her family. Indeed, she was the more passionate advocate of the two in some areas, specifically clothing and the frowning on higher education.

I always assumed that Mama was not proud of her role during that time and was thus reluctant to bring it up, but she recently said something to the effect that her intentions were pure on the way down, implying that hence she was free from blame.

As if the meaning well of a parent negates the internal damage inflicted upon a child.

I bristled a bit and went on to recount some of the ridiculous inflictions she had laid on me as her nearly-grown daughter, and then she said, well, if it was so bad, I could just have left as an adult - adults are responsible for and accountable to themselves.

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I had never been allowed to become an adult - my parents wouldn’t let me. Up until the day I left home at 21 I wasn’t allowed to think for myself or to make any decisions.

I don't think Mama grasps how bleak that time in my life was. We kids weren't allowed to have personalities. We daughters, although the four of us are vastly different from each other, were meant to be clones, all never working outside the home, all living at home until our father approved of a man to marry, all to pump out the maximum amount of kids possible and homeschool them and raise more clones to do the same thing.

How could Mama possibly understand how damaging this was for us? She had a normal, happy childhood. She had a healthy social life and was permitted, even encouraged, to follow her interests. I find it sadly ironic that her parents had such a happy marriage and yet she and Big Jim wanted something better because her parents and his were “unbelievers.” That experiment went well...

Since being back home I have made various comments to my mother, feeling around, striving to get an accurate idea of how she feels about those years. I have said, "Do you remember when you told me I couldn't sing 'Somewhere Over the Rainbow'?” or when she inquires, knowing I am a John Grisham fan, whether I've read his Skipping Christmas and was surprised when I told her I had not and that in fact she had not permitted me to read any John Grisham before. She didn’t recall any of it - they were random rules with no principle. How can she have been so dictatorial to me and not even remember what she did? I haven't told her about the time she forbade me to go see a production of Ragtime in which my voice teacher was the star and invited me to - I have been listening to the score lately and Mama thinks it's gorgeous inspired stuff.

All of my books were censored. I couldn’t read The Hunchback of Notre Dame because there was a brief sex scene in it. Shirley Temple’s autobiography was anathema since it “dwelt too much on Hollywood,” and the same went for a book about the making of The Sound of Music. We didn’t watch many movies, but the ones we did could only be PG.

Mama was also the one more concerned about modesty - usually. Big Jim would randomly pronounce an item of clothing immodest for an obscure reason, and then he had this thing with collar bones and necklines - he always said the Lord had given us collar bones as a guide to how high the neck line should be. Apparently the collar bone of a male was useless since this applied only to us girls.

But Mama was the hard core enforcer of modesty. Whenever one of us girls would acquire a new article of clothing, she would make us parade up and down the hall under Big Jim’s male gaze to be sure that nothing was clung to or any skin above our shins exposed. We would bend over to make sure that nothing fell out. Only if it passed inspection could we then wear it.

The resentment that festers deepest within me, though, is how wretchedly guilty I was made to feel because I was naturally bright. I had a insatiable appetite for all things academic. Most parents would have proud to have produce such a child.

Not mine. A intelligent person, you see, was naturally inquisitive and would be more likely to question the order of things - my overt love of learning was viewed by Mama and Big Jim with suspicion. They attempted to provide appropriate outlets for my energy. Mama signed me up for a correspondence course on herbology which was actually an extremely unprofessional setup and which I did not enjoy. Mama was also intent on one of her daughters taking on the profession of a midwife and took Melody and me to midwifery seminars. Anyone who knows me at all will agree with me when I state that I could never have been a midwife, but since we children were expected to turn out in a specific manner and weren’t permitted to have personalities, this hardly mattered. The ideal female would learn a profession which she could conduct from home and later carry on into married life as a “ministry.” Melody’s long-time interest in massage was thus encouraged since it happened to fit the criteria.

My interests, not so much. My classical education pretty much ended when I was 16 since most everything thereafter would be useless in the future that was expected of me. I begged Mama to let me take geometry since I had loved the last math I had taken, algebra, so much, but she said no, firstly because she had never used her high school geometry in her practical life, and also because she had disliked it and didn’t want to check it.

But I kept on rebelling. I checked out books on Spanish and trigonometry from the library and tried to teach myself. Of course I got no where.

Someone once marveled to me how incredible a job my mother must have done at homeschooling us kids since I did so well, scoring high on the ACT, testing out of math in college. I felt like howling with laughter and informing them that I went to college in spite of my mother. My parents were an obstacle to my later life. I cried myself to sleep, oh, so many nights because I could not for the life of me figure out why, why if I never to go to college, God wouldn’t take away my burning desire like I’d pleaded with him to.

I can’t even fathom doing that to my child, denying her, not only her dreams, but her very instincts, forbidding her to even be herself.

Which is why I’m amazed at how unmoved my own mother is by her having done it to me. I adore her and she’s so brave and strong, and I know she loves me. It perplexes me.

In which I ruin Christmas

I'm concerned about myself, Journal.

I had an episode on Christmas Eve when all the siblings were here. (We were holding our Christmas on Christmas Eve, remember.) As we were about to sit down to our meal, Jewell and I were in the middle of a discussion and she, of course, said something characteristically ignorant and illogical. And I, with my irrevocable need of attacking all things I deem incorrect, I gave an example that proved my point and made Jewell mad - she went to the bathroom to cry.

Well, then the boys started in on me, all glaring in my direction from across the table. Josiah muttered darkly, "Jerk!"

And this did not help my mood because the boys always side against me - they think I'm evil and look for opportunities to bate me. I don't understand the fact that they haven't once exhibited anger towards their father and yet I'm some kind of villain to them. Also, they hadn't even heard most of the conversation and so it was unfair and unreasonable for them to be angry with me.

Which is when Melody walked into the room and said something how none of us should be taking sides today and that we needed to be quiet. I told her the boys were angry at me for no reason and thus I was entitled to explaining what had happened so they could see that Jewell had actually been the first one to grow hostile in our discussion. Mama said that Josiah and I couldn't speak for the remainder of the meal.
I was so angry. I literally sulked for the rest of the day, crying back in the room I share with Georgia. It sounds so ridiculously childish, and to be honest, it doesn't sound like me at all. Before I left home, I was known as the resilient daughter who didn't take things personally - Melody was the sulky one.

And yet not once when I was back facedown on my bed did it occur to me that I might possibly be overreacting. My hurt feelings were a hunderd percent legitimate!

Even when Mama came back to find me and tried to talk sensibly to me, I wasn't convinced. I was mad at her because I was the only one of her children who had her back and she was more concerned about her other kids than about me. I said it wasn't easy being down here with no moral support. Yeah, I was completely feeling sorry for myself.

Only when Mama started talking about how she concerned about my mood swings and said she could detect signs of depression did the mist began to recede, and I was left to writhe in utter humiliation for how I had managed to ruin the one day of the year we all had together.

Do you realize what this means for me? How from now on out I won't be able to trust the legitimacy of my feelings? Up until now I have noticed the progression of my Huntington's as much as any other observer, maybe even more. I knew before my neurologist told me to stop driving that I was becoming a hazard to others. I was dismayed at my both my jobs at my ineptitude to do a good job, though of course my employers noticed that too - "If it weren't for your sweet spirit, you wouldn't even be here" - I was aware of the dilapidation of my handwriting and my inability to sign my checks with hardly more than a scrawl before Mama commented that I no longer had artistic handwriting. I have also noticed the increased difficulty I have speaking - it's becoming more slurred.

But this - this reacting hysterically to what was so not a big deal - it never so much as crossed my mind that I was doing anything wrong - someone else had to point this out to me, and this scares me.

Mama thinks I should go to counseling, so Thursday is my first session. I've had many negative experiencese with counseling over the years, but my last one, my brilliant psychiatrist in Chattanooga, was amazing, and Melody's counselor has been helping her so much that I'm keeping my fingers crossed.

The Saga of Melon Rind

It was love at first sight for me. I was not a fan of stuffed animals - not one remained from the impressive collection I had as a child. But when Georgia showed me her newest toy that Mama had bought her (George is the youngest of eight and the sole girl after three boys, and she is ridiculously spoiled), a fat soft white sheep, I looked into his dark eyes and lost myself. I wanted him. His name was Melon Rind, George said (um - WHAT? Where in the world did she come up with that name? I guess she had to get creative since she had so many freakin’ animals...)

That was the summer I went to DC to intern at the nonprofit think tank, Institute for Policy Studies. Two months I was gone, and when I came back, Georgia had moved on long ago to a new animal. I asked her where Melon Rind was, and she didn’t even know! I found him under the bed, dusty, neglected. I asked Georgia if I could take him with me for the semester to school, pointing out that she hadn’t even missed him when he was lost, and she agreed. So I did!

Melon Rind and I went through a lot together. That was my toughest semester at school, it was the semester I tested positive for Huntington’s disease and my panic attacks returned with a vengeance. I had to drop credits beneath the actual full time load because I couldn’t handle them. 11 credits, one less than what on campus students were required to have. Of course everyone there was so lovely to me, my professors worked with me far beyond the call of duty. Dr. Jackson, our history SIP professor, was the first professor I cried in front of. Dr. Follett, my advisor and favorite professor. The British Romanticism professor, Dr. Ralston, who had me email my presentations to her since the thought of just talking in front of others nearly made me pass out. The student development office was so kind and understanding and assured me that they would make sure I graduated and to let them know if I needed to drop any more credits.

But I was so horribly depressed. I cried all the time. I was frightened I wouldn’t make it through my last semester and was angry at God for allowing me to live my dream of being at college only to not be able to experience it fully and maybe not even get my degree. The humiliation of my bad grades never ceased to sting. Just the possibility of having to say something in class made me sick with terror and made me break out in a cold sweat. That happened more than once in Brit Rom, where Dr. Ralston appreciated plenty of student participation. I naturally really enjoy public speaking and class discussions, but of course I wasn’t myself anymore. I was a shrinking shadow of myself. One time in particular Ralston was going around the class and having us share what we had written in the journals we were required to keep. Dabney and I always sat at the back of the room, so we were always last to be reached. I was shaking like a leaf and my heart was going crazy. Dabs was gazing at me with concern and whispering if I was okay. I told her I was leaving and slunk out of the room, red with shame. I knew when I opened the door, the eyes of everyone in the room were on me, inquiring. Out in the empty hall, I sank against the wall and covered my face with my hands and cried.

And then the same thing happened in Dr. Follett’s senior seminar, Modern Europe, which all of us history majors were so excited about. That class was all about talking, but of course Dr. Follett knew what was up with me and didn’t press me. It was hard to get through a Socrates style seminar, however, without saying a word. At first I would do my presentations with dear Christy, who would take over all the talking part after we had researched together.

There was one night though that Dr. Follett made a casual remark about us having to talk about some required reading after our break, at the beginning of the second half (it was a once a week 3-hour long class). I obsessed about this piece of information for the entire hour and fifteen minutes before the break, on the verge of bursting into tears the whole time. Of course Dr. Follett would probably not force me to actually discuss it, but he’d probably ask if I had anything to add, and I would have to say no and feel utter humiliation, and that sounded horrible and I was sure I’d start crying. So during our break I managed to convey to Christy that I was leaving - apparently I couldn’t even speak normally to her. She offered to come with me, but I said no, that I was going to take a walk, which I did. I walked and walked. It was like a flashback to being a freshman - walking soothed me somewhat and I needed much soothing.

It didn’t work this time. I kept crying and was still full of helpless rage towards God. So I headed back to the dorm, hoping fervently that no one would see me in my wild state. Jess was in the elevator. She was understandably surprised to see me since I was supposed to be in class. I stammered something, and Jess eyed me and said, “Let’s go for a drive.” Oh, Jess.

The seminar was the class I ended up dropping, but I still audited it, which was amazing because I didn’t have to stress about it and didn’t have to fret over getting by in a senior seminar on the generosity of my professor and classmates.

Poor Melon Rind soaked up so many of my tears that semester. He was just so huggable and fat and soft! I doubt he knew what he was in for when I decided to take him with me. I had no idea! My last junior semester had been fine! Now when I look back I can see I was undergoing the first signs of depression the summer in DC and it really set in during the fall. That was not fun.

Little did I know how soon I would be tragically parted from my beloved sheep. I asked Georgia about transferring her ownership to me over Christmas break, and she was game. Then I made the mistake of telling Jewell that Georgia had officially given me Melon Rind, and she was furious. Why, I don’t know, but I’m pretty sure she was mad at me anyway and was using this as an outlet for her wrath. She informed me that Georgia was just a little girl! and had no idea of what she was doing! and she was telling Mama! Little vixen...and tell Mama she did. I wasn’t worried in the least because I had reason on my side.

Yeah, I was wrong. Mama said I couldn’t keep Melon Rind, and when I reminded Mama of George’s countless other animals and how she had already gotten over him when I came home last summer, she told me I was behaving like 5-year-old, which was how old Georgia was. I was so livid. It was all so unnecessary!

I think Mama might have been having similar feelings, because for my birthday in February she sent me the most tacky, huge stuffed frog of a hideous iridescent green - she never gives me stuffed animals for gifts, because, like I said, I’m generally not a fan. I hated him from the moment I saw him, as did the rest of the roommates. Only Meghan paid him any attention - she said that Taco Shell - Jess said we should call him that - was not to blame for not being Melon Rind.

Oh, Melon Rind. But I didn’t miss him as much as I expected to. Part of that was because, since my diagnosis, I had been seeing an amazing psychiatrist who put me on a drug, Cymbalta, which he was comfortably sure wouldn’t have any horrible side effects like all the other meds I had tried. It was amazing, how quickly I became a new person. I was radiant and happy and enjoyed sharing my two cents with my classes and had a great time with my senior presentation on the Russian Revolution. The only side affect I noticed was I had less of an appetite and shed a few pounds, which was quite all right with me! Also, I was transferring my affections to an actual living being - well, two actually - Philip and our turtle Bambi. But those are other stories...

One gorgeous spring day as I was leaving the room for class, an ecstatic Meghan appeared in our room clutching a fat stuffed lamb. She had spotted it on sale after Easter at Target. Aw, Megs! He was cute even if when I took him in my arms I noticed he was stiffer to hug than Melon Rind. Others actually mistook him for Melon Rind, exclaiming that he was back, but I always knew the difference.

And then came the day of my college graduation. Mama and Melody and Mama Jean and the kids all came up the day before. When they came up to campus and into our room full of boxes belonging to us four seniors, Georgia’s eyes flew instinctively to the sheep on my bed and she went over and picked it up. She carted it around with her the entire time.

When we were leaving to get dinner, Mama told George to release the sheep.

“Mama, can I have it?” Georgia asked. (I know, she’s a bit spoiled. I don’t even know why she thought that sheep superior to Melon Rind - I guess because it was newer.)

Mama said no. But my mind was racing with the possibilities.

I narrowed my eyes. “You can have it if you give me Melon Rind.”

Of course she said yes. She would have already have given me the sheep, remember.

And so today Melon Rind once again perches on his throne, my bed, and this time he shall never be taken from me again. Which is good because both Bambi and Philip were taken away from me. But those are other stories...

In case I was ever tempted to return to my Fundy roots...

I’ve been reading up lately on the Chuck Phelps situation, since he just resigned from his position as board member of Bob Jones University. Phelps, in case my audience doesn’t have as much free time as I have at the moment to follow the situation, is the guy who was the pastor of the church where one of his congregation members, Ernie Willis, raped and impregnated a 15-year-old girl and knew about it and did nothing!

Sorry, “nothing” is the wrong word - after the girl, Tina Anderson, and her mother informed Phelps of the situation, he had Tina stand in front of the congregation and apologize for being a stumbling block and he refused to believe she was raped - it was an “adulterous affair.” He arranged for Tina to spend her days of pregnancy in Colorado with a preacher friend of his and the baby was given up for adoption. Then she was sent back home and continued to attend church with the perpetrator, her rapist.

Yeah, because he was still permitted to come to church! Phelps said that the church is to encourage struggling Christians, but Willis was beyond struggling - he was a criminal and a pervert, only most of his fellow church members didn’t know this.

The case was reopened recently - this happened in 1997 - and Phelps was subpoenaed to testify and was caught lying under oath. He said up a website defending his honor and insisting that Tina was the one being dishonest. Willis was convicted of forceful rape.

Sometime during the trial, Bob Jones University invited him back to the board, since he had been given the boot by Maranatha Baptist, where he had been president. Of course, there has been quite a bit of pressure to BJU to give rid of Phelps, but Bob Jones III officially backed up Phelps in a recent chapel, proclaiming that Bob Jones University would never endorse a man who swept sexual abuse under a rug, - "we're not Penn State, folks."

Phelps actually just handed in his resignation, but he never apologized or indicated that he was wrong in any way. He just didn't want to interfere with the "university's mission."

On one of the websites I was reading, I came across a link to the transcript of Bob Jones III's interview with Larry King in 2000, when the university was getting all that bad press on account of its interracial dating ban. I was disgusted, although not surprised, at Jones's words:

“ I've learned that religious freedom, and particularly Bible-believing Christians, that maybe we're the most unprotected and misunderstood and maybe despised minority in America. I think some of this is frightening. I think the hostility toward Christianity that has been exhibited in all this should frighten all freedom-loving people and certainly should frighten Christians. And I believe it has. I believe that somehow the university's been allowed of God to be brought into this thing through no fault of our own, and I think as a result a lot of people have had a wake-up call that maybe we're about to lose tolerance toward religious freedom in this country. And I am really, really concerned about that.”

What?! Delusional much? No, because I know ,poor little Bob Jones III, how you have been agonized by the many trials, tribulations, and persecution you've been through. You and your fellow Christians, all 80-something percent of Americans, have suffered indeed! How arrogant, to wine about his non-existent problems and imply that the horrors other minorities in American are trivial! No wonder he didn’t want blacks marrying his Caucasian students - he must have a low opinion on all they’ve been through and are even still experiencing. Dude, the gay community is getting much more crap than Christians - but then he thinks homosexuals are perverts and sinners and so need not be mentioned.

But they are people, too. And maybe he’d better get rid of that beam in his own eye, his own pervert-concealer in residence, Chuck Phelps.

Rant, Part II

Here's my before-mentioned Facebook message to Jewell:


Hi, there, Jewell! I heard that you are now employed at Ruby Tuesday as an hostess - I'm so relieved for you! I know that feeling well - I hope you work with great people. Melody and I both agreed the people we restaraunted with were the bottom of the barrel, the most depraved we'd ever met - so that should be fun!

Mama gave me strict orders before you came that I was not to speak to you about Big Jim, and I promised her I wouldn't. She is extremely concerned - a little too much, if you ask me - about not slandering Big Jim and making sure you guys have a good relationship with your father and all that jazz. However, I could never forgive myself for not being honest with you, and I think it's disrespecting you treating you on the same level as the boys and George - you're 18 and out of the house.

I know you think that basically Big Jim is a decently good guy with a rocky period in his past for which he is sincerely sorry. I know as well as anyone how charming and fun he can be. But another strong trait of his is arrogance and manipulation. He is a star at the whole manipulation thing! Dude, he had Melody convinced for YEARS after what happened between them that somehow he was the victim! I was 21 when I left for college, and for most of that time I was convinced that Big Jim was such good Christian and that any struggles I had were my failing, not his.

Jewell, what can I say to make you see how he is not genuinely sorry in the least and in fact thinks what he did not a big deal and that it was actually not even his fault, that it was Melody and Mama's? Because I know how you pride yourself on having your own opinions and don't like accepting others' for yourself, and yet this should not be a situation between you and me, about you and Mama. This is so much bigger than that, so much graver. I swear I'm not writing to impose my opinion on you. I love you so much.

Here's the thing: EVERYBODY who knows about Big Jim and Melody thinks what he did sick and that he should never be given custody of ANY child, including professional counselors. Even Aunt Kathleen wrote Mama and told her this. The only people who do not feel this way are Big Jim's impressionable and slightly biased children and his mother, who I find it ironic that Big Jim is such great allies with because he has called her crazy on more occasions than I can remember. Melody's counselor said that Big Jim is a perfect example of a sexual predator, since he has been behaving inappropriately to her since she was 12 and yet didn't actually perform sex with her until the week after her 18th birthday. How can this be cooincidence? And up until I was in my late teens it was the same way with me. Those massages where he would go up under our nightgowns right near our privates and also right by our breasts when he was doing our backs - that's not the way a healthy father treats his teenage daughters. If I hadn't been uncomfortable and made up excuses for him to massage me, who knows what might have happened.

After the trial, I am more sure than ever that Big Jim is not sorry in the least. His attorney's open argument sounded like it could have come from Big Jim's own lips - because I have heard him say it - saying that Big Jim was drivin into his actions by his wife, that Mama wouldn't have sex with him and so naturally he turned to the slender arms of his beautiful stepdaughter. What he didn't say was that the reason Big Jim and Mama so rarely had sex then was because, per his choice, they were sharing a room with the boys and Georgia.

And then when I was on the stand - Mama's attorney had me tell about what inappropriate things Big Jim had done when I was living at home, I looked over at Big Jim as I was talking and he was glaring at me with pure contempt. I wasn't expecting to him to look sorrowfully at me - what he had done to me was nothing compared to how he messed with Mama and Melody - but it struck me how what he did was so oviously wrong and here I was describing it in graphic detail for the judge, and Big Jim wasn't sorry for what he did to me even though I was looking him in the eye.

But do you know what really gets on my nerves? When Big Jim first started talking about getting custody, he told you guys that no way in the world would he separate the kids. But when it turned out that he couldn't get Georgia, too, he decided he would just get as many kids as he could, the three boys, even though he knows more than anyone how cruel it would be to separate her from her brothers. Splitting them up is clearly not the best thing for them, but because Big Jim is much more concerned about what he wants than the welfare of anyone else, including his kids, he does what he wants.

So a couple of weeks ago, Abigail told me that they were discussing sociopaths in her med school class and told me she was sure Big Jim was one. I typed in "sociopath" into Google and read the first list of traits, and it was uncanny how well it described Big Jim - only one or two points didn't match. I showed Mama, and we were amazed. It explains him, down to the sexual abuse and authoritarianism and the parasitic lifestyle, meaning he spends a lot of others' resources (Mama Jean bought his house and is paying for his attorney). Jewell, I know you don't want to read such things in relation to Big Jim, but please, please, read this article that I attached. It's not long. Please, if you love me at all, try to see this from both sides.

I hope you have a good weekend. I really wish I could see you again and spend more time together - Mama and I are going up to Macon tomorrow to go shopping since I am going to Homecoming at Covenant in October, and it would be fun if you were with us. Have fun with your training!

Love, Rebecca



There it is - everything laid out, and Princess Jewell has vetoed it. Not only that, but she offers to testify FOR Big Jim. I want nothing to do with her.

Oh, my goodness, I feel another stepfather-bashing welling up within me. Who is this guy? How can he get away with so damn much?

So, ever since Mama filed for divorce, she has been spending a decent amount of time conversing with the IRS. A little background is needed here: my amazing stepfather is an extremely paranoid guy, full to bursting with conspiracy theories. When I was living at home, it was The System this and The System that. Medical System corrupt, Education System corrupt - we never so much as went to the doctor, because of course any doctor would just want to take advantage of us. I think one of the boys might have had to get stiches from the ER once when Big Jim's crafty butterflies weren't sufficient.

And all the boys and Jewell were born at home. At first it wasn't just for religious reasons - Mama had always wanted to give it a try, but Daddy wasn't buying it. Of course, Big Jim was all about doing things the natural way - Mama had a great midwife in Atlanta and great experiences with Jewell and Clay and Josiah being born in the splitlevel in the suburbs while we older kids stayed with Grandpa and Grandma.

By the time Sam was born in the wilds of Kentucky with the help of  a stern Mennonite midwife that had never so much as given Mama a prenatal exam, Big Jim had begun his decline. He had already insisted that Josiah not be given a Social Security number - didn't want his son to be registered with The System, wasn't going to sell his son for tax returns, and now he went one further with Samuel - he didn't want Sam to have a birth certificate. He said he and God knew when Sammy was born and that was all that was needed. Mama wasn't too thrilled, but she was just the woman and, like Eve and her forbidden fruit, was deceived. So Sammy went certificate-less.

Until now. The first thing Mama did when she filed for divorce was start the process to get the boys SS numbers and Sam a birth certificate. Georgia May lucked out when she was born five weeks early in the hospital and provided with both.

Of course, it has taken a while, but Mama found out that from the IRS that she would get a nice check for the boys, so that made it even more worthwhile - she can really use the money. She's already using my American Funds money I got from Grandmommy when I was 21 for her current attorney, who's great but twice as expensive as her last attorney, and I know it killed her to ask me that.

Mama has spent so much time on the phone, sending things back and forth to Kentucky for Sam's certificate, going to Macon an our away to the IRS office, but at last she got the numbers and certificate AND a check was sent - to Big Jim.

I KNOW. Both Mama and Big Jim's names were on the check, of course, but Big Jim informed Mama that there was no way he'd signed his signature unless the check were mailed directly to him. He never got her signature, but he gave her about a quarter of the amount, telling her this was what she deserved from what he'd figured out. He'd have to have forged her name in order to deposit the check, or else some stupid teller let him do it with just one signature. Mama is having the IRS send a copy of the deposited check to see if he forged her name.

That sonofabitch. How can I NOT hate the guy?

AND Mama is so low on funds this month since the child support situation hasn't been figured out by the lawyers, and it's Christmas this month! And she's only getting the money for the house from Big Jim this month; he payed her pittance for child support for all five of the kids this past year, but at least it's better than what she's getting this month - nothing.

Of course, if the Stepfather had had his way, he would not have even paid for the house, let alone for Georgia. He makes so much money and he doesn't even have to pay for his stupid lawyer or for the house he's living in since his mother is providing him with both.

He's so evil, so very evil. He's trying not to give her any of his money and is trying to give her practically nothing of that IRS money that I think is rightfully all hers but is at least half hers.

Written early on a rainy Wednesday morning ... on the front porch, of course, wrapped in my bathrobe...

It's strange how deathly quiet it is here without the three boys. When Big Jim picked them up after work on Monday and just Georgia and Mama and I were eating supper, I couldn't get over the conspicuous silence. I hadn't thought I would feel the their absense so soon ... they're gone two nights a week at swim practice, but Georgia usually goes for swimming lessons, too, so it's just Mama and me and we don't fix supper for just ourselves.

I'm glad to say I've resigned myself to the boys ultimately not being here anymore, though. Clay is 16, Josiah 14, and Sam 11, so even though they don't know the details of their father's involvement with their sister and are probably too immature to actually grasp the situation, still the fact remains that he had an incestual relationship with Melody - they know this and yet they are stupid enough to want to live their father because it's "fun" - impeccable reasoning, no? Fine...they have chosen.

I think I would feel worse about it if they weren't such a trio of bratty boys. They've gotten zero direction or discipline from either their father or their mother for quite some time. If Sam was still his sweet self and Clay the sensitive responsible guy he once was only a year or two ago, I would be afraid what would happen to them. But all three of them are so self-absorbed now!

I feel a naughty sense of glee thinking about them being condemned to a whole semester at least of school with Mama Jean - AND they have to live with her. I could let it rest with just that statement, as I lived with her, if you remember correctly, for six awful years. She's CRAZY. Like her son. Like Jewell. They might not have Huntington's on that side of the family but something is definately loose in the Copland brain. I don't think there's one of Mama Jean's siblings who isn't a bit odd. Lots of crazy. And then one of Aunt Betty's granddaughters left her husband and two sons to shack up with her first cousin ... yeah, talk about cliches. But Big Jim, of course, has left them all behind in the dust.

I also wonder who on earth cleans that house in which they live. What are the state of their bathrooms? Mama Jean is messy, so she won't be any help. The boys are so lazy that someone's going to have to lay down the law ... at least as far as school goes. They take long breaks whenever they feel like it, and Mama didn't do anything about it. Josiah and Sam would have the freakin' radio on back in their room - "it helps us concentrate!" but then they go tell Mama that my music on my computer in the living room is bothering them. The few times Mama Jean has substituted teaching for us when we lived with her, she got really stressed out. Hey, if the boys want her as their teacher, they're welcome to her!

I think I've already started the detachment process with those boys, the way I have with Melody and Jewell. It's really easier not to care too much and to keep myself at an emotional distance - they are all old enough to be accountable for the decisions they've made. I can't imagine respecting Melody again or wanting to be close to her after the way she took her crucial testimony from the trial; it's not even that I'm angry, in Melody's case, I'm just neatral. She has a boyfriend of her own now who's very serious about her and going to see her counselor with her, and I'm glad for her - I want her to be happy. I just have the lost the desire I've had all the years to get back to being besties with her.

As for Jewell, yeah, I have plenty of anger there. How can I not? How can she think it's okay for her to support someone she knows is so perverted? Where is the reasoning behind it?

Oh, Jewell is supposed to come over this morning for a visit. Yay. I haven't seen her since the trial and would be perfectly fine with not seeing her now.

And Melody just wrote on my Facebook wall that she wanted to call me - yay. I don't even remember when the last time is we talked on the phone - Memphis, probably. I know she's going to ask, well, how am I doing, and expect me to share all my problems and struggles with her so she can sympathize. That is the last thing I want to do. I've done it countless times over the past few years, but I am so over it. I usually end up regretting it.