Broken Daughters

Picking up the shattered glass of fundamentalism


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The silent treatment

One of the things that bugged me the most about my Dad was the silent treatment. I know this sounds weird, but as a child I prefered a spanking, because that would end and only affect me. The silent treatment was something my entire family would suffer from and you never knew when it would end.

The silent treatment would usually follow when Dad wasn’t worshipped enough as the Lord of the house. Say mom spontaneously drove to town when Dad was at work to shop for a new jacket for one of us kids without asking him at least 24 hours prior.

That was the rule: Everything had to be mentioned to Dad AT LEAST 24 hours prior to doing it. Better would be 48 hours. If it was bigger things, you had to tell him up to 7 days prior to doing it (friends visiting, for example). The biggest problem with this was that my Dad forgot a lot of stuff or simply didn’t listen to anybody well enough to actually understand what was being talked about. You had to mention it again and again to make sure he remembered. But this could cause problems too! You had to word it correctly. You couldn’t say (on Sunday) “Dad, don’t forget I told you Wednesday I want to go shopping for a dress on Monday.” That was insulting to him because we questioned his mental abilities. Asking something like this would result in a very loud lecture about how he is NOT stupid, NOT deaf, NOT retarded and that he is VERY disappointed and ANGRY that we speak to him like this. The only way to really get out of the remind-daddy-of-something game was to put all the blame on yourself: “Daddy, did I mention I wanted to shop for a dress on Monday? I’m not sure if I did…” Then he usually remembered we actually had mentioned it before and he would rather calmly say “Yes you did. Sometimes I’m worried that you forget so much.”

If you forgot to remind him of something and he felt it was inappropriately close to said event, he’d get really angry. Say I told him on Sunday evening for the first time that I wanted to shop on Monday, he’d freak. He’d yell stuff like “Who do you think I am? Why am I NEVER told ANYTHING you plan? I’m the head of the house and you treat me like a family dog!”. He’d go on and on and on about it, and then suddenly… silence. Silence that could last for days and was directed at everyone in the family, not only the offender. My mom as well as all us kids.

The silent treatment meant more than just silence. It meant a complete absence of all family life.

I’m not sure about regular lunch and dinner customs in normal American families, but we applied European customs. That meant that the food wasn’t put directly onto the plates by one single person. All of the pots, pans, bowls and so on were put on the dining table and the rule was to serve yourself. In this set of dining habits, it’s very impolite NOT to serve yourself. Of course, small kids are served but everyone above 10 is to do it themselves. Of course you can ask people “May I have some potatoes?” because they sit closer to the potatoes and then have them serve you. But, say, wordless handing of the plate awaiting to be served is so beyond rude… It’s about as bad as eating from another persons plate without asking them. Just so you get the point. Well, if the silent treatment was in effect, my Dad refused to serve himself. Not only that, he even denied holding the plate up for mom to serve him. I can’t word just how rude that is in our family. He sat there, hands folded on the table, staring into the air. Waiting. My mom usually tried to ignore it and served the small ones first, but usually my dad was really quick to grab food and so it was obvious we were getting the treatment again. My mom then proceeded to take his plate and fill it. She’d put it back in front of him and he would start eating, staring at nothing else but his food. When he was finished, he stood up without waiting on the others – something that would result in a spanking for us kids! He went to sit alone in his office room and read all night till bedtime. My mom was left alone with the kids. When everybody went to bed, my Dad left his office and went straight to bed without just looking at anyone.

The silent treatment also meant that, for example, if you knocked at the bathroom door and asked “Anybody in there?”, no answer would follow. We could tell Dad was in there because the door was locked. There was also no family time, not even bible study. He didn’t say goodbye in the morning, or hello when he came home. He didn’t ask for anything, just hold out things to the next best person to be served, like holding up an empty cup in order to get coffee.

This form of behaviour made me incredibly angry. I was angry at Dad mostly, but I was also upset with Mom. Why on earth would she put up with that? Why would she still serve him like a slave? Why would she talk to him, hoping to get an answer, only to end up not even being looked at???

It made me so angry, so frustrated, I usually hid somewhere away from my entire family. My favourite activity was locking myself away in the bathroom. I’d be in trouble if my parents found out I did that without a real reason – we couldn’t lock doors unless it was an emergency. I couldn’t say it was to shower, showering for an hour would be considered wasteful and would get me in trouble, plus, there was no water running. So every time someone knocked on the door to be let in, the conversation went like this: “Who’s in there?” – “It’s me, Lisa.” – “Lisa, you’ve been in there for ages! Get out! I want in!” “I can’t!” – “Why not?!?” – “Uhmmm… I have diarreah.”

Yes, that was my actual excuse and secured me the bathroom all to myself for at least an hour, sometimes two. While I was in there, all I really did was sitting on the bathroom floor with the small mirror in my hands. I stared at my own face, sometimes for minutes without a break. I waited until you get that feeling, you know, that you’re not looking at your own face anymore, but somebody else, and you can observe the whole situation from outside and feel really strange. I stared at the ends of my hair, cutting off split ends with a small pair of scissors. I cut my nails. I hummed melodies. I lay on the floor and dreamed about other place. Being on the beach in a bikini somewhere on a lonely island. Seeing historic European cities. Shopping like the girls on TV do in New York City. Sometimes, I played out entire scenarios in my mind. How I sit at a cafe with two girlfriends and we talk about our lives, or feelings, everything. Those two girls actually appeared very often, and they would always listen, always understand me, and they considered me their best friend. Once I cooled off in my bathroom (no worries, we had 2 bathrooms so everybody could still pee!) I went to my room or straight to bed.

I asked my mom a bunch of times why she let Dad treat her like that. Why she wouldn’t tell him that he acted like a spoiled little boy and not like the head of the house, she told me that women must ALWAYS be submissive. It was ok Dad did this, because she was his wife and she would be obedient no matter what. I feared to end up with a man like that. I hated my Dad so much for it. For showing us off like little circus monkeys, proving us that even without words, he can make us jump again and again.

I can’t tell you how many times my night-time prayer included stuff like “Please God, don’t let me marry a man who acts like this. Please send me a man who can at least fill his own plate, no matter what I did wrong. Please send me a man who can talk about his issues, and not ignore me for days.”

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Family design – Men in the movement

I often feel that while us girls and women who left the movement get a lot of sympathy and have a loud voice, the men are neglected. After all, they don’t suffer as much. Or do they?

A family. The man as the head, the provider. The housewife, raising God’s mighty soldiers, subject to her husband. The kids obey and honor their parents, preparing for their future roles in the kingdom. Or so I thought.

In the months before I left the movement, I struggled with the role the family had designed for me. Being a wife and mother with no other choice, no way out, not even being allowed to follow activities they considered too “boyish” was stifling for me. I could never make my own decisions, I wasn’t “made” for it simply because I was a woman. While I felt I was getting the unfair end of the deal I thought men weren’t nearly as bad as I was. They were free, could do anything they wanted, be anything and never had to listen to anybody else.

Only after I left I realized that this isn’t true. Men too are pressured to fit into a role which might not be what they want for their lives.

Men aren’t only not expected to help with housework, there is somewhat of an unwritten law that men who do too much housework are feminized. Like cooking. Now that I left I know some men who honestly enjoy cooking. One of them, he is not a chef, cooks so well – it’s just as good as any really expensive fancy restaurant. He comes up with his own combinations and menus, knows about herbs, how to make perfect meat and even makes noodles from scratch. And it doesn’T stop there. His cakes are divine to say the least. He does all of that after work, for fun. It’s his hobby, his favourite activity. He doesn’t want to be a chef because he wants to make what he feels like making.

Now, within the movement, a man who cooks and bakes this way for fun… he’d have a hard time. A really hard time. Can you imagine a patriarch in an apron, making the best cupcakes in town? No, men like the one I described are unmanly, feminized, castrated by the feminist world, confused which gender they belong to, what their role in life is.

One of my cousin’s friends is married. When they had a baby 2 years ago, she stayed at home for 6 months. After that, her husband decided to stay at home and raise the child for 2 more years until it was ready for kindergarten. I didn’t know about this when I met them. I met them only once and it was right after I moved here. Still very much in my typical role mentality, I watched this little family in awe. The man fed the baby. The man changed the diapers. The man carried the diaper bag and the baby. The woman had to ask the man if there was another pair of baby socks in the bag and he said yes, and found them immediately. It implied he had packed the bag. And when the baby cried, he was the first one comforting the baby. It was strange. A man acting like a mother? A woman acting like the man? What was that all about?

I didn’t want to be rude, so I refrained from openly addressing it. But I asked my cousin later in private what kind of family that was. She explained that they thought about this decision, that he would stay at home, for a long time. He felt that his wife already had such a strong, intimate bond with the baby, and he wanted something very special too. He had always dreamed of having babies and being REALLY there for them. So he felt like staying at home raising it would be the perfect way to find a special connection.

While this is certainly not the norm, I thought it was a beautiful idea.

A man in the movement doesn’t have the opportunity to do these things. Being too “motherly” is out of the question. Most women are so conditioned not to feminize their men that even if they want to change a diaper once in a while, the women don’t allow it. What would people say if they saw that? Of course, men are supposed to be gentle dads, but they are also the main disciplinarian, the fun part of the parental combination, the one who comes home at night, is comforted by wife and children, plays with them for half an hour till they go to bed. And on occasion, there might be a daddy day. But really getting deep into raising them is usually not an option.

Now while all of the cases I described may be on the extremer end, it still proves that men aren’t free either. They still have to stick to the roles designed by the legalists around them. Since I started blogging I read many thoughts by ex-fundamentalist men. That they feel pressured into a “boss” role within the family which they just don’t feel is right for their relationship and family.

The hurt caused in men is often neglected. Maybe that’s because they are raised to believe it’s a sign of weakness. Boys don’t cry. Boys are boys, strong and brave and the head of the woman. It must be very hard to admit to oneself that this just doesn’t feel right. That they want to be married to a woman who has an opinion and makes decisions. One who doesn’t blame them for wanting to cook on occasion, or take care of the baby on their own for a while, or simply want to pick their own clothes because they have a better sense of style than their wife.


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Training up this child – Part 19 – Meet me at high noon

I spent a few days thinking about the little hint my mother gave me. Close to an engagement? My mom didn’t say that just out of a mood. No parent in the movement says that out of a mood. They don’t give us any idea of what’s going on until the last second. When a guy is interested in you, but they don’t like him, you’re not being told. If a guy has interest in you, and they tell you, you can be sure that they have been in contact with him for weeks and sometimes even months, examining him, and actually giving him permission to enter a relationship with you. As a daughter, you are usually the last to know about your own love life.

Now, the fact that my mother said something about a close engagement meant that Harry must have asked for permission from dad already, and that dad agreed and gave him permission to ask me. My mother would be involved in this process of evaluation at a very late time, about when dad had already decided to give Harry the permission to ask me, then he would ask for my mother’s opinion before telling Harry what his decision was. I now knew that Harry had permission to ask me, and he’s probably had it for a while. He might have even already bought a ring.

It hit me like a ton of bricks. Within the next few days or weeks, I would be asked to marry him. Engagements were typically kept very short, and Harry’s and my courtship has been pretty long due to the big distance. Just to give you a short reminder: Harry and I’s courtship started when I was 18, almost 19 (I’m born in March and the courtship started December before I turned 19) so we were courting for over 3 years. That’s a crazy long time in the movement. I know it might have felt just like six months or something when you read my posts about my courtship, but they were condensed, not bothering with the time between the visits and big events were effectively nothing happened except for my daily routine of being a stay-at-home-daughter while Harry was on different mission trips and preparing to make a living and save up some money in order to be fully prepared to support a wife and a baby within 9 months of marriage. I didn’t even describe all of Harry’s visits because they were simply uneventful. So let’s get this back on track: My mother made the remark about the engagement some time at the end of March.

I knew I didn’t have much time left. Engagements are typically short. A three-month engagement would be a long time in our group. The average engagement time is around 4-6 weeks, and all of that time is used for marriage preparations as the majority of the “falling in love” and “making the decision” was supposed to be made prior to engagement. My insides were in a constant state of burning, my mind rattling. I saw the beginning of the rest of my life right in front of me. Once I was married, there was no way out anymore. I’d have to be obedient to my husband. I’d have to have kids, if I wanted or not. I realized that within the time of just one year at that moment, I might be sitting at home with a 2 month old. The thought alone made me dizzy. I was NOT prepared for any of that.

On the other side, I also started seeing things that were wrong in the movement. The engagement remark which left me so helpless, and feeling strongly in a position where every decision of my life was already made and agreed on didn’t suit me at all. I started dreaming of what I would do if I had the choice.

I wouldn’t get married for now. I’d started to regret hating school, so I also wished I could somehow go back to school and learn something useful. I always loved art, history and geography. I loved the universe and watching all the stars, wondering what they would look close up. I always loved big masses of ice and cold climate. I started to think that if I didn’t get married and wasn’t in the movement, I’d become a Nasa person, observing and calculating stars, thinking about big events in the universe. Or maybe I could become a geologist somewhere cold, like Antarctica, and research the processes in the ice and what happened a long time ago. I even considered becoming something like a paleontologist and study dinosaurs and climate way back. That was a thought unheard of in our family. All of these three professions were ungodly and against the bible, utterly humanist and naturalist. I was so curious to know things that are veiled to humanity, like times way before our time. But I was bad at math, I thought I might not be the right person for each of those three. If I couldn’t do it, I might just settle for some ancient culture studies. Egypt maybe, or south american ancient history.

During this process of thought I realized that I’d never make it anywhere close to that. I’d never be allowed to consider whether there’s life on other planets, or if the big bang is true. I’d never be allowed to think that humans and dinosaurs didn’t meet. I’d never be allowed to think that an old culture was anything but ungodly behaviour which died for a God reason – because God hated their unspeakable blasphemous acts.

I was getting frustrated with the life ahead of me. I knew I would die stupid and unhappy if I followed that road. The narrow path got really narrow, like walls coming closer and closer to each other, crushing your chest, leaving you unable to breathe. I decided that I had only one chance to escape this life. And that chance, funny enough, seemed to be Harry.

I went to Tiffany’s house with a plan in my mind. I needed to call Beth and ask for her help. After all, she was Harry’s sister, so she knew him much better than I did. Tiffany gladly agreed to let me call her. Beth was happy to hear from me after a rather long time of silence between us. She asked me a bunch of small talk questions but finally got to the point where she asked how things were between Harry and me. I explained her what my mother said, and she agreed with me that Harry proposing to me was very near, just within a few days range. I told her about my thoughts, that I wasn’t ready to be a wife and mother, that I wanted to be something else, that I wanted to decide some things on my own. Beth immediately suggested running away. I didn’t think of running away as the only chance for me yet, so I disagreed.

I told her about the plan I had come up with: I would ask Harry to leave the movement with me. We would keep the act up for our families, as I didn’t want to be cut off, but we’d live like the other people did. Normal. I’d tell him that he would get so many benefits from that lifestyle. That I’d make money, that we wouldn’t have to have that many kids, that we could have so much fun together as a worldly couple.

Beth didn’t sound convinced at all. “You know, Harry is deeply rooted in his beliefs. Some things he believes are outright stupid, but he believes that he loves Jesus more than anyone, that the movement is the only way to be saved. I don’t think he’ll give that up, no matter how much he loves you.”

“I can try. Maybe he secretly feels the same way.”

“Yes, Lisa, maybe, but then what? You’d still marry a man you don’t love. Do you know what that means? You’ll have to put up with his little faults every day. You’ll have to care for him in sickness, in poverty, and all that without love? Is that fair to you, or him? Can you really sleep with somebody you don’t love – every night? And act like you love him? That’s just a horrible thing to do.”

I hated how right Beth was. I was deeply ashamed that I had already acted like I was in love. My cheeks burnt at the realisation that the damage was done and I’d have to keep up this terrible act for the rest of my life. Out of sheer frustration, I told Beth:

“Well, then I’ll tell him the truth. And that he can have a girlfriend on the side who really loves him, so he gets the love he deserves and we’re both out of the movement!”

“Lisa, that is possibly the dumbest idea you’ve had since… ever. You know that won’t work. He could never do something like that. Not even worldly people do something terrible like that. That’s absurd and so crazy, I can’t even tell you just how stupid it is.”

She was right, of course, and I saw that I could never ask for such a thing from Harry. Too far was too far. But I still couldn’t give up.

“Yeah, you’re right.. I just don’t know what else to do. I’ll have to try to ask him though, that’s the least I can do.”

“Sure, go ahead and try, but you won’t get what you want. Just don’t break his heart more than you already have to. And if he says no, just run away and come to me, please. I’ll help you out.”

Beth gave me her address just in case, but I was sure I wouldn’t need it. I didn’t feel like I could sacrifice my family on the altar of my own desires just yet.

The next few days flew by, weekend came around. But something was different. Something was going on. My mother bought some expensive groceries and things we usually eat only for important events. She baked a lot of stuff and let me eat it. She kept hugging me constantly. My dad was nagging a lot about how I looked, how I acted. That it didn’t suit a grown woman. He’d never call me a grown woman. I knew the weekend would bring a change. Mom spent all friday cooking, preparing, baking, decorating, cleaning. She asked me to wear something pretty for dinner. Yeah, my parents were always terrible at surprising us kids. I knew that Harry and his family were coming over for dinner, even if they tried to keep it a secret from me.

Around 6 PM, the doorbell rang. In my mind, it sounded much shriller than it usually did. My mom asked me to open the door. I walked to the door in nervous, short-breathed steps. I slowly opened it, my face frozen in a helpless grimace, as if I had just watched an elephant eat sushi, and then fly away with his umbrella. In front of the door was Harry, flocked by his entire family. All of them had huge smiles on their faces and, almost simultaneously, they yelled “Surprise!”. I looked at Harry. He was wearing a rather fancy outfit. Dress pants, sparkling shoes, a white shirt and a tie. I stepped to the side in order for them to come in, still with my shocked expression on my face, murmuring something like “I didn’t expect you at all…”. Harry came in, looked into my eyes and gave me a little bouquet of flowers. Lillies. The ultimate engagement flower. I stood frozen until everyone found their way in. I pushed the door closed and the clicking sound of the lock reminded me that today was the day my sentence might be sealed.


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Eric and Leslie vs the mess of the world

I really have to get this rant off my chest. Please note that I’m not attempting to judge the Ludys for who and what they really are, I don’t know them so I can’t say; but I do judge them for the picture they show to the community.

The Ludys. The perfect couple within the home school/courtship movement. While they teach fundamentalist values and views, they still seem so “normal”, so “perfect”, so… everything a girl could ever want.

I grew up with the Ludy’s books. I used to be a HUGE fan of them, all of them, especially Leslie’s books on beauty and femininity.

While most people consider Eric the bold one with the harsh sermons, I tend to disagree. Eric might be just as crazy as Leslie, but Leslie is the one with the most dangerous message.

Her “hobby” of sorts is to pick on other women, specifically women with children, who don’t do as awesome as she does. In pretty much every book I remember reading, she comes up with a story of how she met a married woman who ‘was shattering her childhood dreams of the perfect marriage and family’ (not an exact quote). For example a woman who looked very ‘messy’. We do not learn what “messy” means by Leslie’s standards. On all the pictures we see of Leslie, she is perfectly styled. Perfect hair, perfect make up (yes girls, sorry to shatter your dreams now, Leslie ALWAYS wears make up), perfect dress and style. Maybe she has a good sense for it, maybe she has a stylist. Either way, not everyone is that lucky to have one of those two, or even both. We learn about that messy woman that she looks tired, her hair looks tangled, and her clothes look kind of… well, messy. That might just be that this woman has a different type of hair that’s hard to control, that she doesn’t like make up and that she hasn’t as good of a sense for clothes as Leslie does. But rigid old Leslie’s comment stands there, on its little throne, judging every woman who can’t be the way she is for whatever reason. And of course, that’s one of Leslie’s secrets for the perfect marriage. Be like Leslie, and your husband will treat you like the queen you are. If you want to convince yourself, I beg you to read an article in the July/August 2011 issue of her online magazine (the newest one with the red cover). The article starts on page 86, it’s called “Mothering with dignity”. You can find her magazine at setapartgirl dot com. I refuse to link directly to her.

Another thing that she loves to pick on (see aforementioned article) is the houses of people. Leslie seems to be a very clean woman, because so far I haven’t read a word of praise in her books or magazines about other people’s houses. Nothing seems to meet her standard. She picks on the messiness of the house, the interior, the furniture, everything. And she doesn’t stop there – she seems to never get enough of telling people just how great she’s at decorating and how much better her family runs when everything is tidy, clean and beautifully decorated. Again, she shows that she simply has an eye for style, but that’s not what I’m criticizing. It’s the fact that she actually has the money to do as she pleases with her house. She has the space, the money to buy beautiful things, the style. Not everyone has that. But by her judgement, these people aren’t to be accepting, they are just a negative example for a christian family. They don’t live what christianity means. She never fails to put people down when they don’t meet her standard of living.

Growing up as a girl, I wanted to be like Leslie. Well styled in my pretty white picket fence home with my awesome “warrior-poet”. She seemed like everything she did was because of Christ, because that’s where her energy came from. And growing up in a house with 14 people, I also knew that something was wrong with us. We didn’t have the money to decorate much, or paint walls, or buy pretty beddings. My mom didn’t wear beautiful clothes and perfect make up. Home school wasn’t heaven on earth with peaceful children. Much of the opposite is true. I wondered why we weren’t like the Ludys. And I’m glad to tell everybody that I now know why we never were like them: Because the Ludys, especially Leslie, is so obsessed with the picture she’ll see of herself in the christian community. She obsesses over details nobody would blame her for. She has a natural gift for style and beauty, and that’s fine, but she uses it against people who don’t have it. She puts everyone down who doesn’t reach her standard for a “christian” wife and mother.

Leslie’s standards are far beyond what is possible for a family with 6 plus kids. I’m sorry to be so harsh, but Leslie has only four kids. I have raised more than that before I was 18. If I had only four, my house might never be messy as well. I might have the time to style myself as well. But not everyone is made for that and I firmly believe there are people who are pushed to their limits by one or two kids. That’s fine too, until the Leslies of this world come along and judge everything you thought was ok in your life into oblivion.

At the end of the day, Leslie is nothing but a overperfectionist woman, something that reminds me of a OCD, with which she tortures everyone who can’t be like her. And I despise her for telling growing girls that they have to be just what she is up to a point where girl entirely lose themselves in the process. Where nothing but a mechanical shell is left, trying to achieve a standard set by her highness and goddess Leslie, and not by Jesus. Legalist anybody?


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Dates, medical tents, slushies.

The last week has been a very exciting one for me.

I have worked a lot and actually got “promoted” (well how much can they really promote you if you’re a waitress?) and that meant a raise, so yay me!

On another note, here’s a big revelation: I had a “date”.

Yep, me. It feels very strange to type that. A date. That’s what worldly people do. They’re dating, practicing for divorce. And now I am, too.

I went for a coffee with a very nice guy, Daniel, I have known for a few months, maybe 8 or 9 months. I mean, I didn’t actually “know” him. He’s a friend of a friend of a friend and I had seen him around a couple of times, heard people tell stories in which he was mentioned and so on. I knew about him, but I didn’t know more than his name and where he works. I found him interesting and attractive since the first time I met him in person, and I had seen him on different occasions after that, but never talked to him other than saying hi and goodbye.

It’s very hard for an ex-fundie girl to deal with men. I don’t know how to tell whether they are interested or not, and if they are, what kind of interest they have in me. I tend to stare at the floor when I’m around men, making sure I don’t give any signs of interest whatsoever, because hey, that’s what good girls do.

The past weekend, my (female) friends and I went to a street festival about an hour from here. There were some live bands and other fun stuff to do, so we had planned for a while that we would go there. Many other friends of friends and so on decided they would come along, so we went in one fun, huge group.

Well, long story short, we had some food, some ice cream, listened to some music. Once it was getting dark and all the pretty, colorful lights were blinking, some people wanted to ride on some rollercoasters. There were different ones, so we split up into groups with people who wanted to do the same thing. I for my part am not a rollercoaster fan at all. I suffer from terrible motion sickness and just looking at some of the rollercoasters made me dizzy hehe. Anyways, my group consisted of my best friend (and roommate) Kate, a guy friend, Simon, and Daniel. And of course, my group was the one which wanted ride the WORST rollercoaster they had. One where you’d be upside down and hanging and terrible stuff like that! There was NO WAY I’d go on that monster. Daniel, Kate and Simon wanted to go on it, but you couldn’t take any purses and were advised to take off watches and such. I came in pretty handy here, getting to put all of their wallets, cells, watches and stuff in my purse. They went on the ride while I watched – it looked frightening. I got dizzy watching it and I watched all of the three turn a tiny bit green in the faces just 2 minutes into the ride. Once they got off, Simon actually threw up, that’s how sick he felt. Kate was pretty sick too and had to hold on to something all the time as to not fall over. Daniel was pretty shook up too, and a bit sick, but he could walk without a problem.

We decided to find a bathroom where they could freshen up and get their legs in order. We found one, but Simon didn’t get any better. He saw everything spinning (his eyes were doing weird motions, too, I was worried) and Kate ended up throwing up once she was in the bathroom. Daniel felt like he needed a drink really bad. We decided to get Simon and Kate to the medical tent so they could take a look at Simon. They took a look at him and said that he’d be fine, but it would be good for him to lie down for a bit. Kate decided she needed some rest too, so she stayed as well. Daniel asked me if I wanted to get a drink with him. So we went, as Kate told me not to let her ruin my evening.

We got Daniel a bottle of coke first and I ended up getting a cherry slushy. I love them. We walked around, sipping our drinks, looking at all the things you could do. We got to a small shooting range where you could win a stuffed animal and useless things like that. Daniel mentioned he was “really good” at shooting. I looked at the range and said “Yeah that might be, but you know, that’s a rip off, nobody’s good at this.” He gave me a look and asked me to pick out a stuffed animal I wanted, any of them, and he’d prove me that he could win it. I laughed and agreed and picked out a teddy I thought was cute. So he went for the first round – nothing. That upset him quite a bit while I was giggling away. He decided to give it a second try, nothing again. I told him to let it be, the teddy wasn’t that cute anyway. We kept walking around, talked a lot about this and that. We listened to another live band for a few minutes, then he convinced me to a ride on a big wheel, which was fun (amazing view at night!), got a piece of pizza and finally started making our way back to the medical tents to pick up the two sick ferrets.

On the way back, Daniel told me that he thought I was a weirdo when he first saw me, and that he had heard rumours about me and my background, so he was scared to even talk to me. He also said that I’m not that weird once you get to talk to me and that he’d love to go out to do something again some other time. We ended up exchanging numbers and picked up Simon and Kate, who were still sick and wanted to go home immediately. The one hour drive was quite a torture for those two!

And now, I’m sitting here realizing that I wanted to talk about my actual date, but I’m already at 1000+ words with this post, so I’m guessing I’ll stop here for now and continue in a different post. (dramatic climax!!! hah!)


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I met a socialist and he was very nice.

Fundies certainly hate governments in every form. Not that they would act up against a normal, nice government, they can’t because the bible tells them not to. But they do despise everything which is government-controlled.

I grew up believing that socialism, along with communism, was one of the most wicked inventions the devil ever came up with. My idea of socialism was that they’d take away all we own, evaluate how much we need to absolutely survive and give us just that and nothing more. That all we worked for was given to a lazy person doing drugs and pimping whores, laughing at us for being so stupid as to pay for them. If our government ran health insurance, we would get evaluated and, depending on our age, health, usefulness for society, intelligence and so on, they would decide if they’d cure our cancer. Grandpa and old aunts and uncles who fell sick would certainly be lined up to be shot because they couldn’t work anymore and curing them was too expensive!

Are you laughing yet? Because I’m dead serious, I did have that image in my mind and now I’m laughing too.

Fundies are obsessed with the idea that God will provide for all their needs. They don’t mind not having enough, they just pray harder. They interpret every single good deal as God’s gift to them – “Oh my geese! I just found a notebook for $1!! GOD IS SO GOOD!” Are you kidding me…?

When people start viewing every form of public help as devilish and sinful, when every little detail in life seems to need a note on it saying “love, God” to be accepted, that’s just utterly stupid and crazy. I read a family’s blog, I will not name them here, but they had a hospital bill of about 200k, and instead of accepting governmental help which they were entitled to (and rightfully so, given the situation), they decided to say “No” and pray for a miracle. I’m wondering if the hospital was so excited to keep sitting on that 200k bill. I wonder if they had actual trouble paying the nurses, doctors and equipment they needed. I just think its retarded.

I heard a story a while ago that went something like this:

There was a good christian man going on a river cruise. But, unfortunately, the ship started sinking. In all the trouble, the man fell overboard and just kept floating around there. He was quickly noticed by the ship’s staff. One of the seamen jumped into the water, afraid the man might drown. When he reached the man, our good christian simply answered “No thanks, no need to rescue me. God will help me!”. The seaman was confused to the bone but instead started rescuing others. A bit later, the man was still floating in the very same spot. Another seaman throw a lifesaver at him, yelling “Hold on to it, I’ll pull you out!” But then man again said “No thank you, God will rescue me!”. The ship finally sank, the man tired and exhausted in the water, until he drowned.

So, why exactly did he drown? Because he had a totally wrong image of how God would help him. That sometimes, you can’t just sit there, floating around, denying all help, praying for a miracle. Sometimes you need to hold on to anything that could save your life.

And no, I’m not a communist, neither am I saying that socialism is the way to happiness. But I believe that to some extend, we need to learn to accept help from normal people, and not wait on God to jump out of the clouds to save our butts once again.


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When good things happen to bad people – wait, what?

Here’s just an assembly of today’s thoughts on God. Very random, not many answers.

God, that’s that big teacher up in the sky, living outside of time, in heavenly Jerusalem, from where he will judge the good and the bad.

But before he judges, he makes sure to be all loving and caring, making us learn. He’s basically the boss teacher. And I have to admit, his style of teaching is unconventional, to say the least.

I have been taught all my life by my dad. My dad’s voice was God’s way of speaking to me. God speaks through dads.

My dad said that bad things happen to bad people. Like tsunamis, or earth quakes, or something like that. And when those things hit, they swipe away only the bad ones. The good ones are taking away into safety by God himself before hand. This always made sense to me.

But then why do bad things happen to good people? And likewise, why do good things happen to bad people?

Imagine there was a really evil man. Let’s go with a pedophile. He meets a woman whom he marries. She’s godly in every way, inward and outward. She possesses all qualities of a P31 woman and she cares for him every day of her life. They have a hand full of kids, all just as godly as the wife, being obedient, cheerful and just overall good kids. A family, who’s just as godly as our first family, lives in the house right next to them. Now one day, the pedophile dad loses his discipline to ignore his sexual preference and goes abusing the godly neighbor’s little boy. What’s up with that? What went wrong? Why are two families being punished when really nobody did anything ungodly?

Imagine being a wife for 5, 10 or even 50 years and you find out you have been lied to all of your life by the person you trust the most. That’s a straight punishment. Imagine one of your kids being hurt or abused by somebody evil. That’s a punishment too. Why does God punish good people?

No worries, we have an answer for that too! It’s because God teaches us. I said before that his methods are a bit unusual. God teaches us by doing bad things to us. He tests us and our faith.

Why does God have to test us when everything, all events of time, are just the way he designed it. If he could foresee everything we’d be, do and have, where’s the need to test?

Why does God make us so we need teaching? I thought creation was good, creation was perfect. After all God is perfect. Why did he make us defect beings who need teaching like a pack of naughty kids? There’s only one answer I can give: God is a mean boy.

He likes watching us suffer, he likes us as defect beings, because that’s the only way we can humour him with our sad attempts to get through life. God used to show that a lot more back in the day, when he ran around punishing people for wearing the wrong pair of shoes, screaming and yelling at them because they weren’t worth a second of his precious time. He would come down and ‘spank’ the humans, because remember? Spanking = love.

That’s really all I’m getting from the God I have been taught to believe in.

It reminds me a bit of ants. Remember playing in the garden, watching an ant colony, deciding to kill one and let the other escape? You would catch some and put them some place else to see where they would do, if they’d make their way back. You kill some random ones to see the reaction of the others. I sometimes feel like God is just a mean boy, enjoying the power he has over a bunch of ants. Would the boy be sad if all ants died? Certainly not.

But then there’s Jesus. He’s so different, no wonder that bunch of spanked kids loved him, viewed him as the Messiah. He is loving, caring, not judging, not punishing. Sometimes I feel like God and Jesus are from two separate religions.

Jesus is really the only reason why I haven’t abandoned religion all together yet.