Thirty-Three

It is time to flip some motherfucking tables

Today is my birthday.

Today, I turn 33…

and I took my first anxiety medication.

Today marks another 365 days around the sun, single-parenting 24/7 five children.

In three months, I will have a 13-year-old son. He came up to me the other day and said, “You’re a really young mom.” Yeah, kid, I know. Hell, his celebrity crushes are my age. At times, I am mistaken for a student at his junior high, and with his shoulders meeting mine, it is easy to assume that we are siblings.

When out in public with my children and it is the first few assumptions that I am the babysitter, nanny, sister or aunt. More often than not, people mistake my mom as the parent of my children and when she pipes up and says, “Oh, they aren’t mine, they are hers,” I am met with gasps and, “There is no possible way YOU have five kids, you don’t look old enough to have one!” and then the hand gestures regarding my ‘freak of nature’ body occur.

Yeah, I know. I don’t look the part, nor does my body have the typical aftermath of pregnancy and childbirth. I’m 122 lbs, and if I exposed my body to you, you would not witness a single stretch mark; my vagina not ever tearing. My doctor included, in what I know is meant to be a compliment, says, “How?! You’re so slim, you can’t tell! What is your secret??”

Clearly, my 20s did not focus on myself, and my 30s haven't either. Between marriage, motherhood, good godly Christian womanhood, cult expulsion, divorce, court trial, deconstruction, ending generational trauma and single-parenting, there has been no time to focus on self.

As a child, I was not taught to recognize my feelings; without recognition, those around me did not validate them. Unfortunately, the inability to acknowledge my needs kept me silent and in abusive spaces for far too long.

Raised with the ordinance of:

‘God first

Others second and

Yourself last’ forbid any plausibility of my individual needs being met.

For years post-cult, I denied the reality of personal trauma; what trauma? Decades of emotional blindness and the coercion to accomplish without rest, oscillated with doomsday, equipped me with the tools to construct one hell of a master dam, separating me from understanding the who, what, when, where and why regarding myself.

January 2024 brought me the gift of therapy from one of my mutuals on Twitter. Having never met, the owner of a psychology practice slid into my DMs and granted me free therapy, as much as I desired.

Set up with one of the few limited therapists who have an understanding of religious trauma; I took that forbidden step of self-discovery.

During our first session, my therapist asked, “How do you roll out of bed daily?” It was all it took to know that she and I were a perfect ‘Doctor & Patient’ match.

“Omg, you see me!” I responded.

“I am a mirror back to you. I am going to help you see yourself.”

Stick by stick, I broke the dam.

I could quickly identify myself all dressed up; however, standing naked in the now reflective mirror, I did not identify the body that stood before me.

As each session passed, a piece of clothing fell to the floor, exposing parts of me that I did not recognize.

I was uncomfortable with myself and my feelings. I was embarrassed to admit truths that I was raised to be grateful for.

A programmed robot follows its instructions; I was a gold-star robot. I made sure other robots followed the program, too. Now, I am a robot gone rogue. There is no leader, no ‘Way of life,’ no instruction; there is, well, me, and I am just getting to know her.

The unknown of myself was proficient. With exposure, arrived distress.

Vocabulary was chosen; my voice is foreign

Personality was squandered; my authenticity is foreign

Appearance was dictated; my beauty is foreign

Excommunication was admired; my family is foreign

Naivety was honoured; my knowledge is foreign

Fear presided; my trust is foreign

Motherhood predestinated; my life purpose is foreign

Every day I wake up, I live a forced life in foreign territory; I forge pathways all the while my programmed instructions continually flash, ‘DANGER DANGER.’ And even though I forge the path for myself and others away from the program, the program continues to chase me.

The forging continues. I am deep in the trenches, and with it comes anxiety, but as I have learned, there is healing in asking for help.

As I walked into the doctor's office yesterday to ask for help with the anxiety, there, in the waiting room, sat a cult elder. The cult elder who demanded we pay Tithe and Offerings over going on a much-needed postpartum getaway to Calgary or we “Don’t bother coming back on Sunday.”

Well played, Universe, well played.

Here’s to 33, the year Jesus got angry and flipped some motherfucking tables.

My voice, their threat

My authenticity; their threat

My appearance; their threat

My family; their threat

My knowledge: their threat

My trust; their threat

My life purpose: their greatest threat

Happy Birthday to me!