In November of 2014, my maternal grandmother ("nana") was diagnosed with terminal cancer.
I was fifteen, I think? I don't feel like doing the math right now. I was young and old and a teenager and angry and happy and all of the other crazy, shitty feelings that come with just being a teenager.
The insurmountable grief that I still felt from losing my grandad in January of the same year made the entire experience even worse. Not to mention, my extended family is full of some of the shittiest people you could ever come to know, and they were just everywhere.
There were times growing up where my extended family would come to visit, while we lived with the aforementioned dead people, and my brother and I would be kicked out of our rooms to sleep downstairs or on a couch or somewhere not in our rooms because technically it was our grandparents rooms and technically our cousins were more important than us for some reason? I don't know.
They'll tell you I was the spoiled one, and in some instances they're right, but I would go back and change a lot of it to see them treat my brother with more dignity and respect. He has grown into a man to be proud of, and didn't deserve half of the way that people spoke to him when we were growing up. His football skills were kick ass, and he works hard now to make a living, and I'm proud of him.
I'm proud of my parents, too. They shouldn't have had to be the bigger people over.
and over.
and over.
and over, again.
But, they are full of integrity and kindness, and so they did the damn thing and I'm proud of them.
(But, they still deserved better!!)
Anyways, nobody really gave a shit about what I had to say, except for my immediate family. So I did what any other angsty teenager would do, and I took to the internet to share and air my woes with strangers, looking for answers or someone to grieve alongside me.
--and thus! This blog (or at least an earlier iteration of it!) was born!
Not here, of course. On Wattpad, with all of my other angst and fanfiction and shitty poetry.
I shared stories about my life, detailed adventures and milestones, wrote about how I never wanted to get married or how I wanted to marry Patrick, wrote about God, wrote about elections, etc. etc. etc.
Then I abandoned writing for a long ass time because I went to a church that told me that if I wasn't writing to further the kingdom of God that I shouldn't be doing it, and I agreed with them at the time, and if it wasn't from the Bible I didn't write about it.
Which lead to a spiral about God, religion, and church. And I took a big leap away from it all [again] and found a lot peace in doing so. I discovered deconstruction, ex Mormon TikTok (I have never been Mormon a day in my life but they are full of good advice once they leave it all behind), and eventually stumbled onto ex-fundie TikTok.
People my age, all sharing about their experiences in youth groups that didn't want them, or wanted them for their demographic or statistic equivalent but not as individuals with feelings/personalities/senses of self. Everything crumbled apart; purity culture, modesty culture, worship music tactics-- all of it was just laid bare and people shared their religious trauma openly and without much worry about who saw it or heard it.
I typed a blog post and never, ever published it. It was about my experiences with everything. Maybe someday I'll share it, but now isn't the time for that.
Why is this relevant?
Because the last time I felt so radically changed in my sense of self was when nana died. I didn't want anything to do with church or God. I didn't want to talk about my issues. I have dragged myself painfully through a season that used to be my favorite for the last few years feeling like I cannot get up out of bed in December because of the crushing grief in my heart and spirit.
In June, I went on medicine.
It's December 6th today, while I'm typing this. At the end of the month it will be six months on said medication, and I feel like a new person this year. My tree isn't up yet, but my heart is full, and I am fighting for my future and for the things that I love and believe in.
To be honest, I don't know exactly how I feel about God or about religion anymore. I don't really think about it. At least, not the way I used to? I pray, and I hope that someone is listening. I think about the histories I've learned since deconstructing and what I've learned is fallacy that used to give me such hope, and try to find some meaning in it all. It's been enjoyable to view everything differently than how I did growing up-- viewing the Bible as a history book, allegory, figurative language. It feels more powerful as literature, but maybe that's just because I have such a high view of literature.
I have seen the miraculous. I have experienced many facets of faith.
But I have also been deeply wounded by people I considered family, that betrayed me because a deity told them to or told them I wasn't good enough, and I don't understand that. Maybe that's why thinking about religion breaks my heart so much.
I am not backslidden. I do not desire your hatred disguised as prayers. I am simply unpacking the wrongs that I wish had been righted, and taking my time looking around to find the good. I have seen to many miraculous and wonderful things to throw it all away, but I will be mindful with my beliefs, and I refuse to proselytize the way I was taught to by people who were impressed by numbers and metrics and not at all worried about issues like famine and homelessness.
If anything, I will try to demonstrate the Christ that should be demonstrated, by loving and understanding the people around me, and by running far from the people trying to sell me a get out of hell free card so that they can brag about my soul to their friends next Sunday.
Anyways.
Tomorrow will make eight years since nana died.
How it has almost been a decade, I do not understand. The passing of time went from being measured in grief and hardship to being measured in trips, paychecks, love, and credit hours. I'm okay with it being like that.
Sometimes? Sometimes I miss her. Sometimes I hate her. She didn't fight. She told everyone grandad wanted her to come be in Heaven with him, but anyone who knew that man knew that he was probably making bargains with Saint Peter for her to stay here as long as she wanted.
I will never forget the way my family was treated (like shit) or the way that people viewed us. I won't forget how they didn't think I was important enough to have a voice, or any of us for that matter. We weren't important to them. Now I don't make their Christmas lists, and they don't make mine.
There are people who think they are too good to speak to me and mine, even at funerals and weddings. Sometimes I type their names into Google to see if obituaries come up. (None have- yet.)
I'm through with keeping quiet about the way that people treated me and my family.
I don't care if they care about me or not. They aren't the kind of people you just call up to say hello to, and they were never that for me. Their names in my email inbox used to haunt me, and I would throw up worrying about being thrown out of the house we lived in. The freedom we felt when we finally escaped all of that garbage was like taking a breath of air in the spring after a bitter cold winter full of thin wind. The freedoms we discovered in a new house, with new neighbors, and new surroundings was amazing.
Do I miss anything?
Well, of course.
I miss the house my grandad built. I miss the concrete patio where I grew up singing and swinging, where my hands are imprinted beside of the outside toolboxes. I miss playing in the woods behind the house, or sitting outside there reading a good book.
Now, I look around the two bedroom apartment I share with my husband and our pets, and I feel so safe. I love that I can drive down the road and visit my parents and brother. I love the freedom of having pets and sleeping in and never having to give up my bed unless I want to build forts with my friends in the living room.
This year it's so much different than any year before, and for the first time since she died, I don't feel hopeless. I am looking into the future and I am excited for the things in front of me, and the people that surround me that I'm taking with me into it.
If you read this at all, thank you. Sometimes I just need to vent, and this is my safe space. On the internet to friends, and family, and strangers, and people who secretly hate me but pretend like they don't. I never have time to do this as much as I would like, but I am glad to be able to write again.
I missed it.
-xo, Tori
