I hide when they stand to shake hands. I peer around the corner, standing in the back, and sing the hymn as Mass begins. I know very few will ever understand me. I know you understand, my mother, and I need you to hug me when my illness makes it so I look odd or anti-social. Shaking hands is the worst. I really don't want to shake hands because the thought of germs terrifies me. Mother you know how frightened I get and how hard I try not to hurt people's feelings. I don't want someone to hold out their hand and see that all-too-familiar look of disappointment when I won't shake hands with them. Then their disappointment turns to anger and they look at me as if to say that I'm arrogant or snooty. If they only knew how little I felt about myself, how much I judge myself, and how many times I get impatient with myself for not being "normal". I dart around, hide in back rooms, and even go to the restroom to avoid the hand-shaking part of Mass so that I don't have to upset others. I take all the blame for their, at times, overblown reactions all on myself. Oh mother how I wish I would stop beating on myself.
Today I brought a present I let the six-year-old little girl inside of me make for Fr G. I am terrified he will think it's stupid. I am also almost giddy with excitement. My scapular and Fr G's designation certificate came in the mail yesterday and mother, my dearest mother, soon I will belong to the confraternity that honors your immaculate conception. I cannot wait to belong to you in a deeper way. I brought the certificate for him so we could talk about when I can be invested with the scapular and join the confraternity. My anxiety is bad, the whole mass I sit in the back but I did experience a moment when Fr G talked about how Jesus allows himself to be confined to the tabernacle and he waits for us and wants us to spend time with him. That touched me so much, mother, that he waits for me.
The prayers have been said and I see Fr G serving those who will be serving with him and an older man walks up to me. He walks with a cane, I have seen him before and he's probably in his 70's. He seems to have some mental needs of his own but he walks up to me, in this sacred moment. I look up and he holds out his hand to shake mine. I guess I was caught off guard, dear mother, so I simply said that I don't like to shake hands. Then he gets angry and says, "Peace be with you" in a forceful tone with his hand still out and I repeat that I don't like to shake hands. His face grows dark and he says, "I will pray for you to become a true believer." I ask him what he means by that and he asks if I believe that the wine on the altar is really your Son's blood. I tell him that I do. He then tells me that part of believing includes shaking hands with your family. I feel the anxiety skyrocketing and I said, "Part of being a family is being understanding when someone has an issue and being compassionate." He then rambled about his mother dying and how some day I will know "the truth" and then I will be right with God. I also try to explain that passing the peace does not require shaking hands but he talks over me. Oh my dearest Mother why does this happen to me in what is supposed to be my family? He cuts me off every time I try to comment. His biting remarks sting me very deeply. I feel overwhelmed. Mother I tried to focus on your Son but I felt like bawling and running away. He then talks about some other things and I say things that are brief responses and I can't believe he is starting a fight over handshaking during the time when Fr G is giving us Jesus. If he is a "true believer" then why is he picking a fight?
I then ignore him and he walks around reading various pamphlets in the narthex. You know mother that I asked you to help me. I refuse to let him see me disintegrate into tears and confirm to him I am flawed, not a "true believer" and that he is somehow justified in ripping me to shreds. He then walks back to the sanctuary, no doubt to receive your Son after being so cruel. He says, "Merry Christmas" and I glared at him and sneered. I got in line and begged you to help me. The tears are pouring down my face and my mind goes back to the days I was a little girl and was told I wasn't wanted. I remember wishing and hoping I could be part of a family. Lost dreams that never came true. I am not like these people at all. I am twice divorced, no minor children, and can't even sit in a pew. I am a freak, stricken with a mental illness that was resurrected by an abusive act of an impatient priest and now I fear I will never be able to sit in mass. I thank you mother for helping me walk up to receive your Son. Sadly, I don't even remember receiving your Son as I was drowning in anxiety. I skip the cup (germs) and almost run back to the narthex. Afterward I walk into the back room that has become my hiding place. I began to sob, and I pick up my gift for Fr G and put on my coat. My heart is breaking. I feel so misunderstood. Why doesn't anyone understand me? Mother why do people misunderstand me? Why can't they just see I have "issues" and not be so nasty? Sadly it's not the first, fifth, or even tenth time this has happened. Each time I endure it the person who launches into me gets away with it and I'm left shredded, again. There is no justice in what I endure.
I tell Fr G quickly what happened and he said he was sorry. He has nothing to apologize for as he has given more than most to help me. I give him his gift, uncertain if he even likes it or if it will end up in a dumpster somewhere. I poured hours into it but in this moment I think it's junk, cheesy, and stupid. You are the only one, mother, who understands how deep the self-hatred goes and how easily I can fall into that cesspool over and over again. I told Fr we could talk later as I needed to leave quickly and he said "We will talk" and I know he cares. I told him about the scapular and gave him the designation certificate and almost ran to my car. He sees my hurt and anxiety and I quickly leave. Why was I so stupid to think that a hand-made shadow box illustrating the writing I gave him after his first weekend at his new parishes was a good idea? Of course it's stupid. I am embarrassed and filled with shame.
I sobbed all the way home. I am frustrated mother. I am told repeatedly that I should forgive others when they hurt me, let them off the hook, and be kind but why do I have to excuse everyone who abuses me while they just walk away scot free? Why am I the one who has to endure abuse and then "forgive" everyone? At what point can I hold them accountable and tell them that they are hurtful and rude? Mother I need to learn how to appropriately stand up for myself.
As I drove home I asked you to hold me. I know I just cannot bear to attend Saturday and Sunday masses any longer. I will try to just attend Tues and Weds Masses. My heart breaks because I know that I cannot stand to go to Midnight Mass, the ultimate and most beautiful Mass of all. Mother I just can't bear it any longer. I am sick and need compassion and I get treated like I'm rude and am verbally attacked by those who say we are supposed to be family. I don't even know what I need so how can anyone else know how to help me?
I am not sure what to say mother but I firmly believe that if you cannot help someone at least do not hurt them. I hate that the holy sacrifice of your Son is nothing more than an endurance contest of misery. All of the holy significance is lost for me. I go because I am told I have to go. But I know now that with my illness being this severe I am not required to attend. There is nowhere I can hide and not be cornered and asked to shake hands. There is nowhere I can go and not be looked down on or verbally abused or seen as a freak.
Hold me mother and love me. I need you today more than ever. People don't know what it's like to have PTSD, OCD, and bipolar disorder. Three heavy crosses that I cannot bear alone. I cannot do it alone and I am misunderstood in my efforts to belong. Please mother, pray for me. I need you to pray for me. I feel utterly alone. I feel like a freak. Please embrace me and never let me go. I love you and I need to remember that you love me.
No comments:
Post a Comment