BJUnity

I knew as soon as I read the first “Who We Are” story that I wanted to be part of this movement for change.  My heart has always cried out for justice, and here was my chance to be part of something great!  Something that I believe in!  Something that deeply affects me and my world and should affect more people on a conscious awareness level!

So I set to writing my story, and I set to it with gusto.  I wrote pages and pages and pages—and then froze.“What are you doing, Jaclyn?” my mind begged of me.  “You’d better write this thing perfectly, because heaven knows your story is already less-than-capable.  You’re not really…you know…IMPORTANT.  You don’t have a big-name, hotshot Fundy evangelist in your family.  And who hasn’t had their share of spiritual misunderstandings?  Face it, unless you make this story spectacular, present your best sob stories and pour out every drop of pathos you can muster, you’re still pretty forgettable.  And even if you do make it good, you still might be seen as presumptuous.”

Well, that shut me down pretty quickly.  My next step was to set to making various drafts, cutting and pasting and editing myself dry—until about thirty minutes ago, when I realized that this drive for perfection in the eyes of others is what kept me silent for so long in the first place.

Here’s my story, then.  It’s pretty simple.  Not too pretty, but not horribly ugly.  It is what it is, but it’s mine—and that just might make it meaningful.

Like most everyone else here, I was born into a Baptist family, one of the Independent, Fundamental, Bible-believing (IFB) variety.  I went to a Christian school starting in third grade when we moved from Montana to California.  I’d actually attended public school in MT because the academics were stronger in the public schools than in the church’s Christian school.  My parents were more dedicated to the development of actual cognitive abilities than to whether or not I had Bible class each day because they were so strong in their faith, and faith was something incorporated into virtually every part of our lives.

We went to church every Sunday morning and night and then back on Wednesday for AWANA.  I loved this.  I loved God.  I loved my faith.  I was fervent about it.  I was guileless in it.  I had a solid upbringing founded on love and understanding and prayer and innocence.

It was actually when we moved into the world of the Christian school that I began feeling cast out.  It was hard to make friends, even as a young child.  Of course, I’d been through my share of bullying and normal childhood angst in public school, but I had my friends.  Here, in this new place where I got to learn about God every day in school (two of my favorite things!  God! School! And they get to go together!), the children were—cold.

Not only that, but my teacher was—very uncaring.  She gave me detention on my second day of school for something I didn’t realize was against the rules.  I had the same teacher again three years later and saw that my initial impression was indeed correct.  And the teachers in between, well—

But I tried so hard to please them.  I loved them.  I wanted them to approve of me.  Surely any problems I had were my fault, not theirs, even though I’d never had any problems in school before.  Instead of talking to my parents about my struggles to adjust to each new situation, I kept them inside and quietly dealt with the stomach aches and nightmares.

This habit set the tone for the rest of my life.

I first became depressed when I was 9.  I knew I was different somehow, that I didn’t fit in.  In my innocence, I thought that my life was just how God wanted it to be, and I had no words like “depression” for how I was feeling.  I just knew I was sad.  Later on, I learned that all the adults around me were very concerned—but depression wasn’t a part of their world, either, so no one knew how to help me.

I stopped eating, seeing food as something to be used as a reward or taken away when I was “bad.”  And food quickly became “bad,” a sign of disobedience.

No one taught me this.

But no one knew what to do, either.

And so disordered eating became a part of my existence, turning into a full-fledged eating disorder once I made it to Bob Jones University.

How is this linked to my sexuality?

Well, here goes.  In my innocence, in my love for God, in my faith-infused life—I never doubted that anyone would ever NOT THINK about what they said about spirituality.  I trusted that my spiritual authority, including my parents, would KNOW WHY and not just SAY THINGS about God.  Now, this didn’t mean that I “swallowed” everything that was told to me by my teachers and church.  But I trusted that my best interest was at the heart of what I was taught.  Even when I could see clearly misguided reasoning and would challenge it, in my heart I held love and a sincere desire to know the Truth of God and who God is.  I assumed that everyone was like that.

As I assumed that it’s normal to view eating food as making me “bad.”

As I assumed that everyone had to deal with issues related to their teachers and bullies on their own.

As I assumed that all girls like to take baths with their girl friends…and hold their hands…and sit really close to them…and feel more comfortable around boys because then, WHEW! Pressure’s off when I’m hanging with the guys!

Um, yes, that’s right.

As I had no context for depression, so I had no context for “gay,” other than people using it as a dirty word, in the realm of reprobate.

I never once thought that I wasn’t “normal.”  I just thought I was spiritual when I didn’t want my boyfriend to touch me too much “down there,” when the thought of making out with him wasn’t all that exciting, really, because I mean, we’ve done it once, and yeah, it’s nice, but seriously, can’t we just have a conversation and go roller-blading now?

When I went to Bob Jones University and ended up living with a bunch of women, though—

I couldn’t find my thoughts and behaviors “normal” anymore.  Not in the light of what I was feeling.  And I hid myself.  I pushed my feelings away every day, but they kept popping back up at the most inopportune times, like right after waking up from a nap by my (very, very pretty and loveable and wonderful) friend jumping onto my bed and kissing my cheek and laughing, “Hey, wake up!”

I prayed a lot during those two years.  And I never lost my love for God.  I felt I was where God wanted me.  I went on a mission trip the summer after my sophomore year.  I willingly and joyfully participated in three different extension ministries along with an occasional community project with the University.  I made good friends, loved my teachers, and grew spiritually—

Until I was told that it wasn’t enough.  Toward the end of my sophomore year, as the repression of who I was began to be too much, my depression became evident, and I ended up going to my dorm counselor for spiritual guidance once a week to learn “how to trust God better.”  My frustration only grew each week as she quoted Bible verses and I shouted, “But what does that mean on a practical level?  How the heck does that help anything?”  My sincerity was seen as rebellion, and I was denied permission to become an APC (assistant prayer captain, in Bob Jones University dormitory parlance).

My junior year I almost got kicked out for lesbian behavior, which was ironic because I’d never done anything remotely “lesbian” my entire time there, even though I really wanted to.  This was a clear sign to me that it was in fact time to leave Bob Jones.

I came out to myself a few years later, after I was married and could only achieve sexual fulfillment when I thought about other women.  And in the realm of emotional intimacy, my marriage was a sham.  We had none, and not for a lack of trying on my part.  I really wanted to be a good wife whose husband and children rise up and call blessed.  And I almost killed myself trying, as my people-pleasing and perfectionistic “it must be something I’m doing wrong” mentality sucked me into a world where my identity was so wrapped up in another’s perception of me that I no longer had myself.

After what felt like forever, I left my husband and eventually fell in love with a woman.  And it was the most natural process I’d ever had in a relationship.  “So this is love!” I breathed, in awe that this precious darling and I could fit together so well, so perfectly, so easily, in every way!  Conversation, spirituality, and romance!  This is—Divine!

That first whirlwind romance lasted a while, but not forever, and my heart broke in the process, but the allowing of it freed me in so many ways.

It also brought about more heartbreak of a different sort.  For example, my parents telling me that though I was always welcome in their home, my girlfriend or ANY girlfriend I will ever have or would THINK about having…would not be allowed to even visit them.  My mother blaming herself because we’d had a tumultuous relationship for a long time (no context for depression, remember?  She thought it was a spiritual problem or attention-seeking when I would say, “Mom, I think something’s really wrong.  I think I need to talk to someone.”) but also saying that “if we’d found out about this sooner, before you were 18, you’d be ok because we would definitely have sent you to Exodus.”  My father refusing to talk about it.  My aunts and cousins always asking me loudly when I was going to start dating boys again.  One of my best friends refusing to speak to me even after I’d been a major support for him during his own times of hardship while at Bob Jones, times when only one or two other people would even talk to him in a friendly manner.

I had my affirming moments, too.  My sister telling me, “As long as you’re happy you could be dating a panda bear for all I care.”  My other sister saying, “Oh, thank God, finally!  I’ve known that since you were 13, Jac,” and, “the way I see it, you were so miserable when you were with guys that I was afraid you were going to kill yourself, and I never want to lose you—I don’t care if it’s a sin or not, you’re more important to me than some moral high ground.”

I’m now in one of the most loving relationships anyone could ever ask for, with a woman that makes my whole world light up with joy.  And I know that it’s only because I finally came to terms within myself with allowing the hate to be ok.  It doesn’t reflect on who I am.  Who you and you and you think I am does not define me—I define me.  God defines me.  And we both agree—I’m pretty ok.  I’m better than that even.  I’m in His Image. And that makes me pretty damn awesome.