The Start of the End

The second installment can be found here.

So that's how I found myself knocked down by an emotional tsunami and treading water for all I was worth.

To survive, I fawned. I gave them what they sought: I shared our news, I educated, I reconciled doctrinal concerns, I calmed fears. The conversation lasted for nearly an hour. They released me from my calling at some point. They did not extend to me a new calling. (One member of the bishopric literally never spoke for the entire time—weird, right?)

I walked myself home in the dark.

For the rest of the evening, I lived in shock and, I think, dissociation. I did get to hug Brooks, who had stayed awake, miracle of miracles! But then I sat on the couch with my eyes wide and staring. I mustered no energy; I felt no feelings. I went to bed early, exhausted.

I stayed in the shock zone for a few days. The meeting seemed unique, so I shared the details around a bit to fact-check. No church member to whom I told this story—current or former, young or old, man or woman—could remember a time when they had heard of all three members of the bishopric interviewing one member alone. My story dropped jaws and summoned incredulity, and most people commented that it reminded them of a disciplinary council.

After three days, my shock and surprise alchemized into anger and action. It hit right as I got into the shower (my best thinking time). I railed at the injustice of that meeting overfull with men, at how I had felt cornered, at how I had seemingly voluntarily spilled my secrets. I cried and I swore. I had the house to myself for an hour, and I yelled—alone and loudly—what I wished I'd said. I really let 'em have it, naked in my shower, wet but flaming mad.

As I got out of the shower, I looked at my clean clothes waiting on the bathroom counter.

My garments.

I was dry and back to a state of emotional regulation, but I felt a visceral, embodied reaction to seeing those garments. In a flash, they became to me nothing more than a symbol of the patriarchy, a tool for keeping women down and quiet, a literal manifestation of the deindividuation this proudly patriarchal institution intended for me. They were suddenly nothing but fabric, yet that fabric had woven into it every suppressed feeling I'd experienced two nights prior.

Rather than protecting me, as promised, from that traumatic tsunami, the garment had led me directly into the tsunami's path. The way of goodness and reputability within the church was revealed to have actually been a perilous way of unquestioning obedience. A way of losing my self, but not just to Jesus. A superficially smooth way, planned for me without my opinion or consent. Ultimately, the end of the way landed me at a bouldered blockade for the fight/flight path I would have rather chosen.

My body screamed, “Do not put those on.”

I had not listened to my gut on Tuesday night, and it had cost me. Now, alone and safe and embodied, I realized I could no longer afford to not listen to my gut. My gut knew the truth: that my humanity could never really be up for debate, that reputability was and is an illusion, and that my goodness was inherent and beautiful. 

With this course correction, I could finally step onto that elusive fight/flight path I had accidentally avoided earlier. Metaphorically, there were no immediate dangers. The tsunami had passed and I had survived, but I knew I would encounter future tsunamis if I didn't start hiking to higher ground.

I did not put my garments on.

I have never put them on since.

And honestly? Thank you, gentlemen, for the clarity.