Archive

Archive for November, 2009

Thanksgiving in the country. I think I’ll bringing a bulletproof vest.

November 25th, 2009
Did you know Kevlar comes in pink?

Did you know Kevlar comes in pink?

I’m off to the country to spend Thanksgiving with ED’s family this year. This will be my first Thanksgiving away from my family. Ever. It will also be the first time in 10 plus years I have missed the crazy 5am madness that is “Black Friday” shopping.

I’m not sure which makes me more sad.

The other night, while planning the details of our little holiday trip, ED asked me if I would like to shoot guns while we are there. I told him hell yeah I want to shoot guns while we are there! but secretly, between you and me, I’m kinda scared shitless of guns. I’m not really sure why either. My dad took me shooting a few times when I was like 12, but I haven’t so much as seen, yet alone shot one, since then. But, I’m a bad ass and a great big liar and it’s kind of a big deal to him so I stuck with bring on the guns!

The next morning I woke from a dream where I had shot myself in the stomach and was bleeding to death on my family room floor. Awesome, right? I’m not feeling so much like a bad ass now. I’m feeling like my little secret of being irrationally scared shitless of guns should probably be shared with ED before I end up inadvertently shooting myself in the foot and, since the closest hospital is like a bazillion hours away, really do bleed to death!

I am probably the sissy-est country boy’s girlfriend in the history of country boy girlfriends. But it is not for lack of trying! I can’t help my dreams!

Luckily, “clairvoyant” is not on my list of talents/skills, so I am pretty sure I’ll be safe. But just in case, I want you all to know I love you and to have a very happy (and safe!) Thanksgiving!

Gobble gobble.

Blogfully yours,

Summer

ED is not Emotionally Disturbed, Holidays

The “Nu Nu” Party

November 24th, 2009

Most women remember vividly the first time “Aunt Flo” came to town and I’d be willing to wager ED’s left nut that 90% of women did NOT have a pleasant experience. I grew up in a house with basically three sisters and I can safely say none of us had pleasant experiences when we started our periods.

My poor, poor father. Can you imagine having a bunch of hormonal girls and a wife, all on the rag at the same time (this happens guys, when women live together they start “cycling together”. Consider yourself warned)? My dad has a golden ticket straight to heaven I tell you what!

But now, my sisters and I are all grown and have gotten over the unpleasant experiences.

Well… kind of.

A few weeks ago I got a message from my older sister Sara saying that two of her step daughters have started their “New Moon cycle”–and no, that is not a Twilight reference although ED decided he liked “Nu Nu” better–and she was throwing them a party.

What?

A party?

For starting your period?

OH HELL YEAH!

What better way to let your scared teen/tweenage girls know that becoming a woman doesn’t have to tramatic. Embrace your femininity and hell, CELEBRATE IT!

And how do you celebrate becoming a woman you ask?

With pedicure and makeup parties, of course!

With a pedicure and makeup party, of course!

November 09 018

I am thoroughly impressed and inspired by my sisters idea to make a party out of a confusing and, hell I’ll say it, sucky time in a young girl life.

Way to go on the parenting skills Sara!!! Oh, and because I am so impressed I won’t even complain about how a room full of 12 & 13 year olds called me old.

OLD???

Welcome to womanhood you little brats!

;)

Blogfully yours,

Summer

Loved One(s), Story Time

How Do Equal Rights Effect Relationship Roles?

November 23rd, 2009

The battle for equal rights between women and men has been fought for years and still is being fought today. On many fronts women have won, but on some, they have lost. More and more women are making their way into to executive positions. They start their own businesses, defy traditional employment roles, hold political offices, have mortgages, car loans and bank loans in their names. It is not uncommon for women today to juggle a family and household while also maintaining a successful career. Women have demanded equal treatment, and for the most part have, they have it. But when it comes to relationship roles and dating, where is the line drawn?

If I look at this from a man’s point of view, I can see how this independent breed of women can be intimidating and a little confusing—do they want me to pay? Should I open the door? Get her coat?—and they wind up mistaking equal rights as an excuse to treat women as if they are men, forgoing chivalrous behaviors out of fear of offending a woman’s sense of independence. What they do not understand is that while women are indeed more independent than ever, equal rights will never make a woman a man, and a woman will always want to be treated like a lady.

Women are different by nature. They play a different role, and there is nothing wrong with that. What those roles are in any given relationship will be defined over time and are different for every couple, but the one thing that will remain the same is a woman’s desire to be treated with the adoration she deserves. Giving women equal rights, equal pay, equal treatment, will not change that. If a man wants to have a successful relationship with a woman, he needs to realize that being a gentleman will never go out of style, and chivalry is a trait women desire in their partner.

That said, I am realistic enough to know that just as women’s rights have evolved, so have the roles of chivalry. Women no longer expect a man to lay down his coat so they don’t have to step into a puddle of water, but if it’s cold out when you are walking to the car, it’s never a bad idea to offer up your jacket. And speaking of cars, while you are there, open the car door for her. Some women have started not to expect men to open their car door—building doors, yes (always yes), car doors, not so much—but it will always be appreciated.

Many men may feel confused as to what women’s expectations, when it comes to dating, are. Successful independent women are looking for men who take care of themselves. This extends into three areas, first of which is the overall physical appearance of a man. A man who dresses sharp and is well groomed shows he put time and effort into getting ready which is impressive to women because it shows he put thought and effort into trying to make a good impression. Women go to great extremes to take care of themselves, especially for a date, so a man who does the same speaks to his thoughtfulness.

The second part is on the career front. Women want a man who has as much ambition as they do. That is not to say every man needs to be a doctor, he can work for a coffee shop so long as he has dreams and goals he is aspiring to achieve.

The third area of appearance is not a physical one; it is the appearance of intelligence. A man should be up to date on current events and be able to speak intelligently on a variety of topics. Entertaining conversation will keep a woman interested and intrigued. Some women claim there is nothing more attractive than a man who can make her laugh.

Another area of equal rights dating confusion is the expectation of whether or not men should pay on a date. Recently I came across a debate over this very topic over at my friend Nilsa’s blog,  SoMi Speaks. She took the stance that women should in fact pay their own way, stating:

“I expect these freedoms. I expect my independence. And as a result, I expect to pay my fair share in life. I don’t care who asked whom out on a date. If you don’t know the guy and this is your first time meeting, you should both pay your own way. Or at least you should make a legitimate effort to do so. And if the guy takes you up on the offer, don’t think poorly of him. Don’t look down on him. Don’t consider it a test. Consider it equitable and fair.”

To which I disagree, but find it important to share both sides of the issue.

It is my opinion that men should in fact pay… at least in the beginning. My reasoning stems back to the stance that all women want to be adored and wooed. I don’t care if the woman makes more than the man. A man paying still shows that he is willing to make an effort to impress her, therefore proving he thinks she is worth it and/or special. One word of caution to the women out there is to be careful that you are “worth it”. As one relationship correspondent points out, “Chivalry isn’t about getting things in return, it’s about being recognized to a degree for your actions and knowing that the person you are with will also treat you right. Chivalry is a two-way street, in which you shouldn’t be taken for a ride.”

In other words, a little appreciation and recognition will go a long way.

As relationships progress—depending on the roles you establish—this rule may or may not still apply. But, no matter what roles you establish, a woman’s desire to feel special will never change, and there is no trait more desirable in a man than the ability to make a woman feel special.

Speaking from personal experience, one of the things I love about my current relationship is how chivalrous ED is and the way he likes to, for lack of a better term, take care of me. Not because he thinks I am incapable of caring for myself or need to be rescued—because as an independent woman I certainly do not—but  because he thinks I am worth it. He treats me as if I matter to him, and he doesn’t want to lose me. If he were to treat me like a man, like one of his male friends, my need to feel special would not be met.

Outside of entertaining a woman with words, the way a man lets a woman know how he feels about her is through his actions…by treating her with respect…by treating her like a lady. Believe me when I say, women pay attention to every action or missed opportunity presented. They are watching to see how interested a man is in them and in turn how interested they are in response.

Blogfully yours,

Summer

***Whew! Did you make it all the way through? This is an edited version of an essay I had to write for college. What did you think?***

Dating debating, Essays

TMI Friday – Grief

November 20th, 2009

***WELCOME to a particularly long edition of “TMI Friday” (Too Much Information Friday). This is a weekly feature on Blogfully Yours where I hover the line of “over-sharing”. It’s like therapy, without the expense.***

Everyone deals with grief in different ways. Zach’s passing was the first real opportunity for me to find out mine. I’ve had relatives pass away, but aunts and grandparents are rarely as close as friends.

I will always remember every detail of loosing Zach. It’s a video montage burned in my brain that I can’t stop watching. It starts with a phone call, every word of which I could recite. Followed by tears, hysterical balling, running in a race that I remember starting and finishing, but the middle is still a blank. How I got my legs to move, how I kept it together, I honestly don’t know. I only remember thinking about finding every picture I have of Zach and asking ED to keep talking so I could maintain my composure.

When I crossed the finish line my eyes immediately filled with the tears I was pushing down, but I could not let them break free the way I wanted to. I had to say goodbye to clients and friends at the race (I do the PR for the event) then I went directly over to my sisters. I called several times and when she finally heard her phone all I could get out through my tears was, “Can I come over? Zach, he’s dead.”

When she answered the door she was wearing a fuzzy pink robe. I immediately lost myself in it. Crying harder than I ever knew I could. Sobbing to where I couldn’t catch my breath. She lead me to the couch where I collapsed on to her pink fuzzy robe and sobbed even harder.

I don’t know how long we sat like that. Days? Hours? Minutes? I had no concept of time. My friend was gone and the only thing that mattered was crying.

My sister canceled her day and told me she was my shadow; there to do whatever I needed her to do. We went to my parents house, unearthing boxes of memories from the past 15 years. I found every picture I wanted to find, but none that I did not expect to find.

That night the shadowing duty was passed on to Karina the Russian.

We blared music that Zach and I had listened to together while searching for more pictures on my computer. She got me sufficiently drunk. I passed out and sleep through the night.

I woke early the next morning (Sunday), sat up in bed and cried. It was the hardest day for me. Looking back now I can say, it was harder than the viewing, harder than the funeral. It was me alone with my grief. Every movement was painstakingly hard. I made coffee. I sat on the couch drinking my coffee and staring out the windows. Right as I had finally talked myself into taking a shower and actually moving off the couch, I got a phone call where the well intentioned party encouraged me to “keep moving”.

I knew they meant well, I knew they were probably right, but I was enraged at the words “keep moving” and ended up on the bathroom floor, sitting naked holding my legs tight to me, crying so hard I was actually dry heaving. I just let the shower water run while I wailed.

When I finally got out of the shower I tried to work on homework. I wrote two pathetic excuses of essays.  I wandered around my house aimlessly. As I walked through the family room I saw a large patch of sunlight on the carpet. I laid in it, looking up at my cat laying on the couch looking at me. I stared at the fibers in the carpet. Again I had no concept of time, but I laid there until the sunlight started to shift and no longer covered me.

I couldn’t bring myself to “keep moving” doing things I knew I needed to do, so I decided to rake leaves. As I began to rake, I could picture Zach walking around the corner to where I was. He had a big goofy grin and said,  “Summer, don’t be all upset. I’m fine. I don’t want you to be sad.”  I raked harder, trying to see what I was doing through the tears, until I finally gave up and let grief take over me again.

The leaves are still sitting in piles in the back yard.

I don’t know when exactly things start to get easier. I know that no day will ever be as hard as that Sunday; at least not when it comes to grieving the loss of my friend Zach.That Sunday I finally understood cutters. I finally understood wanting to feel physical pain over emotional pain. I never understood it before.

To be honest, I am doing OK. Sure, I yelled AT MY TEACHER when he compared Zach’s death to his cat being sick and yes, I did overreact and scream at ED because he dared not to call me while studying for a chemistry exam. Yes, I have been crying more often, drinking more often and getting out of bed was very difficult for a while…

But… I’m doing OK.

Each day gets a little easier.  For example, I had a memory of Zach tonight that I had forgotten. It came out of nowhere. Instead of crying, I actually smiled and laughed. I poured a glass of wine and cheers’d Zach for being a part of my life! I was grateful the memory came to me and that I now get to keep it in my memory folder.

It’s a small step, but a step none the less.

Blogfully yours,

Summer

NOT light and fluffy, TMI Friday

November 18th (A TMI Friday post… on a Wednesday)

November 18th, 2009

***I originally started this post a few weeks ago, before I began TMI Fridays. This is definitely an “over-sharing” post, but the date is the date I wanted to share this on, so… without further ado, my divorce story.***

Want to hear something crazy? Eight years and three months ago I got married.

Want to hear something sane? Four years and three days ago my divorced was finalized.

I shouldn’t really call that sane. It sounds so harsh… I did, after all, love the guy. We were two love struck kids (high school sweethearts) who became each others best friends, confidants and crutches. We jumped in with both feet. Clinging to each other as if our lives depended on it—at the time, I thought they did.

No one ever gets married thinking they’ll get divorced; I know we didn’t. We were hopeless, young, and naive and we thought we had all the answers. Turns out, we didn’t.

Time has a funny way of changing things and the life I always envisioned never panned out. In its place came bills, mortgage number one, mortgage number two, lack of career direction, the inability to conceive a child and a series of betrayals that caused me to build up a wall, and I hate to sound cliché, but I  fell out of love.

I remember distinctly, one not-so-sober night, confessing to a close friend that I didn’t think I wanted to be married anymore. I was, of course, crying. She looked me right in the eyes and, using my maiden name said, “Summer K. Fredrickson, you are a strong, beautiful, independent woman, and if you don’t want to be married anymore, you don’t have to be.”

I left him three days before our four-year anniversary.

That sounds cold… but I did. I left. I left before our anniversary because it felt like a sham to stay through it.

I needed to stand on my own two feet to be successful in this life. I had to spread my wings, assert my independence and find out what I was really made of.

God damn it’s been a long, hard journey.

But you know what? I am so much stronger because of it. I actually like the person I am. I’m proud of how far I have come and that I actually know who I am. Before, I only knew whose girlfriend/fiancé/wife I was.

It seems the more time passes, the more I understand why my marriage ended and the less complicated it becomes… I take that back, it is still complicated; it’s just not as painful and raw to talk about. Because, while I was the one who did the leaving, I also never looked back. That was the one thing I could always take solace in. If I had done the wrong thing, wouldn’t I be filled with regret? Wouldn’t I want to go back? I knew I made the right decision… for me.

Four years later my ex-husband is now re-married and expecting a child. He finished going to school and has his life together. Turns out it was the right decision for him too and I am, in fact, very happy for him.

***

We all choose the paths we walk down. Mine has taken me here.

Blogfully yours,

Summer

TMI Friday

Baby Stace – Happy Birthday!

November 17th, 2009
Don't Ask...

Don't Ask...

Today is my not-so-baby sister’s birthday. She is 27, going on 19.

Actually, in spite of any crazy images this picture may be stirring up for you… she really is a very responsible individual, beautiful and smart, as well as a wonderful mother to her three (almost four!) year old daughter.

In this world there are very precious few who ever really understand you, I am blessed to have Staci be the one person who gets me;  she is my person and I am hers.

We fight like sisters, we laugh like sister, and we cry when each other is hurting, it’s what we do. She calls me “Sum”, I call her “Stace”, and though we are sisters, she is also my friend. My best friend. We have seen each other through more laughter and tears than I ever knew possible.

Happy birthday Stace! Thank you for always being there for me. I would be lost without you!

Here’s to the next 27…37…57 years.

I love you!

Your big sister,

Summer

Loved One(s)

Putting on Red Lipstick

November 16th, 2009

Last week I ignored much of what was going on in the real world after I found out Zach had died. I was caught up with my own personal mourning, viewings and funerals. When my friend Heidi asked me if I was still planning on going to the Paint the Town Red party–an AIDS benefit held at Hotel Monaco–I had all but forgotten.

I lied and told her I had been planning on it.

On Wednesday I went to the mall and shopped half-heartedly for an outfit to wear, still dressed in black from the funeral I had attended only five hours earlier. I found a red top, figured it would work, and called it a night.

The next night I wrote, “Tonight the red lipstick comes out” on my Facebook status. The responses I received were overwhelming; everyone cheering me on and encouraging me to live life.

Feeding off of that energy, I put a smile on my face, painted that smile with my brightest shade of red lipstick, and met up with Heidi and Tammy for a night of fun with a good cause behind it.

At Tammy's, getting primped to go.

At Tammy's, getting primped to go.

Tammy looking smoking HOT!

Tammy looking smoking HOT!

Heidi looking adorably sassy!

Heidi looking adorably sassy!

Group picture with at the event. I have not idea who the guy in the picture is but his boyfriend was the one taking the picture, so whatev.

Group picture taken at the event. I have no idea who the guy in the picture is, but his boyfriend was the one taking the picture, so whatev.

I freaking love this picture.

I freaking love this picture.

While I can’t say that big ‘ol smile remained the entire night–I ran into friends who asked about Zach and I may have cried just a tad at dinner–it felt good to have a night devoted to fun and to spending time with my girls. I am so thankful to them for taking me out and showing me that life still goes on.

I think Zach would be happy to see me smile. Although he is, he never would have wanted to be the source of pain or sadness for anyone. I’m sure, if he was here, he would have loved to hear the stories from that night. He probably would scold me when I told him I walked by myself three blocks, downtown, in the rain, to get the car (we were all in heels, but my feet were holding up the best and I refused to get a taxi for such a short distance). He would have told me I need to be safe, and that I better have had mace on me! He was always so protective…

*sigh*

Man I miss him.

The next morning I woke up and saw lipstick on my pillow case; I guess I didn’t wash it off before going to bed.

It made me smile though, as I remembered the night. It was the first morning I had woken up and smiled in over a week.

Oh the power of red lipstick.

Blogfully yours,

Summer

Out and About

TMI Friday: I’m Six Feet Tall

November 13th, 2009

***WELCOME to the second edition of “TMI Friday” (Too Much Information Friday). This is a weekly feature on Blogfully Yours where I hover the line of “over-sharing”.***


I’m six feet tall.

That is not an euphemism, I am literally six feet tall.

Growing up I always got asked if I played on my high school basketball team, volley ball team, track team, etc. Sadly, sports was never my thing so I had to answer “no.” To which people would always shake their head and say, “shame, lettin’ all that height go to waste”.

Because what good is being tall if you are not going to play sports?

I did try. Which is to say I tried out for the volleyball team once. I didn’t make the cut. Something to do with my lack of ability to actually hit the ball. I guess that’s an important part.

So, no, I did not play sports. I did however go to two different modeling schools.  Yep, I learned how to strut on the catwalk and smile pretty for the camera instead of dribble a basket ball.

Apparently I wasn’t good at modeling either, because it never resulted in anything but a short lived eating complex and low self esteem. In modeling, you are never enough–never skinny enough, never pretty enough, never proportioned in the right places enough–so ultimately while I dreamed of fame, adoration, exotic photo shoots and fortune, I didn’t hate myself enough to get there.

What to do with all this height then?

If I could, I would share it with some of my “vertically challenged” friends. Giving them two or three inches would certainly make it easier to find pants long enough for me…

But, since that is not an option, I figure I’ll put it to good use by assisting friends who can’t reach the top shelf while cooking me dinner, make short men feel intimidated (especially when I wear heels), get to places faster with my long strides, hide extra weight by spreading it over more surface area, keep Shick Razors in business, and give people a reason to whisper to their friends, “geeze she’s tall. I bet she played sports in high school.”

Blogfully yours,

Summer

Just me, TMI Friday

Losing Zach

November 9th, 2009

“Summer, this is Jennifer, Zach’s mom. I don’t know quite how to say this… but Zach passed away. They found him yesterday morning. He died the same way his sister died. I found your number in his phone and I knew you would want to know. I know how much he cared about you…”

***

I met Zach my sophomore year of high school at the first “sock hop” social event. His bright eyes, playful smile and sweet personality lured me in and instantly I knew we would be friends.

That was 14 years ago.

Zach picking me up for "Spring Formal". It was girls choice, but I was only 15 and couldn't drive.

Zach picking me up for "Spring Formal". It was girls choice, but I was only 15 and couldn't drive.

Is that not the most adorable face ever?

He is so adorably young here.

Zachary Hall, my oldest and dearest friend, passed away Friday, November 6, 2009.

I got the phone call 30 minutes before I was supposed to run my first 5k.

His passing has been one of the hardest thing I have ever had to face. I can not tell you just how bad my heart is aching right now. I have lost one of my closest friends, a man who has been there for me through thick and thin, a man who has always been “just a friend” but who loved me, and would literally do anything for me. I know this not only from countless examples of his actions, but because he never failed to tell me so.

I am at a loss for what to write. I’ve started this post several times but my words never seem adequate to express my joy for having him in my life; my anger with him for leaving so soon; my sorrow for not getting to say goodbye; my tribute to him for all that he was to me.

I have so many fond memories of him. In high school, besides going to Spring Formal with me, he took me to my first ever formal dance. It was called “Spartonian Ball”.

I'm in flats and he wore his hair 3" taller.

I'm in flats and he wore his hair 3" taller.

I thought the dance was more formal than it actually was and told him to get a tuxedo. He was the only guy at the dance, outside of the wait staff, wearing one. I was so embarrassed, but he just laughed about it and told me not to worry.

I see this picture and I want so bad to call him and laugh about his hair and baby face, my black nylons and ugly shoes. I want to reminisce and see if he remembers how his mom had to pin the boutonniere on for me or where we went to dinner or if we did an activity after the dance. I want to tell him thank you for wearing a tux because I asked him to – we were 16 and I know neither of us had money.

But I can’t…

I can’t call him because he is gone. He is gone and there is nothing I can do about it. I feel so helpless. I know people will say to just hold on to the memories, and believe me, I am trying. But he is gone, and my heart hurts! Just saying “he is gone” sounds so absurd to me. Why am I even writing this post? Zachs not gone. He can’t be. He is my Zach. How could he let drugs take him from me? How many times did I yell at him? How many times did I tell him that he was worrying me? How many times did he tell me not to worry? This isn’t right. Nothing feels right about it. It’s all wrong! We were supposed to go to lunch together. I missed his call. Why did I miss his call? Why didn’t he answer when I called him back? Why didn’t I try him again? How can he be gone? Why can’t I just call him?

Zach and me camping, Memorial Day 2008. Our last photo together.

Zach and me camping, Memorial Day 2008. Our last photo together.

I’m sorry this post is all over the place. Maybe it is too soon to have tried to write this. I had planned to tell so many great stories; driving his dad’s fork lift in his shop, drinking vodka in his garage with my sister until we puked and he had to carry us home wrapped in his blanket, his confession about why he really could not take me to Sr. Ball (ten years after the fact!), our failed attempt at community college together, moving me out of a very bad situation after I hadn’t talked to him in six months, and how he was such a loyal selfless friend.

Maybe I’ll write those stories another day… in my hand written journal. I’ll place it on the shelf next to my high school journal, or better yet, next to the entry where I first mention meeting Zach… at the Sock Hop.

Zachary Hall I am going to miss you!

Blogfully yours,

Summer

PS – in case you were wondering, I ran the race. It was incredibly hard and if ED hadn’t of been there I would have been hyperventilating, sobbing uncontrollably in the bushes 1/4 mile in. As it was, I finished with a time of 31:36 and saved my sob fest until I got to my sister’s, 15 minutes after the race.

Emotions get the best of me, Loved One(s), NOT light and fluffy

TMI Friday – Back When I Was Tight With Jesus

November 6th, 2009

***WELCOME to the first edition of “TMI Friday” (Too Much Information Friday). This will be a weekly feature and I encourage anyone who likes short and fluffy, light and funny posts, to probably steer clear of these. No offense will be taken. This is my chance to use Blogfully Yours for what it was always intended to be: a place where I can write about my thoughts, reflections and yes, my feelings.***

I’ve never been one to fight against establishment. Down with the man! Yeah, that’s just not me. I’m a peacemaker. I’d be the hippie girl putting a flower in the soldier’s gun rather than the feminist screaming about equality or a protestor marching with a picket sign.

With that in mind, it’s no surprise growing up I never questioned my religious upbringing. I never fought with my mother about going to church for 3 hours on Sunday; that was my older sister’s role, and boy was she good at it. I, on the other hand, simply got up, threw on my LDS appropriate church dress, grabbed my pink leather scripture case, bowed my head, took the sacrament and played the role of the obedient daughter. Why fight? It wasn’t so bad after all… plus, it was all I had ever known. If anything, it would make me an outsider among my Mormon friends if I didn’t go to church – like the time I dated a guy when I was 16 who, Oh My Goodness!, was NOT Mormon! My friends came together, intervention style, to tell me they love me and are concerned because I was dating a man who could not take me to the temple and you should definitely only date men who are marriage worthy!

I dated him anyway; convinced I could convert him and therefore save him… It didn’t work.

There were always certain things about the church that never made any sense to me growing up. When I would questions my church leaders about them their answer was always to pray about it and I would get the answer.

But what about… Pray!

But how about… Pray!

I was young and naive and wanted to do right by my parents as well as my religion, so I tried. Pray! Pray! Pray! Jesus and I became pretty tight back then.

One of the hardest parts about growing up Mormon for me—which I am sure other religions can relate to (Catholics I’m looking at you)—is the guilt you grow up with. I remember the first time I made out with a boy, I felt so guilty I confessed to my Bishop. It’s true. FOR MAKING OUT! But that is what the guilt does to you. I was certain my parents and Jesus didn’t love me anymore because I could feel my boyfriend’s boner poke against me while we made out. The guilt engulfed me. I was going to hell! My only hope was to beg Jesus for his forgiveness. And beg I did. Beg! Beg! Beg!

I am not sure when I finally got fed up with feeling like a horrible person. I remember after I became sexually active (with my boyfriend of almost a year!), I still had not touched a drop of alcohol but came to the conclusion if I was going to go to hell for having sex, then what did it matter if I threw one more sin on the fire?

But to clarify, I didn’t leave the LDS church so that I could drink and have sex. I left because so much of what I was taught didn’t match up with what I actually believed to be true. For example, I didn’t believe I actually would go to hell for my life style and I didn’t believe that if Jesus was in fact real, that he would condone the judging and holier than thou attitude I felt being impressed upon me. I believed that Jesus would be a lover, not a damner and that he would want me to be happy.

I will never say that I had anything less than a wonderful childhood. I feel I was raised with great values and a certain level of moral codes. The LDS church played a role in instilling some of those values. But parting ways was a good thing for me. To make my own decision based on what I knew to be right and wrong and not feel the hold of the church on me and to not be holding on to the church was freeing.

I love and adore all of my Mormon family and do not think poorly of them for remaining in the church, just as I hope they do not think poorly of me for choosing to leave it. While I could share horrible stories of bad experiences with the church, or rather, some of its members, I have always chosen to avoid “Mormon Bashing” and also those who do so out of respect to my family.

I am the hippie flowerchild peace-maker, so to write all of this feels slightly antagonistic to me.

But you know what?

It also feels good to say.

Blogfully yours,

Summer

TMI Friday