I miss my parents tonight.
Growing up a Jehovah’s Witness they were my entire world. Our little congregation was all I knew. My father, a pilot, a machinist, a pirate, a fascinating big-hearted man. My mother a hippie, nature-loving, passionate, creative artist. All of course within the confines of the expectations of the religion.
My entire world. My sister and I shared a bedroom our entire lives until I was 18. Two girls couldn’t be more different yet as we grew older we grew closer and more alike. We never saw eye to eye on much but I loved her. Love her.
Tonight I miss them. Almost a decade now since I left the religion, and my eleven year marriage. I fumbled through the years and they helped me more than most JW parents would help a child who was now “worldly” and who had disassociated. I don’t know if I was formally disfellowshipped at this point and to be honest I don’t care. I’m never going back. Life as a gay woman in that organization led by a bunch of fat old men in New York is hell on earth. No fucking way.
We grew apart over this decade because I was a lost child making big mistakes. It happens to all who leave the religion to some extent, but especially for the kids raised knowing nothing else. I fucked up constantly and they saw me fumble.
I got sober. I’m not stumbling as much now. But I don’t need that crutch that kept me in the loveless marriage and oppressive religion. My nightmares are gone.
Two years later I published my first small book of poetry. June 2020. I texted my parents and sister all excited. They didn’t even acknowledge it.
I saw mom a few months later and she didn’t mention it. My sister flew down to visit without warning a month ago. She asked if I’d like to see her and I said no, because I had plans I couldn’t change. She didn’t mention the book.
It’s not that it’s a book that I care about.
It’s that it’s my writing. My heart and soul are on those pages. I’ve wanted to be an author since I was a child. A life long dream. And they knew I accomplished my dream. Finally after a lifetime of scrambling up from the wreck I was because of that cult I could stand proud.
And they cold shouldered me. They still haven’t asked about my book. Books now. And I don’t expect they ever will. They don’t want to read them and get to know what I’ve bled upon those pages.
So I stopped trying. I had sent them pics of my son and I every week or so since I got back from Idaho in February. After leaving my Stardust and losing the forever family we were building I tried to grow closer to my parents and sister. I asked if I could see them for lunch. I asked if I could bring my son around to share family time. I really was trying to have a relationship with them. I’ve tried for ten years. I’m tired of trying to make them love me. I give up.
I just won’t see my son around my family or have those life experiences with him. With them. They won’t get to know how wonderful a person I am. We won’t get to talk about growing older and memories. I don’t get any of that. They don’t either.
As I piece my life together alone, sober, and completely happy, they won’t be a part of it and it destroys me. As I progress into building the adult I should have been twenty years ago all they will remember is that broken child. The one who was mentally disturbed by the cult they raised her in to the point that she cut herself, cheated on her husband, and became an alcoholic. I made those choices. I own that person and those decisions and what came of them.
And she’s all they’ll ever know.
I hate that cult.
A Burd in Flight 