Clare’s blog, aka rantspace

I’ve been musing on PSTD and its symptoms, and this may turn out to be a multiple-entry thread, hence the no.1 in the title. But this first entry I want to explain a rather obscure symptom described in the DSM as “a sense of foreshortened future”. Now that doesn’t mean that I can’t visualise a tomorrow. But someone once put it this way: suppose you thought that your life would end tomorrow, or the next day, or even in a week’s time, what would you do differently? Ironically, that question is often used by christians to spur them to greater obedience and witnessing activity (though it’s not usually asked as one’s own life ending, but Jesus returning). And the point is not dissimilar. It is this – that your priorities would change. You would do things differently, and you would place emphasis on different things. And that is the reality that PTSD sufferers live with. One might almost say their priorities are skewed, and in a way they are. Some things seem pointless, while others take on a disproportionate urgency.

From this skewed perspective, and looking at one side of its coin – why push yourself to do the vacuuming if you’re not going to be here to enjoy the result (or suffer the consequences)? Why make an effort to keep yourself healthy, or looking good, if in a week’s time it isn’t going to matter? But the second side of the coin is an urgency to getting things done. When a PTSD sufferer thinks that something needs doing (in other words, something moves to the top of their priority list), that sense of foreshortened future compels them to do it NOW.

And that’s what a “sense of foreshortened future” means. On the one hand, it brings a lethargy, an apathy, over doing things that would otherwise be merely part of life’s routine, or part of self-care, because the ongoing sense of purpose in them that would see them done is simply not there. But on the other hand, it brings an urgency to dealing with things – often very small matters – that can push the imbalance even further off-centre, as normal priorities make way for a compulsion that often makes little sense, even to the sufferer themselves.

Many people find it hard to understand the longterm effects of clergy sexual abuse on a victim, and particularly what effect it has on the practice of their faith.  In 20 years of telling my story to hundreds of churchgoers, only once have I ever had enthusiastic encouragement not to go to church when I described how painful it is.  The following was written by me as part of an email discussion with churchgoers, and seemed to be worth posting here.  As an Anglican victim, some of the things that bother me will be different to what is painful for a Catholic victim, and different again for members of other denominations and faiths, but I offer this as a small insight into the retraumatisation that happens when a clergy abuse victim goes to church.

There are two main problems for me in going to church: one is the language, building, atmosphere – the whole “church” experience – that makes it impossible for me to walk into church without feeling terror (literally).  The second problem is the attitude (which is intertwined with the theology).

The first problem – of language, building, atmosphere, etc – encompasses so much that church people take for granted.  A few examples:
1) the building itself.  Obviously, the more similar a church is to the one where I was abused, the more dangerous it feels, but it goes for any church.  Have you ever had a car accident, and been extra nervous at that spot the next few times you went through it, or even other spots like it? Multiply that a million times and you’ll begin to have a faint idea of what I mean.
2) closing my eyes to pray (and bowing my head, and kneeling [in churches where that happens]) are all danger signals for me.  This one sometimes isn’t too bad, because everyone else has their eyes closed so they don’t see that I don’t
3) the collection (or offering, if you want to call it that).  I choose not to financially support a system that abused me.  But when the plate, or bag, or what-have-you is passed along the pews, it is very obvious to those around you that you aren’t contributing.  And those who don’t contribute, by definition, are considered to be outside the clique that is the parish family.
4) passing the peace is a danger time.  I’m VERY protective of my physical and psychological boundaries when I’m in an unsafe space to start with, but it’s incredibly hard to make that point to people who think passing the peace is good.  I can’t shake hands, or say the formatted response.  I can manage a half-smile and a thankyou sometimes, but that’s it.  Mostly, the feeling of threat it carries for me will put me in tears anyway.  So I sit there, hoping people won’t approach me, and having to be rude and ignore their outstretched hand when they do come up to me.  (For churchgoers reading this – try it sometime!  Sit in your pew when everyone starts to move around to pass the peace, imagine feeling utterly terrified and profoundly vulnerable, and when people come up with outstretched hand, keep your arms folded, and don’t reply.  And remember that you’re doing it someplace where everyone already knows your character and won’t just assume you’re rude!)
5) the language – this is a much harder one to describe, but is partly about what I have learnt since to be dangerous (in predisposing a system to allow abuse within it) and partly about the forms of words that specifically remind me of the disparity between what I believed and what happened to me.  Hymns are good examples.  Ones that refer to god rescuing us from all ills, or god as father (my abuser was fatherly), or even particular hymns that I only ever really sang at the abusive church, will all leave me undone and crying, which is pretty damn embarrassing in a place where no-one understands, and mostly where they don’t want to know…
6) …which leads into the last thing: church people often (dare I say mostly?) have a huge emotional/spiritual investment in their beliefs and the system which undergirds it.  In fact, many many church people depend far more on the system than on the theology.  So if you threaten that system (either actually, by – for instance – going public with an abuse complaint, or in their mind, by telling one’s history of abuse by a minister) many of them are sufficiently turned off that at best they merely murmur a few platitudes and then make their excuses to leave you alone.  That’s a pretty powerful rejection.  Or worse, they try to talk you into coming back to church because “god can heal you if you just let him” (thereby subtly placing the blame for you not being healed squarely on your perceived resistance to god).

That’s a very longwinded, but still short, summary of the first problem.  The second problem, of attitude/theology is simpler to express: christians in general believe that Jesus is the way to god.  The degree to which they assert he is the ONLY way varies.  But the more they believe that, the harder it is for them to see that any variation on their belief is equally legitimate christianity.  In other words, they end up in a “so-and-so is in, but the other guy’s out” kind of mentality.  And the more important it is for them to define what constitutes acceptability, the less open they are to accepting those who, by their definition, are “out”.  And abuse victims, who by their own actions are perceived by the church community as threatening to the system, are deemed “out”, and are therefore excluded.

And this kind of defensiveness ends up being blind faith in the system and what it teaches, rather than blind faith in god.  A brief example: when I went public with my story, I was teaching scripture in the same school as some of the abuser’s congregants.  One of them, who was also a member of the abuser’s parish council, took me to task over going public (as most christians do – they’d rather not know!).  I challenged him to discuss my claims, and he said “it’s your word against his, and I’ll give double honour to an elder”.  Now, he hadn’t asked me what proof I had (sworn statements by other people of admissions the abuser had made to them, including another minister) and even when I told him, he preferred to defend the abuser.  That’s not faith in god, because god is about justice and integrity and honesty – it’s faith in the system and the system’s endorsement of the abuser as an ordained minister.

(And as for the system… in my case the abuser admitted it to the archbishop, but the archbishop never made that admission public, and then the church spent hundreds of thousands of dollars fighting me in court when they knew it to be true… and it took 10 years of being in the public eye and a change of archbishop before I even got an apology!)

If all this was only my experience, or if it had only been one short experience, I might still be in the church.  But it’s the experience of countless clergy abuse victims, in every denomination, and sustained over an unbelievable length of time.  Leaving ends up being a result of a) seeing that most church theology breeds that kind of person, plus b) choosing not to support that system, plus c) choosing to avoid hurtful people and situations.

Let me be clear that I’m referring to churchgoers in general here, not just clergy.  Though different denominations have different structures, and different ways of co-ordinating those structures, and even differing theologies, they all function in very much the same ways when it comes to crushing those who presume to question their goal/aim/theology/methods.  Shoot the messenger, discredit the messenger, stonewall the messenger, and silence anyone they can.  In the course of my life, I’d say the nastiest, most manipulative people I’ve met have been within the church, and the nicest, most compassionate people I’ve met have been outside the church.  That doesn’t mean I’ve met no-one good in the church, and no-one bad outside the church, but the sum total of good people in each has been heavily on the side of the non-churchgoers.  And I truly believe that much of the reason for that is the fear of churchgoers when I threaten their security, resulting in antagonism and bullying behaviour towards me.

One last point: staying in the system and working for change from within is a viable alternative for some.  I’m certainly not wanting to decry that option – in fact, I am tremendously encouraged by the few clergy I know who are doing just that.  But most of them, if you talk to them for any length of time, will admit that they too have become victims of the viciousness of the system-supporters, so it’s a very stressful option, and certainly one that most clergy abuse victims, with all the church-related pain they carry, can’t undertake.

This morning I woke from a nightmare about an argument with people from St David’s (the church where I was abused) about why I don’t go to church. And as I lay in bed with my nerves and pulse rate gradually steadying, I mused on what upset my equilibrium enough to cause the dream. It was this: yesterday, I had two encounters with conservative theology. Yes – that’s all it took to give me a nightmare. Therein lies the sting of PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder). People say “just get over it” without any idea of the longterm effects. Here am I – 25 years past the abuse itself, 10+ years since I began to realise its impact, including 5+ years of therapy. And it still causes me nightmares – in this case just from two simple encounters, neither of which were very important in themselves.

Encounter no.1: My daughter (17yo) announced that she was going to bible study to learn a bit more about what they keep referring to at youth group meetings. Now, I have to tell you that my daughter (in her own words a few years ago) “doesn’t do religion”. And I think that learning about a book that a) is a great piece of literature, and b) is constantly referred to in our culture (though not so constantly as it used to be), is a good thing. But the church through which she’s doing this is a Baptist one, and I know their theology is generally conservative. So alarm bells rang, because I know how insider conservatives would see her action. It would be “This is great! A non-Christian, who’s been coming to youth group for ages for the fun, is now starting to be led deeper into the joys of our faith in Jesus, and coming to bible study. The Lord is really calling her.” And they would step up their efforts to save her from hell, both through prayer and subtle pressure. And because I know just how hard it is to recover from years in conservatism, I was alarmed.

Encounter no.2: A Salt Shakers newsletter comment on the recent Anti-Discrimination Tribunal decision re homosexual foster carers was forwarded to an email list I belong to. Salt Shakers claims to be “an independent, trans-denominational ministry…dedicated to helping Christians understand the times (1 Chronicles 12: 32) and equipping them to be SALT and LIGHT in the community (Matthew 5: 13-16) by upholding Biblical values and by being more aware of the ethical issues affecting today’s society.” (www.saltshakers.org.au) Even that much would tell most churchgoers that this organisation has conservative beliefs. The fact that they began of Baptist origins is no surprise, therefore. (This isn’t meant to be an anti-Baptist rant – it just so happens that both incidents have Baptist connections.) The full decision of the ADT is available here but may be summarised as – Wesley Dalmar, an agency of the Uniting Church (UCA), refused an application from a gay couple to be foster carers. The couple alleged discrimination on the grounds of homosexuality, and the ADT upheld their claim – partly on the basis that, since the UCA has internal dissension on the issue of homosexuality, it can’t be construed as doctrine, and therefore isn’t covered by church exemption from the Anti-Discrimination Act.

This is part of Salt Shakers’ comment on the matter:
“This appalling decision, made by the NSW Tribunal, is itself blatantly discriminatory. It is saying that the long held religious beliefs and traditions are less important than the lifestyle choices of two men!… It also discriminates against the best interests of children. In many ways this decision is the Christian churches [sic] own fault because it has moved away from Biblical truth. This decision shows just how far this nation has moved towards calling evil good and good evil.
Initial analysis shows that:

And what worries me about this – and conservative believers in general – is the emphasis on sameness. “Everyone must believe the same thing, otherwise we’re in danger.” “If you don’t believe what we do, then you’re wrong/unsaved/going to hell.” “The Bible says…”, with no allowance for differing interpretations of what the bible means. Such emphasis on sameness, and pressure to conform, is the opposite of freedom and the antithesis of the joyous individuality that a religion ought to promote.

And getting back to my nightmare and the PTSD it springs from – it’s very hard to say how much of the PTSD comes from the abuse, and how much comes from the traumatic treatment by church members at a time when I was seeking to break free from the domination of conservative theology. But one thing I do know – that recovering from that kind of spiritual domination is extraordinarily difficult, and frighteningly long in process. Which is why I argue that such views, in their attempts to become mainstream through influence in politics, are far more dangerous than many non-believers would credit. Because religion mixed with a dose of fanatacism ultimately leads to war.