On the this the 10th anniversary of your freedom

[In the fall of 2004, I made the decision to leave the LDS Church I'd been raised in and I've never looked back. If you'll indulge me a bit of sincere emotion, here's some things I'd like to say to myself back then.]

You got this, girl.

Dear 21 year-old Lauren,

You are doing the right thing. I know it feels horrible and impossible, but you know in your heart (through your brain and emotions, not the Holy Ghost or whatever) that it's the right thing. It's time to stop being Mormon. Sure, you can never actually be completely un- or ex-Mormon if you were raised by parents who both have Mormon pioneer ancestors; it's a cultural thing. But you don't have to do this thing anymore. If you don't believe, you know it's wrong to fake it. So don't.

You know how you worry that you feel icky about trying to reconcile your newfound liberal political beliefs with church teachings? That shit disappears if you just stop trying to make cognitive dissonance work. Or you know how you wonder if deep down inside you're giving up Everything (family, eternal salvation, etc.) just so you can have sex with your boyfriend, and that's not a very good reason? Your family won't disown you! You'll stop believing in an afterlife anyway! Sex is great and totally normal to do with somebody you love when you are both consenting adults! Sex away! (Or rather, keep sexing, because we both know you took that plunge before you officially decided to stop going to church.) You know that heavy rock of anxiety, that sense of dread about the future you constantly feel because you fear you and your boyfriend can never get married because of religious differences and also the Second Coming is going to happen, like, any day now, so why bother making any plans? Let it go! First of all, you should never, ever marry your current boyfriend and you won't, thank the Sexy Gay Jesus, and also that other stuff is not real. Ten years in the future I can tell you that we're all going to drown due to climate change, sure, but Jesus has not yet returned to Adam-ondi-Ahman.

Remember in August, when your best friends from home and your awesome little sister drove out to Montana where you'd escaped another summer of depression, unemployment, and also your family to pick you up in a minivan with a kayak strapped to the top? And how at your crappy outside-of-Yellowstone campsite you seriously considered tasting some of that wine your friends were drinking, but didn't because your sister was there and you didn't want to make it weird? You and alcohol will get together. It's going to be a torrid and sometimes messy affair, but it will mostly be very, very fun even if your family and former church friends may worry you are an alcoholic because you don't think drinking is a horrible secret and/or that you are doomed because of your complete disregard for the Word of Wisdom. That is not a real thing. You're fine. Have fun with trusted friends.

And you know how worst of all, you feel like you're letting your parents down? Like, destroying them by not following the life plan they wanted for you? It's going to be okay. It's going to be awkward and scary for awhile, but they love you and will always want a relationship with you. You have built a support system outside of your family and you will be all right without their approval. You will go to therapy and time will pass and you will become more independent and trust yourself to do what's right for you, not what you think you should do. You will become (even more) awesome. You will be an adult and your parents will have to take care of their own feelings. It is normal to let them down, to choose a different path, and to disagree completely with them about how the universe works.* This is how many, many families function. You'll figure out how to relate as adults and you will not really miss the people-pleaser you once were, your parents' "golden child" for all those years. Not giving a fuck is the freedom you have earned.

You will, in fact, largely give up guilt once you stop going to church. It will be amazing. You will swear constantly, drink too much, have sex with numerous unsuitable (and/or just largely unknown) fellows before meeting someone way more awesome than anyone you know (or are dating) now. You'll stop feeling like there's something wrong with you because you've never aspired to the church's version of ideal womanhood. You'll become an unapologetic feminist and find a partner who is too. If you get married, it will be on your own terms. If you have kids, it will be the same. You'll no longer feel torn between supporting your queer friends and your upbringing. You'll never feel like walking out of a meeting because those leading it use the word "patriarchy" in a positive sense because you will never attend such a meeting again. You'll feel safe among your peers to make choices without the baggage of whether or not Jesus would do such-and-such or whether or not you can do some-other-thing and still go to the Celestial Kingdom. You've never really liked the idea that you had to spend eternity with your immediate family anyway, so it's a good thing it doesn't exist.

You are okay the way you are. You will always have to struggle with anxiety and depression, but don't believe your parents' hype: it's not sin and the absence of the Holy Ghost that makes you that way: it's genetics, it's luck, it's the everyday pain of growing up and separation, and it's a traumatic shattering of the world you've always known. But you're the one doing the shattering. Everything inside of you tells you this is the right move. Do it. Break everything, break yourself open and find New Lauren. New Lauren may not ever get her shit together, but she got this one thing right. Do it for us. You'll make it.

I'll see you,
31 year-old Lauren


PS- Enjoy vodka and orgasms.
PPS- Be patient, your sister will figure it out too in her own time.

*It's random, cruel, and meaningless, that is a fact--but some people like to make up comforting stories that say otherwise.

Random trivia-related haberdashery: Dolls and hair

A couple of weeks ago for trivia, Anne and I wrote a "Dolls" category, in which Anne reminisced about a childhood favorite of hers, "Dolly Surprise." I never had a Dolly Surprise, but I knew people who did. I don't think I ever felt that I needed a doll whose hair could be adjusted by cranking her arms. I always just opted to cut my Barbies' hair. Especially common was cutting off their bangs, because seriously, if you thought bangs on real people were out of control in the late '80s and early '90s,* you should have seen Mattel's interpretation. Anyway, I found a picture of Dolly Surprise and decided to randomly post it. Also included in that round: Chatty Cathy, Kewpie dolls, Cabbage Patch Kids, and Bratz, to which Anne referred to as "those slutty, big-headed dolls." Classic. We are pretty much the best trivia hosts ever.

ADDITIONAL ANECDOTE: When we were small children, my siblings and I were playing outside one day. Someone got a hold of a pair of scissors. My oldest brother was never implicated in any of the crimes, but let's just say my other older brother left me with un poquito bald spot in my ponytail and I left our little sister sans bangs. Being under the age of five at the time, I refuse to accept responsibility for my actions. Although there is like a year's worth of photos of my sister with these ridiculous extra-short bangs. Our mother was PISSED. Sorry about that, kiddo.


*Believe you me, my forehead got its fair share of curling iron burns before church, I can attest to the validity of that observation. DISCLAIMER: My mother was curling my bangs, not trying to burn my forehead in an abusive manner. On at least one occasion, however, she didn't notice and when we got to church fifteen minutes later, she was like, "Why are you crying, Lauren?" But as she always said, "It's better to look good than to feel good." Thanks for that, Mom. Thanks a lot.

Dear Abby: You kind of dropped the ball trying to help that nice fat lady

I guess nobody really wins this game, huh?

Don't get me wrong, my day feels incomplete if I don't read Dear Abby, the comics, and attempt the recycled NYT crossword puzzle in the Pioneer Press, but sometimes the Abb-ster really gets it wrong. On a lot of issues, she is refreshingly progressive, but once in a while I read her responses to letters and kind of want to cry. Like when she totally missed that a RAPE had been committed, or that column last year where she told that awesome rock-climbing chick to act more feminine and then maybe her guy friends would want to go out with her. Ka$h and I were so pissed off, we seriously discussed writing a response. But we probably got distracted playing the X-Files Drinking Game, and it never happened. Whatever. Yesterday's column certainly wasn't Abby's worst offense, but her response was certainly lacking. Here's the letter:

DEAR ABBY: Before her death, I promised my mother that I would not get fat like her. Now I'm finding it hard to keep that promise. Ever since we lost Mama, I have slowly gained a little each year. I have tried to lose, but all I do is look at food and I gain.

If this keeps up I'll become the size my mother was. Does that mean I failed her because I broke my promise? I feel so guilty. Please help me. -- JUST LIKE MY MAMA IN TEXAS

Dear Abby was pretty much just like, "Stop feeling guilty. Everybody gets fatter as they get older. But you should probably diet and exercise. Or maybe you have a binge eating disorder." I feel as though she could've been more helpful and/or affirming.

Let us break down all the things about this letter that are sad:

1. This lady's mom died. That sucks. Especially since it sounds like she wasn't very old.

2. There was obviously an unhealthy fixation on food and weight in this family for the mother to bring it up ON HER DEATHBED and force her daughter to promise not to get fat. Notice that there is no mention of the mother's weight being any sort of contributing factor to her ill health or death. Also, notice we have no clear idea of how "fat" is being defined in this woman's case.

3. Given that this poor woman is obviously fighting genetics by trying to stay thin, it's especially heartbreaking.

4. It seems as though the mother found a surefire way to guilt-trip from beyond the grave by extracting a promise whose fulfillment her daughter largely has no control over. I have to say that's not very nice.

JUST LIKE MY MAMA needs a big ol' dose of Fat Acceptance in her life. Please, JLMM, if you're out there reading this, a) you probably found me by Googling James K. Polk, and b) PLEASE go check out Shapely Prose. Seriously, that shit will change your life. I feel a little bit awkward talking about the whole Fat Acceptance thing since, well, I'm not really fat, and I feel like telling people who are fatter than me to accept their bodies makes me look like a self-righteous asshole. Sometimes I think that I'm not thin* enough, but then I remember that that is fucked up. I realize that since I fit most regular people's definition of "thin," I have never really experienced fat discrimination. But I do feel the pressure to be/stay skinny. I've never been super-obsessed, but I know I've still spent an unfortunate amount of time and energy hating my body. This is stupid. But we all do it. We're, like, required to do it, as women and girls. This doesn't make us stupid, but it does keep us from caring about more important shit.

Anecdotal section: My mother has been on a diet for as long as I can remember. As far as I know, she has never had an eating disorder and is basically healthy. BUT: she is a lifetime member of Weight Watchers, and that coupled with various scattered comments over the years makes it clear that she cares about her weight. And I know she cares about mine. She told me when I was about thirteen or fourteen (right when I stopped being a stick-thin kid and started thinking I was getting fat because my thighs were slightly thicker than rolling pins) that I would have a really big butt if I ever got fat. And though this may be an accurate observation, the fact remains that I remember to this day where we were (trying on clothes at an outlet store), and I immediately internalized the idea that my ass was big and damn, I better not get any fatter. Don't get me wrong, I don't want to blame my mom for some sort of nonexistent weight obsession, especially since I know we're all just reacting to outside pressure to conform to unattainable beauty standards. And I can thank The Sexy Gay Jesus that she would never be like JLMM's mom and try and make me feel like shit about a body type I inherited from her while on her deathbed.

BUT: I am still working on Fat Acceptance, even if my fat levels** are rather low. I mean, I know it's fucked up to enjoy the weight loss that comes as a side effect of my depression,*** but I do. So, what I'm saying is, Dear Abby, next time maybe you could direct people like JLMM towards something that can help them accept themselves for who they are, and learn to be healthy no matter their size, and to stop trying to live up to the ridiculous standards. The guilt has got to stop. Fat has no bearing on morality. Here, let me try:

Dear JLMM: STOP FEELING GUILTY. YOUR DEAD MOTHER IS DEAD. Your weight is nobody's business but your own, and mostly genetically determined anyway. YOU CAN GO AHEAD AND THANK YOUR DEAD MOTHER FOR THAT. I'm sorry for your loss, but she's gone and she shouldn't be able to make you feel bad about yourself anymore. Please learn to love yourself. And maybe admit that your mom kind of sucked.

Love and delicious baked goods and high-calorie fruity cocktails,
Lauren


BTW: My coworker just announced that she has 600 calories left for the day. That makes me sad.


*Or blonde! Obvs.

**Shut up, this is totally a scientific term.

***I've started calling the appetite suppression the "Depression Diet." Though Abby was right to mention disordered eating, especially since grief and depression does lead some people to overeat, though it doesn't sound like it applies in this case. It sounds like this woman's body is just doing what it's meant to do naturally, despite her mother's ridiculous dying wish.