The Tie That Binds

Severing ties is difficult under any circumstances. For a person such as myself who does not form bonds casually, who invests a great deal of emotional energy in attachment, it's especially difficult. Saying goodbye is a great strain. Severing ties—that is, saying goodbye on purpose and forever—is heartbreak.

I've rarely in my brief existence had to cut an entire person out of my life. Never have I had to cut out an entire institution. But it's what I have to do now: I'm leaving my lifelong church.

I don't really know what I'm doing, frankly. I don't know if I even have the resolve for an endeavor like this. I place a very high value on forgiveness. I view it as an important tenet of love: "Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us." I forgive all that I can, even though I never forget, because forgiveness is freeing. But I've wondered what my threshold is for trespassing. How much abuse can I take until it's healthier to stop forgiving? When does forgiving yet not forgetting lose its power?

When an institution you trust hurts you, it's damaging. Trust doesn't heal easily. Trust isn't resilient. And I've been hurt by the church more than a few times. It's damaged me each time, on so many levels. Each time, I've found reasons to nurse my trust back to health. Each time, I have reminded myself of the people there whom I need and who need me, and of my involvement in music there, and of all the memories and emotions I would have to leave behind. I spent twenty years there. That church raised me. That church brought me to faith. That church made me fall in love with music. That church brought me so much joy. That church also screwed me over and stabbed me in the back and broke me. And I can't take it anymore.

Things had been relatively good for many years since the last time I got stabbed in the back by clergy. We'd had run-ins, of course; I'm not super good at being compliant or submissive or even cooperative. The last time that the church really fucked with me, I was fourteen. I was a child in their eyes, and, to be fair, in most people's eyes, even though I comported myself as if I were older; the first time, I had just recently turned twelve, and the second, I was thirteen. I was fragile, and I was the property of my parents. On some level, I'm sure they still think of me as that child. I'm not a child at all anymore (my childhood actually died long before I turned eighteen, and that's another story, but I'm a legal adult now, too), but when I'm treated the way I was in those days, though, the child in me and the massive hurt she carries wakes back up. I can't put her through that anymore, and it's impossible to move on or grow up completely when part of you is trapped in adolescence. I'm realizing now that the only way to free myself from adolescence is to leave the people that trapped me there.

And it hurts. It hurts so deeply. It's a loss. It's estrangement. 

I could write for ages on the things I will miss. Unfortunately, I will probably have to use that time in therapy resolving the emotional, developmental, and psychological damage done. 

And that's how I know it's time to cut ties.