"Sacredness" of marriage

I know an LDS guy who is pushing 30 and is yet unmarried, a guy who recently brought a girl home for Christmas. Everyone wants this kid to marry the girl. As such, the two of them have been through a hazing. Initiation and all.

And you know, it's fun when someone you love is in a serious relationship. It's exciting.

That said, I have my thoughts about this particular guy, but I realize I could be wrong. Still. A single LDS man who hasn't (as far as I'm aware) gone on many dates and is pushing thirty...well. Flags raise.

Is that wrong? I've other hints I won't divulge here. Nothing huge, but hints.

Not that I'd care--but his family and friends and community sure as hell would.

So his family discussed his situation the other day. One declared he simply needs to "man up" and just ask the girl to marry him already. Everyone agreed. After all, he and his girlfriend are acting engaged. And they are. I guess. I suppose this is reason enough to put the ring on her finger already?

Who knows.

His father said his son has doubts, a lot of doubts. The kid knows what he needs to do, his dad said, but he's scared. It must be due to lovin' the single life, to freedom, to doing whatever he wants. Maybe it is. But maybe it's not quite that simple. After all, it's not as if he's out partying every night. He travels. He does charity work in South America. He's getting his master's degree. He works for the church. He has friends. You know?

But, his sister chimed, he loves children, and if he wants children he'd better do it now. After all, she has four children and she's only few months younger than he is. He'd better get to if he wants even one kid. If he waits too much longer, parenting will simply exhaust him. If he waits too much longer, kids will be out of the picture.

And forget children, they said. What of the marriage? All these people waiting to get married. Don't they know? The older you get the more set in your ways you become and therefore the less willing you are to compromise. "Man up" said that that's why you marry young, while you're still used to sharing with your brothers and sisters.

It's dangerous to wait until you know who you are before you marry someone because then you're an old dog who can't learn new tricks. In this situation, they reasoned, divorce is far more likely.

Nevermind that he wants to get married. Just maybe not to this girl. Maybe.

I bit my tongue throughout the conversation. So much was wrong.

If marriage is so sacred perhaps he ought to be completely certain he's ready for it. Maybe he ought to marry this girl because he wants to marry this girl. Maybe he ought to marry her because he loves her and wants to make a lifelong commitment--not simply to satisfy cultural, religious, and familial expectations.

After all, there will be kids to consider. The life of a girl he cares about. His own happiness.

His family has his best interests at heart. They want him to marry, to have children, to be happy. They think he's happy with her, that they're better when they're together. I have a feeling, though, that this girl could be any girl and his family would be foaming at the mouth for him to marry her.

Their rationale just sounded so selfish to me. The whole thing was striking given the sanctity of marriage schpeal I've heard so often over the last few years.

Some girl, any girl, JUST MARRY A GIRL.

You know?

I'm not about to say this family is completely wrong. They know him better than I do, but I have a different lens with which to view him. A lens not skewed by the church.

It just bothered me. So much for sanctity. After all, he's running outta time. For god's sake, soon enough he'll be part of the "Single Adult" group--*shiver*

Isn't that reason enough?

Thoughts?

My grandpa died today.

Historically, I don't handle death well.

After today I wonder if that is just something I've always told myself. Truth, it has always been the idea of death that I didn't handle well. The idea that one minute they're there, the next they're gone. I'm horribly nostalgic, too. It's also the mystery of death. The thought about the pain that goes with it. The last, secret moments before relief.

I received the phone call on Thursday or Friday about his having a stroke and being at the hospital, how it was "not looking good." They said if I wanted to come, then I needed to come now. I couldn't. I've had bronchitis for a while and didn't think the hospital would smile on me coming down to see him and I didn't know if I'd just make things worse by doing so. The next day I was so out of my mind it scared me. I wasn't able to stand for more than five minutes until today, so when I was told he was on life support but that they were pulling the plug, there was little I could do.  But I'm pretty sure my stepmom at least faulted me to some degree for not coming more quickly. It wouldn't be a lie to say that a part of me hesitated to go, but I've done a lot of thinking lately and, with Eric's help, began to look at this situation from a different angle.

Besides, my grandma and my dad--I needed to be there for them. I cannot imagine losing my husband or my father. I wanted them to know I was there for real.

So when my sister texted me earlier today to tell me his respiration was failing and his extremities growing cold, I called my mom and asked her to watch the kids for us while. We left at approximately 1pm. I didn't know what I was getting myself into. I prefer privacy when it comes to saying goodbye to somebody--something I'd only done once before, but then my aunt was more alive than dead (she had stage 4 cancer and liked to put on a show of strength for everyone). I also told myself he'd probably pass as we were on our way, and then what was the point?

But there was a point. I just wouldn't know until I was there.

My mom and Eric asked me if I'd regret not going. I knew I might. I thought about my grandma--she has a ton of land with a small farm quite a distance from town, and she's living with her abusive and possibly certifiably insane daughter. At 75, it feels far too much for her.

We walked in the room at about 2pm. I made my way to the side of his bed and watched him. I thought he was asleep. Alive, but asleep. His eyes were closed, his mouth agape. The nurse was there. It took me a moment to figure out what was going on. I quite literally missed him by about two minutes, if not less. It broke me up that we missed him by just seconds. Stories were told about his last days, his last moments, things I wished I could've been there for. Apparently just before he passed he moved both his arms up, something that surprised the family as he was brain dead on the left side and assumed paralyzed.

I've never seen a dead person before. Ever. I've refused viewings, all of that. I didn't want that to be my last memory of the person. I've also not lost very many people close to me. Two, maybe. Maybe.

Eric, having used the bathroom, came in a minute or so after I did. I didn't know if I should've said it out loud, but I did before I really knew what I was saying. "We're too late," I said. That was a hard reality to face.

See, this past holiday season we had opted to visit Eric's mom. It wasn't a big deal for Thanksgiving, so much, but Christmas. I had a feeling it'd be his last. You just don't suddenly deal with mini-strokes and dementia and falling down all over the place (to the point you're put in a nursing home temporarily) and not be swiftly on your way out. Even knowing that, though, I didn't go. First it was a matter of "I don't want to," but no decisions were made. I didn't want to deal with that side of my family--they can be rather labor intensive at times. When we discovered we had no money for gas, the decision, I figured, was made for us.

Besides, I think I figured him to last longer than this.

My dad and my grandma sounded terrible on the phone when I spoke to them only a few days before, but here in the hospital room they were putting on their stoic faces. My dad was taking care of all the crapwork--answering questions, that sort of thing. My grandma was talking about other things but if you looked at her close enough, you could see she was suffering. His death means a lot of things. She kept saying she didn't know where to begin, that this was a nightmare (she walked out of the room for just a moment, and when she returned he was gone). My dad tried to be strong, but every now and again his words and actions would belie him. Five or so minutes after we arrived, my dad went to my grandpa and shook his shoulder, saying "It's okay, Dad. It's really okay." I spoke with him right before we left and asked how he was doing. He said he figured his would be a delayed reaction. He also spoke of taking a moment during a trip to her house to look at all the things my grandfather had made. They used to go cut wood together. He's resigned himself now to not do that anymore. It's sad for me to hear that--every year they did it. They were great friends. If I can say anything about my father, it is this: he is amazing when it comes to taking care of his family.

My grandfather was a Korean war veteran and a machinist. He astounded me with his knowledge. He had his own little saw mill where he could take tree trunks and make 2 x 4s. He made his own nuts and bolts. His garage is something to marvel at. My dad has no idea how they're going to get through it all.

Everyone, of course, began to guess what my grandpa was up to now that he was gone. "He's probably meeting a lot of people right now," they said. "Probably eating a whole load of cookies." "Got a platter of food, I'll bet." Stuff like that. My grandma talked about how some people, right before they die, are reported as smiling and/or waving, or saying hello to themselves, how if that doesn't prove an afterlife she doesn't know what does. Of course I let her have this. I let them all have this. As for me, I didn't believe it. I just didn't.

Same goes for looking at his body. My SIL, after seeing her friend's dead son at his viewing, told me that it was a good experience--she, too, had balked at such things before. She said it reaffirmed to her that our bodies are mere shells. She could tell his spirit was gone. I spent some time looking at my grandfather, wondering if I saw and felt the same thing. I didn't. Other than the lack of breathing, it just seemed like he was in the room. He wasn't, and I knew that--I felt that--but it wasn't like something was missing. If I didn't think about it, he was just sleeping.

I also kept looking at him because I knew I wanted to go touch him and say goodbye. I had asked my dad over the phone yesterday to kiss him for me, but I wasn't sure he'd do that. Besides, I was there. Everyone else would take his hand and kiss his forehead. I wanted to, but I was absolutely terrified. I spent our entire visit debating with myself. I knew I'd regret it if I didn't, but I was afraid of rigor mortis and the cold of the dead.

Right before we left, I determined to approach him. I kissed him on the forehead. I think I said something but I don't remember what it was. I worried for a moment about my hair falling into his eyes but remembered straightaway that it didn't matter anymore. His skin was cold to the touch, but it wasn't a special kind of deathly cold. It was just as if he needed a blanket.

There's something comforting to me about just knowing that he was gone. Not that he, individually, was gone, but I wasn't worrying or speculating over what his spirit was doing or where he was. I didn't wonder about him being in the room with us, as my mom tried to reassure me he was (because we were too late). He was just gone, and it was up to us to make something good of it. It gave me a sense of strength I hadn't felt before.

I've thought a lot lately about being honest with myself. I fight with myself about Jesus--not so much god anymore, but Jesus. I'm holding on to threads, just like I did with Mormonism, but I think deep down I just don't believe. I have the door cracked, of course, but mostly I don't believe. And that's okay.

I'm going to miss him. I keep thinking about how he played "this little piggy" with my cousins and I when we were just little. He and my grandma weren't in a happy, loving marriage but they stuck together. He took great care of her and she of him. For a long time he didn't come with her to family get-togethers, and if he did he was quiet. He'd speak with my dad and my uncle out in the garage, of course, but in the home he was in his seat, sleeping. The last few years he became much more sociable. It was fun to see him that way.

I'm sure there's more to say. This is probably more for me than you, but that's okay. This is my journal.

I'm gonna miss him, but mostly I'm worried about my grandma. I'm sure that's okay. As for myself, I'm pretty proud. I fought through a lot to do what was best.

My Idea, Part 2

I did my thing. And I immediately had a sort of panic attack about it--which is entirely too par for the course this week.

A few days ago I signed up to have my status hijacked by the Human Right's Campaign. Three times they did their whole "NCOD is coming up, here's a little bit of depressing and enraging trivia about society's treatment of GBLTQ people."

I decided that, today, I'd just put my little announcement up as a comment to that. Which means I couldn't privatize the status.

I freaked out, totally regretted it at first. Because, you know, I don't think I want my stepmom to see that. She might ask about it in her own little "hahahaha, lisa, are you kidding? want a girlfriend lisa? hahaha" and will never fucking leave me alone. Which means I'll have to say something rather cutting because sometimes that's the only language she understands.

And then other people, like my dad, will find out and who the fuck knows who else. I don't necessarily care if my sister finds out, but shit. My dad can be an ass about this stuff.

Thought about deleting it. I'm over that now.

Honestly I was thinking about not doing it after all.

I'm just not that brave, y'all. It seems I am a bonafide wimp. And it's not like I'm saying "Hey, I dig chicks and not dudes"

Nonono. Just "Hey, I dig dudes for the very most part, but every now and again I have crushed on a girl."

WHY IS THIS A BIG DEAL?!

Seriously, I checked out the Mormon Missionary calendar the other day because I've never really looked at it. Some of those guys--not bad, not bad at all. A few of them /fans self.

The women? None. Meh. None are my type.

That said, check out Kiley's post over at We Were Going to be Queens (loooove the title). I guess there's something about how your index finger compares to the length of your fourth finger. If yr index is shorter than yr fourth, all signs point to some degree of gay. Mine is just a little shorter.

I'll give you a minute to check your own fingers.

Either way what I did was initially terrifying. I'm getting over it.

Also, I'm not sure if I'm a 1 or a 2. It's hard to say. I put 2 though. Then one. Ugh. I don't know if I wanted to say that because it's less terrifying or because it's actually true. Hard to say. I can only think of 3 girls IRL I've been really attracted to in my entire life, enough to be considered a bonafide crush (and I still feel like I need to say this: IT IS NOT YOU) and a few celebrities and whatnot. It didn't start until high school and then I spent a good part of my life in the crutch where I just rarely thought about it because it's badbadbad. So it's hard to say.

Hm.

I think I'm a two. I think 1 is more "eh, maybe once."

It's a bit more than that for me.

This was supposed to be a step in the direction of a greater acknowledgment of self. Publicly. You know, be proud. Stand with my friends. Who the fuck cares. Lookit all the preaching I've done.

I feel a bit pathetic, but at least I'm working on it.

What I Believe

A commenter suggested a few posts ago that my hesitance to send in my resignation letter might have something to do with a (however minute) belief in the supposed truth of the church.

It might have--okay, it did--at first. But that hesitance to stop going to church was born out of fear that it might be true. And I've never believed in doing things out of fear--dates way back to when I attended my dad's assembly of god church. They loved striking fear into you. It was a good motivator. The end, they say, justified the means. So I stopped going.

Part of what drew me to the LDS church was the lack of fear-inducement. At least I didn't see any then, and I still believe it's not nearly as bad as I've seen or experienced.

I have said a few times why I hesitate, but I'll say it again: I don't like letting go of comfortable, familiar things. I don't like disappointing people who I love and who have been nothing but good to me. This is not the same demand for independence as what joining was. If anything, I have been resistant for this level of independence. If I leave the church, I'll lose its best people. So far so good, but I have lost one that matters. And that in the beginning of my disaffection.

I set a standard for myself in my first year of membership. I was a "golden convert." My patriarchal blessing said my family would chill out and, I thought, maybe join. It said I would bring many people into the church. I had told my best friend and my roomie that I never saw myself leaving. I was committed. I belonged. People thought I was a member before I joined. I would trust in god. He knew better. I believed that much.

But ultimately I joined the church because i "knew" it was true. I had read the Book of Mormon before joining. I had prayed. I had even been to the temple, gone to church, etc. I had a friend who met with me at a pizza joint semi-regularly to talk with me about the gospel (he was a recent RM in my English 1A class and /swoon! i had a crush--but i was determined to not join because of him. and i'm proud to say i didn't)

It's hard to just decide one day that it's all bunk after hearing time and time again that it's not and even preaching that certain things are not of or are against god. Knee-length skirts/shorts. Coffee. Caffeine (Eric and I switched positions on this a few times). Tea. Keeping the Sabbath "holy."

I was a pain in the ass for my family on many of these points. I freely admit that. After all, I was right, even if it seemed wrong or weird or nonsensical. God's ways are mysterious.

See, I had decided the summer before I met Squeaky that I needed to find a church and also began reading the Bible again--from the beginning. I would read certain passages and think "Gah, that's just wrong..."

and then,

"But if it's what God says, then who am I to argue?"

It was a measure of my maturity, I thought. I was 18.

So that gives you an idea of my mental mindset. If it's right, it's right and who the hell am I to question? I know nothing!

Throw in Squeaky and you have some serious evidence that I should consider this church. So I did.

Once I had my experiences and various so-called confirmations of the LDS church, I allowed everything else to fall into place. I didn't get the coffee/tea thing, but whatever, I thought. Doesn't matter. And besides, Joe Smith was right about tobacco before they knew it was bad (right?), so maybe there is something about coffee and tea that science doesn't yet realize is really really bad for you.

That deep-seated belief--the fact--that we don't know everything today is the main reason I consider myself agnostic.

The more I realized I knew nothing the more I realized we know nothing. I learned that those in positions of "divinely appointed authority" were just as messed up in their thinking as anyone. Anyone under direct guidance of a good, loving, fair god would never condone slavery (Brigham Young), would never say such awful things about the African-American race, suggest the Native Americans needed to be white, say gay people needed to marry straight or have electroshock therapy and later soften it to "just be celibate."

A loving god would demand equality of his people and never stray from that, no matter what society at large thought at the time.

A benevolent god period would never change his mind to suit the whims of his people if the following is to be believed (and it is, I hear it so often in the LDS church at least): "Same yesterday, today, tomorrow, and forever" right?

I don't just see this thread in the LDS church. I see it in all Christian churches.

I still pray sometimes when I'm especially scared. I don't know who I'm praying to, but I do. I do it out of hope that there is someone there watching out for me. I am thankful when bad things don't happen to me or my own. It feels incredibly selfish ("thanks for saving my kid instead of those other kids"), but I do pray.

It might be waning, but I have a hope in a god. I have a hope in the afterlife and in seeing my family. If there is a god, I have a hope he/she/it will know my heart and judge me based on that. I do not believe that the road to hell is paved with good intentions. Whatever hell is.

If there is a god and he/she/it is willing to toss me aside because I'm not good enough, I don't want shit to do with god anyway. Nobody needs to be told they're not good enough, especially when they spend their lives doing nothing but trying to be good.

That said, if there is nothing but this, I am even more thankful for what I do have. I realize I have to embrace it now because one day I won't have it. They won't have me. If there's nothing after this life, it won't matter anyway. I'll be gone. Eventually my husband and kids will be gone. Such is the way of things.

(I don't know how to tell my kids this, though. I don't want them to be scared.)

I think of it like this: I don't remember jack from before I was born. I figure death will be the same kind of nothingness.

Yet sometimes I can't help but feel eternal. I don't know if it's because I just am or because I've been taught all my life that I am.

I don't believe. I don't have a "sure knowledge." We can't know everything. I'm not entirely convinced we can know anything. My agnosticism may turn into atheism. It may remain. I may become a theist or whatever. I don't know.

But anyway, if I have any hope or faith--if that hope or faith isn't in god--it's in that everything will work out.

This lack of belief gives me motivation to make the most of this life. To chase my dreams. To be more. To love my family more. To make a legacy. To have faith in myself. Things I never felt motivated to do or be as a believer. I was told time and again that god loved me, but it didn't really feel like it. I was put in a box. And as a parent (remember, we're told God is our Father and loves us as one), I've no plans to micromanage my kids or to place conditions on my love for them. No plans to ever let them think they're unworthy of me. That's not love. That's tyranny.

This life is a gift. It doesn't matter from what or whom, it just is.

I'll let the rest figure itself out.

Letter Pros and Cons

So I haven't made it any secret that writing the letter of resignation is a def possibility in my future. It wasn't until I was able to say that publicly that I seriously considered it, and it wasn't until the Church's official response to Judge Walker's ruling on Prop 8 that I decided it was probably getting to be time.

For me, it's a matter of disingenuousness.

That's not a word, but work with me here, people.

Though we began some serious questioning even back in 2005, I think (right after April conference, if you'd believe it), we didn't get active about it until three years later. In 2005, however, I went to renew my temple recommend. It was always such a pain in the ass thing to do as it was with our schedules, but with the nagging questions and impressions it made it that much harder to do. But we did. It was the last time we would.

I have always had this thing of being honest to a fault, so when my bishop asked me the questions I was pretty honest. I dunno about 100% intellectually honest, but I did my best.

...until we hit the "Do you believe/know/whatever that Joseph Smith blah blah blah?"

I told him I wasn't sure about that anymore. He told me I should watch more BYU-TV and gave me my recommend. I didn't bother telling the stake president about my issues after that. Whatever, yeah?

Besides, I was pretty pissed for being dismissed like that. I was in tears because I was so scared the church wasn't true and I get this. BYU-TV, are you fucking serious?

The temple became interesting after that.

Anyway, fast forward to 2008ish and we're in a new ward. It's after Prop 8. I had my last blog up. I wasn't looking to leave but I could see it coming. My bishop knew nothing of this--or maybe he did. Not sure now. The timing is all blurry. This may or may not have been after I had my pointless "Tell me please why I should vote yes" talk with my bish. That was a fun talk. Srsly. Also good PR for me. I could tell people I not only prayed about it but I cleared it with my bishop.

Which is stupid.

But I did. I wanted him to give me one good reason to vote, and he didn't. I walked out more sure than ever to vote no.

I have to give the guy credit, though. He didn't say I was apostate for voting no when teh prophet said otherwise.

But I digress. Either before or after that, I was called to be a 5th Sunday Relief Society teacher. Or 4th. Whichever one has me teaching from General Conference talks. Doesn't matter, I had to teach.

I love teaching. I always have whenever I've been given the opportunity to. I'm not always good about it, but when I relax I like to think I've a talent. So I accepted the calling even while knowing I may not be able to stand behind the things I'd have to teach--I mean, if I had to teach something akin to "Mother's Who Know," I'd bust a vein. And I'm only slightly exaggerating.

If only I knew of the blogosphere back when that hack of a talk happened, I would've been better off. Felt very alone in my hatred for that talk.

Right. Tangent.

So my first talk comes and I do my best to make it (a) something I could swallow, (b) not cliche and (c) something edible for the women while also being a bit, if only a drop, fringe.

I succeeded.

The second talk came and I really, really struggled. I don't remember which talk it was based off of, but it had something to do with activity or sustaining or something stupid like that. I did my thing and it wasn't as good as my first lesson.

I couldn't take it anymore. I felt like my skin was crawling. I called my bishop and asked to be released. Of course he wanted to know why, and with my "honest to a fault" crap, I told him. I outed myself. He wanted to visit with me, but the appointment was made unknowingly on Back to School night and--sorry, bish, my kid comes first.

We never rescheduled. He never said a word to me. The Relief Society President came to me on two Sundays wanting to help me. It didn't seem to me that she knew I was looking to become inactive because she said something about knowing my life was too crazy for this shizz, so she offered to have me be on the less demanding (?) enrichment committee.

I gave it thought over the hour of RS but only because I didn't want to disappoint this woman (I hate disappointing anybody), but in the end I knew I couldn't do it. Not with a clear conscience. Besides, I didn't want to be in church anymore. I knew the anchor of a calling would only drag me further to the bottom. Besides, church bugged the fuck out of me. So I told her no. And it was weird, mostly for her. The look on her face--No?

It's foreign, I know. Maybe I should've tried speaking louder, slower, or in sign language. Though I think I did shake my head as well.

We moved soon thereafter, and that's when we decided we were done. It took us a few weeks to decide finally that we wouldn't even go once (because then you REALLY attract attention), but we did decide.

So now we're looking at the resignation letter, and I'm met with the same feelings. I can't help but feel that, if we stay, we are expressing passive support of the church and its doings. We are counted among the membership even though we don't go and don't believe. We retain the title for whatever intents and purposes, LDS/Mormon. We also, however, get the benefits whatever they may be. If any. We never liked using them anyways.

Just as I didn't feel right teaching lessons to these women I couldn't stand behind (even though I thought I could help them think about things differently), I don't feel right staying in a church I cannot stand by.

So I spoke with Eric last night about it, and he brought up an interesting point. There have been benefits of our lazy membership within the church. It's called getting a job.

The community here is saturated with LDS people. They're literally everywhere. And Eric is sure a few someones gave him a good reference. The parents of LDS kids want their kids in his classes--and they're good kids.

Like it or not, people do associate positive things with members of the church. And here, the idea that the church was so involved in supporting Prop 8 wasn't an issue. Everyone else here supported Prop 8, too.

So he's worried about what may happen once we officially remove our records from the active church files (they never really destroy yr records). And it's a real concern. While he's one of the only teachers at his school with a single subject credential in math, he isn't tenured yet. Next year. And that may not even matter. Every year the budget is cut so that they have to lay off a ton of teachers. We got the initial pink slip this past year before he was "rehired"

And we figure he gave two years of his life to this church plus I-don't-want-to-know how much money and time, so what the hell.

But I don't know. As his initial worry about his family and friends' reactions went away, I think this one will too. Maybe after he's tenured. But then I have to wonder about myself when I'm ready to get a job.

It's incredibly selfish, I'll give you that, but it's practical. I guess. I'm just not so sure we should give that much weight to this theory that being and growing up LDS helped him get the awesome teaching job.

What say you?

Of Leaving My Tribe

I just now read a post from Urban Koda over at Koda Think Tank entitled "Looking Back." In the post, he speaks of not understanding fellow apostates (such as myself) who struggle with leaving because they feel that the church is and will always be their "tribe," that in some ways they don't foresee disassociating completely with the Mormon title.

I've written a lot about having those feelings lately. To be honest, a large part of me hopes that'll change. Another part of me doesn't want them to change. And I envy Koda's feelings of detachment to a degree.

The thing for me is, the church was the first place I ever felt truly and genuinely welcomed. Not by the leaders--they bugged me with their fawning--but by people my own age. I had friends who didn't grow up with me (small town, anyone?). It was amazing. And they were so nice. They didn't make fun of me for being so straightedge. I actually got out of the house for the first time ever. These were people I trusted, and I needed them to help me cut the cord from my mama, from my family.

In the church I was praised for being right. It appealed to my inner martyr. I found mother figures, father figures, sisters, brothers, etc. People who carved a place for themselves into my heart forever. People I am terrified of disappointing. People whose respect and love I am terrified of losing.

But so far so good. Eric's family has been pretty amazing. His father has been good, though he likes to make snide comments, once telling us that instead of shopping on a Sunday we should've been in church. And his father hates Eric's beard. Can't go without saying something derogatory. Eric laughs. He began this beard because he wasn't teaching, it was summer. Now he thinks he'll keep it, both to spite his father and to prove to his family that guys with beards aren't scary. Besides, he likes it.

His mother has hardly changed since our kids ratted us out. Even complimented my legs one day when I wore--gasp--shorts.

I felt like I found a home when I joined the church. I found a family in a few ways--literal and figurative. Leaving feels like I'm leaving them. A part of myself. I don't do well with leaving comfortable, familiar places. Places that comforted me and validated me. Tradition and structure.

It's hard to reject that totally. The church did a lot of good for me. It hindered me loads, but it did lots of good for me.

This place outside the church is unfamiliar (as an adult), lonely, and a little scary for me. So I waver. Even though I discovered after becoming a "young married" that I have nothing in common with 99% of the women in the church, I can't help but feel I'm losing something. Even though I guess I'm really not. Fake friendships, maybe? Obligatory people who are willing to "serve" because they feel they should? People so intent on looking perfect they seem inhuman?

I dunno.

When I joined the church, being Mormon became everything about me. And now I don't know how to be an adult who isn't Mormon. I didn't associate with non-members with, like, one exception. It was everything I was--and not to be overly dramatic, but how do you fully disassociate with your bones, you know? your blood?

Further I had people at my back when I joined and my family was fighting against it. I know I have Eric now, and you gotta know I'll take him without hesitation, but it's hard still. I don't know where I belong anymore. How to fit in. How to act.

So this shit is scary. And awkward.

But it should be good. Even if it is a bit of a trial by fire. I'm willing, just hesitant.