It’s Sunday morning. Richard’s alarm is going off for probably
the third time, but dang it! I couldn’t fall asleep until 3:00 am. Just five
more minutes…
“Come on Dasha. It’s time to get up. Church starts in an
hour.”
I dread those words.
Both the waking up, and that I should
be going to church.
“Five more minutes,” I grumble to my hubby as I try to drift
back to sleep. But Corbin is now fussing. Hubby shifts to get him and now I am
awake, but I refuse to open my eyes.
I don’t want to go to church. I would much rather stay in
bed and sleep. Come on, Daria, you know
you should get up and dressed.
But even I have a hard time convince myself to go. I will
admit it, I hate going to church.
Putting on real clothes is hard enough, and even then, I
only do it so don’t scandalize the neighbors when I water my plants or check my
mail. I need to pick out a dress, one that will allow me to be in any number of
awkward positions while I take care of my son and all his squirmy needs. I also
should probably do something with my hair, mostly so my son doesn’t rip it out
in chunks with his superhuman baby strength. There’s no time to do my makeup
though, so I just get to go looking like a zombie in a bright pink dress
because I’m still super tired.
We sit in the foyer so Corbin can roll around on the floor
and because we’re late, as usual. The talks given are all about something
positive like loving others, but most of their stories are already ones I’ve
heard before from similar talks or repeated from general conference.
Sunday school comes. Corbin’s asleep. Yay! Oh, we’re all
taking turns reading a verse in the most boring monotone voice possible, and
when questions are answered all I hear is, “when I was on my mission.” Oh… well
I never served a mission. Guess I will never know what “insert topic of
discussion” feels like. My sarcastic inner dialogue becomes more sinister.
Then comes my least favorite part: Relief society. This
makes me sad as much as it makes me uncomfortable. I should feel comfortable
and at ease. But I don’t have many friends in my ward. Not many, if any, of the
women here know who I am, since I was so sick during my pregnancy, and I’ve had
such a hard time coming to church since Corbin was born. So I just sit alone in
the back, thankful that Corbin is asleep on the floor as an excuse for me not
to move.
I have a really hard time with the personal stories and ideas
shared. Somehow even though I know these people are real, with real struggles
and expectations, I can’t help but feel like everything is fake. Everything at
church just feels like a fairyland.
Now don’t get me wrong, I believe in the doctrine, but I
have a harder time with the people. People are flawed, as one of my favorite
general authorities once said “Imperfect people are all that God has to work
with.” I definitely know I am one of those imperfect people.
But it’s still doesn’t change that church is hard. Cause for
me, church meant a place of renewal and a reminder that God loves me. However
it has since lost that feeling. Doesn’t mean the doctrine’s changed. It just
means that I have changed.
See, church is now an added stressor to my social anxiety.
It’s no longer refuge, but a stage for which my parenting skills are displayed
and my ability to act human is observed. Is that true? Probably not, but my
panicking brain doesn’t know that. All it knows how to do is panic.
At the simplest level, I have a hard time going to church
because I have a hard time believing that God loves me. It’s selfish, and
childish. But that doesn’t make the feeling go away. It doesn’t make the fear
that everything that makes me feel like I can cope with this messed up life of
mine will be ripped away. And that fear makes me angry.
Angry enough that I’d rather deal with disappointment from
my husband than face something that just feels like eyes watching me, where my
sarcasm is sometimes the only thing keeping me from shouting at everyone to stop
pretending that they are perfect for one freaking minute. So here I am, ranting
and letting the world read this.
It’s a complicated feeling to believe in something while hating it at the same time. It’s not anyone’s fault that I feel this way. It’s how I’m seeing the world right now. Hopefully I can learn to let go of my anger and my fear. Hopefully I can find peace in enjoying the good things while I have them. Until then, I’m going to simply do my best, even if I do look like a zombie in a bright pink dress.
