In this blog, our new Trauma Ambassador Hazel explores what trauma means for her in relation to her religious upbringing and her feelings about her gender.
“I have read other blogs from Trauma Ambassadors, and I will be honest here; I do not know /understand what a blog is.
Having read all of the stories, I can hear and feel the pain of what you all have been through. I then ask myself where I fit into the narrative.
Some of you have had trauma inflicted on you by others; some have grown up knowing trauma in your lives. I guess that a good place to start would be my own early days.
The young child was in the classroom where we had been learning our ABC’s. The teacher wanted us to use our newly learnt writing skills.
“I want you to write about what you watched on TV last night” (television had now become part and parcel of everyday life). The child hid his face as he started to cry. No one noticed as they bent over their books and started to write.
The teacher started walking around the classroom offering words of encouragement, until she came alongside the child.
“What’s the crying for, big boys don’t cry?” The boy replied,
“We don’t have a TV.”
“Oh, why ever not? “asked the teacher.
“Television is wicked and worldly; we are not allowed to allow them into our house” was the reply. The teacher was taken aback.
“Well, what do you do after school” she asked.
“We go to meetings” he replied.
“Well, can’t you write about the meetings?” she asked.
I was that child. I could not explain; I had no idea what the meetings were about. I never understood a word. Plus, I wanted to be anything else than a ‘big boy‘.
This started my feeling of being different from everybody else, and consequently very lonely.
During this time of growing up, an occasion which was the highlight of my life happened. If only I was able to look into the future and see exactly how much.
I loved and respected my parents, and still do, but I never understood properly the attachment to the religious ‘order’ which I was born into. I suspect I never will. My father was not a stupid person, but he allowed himself to be influenced by others, and followed them, without questioning. They brought us children up to know right from wrong, and to respect our elders.
After a boring Sunday session sitting on hard, uncomfortable benches one afternoon in the meeting, not understanding a word of what the ‘brothers’ were talking about, we started to make our way ready to go home, when the most beautiful girl slipped a note in my pocket and ran off. I read the note, which said,
“I love you and I am going to marry you.” WOW.
Enough said, I made a fool of myself running up and down the high street, I could not believe it; I was instantly ‘in love’ for what turned out to be the first and only time in my life. She became my one and only. Much later on, I told this wonderful girl, Rachel, about my feelings and identity before we became engaged. I wanted to be honest with her, but she thought I would could be cured. She saw me as confused because the ‘order’ kept boys and girls separate, but she still wanted to marry me because she loved me.
But of course, my mother realised something was afoot, and on the Monday searched my ‘go to the meetings’ jacket and found the note. She then contacted the girl’s mother and asked her to stop her from sending silly notes to me.
If only I had known the joy and heartache that lie ahead.
But life goes on. My time in junior school was coming to an end, and the school planned a weekend away in the Lake District for the children who would be leaving for secondary school. We would be leaving on the Friday morning and returning Monday evening.
“How exciting”, I thought to myself, but when I told my parents, I was asked,
“What do you think will happen on Sunday when you should be at the meeting?”
I of course replied that a climb up Hellvellyn had been planned. I was then asked by my parents,
“Would you rather climb the mountain, than spend the day with the Lords Brethren?”
To me the answer was simple. But the outcome was a forgone conclusion, and upon contacting the local brethren in the Lake District area, no one was prepared to drive over to pick me up and deliver me back for the meeting, on The Lords Day. The Lords Day (Sunday) was the most important day which started at 9am (though later the leader changed it to 6am). It started with the ‘breaking of bread’ followed by ‘brothers’ praying or perhaps reading a quote from the bible. They believed that the ‘rapture’ would be sometime during this service.
Sunday would end about 6.45pm, by which time I would be tired out, having been sitting through ‘meetings’ all day, especially as I did not understand anything I was hearing. We then would have a gospel preaching and us young children would have to sit up the front and pay attention. The preacher would read us a lovely story such as David and Goliath, Moses in the bulrushes, Jesus calming the storm etc. and then the fire and brimstone would come;
“If you don’t believe you will be left behind!” I found it hard to believe.
So, I had to stay behind. I was the only child. I spent Friday and Monday sitting in the classroom, alone, lonely and confused, trying to find an answer to whether God want me to be alone. Was I such a wicked person to deserve such unhappiness?
I knew something was wrong with me; I had these thoughts/feelings going through my head. I could not talk about them, and I was so ashamed. I would sit in the meetings and long to be one of the girls with their long ponytails and pretty dresses. But no, they were not for; I was condemned to long trousers and sensible shoes.
Many were the nights I would wake in the dark and listen to hear if anybody was there; had the ‘rapture’ occurred taking all my family and the ‘brethren’ to Heaven, leaving me alone bound for Hell? This is why as a child I was terrified that I would be left behind when the rapture came; because I was a sinner. How could I expect to be allowed into Heaven when I was a boy who wanted to be a girl? This feeling has never left me.
Was this trauma?
You bet, for a young child it was. The brainwashing, the mental abuse, had begun!”
Hazel,
Trauma Ambassador