Broken Glass, or A Mobile Mosaic

Every now and then, I have this whole internal conversation where I wonder, yet again, what strange things my upbringing did to my psyche. Today, I was contemplating the terror implanted in every Good And Righteous And Godfearing Baptist (heh, just realized how appropriate that is, for the topic at hand), all through growing up.

See, I will argue to the death, however lightheartedly, that Catholic Guilt^TM has absolutely nothing on Baptist Guilt, which is so mind-altering that there aren't enough subversive/escaped Baptists out there to make it a culture-thing. See, Catholics, from what I understand, are told that the very act of procreation is a sin, so they're born of sin, into sin, to sin, etc. Baptists, on the other hand, are told something that I believe is -technically- more accurate, but in such a way, given the theology and psychology of the sect, as to be so, so much worse. Baptists are told that every human is born pure and innocent, but chooses to sin. On the one hand, I completely believe that babies are pure and innocent! Annoying? Yes. Ye gods and little fishes, they are annoying. But innocent.

But... that's not what I remember. Not "Ah, the innocence of babes," but "Oh my GOD, I chose to sin! I don't even remember it, but one of my first conscious acts was to choose disobedience and tip myself over into sin, rather than innocence! I am a MONSTER!" And... that kind of stays with you. That doesn't go away.

Baptist guilt. And, on the heels of Baptist guilt, Baptist terror. My family/church (the church, at the time when my conscious memory picked up, had just shifted from about twenty-thirty people who met in an elementary school basement to three or four (admittedly huge) families who met in the pastor's living room (and basement, for the kids)) believed rather strongly in The Rapture, and that it could come at any moment, and that you would, if you were not Ready, be *Left Behind^TM for... oh, what is it, seven and a half years? of horrible, horrible, HORRIBLE death and blood and pain and annhilation, wherein would be the constant temptation to just give in and join the Antichrist and his hordes, and if you did your life would be way easier, but also if you did, you would immediately be rejected from Christ forever and condemned to Hell (unless you later cut the Mark of the Beast, probably, according to what I remember, a microchip (HAHA! I just remembered! My mom used to rant about the chips they put in dogs, so that shelters the country over can return them to their owners by finding the chip on the computer network, and how they're a precursor to this! ...wow, she was fucking crazy), off, which meant either ripping the skin off your forehead, or cutting off your right hand, you could get back in.

...Anyway. When you're a Good And Righteous Baptist, you live in constant fear of not being good enough, of blaspheming unintentionally, of pissing off somehow the Vengeful god of the skies universe, who will strike you down and condemn you to hell if you show a sign of weakness.

The self-loathing that comes along with all that-- at least, it did for me-- is a topic for another day, and also a topic for a different, probably less public, forum. The thing is, sometimes I understand and empathize with Baptists, even the contemptible, detestable, and pitiable, Fred Phelps. ...Well, his congregation, anyway. He's just a... I don't know if there's an appropriate word (by which I don't mean "not profanity," I mean I honestly don't think the English language has a word for what he is, which I'm actually a little bit glad for. I like this language.) Because, you see, they're all terrified witless. They're afraid if they show a little empathy, a little care, a little, Heaven Forbid, love, to their neighbor, they'll be contaminated. God won't love them anymore, because they have Taken Sides Against His Doctrine, and they'll be condemned to eternal torment.

...For loving their neighbor.

And that's why I rant and rave and rail against most of Christendom, most of the time, and will still defend the religion itself to the death, quite literally, because another Baptist trait that seems to have embedded itself into my psyche is the irrational tendency towards martyr-worship.

Love thy God, with all thy heart, and all thy soul, and all thy mind. Love thy neighbor as thyself. And if you ask how to love thy God? "Feed my sheep." Not 'kill, maim, and destroy any who disagree with you,' not 'make everyone around you as miserable as you can,' but "Feed my lambs."

So... yeah.

This rant may or may not have been brought on by my frustration with my inability to do everything right the first try, or even the second, or by not having eaten more than a roll of bread and a brownie all day, (although the brownie was excellent-- woot for Starbucks) or by my sheer irritation at winding up as a manager at my second job, despite protesting to a friend, more than once, that I would only be dragged into a management job kicking and screaming, especially at that job.

Quoth she, earlier this evening:
(This was after explaining that I wished I could've just said no, but there's... nobody else. And I take some small comfort in the fact that I probably can't do any worse than the thieving, alcoholic, heroin addict who I'm replacing.)
July: You're a natural manager.
VM: I am not.
July: Are too.
VM: I hate authority, I hate bossing people around, I hate being in control, I hate being the responsible party.
VM: I am the opposite of a natural manager.
July: You're like Vimes, y'know.
VM: I am NOT!
VM: I mean, I like Vimes!
VM: He's my favorite character!
VM: But I am not like him at all. At all.
July: Look at what you said.
July: Think about how he is.
VM: ...
VM: oh, fuck.

Or it might be because my brain is acting up and making me neurotic (moreso than usual), and because I'm getting paranoid about everything, or because my back is sore from lifting boxes, or because I'm operating on little sleep and way too much angst and paranoia. But it'll work out. I'll keep ranting until sleep knocks me out with a club and I wake up for work tomorrow.


*The World's Worst Books, as wonderfully dissected by the amazing Fred Clarke, at Slacktivist