Re: Kirkby Christian Fellowship
Date: December 07, 2007 01:19AM
So what's next?
The constant misery, that's what. Always on the outside. I didn't know why my parents weren't part of the inner circle until I was in my late teens. I remember once my mother telling me it was the fault of my sister and I, that we weren't holy enough, and we were stopping her from being in the uber-holy adults. That we - I - should start attending those bloody after-meetings (what, on a school night? Hello?) and I should look the part - out must go the long dresses and doctor martens (surely they are of the devil) stop shopping at Quiggins and instead wear the ubiquitous uniform that is Next and M&S.
Can you imagine how this made me feel? That I was stopping my parents from fulfilling their destiny? (Sounds a bit Star Wars that doesn't it?) I felt like sh--. But I still carried on doing it.... oh I loved sinning, I loved sinning with boys, or by clubbing, or drinking in bars (you know, every time I went to a bar when I was at uni I told my mother I was going to a late night coffee bar otherwise she would not have let me go - seriously!). The guilt... I'd go out clubbing on a Saturday night and then on Sunday I'd sit there, obviously on the back row, and repent, repent, repent - I actually *did* repent as well believe it or not, I felt dreadful.
Then at ten o'clock when the meeting was finally over and we'd all fallen over politely - I mean, been slain in the spirit - I'd go home, neatly repented, and phone my boyfriend.
But I digress. I was talking about growing up. I never did get along with my sister. I feel some shame over this. I treated her quite badly at times. I feel partly responsible for her being "got" by the fellowship now. I feel if I had been nicer to her, been a proper sister, ganged up *with* her against my mother rather than against her, maybe she'd have had the strength to leave?
I'm sorry these thoughts are so random. I know I should organise them better but I'm just writing down the memories that come into my head as I type.
When we moved to Glasven Road... oh God it was awful. We'd been living in a nice little alleyway on Millbrook Walk for so long, lovely house, nice area. My Mother, you may recall, was quite the Hyacinth Bucket, sorry, bouquet, so when we moved to Glasven Road this nice little middle-class couple with their two snobbish (I'm sorry, we were, we'd been brought up to be snobs though) children had a huge, huge shock.
And it wasn't funny. The bricks through the window every night were terrifying, really terrifying. My mother made matters worse; she could not get along with her neighbours, "rough" scousers, scallies who would ask for their ball back and she would go round the front and in her poshest voice say, "this had better not happen again lah de dah" and of course it did and eventually the bricks came, windows smashed every night for years and years... did they move? Did they think that this environment was a terrible place to bring up two children / teenagers? Did they think that when their oldest daughter got a brick thrown at her and was threatened with rape by a local boy that now was the time to get the hell out of this hell hole? No, because they were there because God had told them.
But you know what? It wouldn't have been quite so bad if this, moving to the chosen street, had elicited the response they wanted (i.e. being part of the uber-holy adults and me and my sister being part of the uber-holy "young ones"). But as soon as the bricks started coming, Cheryl and the scooby gang distanced themselves from my mother. Apparently Cheryl "got a word" or some such thing. My mother was desperately upset by this and I remember her crying! But did they move? No.
I actually get angry for my mother about this; Cheryl couldn't drive a car so my mother used to run her and Mary to the shops every week. Where was the gratitude though? As soon as things got rough the gang turned their backs on her.
But I don't get too angry because of course, I hear that now they are all a happy part of the scooby gang.
Horrible though, growing up there. My mother's posh voice used to make me cringe. My sister and I were brought up to have the same posh voice and as I'm sure you can imagine, with a voice like that living in Kirkby we went down like a lead balloon. I knew why the other kids hated her because I hated her too.
You know, she used to hit my sister on the hand with a wooden spoon really hard. She'd grab her hand to hit it. And obviously, as you do, my sister would try and get away. She'd bend her entire body backwards to get away from the pain. And you know what my mother did? She called it "doing her banana act" and used to laugh at her. She would hit her *whilst* *laughing* *at* *her*. This was because you had to "spare the rod, spoil the child". I was far better behaved because I did not like the pain. I just seethed inside.
When we were *really* naughty though it was discipline from my Dad. We'd be asked to go upstairs and get the belt ourselves. My Dad would sit on the chest in the hall and we'd have our bare bottoms beaten with the belt.
"Spare the rod, spoil the child". This was what the fellowship taught them and what they then inflicted on us.
I write all this and wonder why my sister is still there. Why my mother, who was spurned by the holy women of the church, is still there. Why my Dad, who these days seems like a reasonable fellow, or at least is able to completely compartmentalise the two parts of his life, is still there.
Anyway, more later. I think this is enough for this evening.