Some nights you do about eight months of really good intensive therapy in about two hours, and follow it up with blogging, because you're an idiot who only remembers life lessons if you write them out.
I was going to see a movie - Heretic. Is it about Mormon sister missionaries? Yes. Are they being held against their will in a spooky dark house? Also yes. By Hugh Grant? Yes, yes, yes. It is a true recipe for horror.
I was going to meet up with some friends in St. Louis for what would have been my third viewing of the film. I've been analyzing it this way and that - trying to figure out what it is that made me love this film so much. The most recent review I'd read on the film implied that the entire film drew an interesting parallel to the Mormon temple experience - done in REVERSE: ie, you go to HELL - and I was looking forward to watching the film again to see what temple parallels I could see. (I have always been a sucker for temple symbolism.)
Here's the thing about St. Louis... Parking is awful. I mean, parking alone will ruin the entire experience. I'm not worried about robberies or hail storms or getting lost. I hate the parking. I have had SO MANY St. Louis experiences completely destroyed by parking.
You wanted to see the arch on a day the Cardinals were playing? $50 for parking.
Earth Day festival? One mile of walking - with children, which makes the whole thing unbearable.
Meetup at a restaurant? Just kidding. No parking.
I had enquired of my friends regarding parking, to assuage my greatest of city fears, and they assured me the parking was, and I quote, "super easy."
Upon arrival, it was clear to me that the parking was not "super easy." I braved my chances on the free parking garage, and found myself in a line with no fewer than twenty other brave souls, all circling endlessly until some spot, somewhere, vacated itself - but only if YOU happened to be the lucky one able to benefit from it.
In the Spring of 2023 I was diagnosed with a Panic Disorder, which cleverly disguised itself as heart attacks, strokes, and any other number of fatal illnesses, which all had to be ruled out before the official "it's all in your head" was given by knowing doctors.
Sitting in my car, in the endless spiral of that parking garage, I felt it - the imminent death looming just overhead. I was trapped. There was nothing I could do. I was going to be late. I was going to disappoint people. I...
"Fuck this."
I texted that to my friends, bid them a happy movie viewing, and fled, beginning the fifty minute drive back for home.
I said "fuck." I may not be Mormon anymore, but in many ways, I am still VERY much Mormon, which felt glaringly apparent as I reflected on my use of the word. I had said "fuck."
Interestingly, as I pondered, I realized that using the word felt empowering. Though, I was still mortified by my behavior and embarrassed. I was embarrassed, and felt that I had wasted my time, (and thirteen dollars from ordering the ticket ahead of time), and frankly, I was overwhelmed by the feelings and circumstances resulting from what had been a VERY long week for me. The panic continued to hover. But "fuck" gave me some glimmer of hope...
"Get..." I hissed quietly to myself, as another driver just kept GETTING IN THE WAY.
Get... Why had I stopped myself?
Because yelling isn't very nice. How many times, in my life, have I held myself back, because it was the "right" thing to do?
Why did I love the movie Heretic so much?
Because those sister missionaries were me. Because the suspense and build-up of their fear was tangible and SO REAL. They were trapped in a situation they didn't want to be in, and they were SO POLITE about it - just like I tried to be. Like I always have "freaking" tried to be.
I have told myself the movie Heretic would have ended differently if I were one of the lead female protagonists. Would I follow the creepy man who might be a killer even DEEPER into the creepy house, when I'm already creeped the creep out? No. I would sit on the couch, fold my arms, and refuse to be budged. If Hugh Grant tried to carry me, or force me from the room, I would do my best to bash his head in with Coke glass, or a nearby lamp. This is Female Self Defense 101 - DON'T get in the car!
Bashing someone's head in with a lamp isn't very nice, however, so do the sister missionaries in Heretic do that? No, they don't. (They don't even swear ONE TIME in that entire movie.) And would I genuinely have toughed it out against Hugh Grant? ... I don't think so.
I realized, so much of my life has been filled with moments of sacrificing my own comfort or, frankly, even SAFETY, because it was the "nice" or scripted "right" thing to do.
It was sitting quietly in a skirt while the boys ran around shooting hoops and laughing together in the comfort of pants and shoes. It was keeping my mouth shut about injustice, because I didn't want to be labeled a "bitch" or made a social pariah. Frankly, it was sitting in on private bishop interviews, where a complete stranger, a much older gentleman of authority, asked me about masturbation.
I thought about going home from my mission, and about how "nice" I was. I went home a few months early, (personal choice), and was told "not to tell anyone" - including my own district leader - that I would be going home at the end of the transfer. How aghast, confused, and betrayed their faces were, when they realized I had not been forthcoming with them! And I just smiled and tried to pretend that everything was fine - when I SHOULD have been running around proclaiming my truth, the entire time! "I'm going home in two weeks! Because I think it's the right thing for me to do! I'm happy! I really am truly happy about this!!!" Instead I accepted my fate of feeling unnecessary shame and embarrassment, because some man in a suit and tie implied that I should.
How dare they make me sacrifice my own self - my own emotions, self-image, and social needs to fit their agenda?
"Get out of my fucking blind spot!!!" I yelled at the driver behind me.
(Am I advocating road rage? No, I am not. But this was cathartic for me at this time. I will pursue a complete psychoanalysis of my own personal anger issues and "rage" later. Give me this right now, though.)
Do I panic because I allow, and set myself up, to be a victim? Is that what the panic is about? Feeling helpless? Does this honest, frank, deliberate rage make me feel better and avoid panic because I'm not going to play that victim role anymore?
After yelling in my car, I managed to avoid descending into a panic attack. Instead I just thought, and that was more disturbing. What would it look like if I was truly honest about what I want and need? What challenges get in the way of that kind of radical honesty? (Children. Children are a big one.)
Have I let others convince me that advocating for my own well-being is stupid, weak, or selfish? Are relationships with people who think I am stupid, weak, or selfish for caring about myself relationships even worth retaining? If those relationships are not worth retaining, how can I get my own needs filled in other ways?
What if I can't?
Do I just suck it up and accept the mediocre, scornful, arrogant "tolerance" of others, to fill my needs - and accept that I will continue to panic as my image flies beyond my control?
Does my image really matter? Does it matter what people think of me? How can I tell the difference between needs and wants, when it comes to my own mental health?
What is the cost of being "safe"? Is it worth the cost? If not, how much risk can you take without sacrificing yourself? Where do you draw the line?
And then I stopped by McDonalds on the way home, and grabbed myself a McFlurry and some fries.
Cheapest therapy I've ever paid for.
