Aug 30 2007
Religiosity and the Abusive Partner Syndrome
A recent post I read on King Aardvark’s Kick in the Nuts site made me repeat an expression which I realized could be my trademark when it comes to labeling religion:
To me religion will always be like an abusive partner.
I’ve posted this on many blogs as a comment, but I decided now to post it on my own.
I was an adult when I flirted with religion and got a bad case of what I call the “abusive partner syndrome.” To me that’s what religion will always be, an abusive partner–it told me I was chosen, and then beat on me and told me I fell short, then it told me it loved me, gave me comfort, and as soon as I felt better, it beat on me and told me I fell short. Then it told me I could learn from my mistakes and grow stronger, and I worked hard at it and as soon as I was within reach of my goal it slapped my hand away and once again I fell short.
Using similar metaphors I anonymously sent Aesahaettr my response to a post of his. I was afraid I was going to offend his readers by saying this, but fuck it, this is my blog and my readers so I’m going to say it:
Some love is sick and some love is true. I only want the true kind. Being in love with religion can be like being in love with an abusive partner. You open yourself up for this desired love, but they’ll keep hurting and hurting you while telling you they love you despite the inflicted pain. And they tell you the pain will make you stronger. But you’re not stronger and never free until you break free from wanting that kind of love.
I guess in the end (about 3 years later, not much longer) I stood up, stretched all my five feet and nine inches of female pride, threw some reason into it and realized that if you keep cutting the grass it may look beautiful but it will always be short. Ya’re not gonna stand there, wave your finger at the grass and blame it for being short. But we do that, don’t we? We feed the grass, we patch it, we ban the dog from running in it, and when it starts growing we cut it short.
These days I wish I was six foot tall, but my pituitary gland won’t cooperate. Might be because I needed a lot of hits over the head to wake up. Might be that genetically speaking I didn’t inherit a much taller gene, or I didn’t drink enough growth-hormone tainted milk. Or it might be that at my height I’m the same height as the average American male, so I’m tall enough. Those are the facts I flirt with today.


I found a paradoxical statement today in 


