I grew up in a small Wisconsin town. Many of its residents are of Polish descent, and my family was no different. I was raised Catholic. Catholicism defined my identity long before my personality and character traits were developed. Every milestone of my life was rooted in Catholic teaching.
Being Polish, my parents and grandparents felt a special connection to Pope John Paul II (born Karol Józef Wojtyła) and pictures and paintings of him, in addition to Jesus and the Virgin Mary, adorned the walls of my childhood home. My grandmother had rosaries hanging from the corners of her mirror, my mother recited prayers aloud when passing roadside shrines in the car, and my dad touted Catholic teaching at the dinner table.
Mass was mandatory every Sunday and on Holy Days of Obligation. To skip Mass was a mortal sin. Because Catholics believe that both the body and the blood of Christ are contained in the Holy Eucharist, in the form of the consecrated host, it was unacceptable not to receive communion. Even if I was sick, I was expected to be well enough for church. No one explained that I could be excused from Mass that day. There was no exception to the rule.
Eating meat on Friday was a violation during Lent. Sometimes I’d forget it was Lent at school and eat meat. When I’d realize my mistake I’d feel horribly guilty for the rest of the day. Guilt was a staple of my religion. I always felt guilty, even when I didn’t do anything wrong. To be continuously reminded of my Original Sin, and that I’m constantly in danger of being sent to hell, I never felt good about myself.
Going to confession was traumatizing. Sometimes, I certainly had sins to confess. Other times I didn’t, so I’d make up sins to tell the priest, because surely I was bad and had to confess something. So, I lied to the priest, breaking the eighth commandment, then waited for absolution and penance. To me, confession was an exercise of fear and punishment, not a proclamation of my faith and salvation.
My religious beliefs didn’t belong to me. They were developed by my parents and other adults in my extended family. Some of their beliefs were flawed. Not attending a Catholic wedding ceremony was considered improper, but you were never obligated to attend a wedding ceremony of two people not marrying in the Catholic church.
Having non-Catholic friends required extra caution. I might be tempted to sway from my faith, they posited, if I socialized with Lutherans, Baptists, or even those practicing Judaism. It was implied that I was to somehow “convert” these friends to Catholicism, the “one, holy, apostolic faith.” Having an atheist friend was taboo.
My family sought moral righteousness by attending Sunday Mass, blessing themselves with holy water, and praying in public for the entire congregation to see.
However, their moral righteousness was non-existent after the closing prayer. Going to the family tavern was the ritual after church. The alcohol flowed as freely as the cursing, name-calling and insults. I couldn’t understand the hypocrisy, I didn’t even know the word. I only knew that my siblings and I were obligated to stock coolers, wash ashtrays and sweep floors, and ignore the double standards that were on display.
What I witnessed while “growing up in a bar,” the tavern that was my father’s livelihood, are things no child should see. I wasn’t equipped as a teenager to deal with unruly patrons who disrespected me. My family disregarded the way I was treated because these customers put money in their pockets.
I quickly learned the hypocrisy of the spiritually abusive adults in my life. I learned that it wasn’t acceptable to associate with “deadbeats” but it was absolutely okay to take their money and feed their vices. After all, it was their choice to spend their income by drinking, smoking and gambling.
Holidays were displays of moral superiority in my family. Adults had lengthy debates on the morality of politicians, educators and anyone, really, who didn’t share their beliefs. If you didn’t agree you were shamed, called a demeaning name, and bullied into changing your opinion.
The worst part of this is that I yielded to their rules because I feared going against them. Compliance was a requirement to belong to this family. Conformity was required to be a member of the “One True Religion.” You believed, no questions asked, or you were cursed with eternal damnation.
I believed for too long that my soul was unworthy of any place other than hellfire and damnation. I had no self-worth, I had no capacity to make decisions for myself. If I tried to do what was best for me I was coerced into doing what my parents felt was better. If I put up a fight, the fifth commandment was used as leverage.
“Honor your father and mother!”
“Don’t you love us?”
“Why are you being so foolish?”
“You’re acting crazy!”
Discussing real issues, or sharing a different opinion, was met with anger or being told I was crazy. I couldn’t understand why my point of view being different meant that I was not of sound mind.
I can’t tell you how many times I was told I was crazy. When you hear it that often, you start to question yourself. Am I crazy?
This led me to therapy. And therapy led me to question everything; not just myself, but the people around me, and the religion that has been a pillar of my identity since birth.
In religious education I learned that guilt is a productive measure to keep us from veering too far from our morals and values.
In therapy I learned that non-productive guilt is a pervasive guilt that serves no good purpose; it’s counterproductive. For most of my life I suffered from false guilt. Guilt that was passed down from generations before me. Guilt that wasn’t mine.
Love is given unconditionally, not out of guilt or coercion. There’s no list of accomplishments to achieve or expectations to meet to be deserving of love. Love is freely given. There is no room for guilt, which makes way for peace.
Hey Dana Jane 