Amber Bird | Blog

If you haven’t already, please read the introduction post. That will give you context for this page.

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Whilst it might seem a contradiction to my “violently angry” post of last week, I am a pacifist. And it hurts my heart that anyone would feel that pacifism is something to be ashamed of.

My pacifism is not born of fear or weakness. It is not born of some delusion that all people are fluffy kittens. Nor, as you learned last week, is it born of a lack of violent inclinations.

My pacifism is rooted in my idealism and in my oft-disappointed belief that we humans could do so much better. I believe in love and light, in peace and harmony. We really could do so much better…

My pacifism is not restricted to physical violence; I also oppose emotional, spiritual, psychological, and sexual violence and warfare. And I believe that all violence begets violence.

I believe that most violence (perhaps all) is born of other violence or of fear. That oppression is a form of violence.

I believe that pacifism must extend to ourselves. That was the hardest one for me. But it’s also the one that we have the most power to apply. That’s the one that most helped me start being my own better self.

I reluctantly try to live with the apparent fact that the world we’ve built includes people whose violent acts require physical responses. That oppression is sometimes only thrown off by violent acts. That we are unlikely to ever achieve a non-violent world.

However, I also believe that violence is too frequently applied as an answer, pushing people deeper into the well of darkness from which their own violent behaviours originate. That we humans are too wont to follow our violent and angry impulses in our search for solutions.

So I won’t apologise, and I won’t feel ashamed, for trying to be part of the peace, for trying to remove myself from the violence. That garbage is best left to fiction.

Cross-posted to the Not Ashamed section of my site (so that it’s all tidy).

If you haven’t already, please read the introduction post. That will give you context for this page.

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I’d love to say that I no longer struggle with being violently angry, but at least it’s rarer. And, at this point, I think I can pinpoint some of the causes. Not all, but some.

I’m pretty sure that, sometimes, this is related to be having some serious sensory or emotional overload. (Which ties back to some of the issues that come with my autism.)

I’m pretty sure that, sometimes, this is related to me having a manic swing.

I’m pretty sure that, sometimes, this is related to hormonal shifts.

But there are also times when I can’t figure out the cause or the trigger. Sure, I can point to the thing that someone else said or did (or to the malfunctioning inanimate object), but it won’t make sense to me why it has sparked the level of anger it has.

I’m going to have one of these when I get filthy rich.

Again, it’s rare-ish these days, relatively speaking. Not like when I was at uni and had to keep a box in the corner of the room just for me to kick to bits. I used to replace that box weekly—at least—after I’d kicked it so much that it was no longer structurally-sound enough to give me any satisfaction.

These days, the emotion itself is rarer and I’m much better at suppressing it until I find an appropriate release (or until it seeps out into my dreams…which is actually just the worst, so I usually find another answer quickly).

One of my favourite anger-related factoids, which I must have shared before: I read in a psychology journal that anger is a secondary emotion. When you feel anger, it’s there to cover a more vulnerable emotion. The start of me gaining control of my anger was that article. I’d get the anger and I’d make myself stop until I could find the cause. What raw, more vulnerable thing was I really feeling? Disappointment? Frustration? Fear? Failure? And even if it was something that I can now pin on, for instance, the way my autistic brain is wired, it helped.

Since realising how important solitude is to me, I’ve also cut down on it. Partly, I believe, that’s helped cut down on the times I’m over-stimulated. Partly, it’s probably because there are fewer things to set me off when I’m alone.

I don’t like shouting, and have pretty much managed to avoid that most the time. And I really am a fan of peace, so have done what I could to keep my anger—when it manifests as a physical urge—aimed at myself or at inanimate objects.

But, really, I’m just trying to keep from going there. And, when I feel it coming on, to keep from escalating. I’m not ashamed that I feel violently angry sometimes, and I try not to do anything when it hits that will leave me feeling ashamed for other reasons.

Cross-posted to the Not Ashamed section of my site (so that it’s all tidy).

If you haven’t already, please read the introduction post. That will give you context for this page.

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(Trigger warning: self harm, depression)

Like last week, I’m going to try to keep this shorter.

I know I’m not the only one whose self harm behaviours (or at least the demons in my head that wail for them) can be triggered by reading about others’ behaviours.

Sometimes, it was a drawn out loathing that pushed me. Purposeful. Others, it was a sudden burst. What I did varied based on which it was.

Anger is a secondary emotion, one that masks more vulnerable things. So, when I say that it was often something that felt like anger that drove me…It would more accurately be described as severe disappointment in myself, frustration with myself, self-loathing, self-disgust…

I was good at hiding it. I had good excuses and I favoured clothes that covered me completely and loads of jewellery. And I’m pretty confident that, whilst adults might have expected it just because I wore black, none of them actually knew or had reason to believe beyond going in for stereotypes. (For the record, oh you stereotypers, there were plenty of people who looked like me and didn’t self-harm. So, please check yourself.)

I’m also very lucky that I have always felt sensitive, skin-wise, because it meant I was constantly moisturising. Unless you undress me, even now when I happily wear less complete coverage, you won’t find scars. (I mean, you will find scars, but not from the self harm. Even the one you’ll think is from that was done to me by someone else, but that’s another story.)

I don’t want to talk about what I did. But I think, given the stereotypes, I want to talk about what it did for me. I didn’t do it for attention (which is why I covered it up). But it felt like an escape hatch, like it let things out of me that were too much for me to keep carrying. Like it was punishment I inflicted on myself because I deserved it. Like, with everyone and everything else hating me, this was me proving that I was the one who got to hurt me and that I could hurt me more than anyone else.

And I feel like I also want to clarify that none of my friends encouraged the behaviour. Their responses ranged from just quietly accepting that I did it to voicing their concerns. Just in case some of you are thinking stereotype thoughts about my friends as well.

It’s been years now. For a while, I felt horrible after I did it. Not immediately, but the next day. And then I got a bit worried the last spate of it because I didn’t feel at all bad about it after. I worried that the only thing that could stop me would be if I felt ashamed. But that didn’t really happen.

So, here I am…not advocating self harm, hoping you don’t do it, but understanding if you do. And years “clean” of it (I won’t say how many because that’s a bit too personal). But not ashamed that I did it. I understand why I did and I feel sad for the parts of me that crave that.

Put down your instruments of self-harm, my darlings. Wear your sleeves short and your head high. And when the urges come to put marks on yourself, put marks on paper instead.
xxx

Cross-posted to the Not Ashamed section of my site (so that it’s all tidy).

If you haven’t already, please read the introduction post. That will give you context for this page.

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Like last week, this topic is another of the top 5 I’m most hesitant to post. As I’ve been writing these, I’ve become more aware of which I see (sometimes just in my own mind and sometimes based in my actual experiences) as having the most negative impact when people learn them about me. And this is one that, when someone learns it, seems to obliterate everything else they know about me.

And this is the only one that has caused even those who call me a friend to belligerently berate me for it. (Sometimes nearly frothing as they shout insults and stereotypical accusations at me.)

And this is the one that has cost me relationships. People who said they loved me but wouldn’t be with me because of this or friends who progressively became too aggressively opposed to me being this to talk to me anymore. (And, no, these weren’t cases where I brought it up. I just lived my life and let them live theirs and they, out of the blue and without it ever actually affecting them or how I treated them, decided it was a problem.)

I even have beloved family members who have flat out said things like “I love you even though you’re…”

Now, pretend you hadn’t already read the title. Pretend you’re just going on what you already know of me. Maybe what you know because you know me in person or maybe what you know based just on what I’ve written. Sure, you’d have to take my word that the thing behind the label in question isn’t a thing I bring up constantly or that leads me to treat others poorly or whatever…But, if I were looking at the topics I’d written so far, I’d look at my description and wonder if the label in question was “serial killer” or something equally horrible.

Religion is an odd thing.

I grew up Mormon, but in a household that valued personal study. That valued asking questions and looking for satisfying answers. That didn’t freak out when my questions had to do, for instance, with something I’d found in Buddhism that I appreciated. That maybe didn’t love my personal aesthetic choices but, unlike some other friends’ households, didn’t kick me out for my style choices or try to send me to an institution or even allow doctors to drug me for them.

I went on to get a degree in Philosophy at uni, which is all about questioning everything, and did so with the enthusiastic support of my parents. I learned to question everything even more rigorously than before and to evaluate my sources and the answers I thought I had. My peers questioned me about my beliefs, but in the straight-forward and demanding way that a good philosopher questions, not in a nasty way.

So, when people assume I’m just Mormon because it’s my habit, I can tell you that’s not the case.

When people assume that I never questioned (maybe never even thought to question), I can tell you that’s not the case.

When people assume I do it to please my family or be in a community, I can tell you that’s not the case.

When people assume I’m blind to problematic issues and areas and they just need to berate me enough to “help” so that I can be free, I can tell you that’s not the case.

When people assume that I’m sheltered, that I have lived my life in what I call “the Mormon bubble,” with all my friends and family also being devout members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, I can tell you that’s not the case.

I absolutely understand, having seen it happen to friends or having done the logic exercises in courses, that people have had legitimately bad experiences or that the truth claims of some or all religions don’t make sense to some people.

I know that there are Mormons who have done bad things, even made people I love feel horrible.

I know that there are some issues around my religion that are problematic, even if you do believe in a higher power.

I have, as a person who doesn’t tend to fit the normal societal moulds, much less the normal Mormon moulds, had negative experiences with individuals at church and struggled with some doctrinal issues. I probably always will deal with both those.

But, here’s the thing…

In my course of study for my Philosophy degree, I came to realise and accept and embrace that my membership in the LDS church is entirely grounded in faith. I’ve had some nice experiences and what I perceive as some powerful spiritual moments, to be sure, but mainly my membership is due to faith. I don’t claim that there is logic there, and I’m okay with that. (In fact, I think I’ve alienated some neighbours because they tried to explain why it was logical to believe in God and the reasons they gave didn’t actually live up to the standards I’d been taught are necessary for something to actually be considered logic…so I noted that and noted that my belief was all rooted in faith and that that, from my reading of scripture, was what was actually expected of Christians. I get that it makes sense to some people, but “making sense” and “logical” aren’t the same thing. And I’m not out to undercut anyone’s beliefs, but I actually do care about the integrity of logic.)

I also have never intentionally pushed my religion on anyone or even assertively offered it once it’s been rejected. My preferred method of sharing is to be my best self, to not try to hide that I’m Mormon, and to not blot out this piece of my life in conversation when it’s relevant to, for instance, a discussion of my motives for some choice. (I’ve actually had people I’ve known for a while express surprise when they learn I’m Mormon because I don’t seem the way they think Mormons would be and, obviously, I wasn’t pushing my religion on them.)

Whilst I don’t believe at all that religion or spirituality are necessary for a person to be good or to do good, I know that my religion has been a positive motivational factor in my own behaviours. One that was especially useful, in hindsight, as I tried not to completely ruin everything as a teenager. A good influence on my life that even the relative who once hugged me tight, kissed me goodnight, and said, “I love you even though you’re Mormon,” went on to acknowledge.

I have never judged another to be lesser than me due to them not being LDS. My religion doesn’t make me superior. Not at all. And I don’t think it makes anyone else have greater worth. Sorry, Mormon people who are reading, but a shared religion isn’t really going to get you any advantages with me.

Now, I’m not here to argue in general, and I’m certainly not here to argue with anyone about their issues with the church of which I am a devout member. As I said, I respect that people have had bad experiences and that there are problematic issues. But, as for me personally, the only thing my religious beliefs ever took from another person, as far as I can tell, would be all those people who wanted to have sex with me and didn’t get it. People have, when berating me, suggested other negative things it’s caused me to do, but the things they claim haven’t ever actually been true and applicable to me. (That’s not a challenge; please don’t scramble to find another thing that me being Mormon has made bad. I’m probably just going to delete that rubbish.)

So, whilst I am truly sorry for any bad experience you have had with Mormons or the LDS church, I am not ashamed to be devoutly Mormon. I love having faith and I am grateful for the good experiences I’ve had and the positive feelings my religion have engendered in me.

I once dreamt that I was given the chance to have what I want most in this world. All I had to do was say that I didn’t believe what I believe. And I’ll tell you now what I said in my dream: Me saying it wasn’t true wouldn’t change that I believe it; it would only make me feel dishonest and dirty.

My whole “Not Ashamed” effort could read like a really long and awkward (extra awkward?) version of those old adverts. “I’m a rockstar, a bisexual, bipolar, autistic, a geek, and I’m a Mormon.” Ha!

Hi. My name is Amber, and I’m a devout, Sunday school-teaching (for real), weekly-service-attending Mormon. And I might be nervous to tell you that based on past experiences, but I am not ashamed.

Cross-posted to the Not Ashamed section of my site (so that it’s all tidy).