May The Power of Christ Compel You
There was a time in my life when Good Friday meant something more than excitement over light traffic on my way to the office.
As a kid, growing up Irish Catholic mind you, my mother tried to instill in me that Good Friday was a day of solemn relfection, of course this was partly a ploy to get my brother and I to behave, but still. I mean, he died for me, right?
There was only one other person who even alluded to dying for me and that was my freshman year boyfriend. I'm fairly certain that his testicles were the color of the Antarctic flag when this proclamation was made.
In any case, every Good Friday my mother would pack my brother and I up and off we would go to the stations of the cross. One word to describe the stations of the cross to a child - petrifaction. In fact, third only to being possessed by the devil and Guy Smiley, the crucifixion was a major contributor to my childhood night terrors.
The devil thing came about when at the age of eight while I was vacationing with my immediate and extended family in York Beach. One night I snuck out of bed and into the living room where my mother and aunt were watching a movie. They were so involved in the film they didn't even notice me as I quietly curled up in a chair in the back of the room. I remained undetected for about ten minutes until I left out a whimper. They turned to find me shaking and crying, they had been watching The Exorcist and I had snuck in during one of the more horrific scenes.
For days after that I couldn’t sleep, I was obsessed, I was sure that everyone, and everything, that I loved was going to be possessed by a demon. To make matters worse, my brother and some of my cousins decided it would be hilarious if they attached my Cabbage Patch Doll onto a coat-hanger contraption and dangle her over my bed in the middle of the night while making demonic utterances. It was only then that I pulled my shit together – being eight years old, chubby and the only girl amongst a brood of 11 – 13 year old boys, I didn’t need to add additional gasoline to the mortification blaze.
But I eventually got over it. I can safely say that I am no longer a demon-phobe and one time I even attempted to see the film again in its entirety.
I still, however, pee my pants a little bit at the thought of Guy Smiley.
As a kid, growing up Irish Catholic mind you, my mother tried to instill in me that Good Friday was a day of solemn relfection, of course this was partly a ploy to get my brother and I to behave, but still. I mean, he died for me, right?
There was only one other person who even alluded to dying for me and that was my freshman year boyfriend. I'm fairly certain that his testicles were the color of the Antarctic flag when this proclamation was made.
In any case, every Good Friday my mother would pack my brother and I up and off we would go to the stations of the cross. One word to describe the stations of the cross to a child - petrifaction. In fact, third only to being possessed by the devil and Guy Smiley, the crucifixion was a major contributor to my childhood night terrors.
The devil thing came about when at the age of eight while I was vacationing with my immediate and extended family in York Beach. One night I snuck out of bed and into the living room where my mother and aunt were watching a movie. They were so involved in the film they didn't even notice me as I quietly curled up in a chair in the back of the room. I remained undetected for about ten minutes until I left out a whimper. They turned to find me shaking and crying, they had been watching The Exorcist and I had snuck in during one of the more horrific scenes.
For days after that I couldn’t sleep, I was obsessed, I was sure that everyone, and everything, that I loved was going to be possessed by a demon. To make matters worse, my brother and some of my cousins decided it would be hilarious if they attached my Cabbage Patch Doll onto a coat-hanger contraption and dangle her over my bed in the middle of the night while making demonic utterances. It was only then that I pulled my shit together – being eight years old, chubby and the only girl amongst a brood of 11 – 13 year old boys, I didn’t need to add additional gasoline to the mortification blaze.
But I eventually got over it. I can safely say that I am no longer a demon-phobe and one time I even attempted to see the film again in its entirety.
I still, however, pee my pants a little bit at the thought of Guy Smiley.
posted by Betty Blog at 11:42 AM
1 Comments:
Picture Guy Smiley on a cross. Better?
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