that? I wasnât sure whether I had the attitudinal rigor for such a life, but that was apparently immaterial because, with or without my consent, the transformation was underway.
First, my femininity pretty much packed up and walked out the door. I used to be a fairly fashion-conscious gal: I loved intense colors, jewelry, makeup, and shoesâoh, I could not get enough of shoes.
Now I had completely lost the will to shop. On the rare occasions when I ventured into a shop, I would gravitate to the same color palette: black, gray, brown. (On those days that I felt daring, Iâd peruse the rack of navy-colored clothes.) I developedâout of nowhereâa fondness for dull thick shoes with sensible heels. I used to love kitten-heel shoes; now I was lacing up Doc Martens. Docs!
I stopped wearing makeup, cut off my hair, and stopped coloring it. Catching sight of myself in the mirror one day, I wondered, When did I become a lesbian?
My personality flatlined. I used to be high-spirited; always game for a bit of fun. Laugh? Iâd laugh plenty and tell dirty jokes, to boot. But all that evaporated. Gone. Just like that.
This metamorphosis had all the markings of a midlife crisis, but in the deepest reaches of my being I knew it was not; it was the long beginning of an awkward awakening.
What I did not realize at the time was that my actions were typical of someone wrestling with post-traumatic stress. The desexing, the defiance against the status quo are as much a reaction as they are coping mechanisms for those of us who have sustained physical and emotional abuse.
In advance of my long stay in Whitby, I decided to spend a few weeks at St. Ceciliaâs Abbey, home to a community of Benedictine nuns on the Isle of Wight. They were renowned for their Gregorian chant, and I longed to bathe in that music so that its crystalline sounds could flow over me and flush away the toxins of cynicism, weariness, pride, shame, hurt, anger, disappointment, fear, stressâoh, it was a long listâand purify me.
However, St. Ceciliaâs could only accommodate me for a week, so it was suggested that I contact the monks at nearby Quarr Abbey. I had never heard of Quarr Abbeyânot that a males-only monastery would have been on the radar of a wannabe nunâbut nonetheless, I sent off an email to its guestmaster, who accepted my booking for the week preceding my stay at St. Ceciliaâs. A week at Quarr would, I reasoned, ease me into the routine of religious life.
St. Benedict was not a fan of religious tire-kickers. He considered these âgyratory monksâ to be aimless, ârestless servants to their own will and appetites.â What choice did I have? Either I risked Benedictâs scourge for being a dilettante or I ignored the tug inside me that propelled me on my way.
Both Quarr and St. Ceciliaâs were Roman Catholic communities, but given my dual religious upbringing and my ease at toggling between the Anglican and Roman Catholic traditions, I did not think it would be a problem.
Meanwhile, Colin, bless his heart, offered to drive me from London to the Isle of Wight and drop me off at Quarr.
As much as I tried to remain upbeat about my upcoming journey, the truth was that I was scared. Now I was working through two issues: finding out whether I was being called to be a nun, and finding resolution to the rape.
God never makes these things easy.
Battling Demons
················
Quarr Abbey
Isle of Wight, England
MY FIANCÃ IS driving me to a nunnery.
The words drummed steadily in my mind like a mantra as I tried to make sense of the ludicrous reality of it all. I turned my face toward the passenger window and quietly shook my head. Why does my life have to be this weird?
Colinâs car clipped along the A36 (or was it the M2?) through the Somerset countryside (or were we in Wiltshire now?) toward Southampton and to the ferry that
First, my femininity pretty much packed up and walked out the door. I used to be a fairly fashion-conscious gal: I loved intense colors, jewelry, makeup, and shoesâoh, I could not get enough of shoes.
Now I had completely lost the will to shop. On the rare occasions when I ventured into a shop, I would gravitate to the same color palette: black, gray, brown. (On those days that I felt daring, Iâd peruse the rack of navy-colored clothes.) I developedâout of nowhereâa fondness for dull thick shoes with sensible heels. I used to love kitten-heel shoes; now I was lacing up Doc Martens. Docs!
I stopped wearing makeup, cut off my hair, and stopped coloring it. Catching sight of myself in the mirror one day, I wondered, When did I become a lesbian?
My personality flatlined. I used to be high-spirited; always game for a bit of fun. Laugh? Iâd laugh plenty and tell dirty jokes, to boot. But all that evaporated. Gone. Just like that.
This metamorphosis had all the markings of a midlife crisis, but in the deepest reaches of my being I knew it was not; it was the long beginning of an awkward awakening.
What I did not realize at the time was that my actions were typical of someone wrestling with post-traumatic stress. The desexing, the defiance against the status quo are as much a reaction as they are coping mechanisms for those of us who have sustained physical and emotional abuse.
In advance of my long stay in Whitby, I decided to spend a few weeks at St. Ceciliaâs Abbey, home to a community of Benedictine nuns on the Isle of Wight. They were renowned for their Gregorian chant, and I longed to bathe in that music so that its crystalline sounds could flow over me and flush away the toxins of cynicism, weariness, pride, shame, hurt, anger, disappointment, fear, stressâoh, it was a long listâand purify me.
However, St. Ceciliaâs could only accommodate me for a week, so it was suggested that I contact the monks at nearby Quarr Abbey. I had never heard of Quarr Abbeyânot that a males-only monastery would have been on the radar of a wannabe nunâbut nonetheless, I sent off an email to its guestmaster, who accepted my booking for the week preceding my stay at St. Ceciliaâs. A week at Quarr would, I reasoned, ease me into the routine of religious life.
St. Benedict was not a fan of religious tire-kickers. He considered these âgyratory monksâ to be aimless, ârestless servants to their own will and appetites.â What choice did I have? Either I risked Benedictâs scourge for being a dilettante or I ignored the tug inside me that propelled me on my way.
Both Quarr and St. Ceciliaâs were Roman Catholic communities, but given my dual religious upbringing and my ease at toggling between the Anglican and Roman Catholic traditions, I did not think it would be a problem.
Meanwhile, Colin, bless his heart, offered to drive me from London to the Isle of Wight and drop me off at Quarr.
As much as I tried to remain upbeat about my upcoming journey, the truth was that I was scared. Now I was working through two issues: finding out whether I was being called to be a nun, and finding resolution to the rape.
God never makes these things easy.
Battling Demons
················
Quarr Abbey
Isle of Wight, England
MY FIANCÃ IS driving me to a nunnery.
The words drummed steadily in my mind like a mantra as I tried to make sense of the ludicrous reality of it all. I turned my face toward the passenger window and quietly shook my head. Why does my life have to be this weird?
Colinâs car clipped along the A36 (or was it the M2?) through the Somerset countryside (or were we in Wiltshire now?) toward Southampton and to the ferry that
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