Posted by:
Cold-Dodger
(
)
Date: September 30, 2021 12:29PM
My bishop prior to my own dad was a man who probed into my 12-year-old private life very invasively, asking me questions about my genitals using big words I didn’t know at the time. I lied, not fully realizing what was going on, only that I’d been caught with my pants down (figuratively speaking) and I was NOT going to suffer that shame in front of my entire extended family who were waiting in the hallway to hear that I was worthy to get the priesthood. The bishop was relieved, so he passed me and I walked out of there feeling like an absolute scum bag and then an imposter as everyone congratulated me on doing everything they ever told me to do and being so honest, because that’s what being a good person means. I descended into a living hell, and then they made my dad the next bishop.
I’m still recovering from those initial feelings, the prolonged duration of my torment, and the social complications and drama have followed me around ever since any time I’m around my dad. So, yes, my bishops had a lasting impact on my life. Oh, wait, you meant a positive and memorable one? Sorry, nothing like that for me. Priesthood interviews seem to me to be some kind of true belief checkpoint put in place to either make sure you believe, extract dirt they can use to make you believe, or make you feel like shit until you come crawling begging them too ten to all of your dirt and make you believe.
When I read 1984 at BYUI, the ending got to me:
“Much had changed in him since that first day in the Ministry of Love, but the final, in- dispensable, healing change had never happened, until this moment.
“The voice from the telescreen was still pouring forth its tale of prisoners and booty and slaughter, but the shouting outside had died down a little. The waiters were turning back to their work. One of them approached with the gin bottle. Winston, sitting in a blissful dream, paid no at- tention as his glass was filled up. He was not running or cheering any longer. He was back in the Ministry of Love, with everything forgiven, his soul white as snow. He was in the public dock, confessing everything, implicating every- body. He was walking down the white-tiled corridor, with the feeling of walking in sunlight, and an armed guard at his back. The long-hoped-for bullet was entering his brain.
“He gazed up at the enormous face. Forty years it had taken him to learn what kind of smile was hidden beneath the dark moustache. O cruel, needless misunderstanding! O stubborn, self-willed exile from the loving breast! Two gin- scented tears trickled down the sides of his nose. But it was all right, everything was all right, the struggle was finished. He had won the victory over himself. He loved Big Brother.
THE END“
It had felt like this was what they had been trying to do to me all along. In a sense they were: the only version of me that ever mattered to them was one that was unquestionably loyal to the Party, and this other me (the real me with human needs and independent thoughts and feelings) could just lay down and die for all anyone cared.
Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 09/30/2021 12:31PM by Cold-Dodger.