I recall being asked to go outdoors for a little while by a neighborhood acquaintance during the Sunday morning service. She said to me that she notices how her husband stares at me while I'm playing the drums when I asked her what's wrong. She continued by saying that while I wear fitting gowns, she is also worried because "you're curvy." I have detested Sunday mornings and miserable women ever since.
When I returned home, I told my older sister, and she became unhappy. They were much older than me and former classmates as well as childhood buddies. I was only sixteen.
She pulled me away from my worship to examine my attire, which was poor timing, but it was also incorrect for her to blame me for her husband staring at me instead of focusing on the service.
I was merely upset when it occurred. I detested being held accountable for the physique I was born with. I desired an end to the body-shaming.
My irritation with older ladies disparaging younger women increased as I got older.
The deacon's wife regularly advised me against wearing fitting pleather skirts. She must have seen her spouse looking at me with hungry eyes and making indecent gestures.
How was this my fault?
I attempted to put the blame on being too personable.
I had no idea how to start being a stranger to the churchgoers. Church was my life.
Throughout my childhood, adults continued to insult me.
I kept all of my feelings inside.
I made myself conduct pleasant conversations in public with people who gave me a lot of anxiety in private. I shook their hands, gave them hugs and cheek kisses, and pretended to grin even though I was aching inside. I only complied out of consideration for my parents' emotions. I was the pastor's kid.
The two jealous wives and their lustful husbands were people I detested. That didn't change the fact that I had to keep contributing to the process of beating their hearts into hymn melodies.
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