Bad Habits (2 page)

I think I was only about five or six years old during this time. I hadn’t gone to school yet to learn how to be a Catholic, so all I had was my reliance on an innate knowledge in my soul that God was glorious. God was real.

In my house, I would visit the bathroom regularly to have meetings with my guardian angels. I would sit on the floor and discuss important things with them for hours. This was until my mom eventually pulled me out because to her, I was just talking to the walls. I would stare into the mirror (not because I was unusually vain but because it was fascinating). I was intrigued that a mirror was an instant telling of who we are. Beyond just the reflection. I would stare intently at myself to try to see through my young soul and understand what it meant to be me in this world.

The biggest issue I had at that age was whether dinner would be yummy that night. I walked around free of concern and with love in my heart. I hadn’t yet been programmed to worry about Satan, money, or anything else.

I realize now that the more catechism I had through the years, the less connected to the heavens I felt. The love in my heart morphed into fear. To be told stories at such a young age about the wrath of God doing dreadful things like floods and famine made staring at the sky go from love to worry.

On walks home from school, I would keep my head down because I felt like God was always watching me from a soft, cotton candy–textured cloud. Learning that God can really get pissed off and do bad things to us on Earth paralyzed me with fear.

Then, as if that weren’t enough, I learned about Hell. I was told that Hell is the place where sinners go to spend a horrific eternity in torture and despair. As further descriptions of Hell were taught, I felt my heart breaking. The beautiful world that I used to float around in as a little girl became dark and terrifying.

What if I wasn’t good enough to make it to Heaven? The little girl I stared at in the mirror suddenly had more questions that needed answering because the world had become more confusing.

To make matters even worse, I was told a demon named Satan used temptations on Earth to bring us to his fiery pit. As you will read in future chapters, this caused irreparable damage to my childhood.

Being taught by nuns was no help either. I looked at them as if they were psychically connected to God, so I initially believed everything they said. They also worked hard to constantly remind us about Hell in order to help us remain good.

“Don’t forget, kids, if you break a commandment, you will burn in a fiery pit for all eternity. Now go have a great day!”

Looking at Hell now from a grown-up perspective, I can’t think of a better way to get people to follow rules. All you have to do is scare the shit out of them. I’ll have to try that with my son, Evan, sometime and see how well it works.

“Evan, if you don’t clean your room, I’m afraid you’re going to burn in Hell forever.”

I bet his room would be cleaner than a bar of soap.

I was seven years old when I told my mother my dream of becoming a nun. She couldn’t have been more proud. To me, it seemed like an obvious profession. I loved the idea of being a teacher, and if I got a straight ticket to Heaven by putting a habit on, why in the heck would anyone not want to be a nun? It seemed so logical. The fear of going to Hell was constantly on my mind. I became extremely paranoid and was scared to do anything that could possibly alter my final destination—Heaven.

The nuns made themselves look like Mother Mary, who was so beautiful to me. I would wrap my head up in a towel, put a crucifix on, and glide around the house blessing my family. My mom told me that nuns hear a voice from God telling them to become nuns, and I desperately awaited those words from God.

In these early years, when I went to school, I would kiss the nuns’ holy butts. I wanted to be part of their sorority and tried to be teacher’s pet.

My mom used to do their hair in the convent, so one day she decided to take me with her.

Walking into a convent is pretty much like walking into the meat department at a grocery store—cold and a bit stinky. My mom rang a little bell. What happened next will haunt me forever.

Around the corner came three of the nuns from my school without their habits on and dressed in normal clothes! This was devastating to my seven-year-old psyche. My young brain couldn’t handle seeing these nuns gallivanting around in their casual attire and intermingling with us as everyday humans. They were superior to us. These women were married to God, but now one of them was wearing a Freddie Mercury T-shirt. Did they not know that he was flaming gay? Well, I guess that was a common misconception at the time. But did the nuns lead a secret life that the rest of us weren’t allowed to discover? I felt betrayed for being in the dark, but I was also more intrigued than ever. I wanted to know more about their double life, but in that moment, it was too much to take in, and really, I just wanted to run and hide. The confusion overwhelmed me so I did what any seven-year-old would do. I burst into tears. Unfortunately, this only drew more attention and made them all run toward me.

“What’s wrong, little angel?” they asked so sweetly.

“You look scary. You don’t look like you do at school,” I responded in horror as I hid behind my mother’s leg.

“Well, we don’t wear our habits all day long.”

What the heck? Were they like uniforms? I couldn’t imagine the nuns wearing anything else, as if the habits were stitched to their bodies.

As their faces drew in closer to mine to comfort me, I was also amazed by their facial hair. I thought,
Why do they have beards? Are they men?

My mother tried to do the clever trick that moms do when their child might be behaving rudely. She gave me giant saucer eyes that beamed an invisible laser into my soul to shut me up.

I then followed my mom down a corridor. As we passed the rooms, I was able to catch a glimpse into the life of a nun. Many were reading or knitting. It was also painfully quiet—the kind of quiet that makes your ears ring. It was like the convent was set at the right frequency for everyone to always tune in to the God channel without interference.

Finally, we made it to a large room where my mom began to set up her hair stuff. I was doing that thing kids do where every step your mom tries to take, you block it and get in the way.

“Jenny, you need to sit down,” Mom said. “Or go walk around and talk to some of the nuns.”

“
No!
” I yelled.

“Okay, fine then. Just sit in that chair and sit still.”

I walked over to the chair she was pointing to, clutching my Cabbage Patch doll, and sat down. More nuns started entering and mingling about. I heard them talking about some other members of the church. “So-and-so is such an alcoholic,” they would mumble. Later on in life, I struggled with the term “alcoholic.” Considering I’m Irish Catholic, it seemed like every other person was an alcoholic. From my young perspective, it just seemed like “alcoholic” was a name given to the dads who yelled louder than the other drunks.

As I sat there eavesdropping and combing my Cabbage Patch doll’s hair, a nun came and sat next to me. “What’s your baby’s name?”

“Well, her birth certificate said Mandy, but I changed it to Sarah.”

The nun chuckled. “I bet you’re going to be a great mom when you grow up.”

“Yes, and I’m gonna be a great nun, like you.”

The nun looked perplexed (rightfully so) and said, “Well, in order to be a nun, you have to make a promise to God and not have any children.”

My heart started beating quickly. What was this crazy nun saying to me?

I responded, “I have to be a mom, a nun, and a teacher. That’s what I’m going to be.”

The nun replied, “Okay, first tell me why you want to be a nun.”

“Because you go straight to Heaven.”

Again, she giggled. “Just because you are a nun doesn’t mean you go straight to Heaven.”

This nun was really raining on my parade. First she tells me I can’t have a baby and then she tells me being a nun isn’t a straight ticket to Heaven.

“Why do you want to be a teacher?” she asked.

“Because I love helping and being the leader. And if I’m a nun, I get paid for being a teacher and being close to God.”

“We don’t get paid to teach. We do it for the love of the parish and the children.”

If I had been older I would have yelled, “OMG, are you crazy? You’re telling me I can’t be a mom, I don’t get a guarantee into Heaven, and I make no money?”

But instead of saying that, I smiled sweetly, rose from my chair, walked over to my mom, and tugged on her nylons.

“Mom!”

“What is it?”

“I think I’m going to take my chances with Hell and be Wonder Woman instead.”

I wore a Wonder Woman costume for the next eight years. I may not have become a nun, but looking up to an empowered woman such as Wonder Woman made little Jenny believe that even though you don’t marry God like the nuns do, girls can use their power to fight for truth and look damn good in a push-up bra while doing it.

I want to be a Jew!” I exclaimed to Sister Grace Downey, my strict third-grade teacher.

“What? Why in the world would you say that?” she snapped back.

I remember her mustache glistening under the light with a vengeance. She had tits the size of pomelos. She was a no-nonsense, control-top pantyhose–wearing, stiff-upper-hairy-lipped woman who had lived through the Great Depression. Her cold demeanor made it difficult to know if she ever truly survived it. I don’t think Sister Grace Downey had had a day of fun in her entire adult life.

This hardened woman was supposed to be my role model and my confidante. She scared the hell out of me.

I confronted her just three months before my first Holy Communion.

Maybe this was a big mistake, but there were questions weighing heavily on my mind and it was time to get them off my chest.

I logically explained, “Jesus was right about everything. We’re supposed to be just like him and believe everything he said. So why would Jesus pick the wrong religion? He is a Jew! Seems like we should all be Jewish.”

Sister Grace Downey took a deep breath and explained to innocent little Jenny that Jews were responsible for slaughtering Jesus. She tried to convince me that the Jews did not believe that Jesus was the Son of God.

To which little Jenny responded, “Well, maybe Jewish people think he’s just like us. Didn’t you say that we are all the sons and daughters of God? Maybe he’s not an only child after all. Maybe I’m his sister. Maybe Fonzie is his uncle.”

I’ll never forget the distraught look on Sister Grace Downey’s face. I was literally saved by the bell because I swear to God that nun was so close to opening the window and hanging me by my feet.

The next week, in religion class, she casually explained that unbaptized babies who died unexpectedly would not go to Heaven.

“Where do they go?” I asked nervously.

“Purgatory or Limbo,” she replied as if she were reading the daily offerings of a lunch menu. “It’s a place where souls float around and are stuck. A world between Heaven and Hell.”

Sister Grace Downey made it sound like souls were stuck like an infinity of Pac-Man ghosts bumping into each other for all eternity.

“How do you know if Limbo is a real place?” I asked.

Sister Grace Downey quickly responded, “Because the Church said so.”

I continued to do what I always do best, which is question things that don’t make sense. I wasn’t convinced by her answer, and my curiosity needed to be satisfied. I was willing to challenge Sister Grace Downey to uncover the truth even if it meant sacrificing my lunch hour in detention with the old hag.

“Has somebody from the Church been in Limbo before? Has someone said that they went there and saw dead babies floating around? That doesn’t seem fair. That seems like God is a mean God. It’s not the babies’ fault they didn’t get baptized. Why should they be punished? Shouldn’t the parents take the blame for that one? Isn’t there foster care in Heaven for babies born into bad families? Doesn’t that make God a big jerk if He likes to torture innocent little babies?”