My life is a complicated mess. Tying together the family dysfunction, the RYR2 gene mutation, my rebelliousness, and the IALC (Independent Apostolic Lutheran Church – or Laestadianism.)

My family (or at least four generations back) came from Finland. Lars Levi Laestadius created this religion called Laestadianism. It’s Lutheran. IALC is founded with the ideas of strong family values, no alcohol consumption, no dancing, no premarital sex, anti abortion, and against homosexuality. Most everyone I knew (generation X) were born into the church. There were few independent conversions from other religions local to my community. I lived in Upper Michigan. Considering that Levi Lars Laestadius was from the Nordic countries (namely – Sweden) and passed his “wisdom” to reindeer herders of the Sami people, and beyond – Finland was in his radar. And there was a huge grouping of people who emigrated from Finland to places like Upper Michigan and other northern states as well as Canada. Naturally, people brought their religion when they crossed the oceans.

I was born in 1976. My family was long engrained in this religion. When you’re born into the religion, you almost have friends from birth. My mother and her friends had children around my age – and we all generally pal’d around. Of course everyone that I was related to (almost) was in the IALC. I found out – probably about 11-13 years old about my aunt Lynn and her family. Lynn and her family didn’t attend church. I still don’t know much about my father’s family dynamics and why Lynn was a secret. Is it just because she was deemed an ‘unbeliever’? I’m not certain.

For a long time, I had not liked the church. It wasn’t engaging. Old men at the pulpit reading from the King James version of the bible. I didn’t understand it and didn’t really care to. The attitudes of the people who attended seemed very anti-Christ like (as I grew up). I was in church every second and fourth weekend. Second weekend was church Saturday evening and Sunday morning. Fourth weekend was Song Services. The only aspect of church that I liked was the social aspect of it. And that was a minimal portion. Labor Day and Memorial Day weekends were huge weekends for the IALC. We’d travel to Kenosha, WI, Deer River, MN, Cedar Valley, MN, the Twin Cities in Minnesota for services. Every so often the different locations would trade off the homing of Memorial/Labor Day services. And eventually, I’d get to stay in my home base for the huge events instead of travelling out of state.

I loved travelling to see my out of state cousins. Many of them lived out of state. So it was almost a holiday in and of itself. I just hated sermons. The sermons did not cater to teenagers. There were almost never instruments of any sort. Maybe a wedding would feature an acoustic guitar or an organ. Most of the time, the songs would be called out and everyone sang the same old hymns that likely existed in the mid to late 1800’s. To me, music is something spiritual. I feel music in my heart and soul. And the crap we sang at church is hardly music. Everyone sings the same notes. EVERYONE. The song book only shows the hymn number and the lyrics. And boy, get to the back of the song book and guess what? FINNISH SONGS! IN FINNISH! (Yea, good luck with that) I loved my dad because he’d try to incorporate Tenor with the … very largely alto songs.

Women of child rearing age would be designated during services (volunteers) in the kitchen. The nursery wasn’t manned with any maternal person. Anyone who has a baby takes care of them, themselves. I took control of my own self when I was a teenager by leaving the pew to go outside in my parents’ car with my friends who were of like minds. Or their parents’ car. We wouldn’t leave. We’d just hang out. When it wasn’t church weekends, I’d hang out with my secular friends. One friend that was Mormon. Honestly, I never saw them any different as far as …. how they were. Just that they were my friends. Denomination came nowhere into my views. I didn’t care if you lived above a bar, wore only dresses and could only listen to Amy Grant. If you liked me, I was good with you.

I’ve always been of a mind that – I accept you. Warts and all. I read a lot about the civil rights movement and WWII with the extermination of the Jewish people. I grieved for anyone that was treated differently. No doubt that is why I am so compassionate to LGBTQ+IA? Providing that you are a good person. Law abiding and morally sound, we’re good. I will love you if you can see past my warts too. I think I love with my whole heart. And that’s why it’s so hard to see my upbringing for what it is. I see devastation in separation. Anytime you say I’m in and you’re out… no. We are all one people. We bleed the same. We grieve in relatively similar ways. Hell, even elephants and monkeys grieve. I recently seen a picture of a monkey holding their child in their arms after they passed. The look of agony is remarkable. Emotions are real.

I think as a part of the IALC culture during the time I attended, mental illness was REALLY not accepted. If you had a mental illness, I think you were viewed differently. I was diagnosed with depression when I was thirteen years old. My maternal side of the family has thyroid issues as well, so that adds to it. (since thyroid issues can appear like symptoms of depression) My mother struggled with depression as well. I know that my mom was in therapy with a person outside of the church. It became a crutch for my mom, it seemed. I can’t answer to that very much since I’ve heard little about how. I wonder if my mom didn’t feel supported of her church friends and compadres. I heard tell that my mom wasn’t really happy with my dad. My dad didn’t feel compelled to do anything outside of the home. He was a simple guy. And my mom seemed to feel frustrated about that. Many of the families had wives who stayed home with their children. At least of my parents generation. My mom did go to school for teaching after high school. She stopped when she married my dad. Eventually in 1990 or 1991 she started attending again. I was proud of her. My mom also worked outside of the home before that in a classroom. She was a teachers’ aide or I think they’re referred to as paras now. And she loved it.

My parents loved me. They did. In their own respective ways. I always wanted my mom’s attention. I know I was probably a pain. And I loathed Oprah the same way Darrian loathed The Gilmore Girls. When those shows were on, my mom for Oprah, and I for the Gilmore Girls – were checked out. When I was little, I guess I had two febrile seizures. (Seizure caused by a consistent high body temperature) One, I guess I almost died from. My family has told me that a police officer had to give me CPR. I had two traumas that hit me hard even still that didn’t seem to get reported. 1) My childhood dentist tried putting a mask over my face while I was in the dentist chair. In the 1980’s, a hygienist was not required. Normally my mom wouldn’t have left me alone. I wanted to be a big girl and go into the office alone. When I screamed for my mom, the dentist got mad and yelled to me to “Shut Up!” When I didn’t stop, I was able to leave the chair and go to my mom. We changed dentists after that. I don’t remember if my parents ever contacted the police.

2. I rode my bike, often when I was around 7-11 years old, probably longer. Around 1985-1986, I was bike riding near my house. A number of feet before my mailbox and a little after the ditch, nearing the willow tree, a car was passing by me. It was a dark olive, four door, fancy car. New, I’d imagine, or near new. The back passenger window automatically came down and a hand grabbed at my bike handle. I wasn’t in a mountain bike or multi speed bike yet. So the handles weren’t curved or far out. The car had to be very close to my bike. I pulled my bike away, pedalling as if my life depended on it. One I got into my driveway and towards the house, I threw my bike on the ground. I reported it to my parents, and nothing happened. I’m not sure they believed me. When I saw a few minutes into a documentary about children that were kidnapped in lower Michigan, I stopped watching. It was jarring. I imagine that I literally escaped my death that summer day.

My sister’s death was huge for me. I’ve lamented over that a lot. Dianne’s death introduced me to (naturally), the supernatural. I was interested in seances, ghost hunting, seeing or hearing from the spirit realm. Although I was terrified of the ouija board. I had a strong imagination. One she died, I was fixated on the paranormal. Probably an obsession. My mom’s illness starting in 1991, I was broken. I didn’t feel love. By anyone. When I was in middle school, I tried to commit suicide. I started getting into marijuana and alcohol in high school. I didn’t give a shit anymore. A guy I liked had sex with me in my house while my dad was gone. Somewhere. And I was beyond thrilled. I was beyond ready. And he was nice to me. So, at least I can say that.

When you’re a kid growing up in this community – sex is a major no no before you’re married. And with the fact that my sister got pregnant before marriage and had previously left the church after high school, I think people saw me as Dianne. I was becoming just like HER. Who cares? To me, Dianne was perfect. I was also 11 years old to her 22. Yes, I idolized my sister. I think when I lost Dianne and my mom – those were the two people that I have always looked to, to feel like they were proud of me. And I won’t – in this life. I’ll be able to speculate. And that’s all.

I quit going to church as soon as I could. Not before our house burned down and there were rumors about if I started the fire or not. I used to smoke cigarettes (Did I fall asleep with a lit cigarette? Yes, I was home at the time. And no, the fire was in my room. I fell asleep in our family room on the couch. My dog is my only alibi. However, it was an electrical fire. On Christmas Night. Yep… I’m cursed.

But no! Hold on! It gets… better…

While I’m drinking, smoking, sexing, …. whatever, I’m losing communication with my friends and family. My mom and sister are for all intents and purposes gone. My best friend moved to another state. And I was in high school and in general failing in life. If you see a picture of me smiling? Yea, in high school? I’m faking that like my orgasms (mostly). I didn’t feel loved by anyone. I even fell head over heels for a guy that I went to church with. He sang like an angel, was nice to me, and he was funny. I was hooked. Despite my reputation, he asked me out one Saturday night. I was excited. I had to tell my best church friends. This guy and I left to go to a park in Ishpeming called Al Quaal. We mostly made out and he was trying to turn me on. He had his hands everywhere. He made a few immature comments, and proceeded to tell me that he would only have sex with me if I went down on him. I was stunned. Not only was this supposed to be a “Nice church guy”, he was a dirt bag. And who was he to treat ME like THIS? Oh no. We left after I refused to satisfy him and he ignored me the rest of the date. My friend was like…. WTF? I just brushed it off. It stung like a bitch. I now knew who I was. To everyone.

Bad relationships, sketchy meetings in vehicle, first meetings, you’re married? Oh… yea… that’s a thing. And a police officer too. (At the time). My genitals knew no bounds. Regardless, my sexual nature got the best of me by the time I was 16 and repeatedly around age 18. My underage alcohol distributor. I think I tried to kind of … date this guy, even after the sexual assaults by him. I tried to play it off like it wasn’t a thing. This is part of how my life has been conditioned to be. Just move on. So even after he assaulted me twice, I tried to kind of date him. Call him at work on the overnight shift. I tried to deny what it was for years. I had ptsd for years by that point. As an adult, I still struggle with sexuality. Claiming it as my own. I still feel like having adult sex in my home is as wrong today as it was in the back of someone’s vehicle at age 16. Hey… that was my first rape. Nailed it. Fuck….

I’m 18-19 and I’ve left an abusive partner and went into the psych unit out of state from where my home is. I’m told it was a Depression Clinic. Both by my therapist and my father. And here I am, four hours away from home and a bunch of nutsos (what I thought at the time). I had no idea they had such traumatic stories. I could empathize with them. I was … nutso too. When I got back to my community, I was still looked at as if I had a third eye in the middle of my forehead. I didn’t belong. I went to a different psych unit, further away. Dating this homeless guy for a while and whalla… Who’s pregnant? Yea, not the homeless guy. Me.

I have my eldest daughter Ashleigh in early 1996, marry the former homeless guy and attempt to raise her together. He’s a cheating bastard and I leave him. We separate ways for a few months. I meet Eric my NOW husband online in an AOL chat room. The guy that introduced us, he purported to be on a dsl modem on a bench in a community park in California. Yea… if you have a 256k or above modem and computer in a community park? You’re nuts, but whatever. Prince Ariakan. I hadn’t died by 22, at the fateful age my sister was. I’m divorced and remarried to my now husband – Eric. Our relationship was rocky, to say the least. Everything has been solid after we got married. Ashleigh was a train wreck because… genetics. Life. I was a trainwreck, mentally. still… because… genetics and environment and experiences and all other fuckery. Poverty, trust, job insecurities, poverty still, therapy therapy therapy, work, sleep, and why am I still doing this? What the fuck is going on? I still feel like I’m in poverty. Not because I exactly am, but because at every stage of trauma that I’m at – I leave one (kind of in the background) to be called back onto later.

The fact that just a year or so ago, I started learning about other people struggling from what has happened to them after they left the church. Seeing a now out gay man say goodbye to churchgoing members as he knew he would no longer be welcome among the true members going to Heaven after we leave this mortal coil. I also found out that this is an endogamous community. (According to Wikipedia) Endogamy is the cultural practice of mating—usually in the form of marriage—within a specific social group, religious denomination, caste, or ethnic group, rejecting those from others as unsuitable for marriage or other close interpersonal relationships. Whereas endogamy refers to marriage within the group, its opposite, exogamy, describes the social norm of marriage outside of the group.

I left Upper Michigan, I escaped the church. I also lost my entire family, nearly. While the Seppanen side of the family was in less contact in much of my life, I don’t fault them. And some of their kids were older. I tend to think my father’s family life may have been tough. That’s purely speculation. My mothers family abandoned me. And the other church family members that were good friends of my mom’s – just withered away like a teenage boy’s tissue used after a masturbatory fantasy of Jenny Garth. I was dirty and I was a child the clearly could not be controlled. And while I accept that this part of my narrative might be loaded with perception. Now that I know that I was allowed to feel as though my agitation of being required to believe in something that preaches conditional acceptance under certain unwritten and mostly misconstrued due to translations issues, and books being left out… etc. I believed that my mother’s family were better than they were, in the end. They were only as good as my mom put in the work to be, for me.

I have issues regarding separation of the people and the book that was teaching these behaviors. I have issues with it being considered warranted. I wasn’t just judged by my church going community. Some stood out more than others. And that hurt. I felt like I should have some compassion from staff. Her life is a shit show… give her some options. Act like you’re concerned. Oh wait, you probably weren’t paid extra to care. I didn’t have much support. Ever. When I lost my community, my family, so much betrayal and loss in my life catapulted me to what? Now I have to trust people? (Shit…. when did that happen?) What did they do to earn it? Can I just atl+ctrl+del ? (Dammit.) You mean I have to do this every day? (WHY?) Wait, I have to work how much harder? (Go fuck yourself)

I’m not impoverished. I have a good job and a stable (mostly) life. We own our home and make enough to kind of get by. Life is comfortable by the lake. I’ve had a cardiac arrest by Dec 18th, 2011 – hours after my 35th birthday and before Christmas, coming home with an Internal Cardiac Defibrillator surgically placed and connected to my heart. (And it’s fucking bizarre.) I have work limitations now. I work in a manufacturing environment. There are certain machines I have to steer clear of. I’ve had the ICD in for 10 years now, so they had to go back in to change my batteries. And after my youngest daughter’s death, we finally get answer to what happened to Dianne, Dianne’s daughter, my mom, Darrian, Brian, and to me? Why are cardiac arrests happening this frequently in this one family? Brian’s cardiologist finds the RYR2 Gene Mutation that all those impacted (shy of Dianne and my mom) were all tested – and any other family member born to us, the children. I still haven’t seen an aunt and two uncles in over twenty years. They haven’t tried to reach out in that time. My mom chased them, I’m not. They talk to my brother, Tim. I know they could ask.

My husband, Eric, is the most patient man I’ve ever met. And sometimes the most strong. Or even the most infuriating. He’s taken time to let me know that he loves me with pre cut lettering and transparent duct tape above my side of the bed, because I need more reminder sometimes than he can give. Those letters will always be there when I need them, in the order he made. I love you , Janet xoxo Eric. He doesn’t have to, by any stretch of the imagination. Yet, he does that and more. I lost so much, and I’m supposed to be a whole person now. Says who??? Can I get a do over? ………DO OVER? Hello??? Shit. ICD. Right. My generator.

I’m exhausted. I don’t live in a large community, but between work and home, there are some awesome people. Anyone I don’t know or have no contact for one reason or another – I’m terrified of either how you’ve already treated me and that repeating OR What you haven’t done yet. And what you haven’t done yet is never anything like, you bringing me flowers. Or going for a hike with me. Maybe even going out for a bite to eat? Generally, mostly, it’s bad. And when I’m not talking to you, I’m terrified of what you’re thinking about me or how you’re probably mad at me. Especially if you sound upset, or your nonverbal is stiff, or if you’re not in the same room as me, or you didn’t tell me how nice something I did for you was. Or you didn’t tell me that you thought my singing voice was obnoxious. You’ve never done these things, yet I’m waiting. I can still love you. More than anything and definitely more than I love myself. Yet I’m getting better every day. I’m opening the podcast world to hear my story. How its’ worked out with the RYR2 Gene Mutation. Cautionary tale. Yet an acknowledgment that I’m doing pretty well for Eric and I. Considering where was, financially a few years ago. I have to remind myself that I’ve only gone upward. And I only have upward to go. As long as I take care of myself in the process.

I was mentally fucked by so many people who purported to love me and wasn’t available when it was inconvenient for them.

I’m really trying to figure out how to unlock myself from my ptsd and depression. Right now, I’m struggling with my eating again. In conjunction with my depression. As always, I use comedy and joking around as a means to deflect from my own personal insecurities. And I’ll always hope that you’re blissfully unaware that is my truth. Even if it’s printed on a banner I’m waving over my fucking head.

When Eric asked me last night if what the church people did or didn’t do to or for me was learned behavior? It was the way it has been for generations. If a person in the congregation stepped out of line with Christ and his obviously ONLY people of Finnish Descent. Exclusively. Despite that Lars Levi Laestadius was from Sweden. I mean, but if you did this is what you’ll expect. Time after time. And the next time you’ll see your family is the funeral.

It’s one thing to say, you CHOSE to be this way. To act this way. It is ungodly, unjust, and beyond awful to treat or avoid contact. If you had experienced it and somehow changed your entire identity to serve positive in the ways of the church and its’ community- you’re good. Especially if you tithe more, maybe? (Bitter… sure….) Maybe there is more to this. Doesn’t mean I’m in the forgiving mood right this moment.

I’ve received messages, I believe from loved ones that passed before. I can’t prove who they were from. Rest assured; I’m blessed. I still feel drawn to tarot, despite my not having 100% confidence I can learn. I have a few plans for the future. I’m excited and I’m scared. I’ve been both up and down in the last few months. Feeling like I can see everything for how it truly is. That I was so wrong. To questioning everything everything I just believed the day before about being so super capable and awesome to being loathsome and despicable.

Every day is a new opportunity to learn something. Why not learn compassion. Not for me. Someone who pisses you off in traffic despite a burning sensation not to want to. I’ve got a ton to learn, and I have plenty of time to do it.