Absolutely nothing like what I'm describing. There aren't enough objects, they aren't big enough, and they aren't covered in nicotine, dust and cobwebs.
This isn't a fun post. But it is a freaky one, and I'm responding to a request, so hang on - we're going on a ride into Bat Country without Dr. Gonzo and his bag of tricks.
In 1975 my mother found Jesus the way a Peterbilt truck finds a raccoon on the highway-sudden, hard and messy. At first it was a positive thing...for a short (and rather confusing) time, she went from being God's miserable hemorrhoid to being Jesus ' little sunbeam. Was this my mother? Smiling? Happy? Not calling me a whore?
Well, that didn't last long, that smiling, that 'I must be a living Witness for the Word, I must present the best possible face to the world' stuff. It took about a year for the vicious harpy I'd known all my life to sneak back into the picture, a cigarette here, a drink there, cruel remarks when I was the only one listening, that would be denied if mentioned. The only lasting change in her after all was said and done was that she would sprinkle the phrase 'Praise the Lord' into her conversation.I moved out late in 1978. My former bedroom was taken over instantly by my mother to become what she termed 'a study'. By that time her pious horseshit had moved from the 'Jesus loves you happy rapture' stage to the 'blaming and shaming, Bible thumpin', Satan is everywhere' stage. I knew what was coming next, and got the FUCK out of Dodge one month after I came of age.
My old bedroom was the last stop on the tour. Oh, I had those forebodings of doom real good by then. My mom was grinning at me, her eyes filled with vindictive glee as she literally threw open the door.
But at second glance I realized that my former room was now filled to overflowing, from floor to ceiling, only a narrow path from the door to the desk, with religious things - and only religious things.
-Religious posters, banners, framed saints, and holy cards were taped to every wall, behind all the other crap.
-Bibles - not singular, plural - were stacked. Each one was a different edition. None of them had ever been opened.
-Devotional statues in abundance, to the point it resembled a Santeria chapel. Collect 'em all!
And topping it all off was the Crucifix of Doom.
This was a full on, 'bleeding Jesus' Catholic crucifix, really a rather beautifully executed thing, and that easily enough judged for its being FOUR FREAKING FEET TALL.
Where does a layperson even find a thing like that?
If you've ever seen a life-sized waxwork statue of the Agony of Christ, or ever been in the Church of St. Michael the Archangel in Tijuana, then you know exactly the type of over-the-top, S and M, eerily lifelike - special effects realism I mean.
And there it was in my room. Bleeding. A lot. Christ in his last agonies, nothing spared.
I have never.
...been so taken aback in my life. I mean I literally did take a step back in horror. I was scared, and I was appalled.
And she laughed at me.