Happy Halloween!

 

Hey fam! Just a quick blog for the holidays. I hope your Halloween is full of fun and lots of sugar. Me? I'm baking soul cakes right now. Well. It's more like a soul cake. But it smells heavenly and I can't wait to try it. It's my first time making it, so hopefully it comes out good!

Halloween (aka Spooky Season) is my favorite time of year. I love the chill in the air, the shorter nights, and the apple cider. I watch scary movies and cuddle up with my cats. It's a fun, lighthearted day. And, as I was making my soul cake, I was thinking about halloween and evangelicalism. My family never really had anything against the day. I never went trick or treating, but I would dress up for halloween parties. One year I went as batman for a preschool party. I remember having a lot of fun.

For those of you that grew up in Funadamentalism or Evangelicalism, how was halloween viewed by your family and church? Were you allowed to celebrate it, or was it "the Devil's birthday"? Fee free to comment below!

The Church and PTSD

This past July, I visited a friend. She's another survivor of fundamentalism and has been my friend for over 16 years. She moved away to another state, so we don't talk or see each other as much; but when we do, it's like we never left. We catch up to where we are now, how our lives are going, and what we have planned for the future. It's always such a blessing to be able to get together with her, as we also share our own stories of coming out of fundamentalism. 

While at her home, she had mentioned that they were going to church on Sunday and that I was more than welcome to come, but I did not have to. I hadn't been to church in a while. It was right after COVID started that I stopped. At first, I told myself it was because of COVID that I didn't attend; but as time went on...I just stopped going entirely. This would be a new experience for me if I went. I wrestled with it for the next couple of days and eventually decided that I would go, if for no other reason because I loved my friend and wanted to spend time with her. I decided that whatever would happen, would happen and that I would be okay because she was right there with me.

Sunday eventually came, and my friend assured me that I did not have to go with them to church, but I could if I wanted to. Part of me was still hesitant, but the other part of me wanted to see if I could sit through a church service again. At this point, I am still in the early deconstructing stages, and am still learning a lot about myself, my triggers, and what makes me comfortable/uncomfortable.  

The church itself was more modern and had contemporary worship. It began about how you would expect; singing, announcements, welcoming new people. Nothing too triggering for me. It was going well, for the most part. They had a gigantic screen that flashed Bible verses and song lyrics, along with short videos of what was going on both in the church and in the community. There was coffee and doughnuts in the main foyer and enthusiastic greeters. Maybe this would be okay. Maybe I would be okay.

At one point in the service, my friend had to leave to tend to her youngest. I was sitting with her daughter meanwhile, and we were listening to a sermon. I admit I can't quite remember what the topic was. But all seemed to be going well. I had not brought my Bible and didn't want to use my phone to scroll through an app. So I just listened. Nothing could have prepared me for what happened next.

Suddenly, the preacher yelled and slammed his fist down. I don't even remember what he was referencing. I just remember the fear and the flashbacks to yelling pastors and screaming sermons that so traumatized me as a child. The constant fear that is ingrained in your head at a young age about hell and eternal punishment, even though that is not what the sermon was about, came back to me, flooded my memories. 

 I winced as if someone had slapped me across the face. Suddenly my fight or flight kicked in. My breathing became shallow and I started to shake. What was happening? Why was I freaking out? Of course now I know the answer to that question, but back then, I had no idea a church service would make me respond in such a drastic way.

 I would have run out of the sanctuary, but my friend's daughter was sitting right next to me. I think that she could tell something wasn't right, even at her young age; so she took my hand and said, "it's okay, Ida. It's okay." I nearly cried, but I was able to hold it together somewhat until my friend returned. I told her what happened, how unexpected it was, and she told me she was sorry and that she didn't realize that the pastor had yelled. "But why did I react that way?" I asked her. "I just don't understand."

I do now. I have PTSD from church. From years of preachers doing that very thing; yelling and slamming their fists. And, although he was not talking specifically about hell, my PTSD most assuredly comes from years of having the concept drilled into my head. Church PTSD is apparently in the early stages of being studied; another name for it is Religious Trauma Syndrome. It was coined in 2011 by a psychologist named Marlene Winell,  It's not in the DSM-V, but many therapists and psychologists recognize it as a real thing. For further reading, there is an entire study that was done on Religious Trauma Syndrome here, and a whole study done here. It's a real thing, albeit it's in the early stages of study. It's basically a type of complex PTSD. 

Knowing this gave me relief, freedom even because I now knew that I wasn't crazy. It had a name. There was a reason behind all of this. At the same time, I was sad and upset that I had been through such trauma, and I was even more upset that it took me this long to figure it out. 

I feel such sadness for young children who are stuck in the fundamentalist church, who have to endure screaming preachers who bang their fists on the pulpit, yelling vile things about hell and God's wrath. The nightmares these poor children must have. The absolute fear and dread. And at such a young age. There is no way around it. It's child abuse. To willfully scare a child into submission with hell and eternal torment is wrong. It actually messes with your brain chemistry, as you constantly live a life of fight or flight. I hope and pray that soon, this syndrome will be nationally recognized, so people can get the help that they need.  I also hope someday, the shrieking pastors and abusive members will be held accountable. They owe it to the victims. They owe it to all of us.

Fundamentalism Makes You Mean

June is pride month in the United States. Every year, our small town has a pride event. It’s small, and there is not as much to see as there would be in other cities. It’s humble, but it’s beautiful, as so many people come out to the event showing pride for who they are, without fear. It’s a day to embrace love, joy, happiness and pride. I went and met up with a friend, and commented on what a big turnout we had this year. There were people from all walks of life, all united under love and pride of who they were on the inside. 

But, sadly, not everyone in my community sees it that way. It wasn’t long before an angry street preacher and his family came to the park to protest the event. They screamed and shouted at passersby, their signs full of hateful words. Their faces were contorted with angry expressions, brows furrowed and teeth clenched. They were the antithesis of this day, of this happy day. 

I remember feeling, not anger back at them, but sorrow. I especially felt this for their young children, who were holding up signs with hateful words that they probably were unable to read or understand at such a young age. My father said it best: fundamentalism makes you mean. It fills you with an us vs. them mentality, a dichotomy of the good guys vs. the bad guys. It demonizes our fellow human beings for being different, not just in the context of the LGBT community, but being of a different faith, of a different political party, even of a different denomination of Christianity. 

No doubt this street preacher teaches his children that the world is a scary, evil place and that only they hold the absolute truth. The worst part of all of this is, they believe that they are doing something loving. There is a saying that goes, “there is no hate quite like Christian love.” This is a perfect example of that. Their sense of love and hate is so mixed up that they believe that what they are doing is loving. 

My family never did street preaching. Even back then, we had a distaste for people that would spend their time yelling at people on the street, while holding up vicious signs. Of this, I am very grateful. But, there was still that us vs them mentality. Growing up, I saw people of other religions as going to hell, because that was what I was taught. I believed that anything other than conservative values was wrong, even evil. Funnily enough, it wasn’t until I began dabbling in Wicca that I started to see things from a different perspective; people were sacred, life was sacred. There’s no them, just us. Instead of being tough, we should be tenderhearted. I began understanding other people and their views, seeing everyone as distinctly unique, but in the end, part of the same family. And how could I harbor hatred in my heart for members of my own family, simply because they were different, or believed differently than me?

Leaving fundamentalism was the best decision my family and I ever made; suddenly, we were looking at things from the other side. We began to understand that people are different, and that’s okay. We listened to stories told to us by survivors, but members of the LGBT community who were kicked out by their own families. It’s like a light turned on and we could see the world for what it really, truly was; not for what someone said it was. Fundamentalism not only makes you mean, it warps your view of the world. But when you take the blinders off? It becomes the most beautiful world to be part of. You have joy in the little things. No more is there a fear of hell or sinning, or doing something to make God “pour out his wrath” on you. Love others. Love yourself. It’s that simple. So simple, it seems, that it's too hard for people who have been raised in hate to understand. For you see, love, when it is warped, is hate and indifference. But love, when it is raw and realized, will always be patient and kind. Ask yourself; do the street preachers come off as patient and kind? Do they keep records of wrongs? Do they rejoice in the truth? Do they hope all things, bear all things?

If not, is it really love? Or is it hate disguised as love?

I Wanted to Love Him

 When I was a teenager in the era of Teen Mania and Brio Magazine, all I wanted was that relationship with God that I saw others have. Where they could quote the Bible with ease, lift their hands in worship, and have a perpetual smile on their face. Through my teen years and into my twenties I chased after the euphoria of knowing God and feeling His presence. Even if it was at the expense of my own health and happiness. I would spend hours on my knees in my room, praying, trying to feel something. I read through my Bible, attended youth groups and church, and even went to Bible studies. I look back at my life and I think to myself, wow. That girl, that teen to twenty-something girl was reaching out to something, Someone, to cure and mend her lonely heart. And because I could not see God, hear Him, feel Him...I looked to people. People who appeared Godly and appeared to have it all together. Their worship was fervent and their words were courageous. Some of them went on missions trips. Some of them served in the church. I latched onto them, longing to have what they had. But it never came to me. 

This is when the doubting and the fear started. Was something wrong with me? Did God have little to no interest in me? As someone whose family embraced Calvinism, I would lie awake in fear that perhaps the reason I could not “get it” was because I was not one of the elect and that God hated me and had predestined me to hell. In which case, what was the point of even trying anymore?

This led me into a deep depression, as I would flip flop in my faith; leave, and come back. Leave, and come back. I can now begin to see that this had all the makings of an abusive relationship, as I chased after the lover who spurned me; a codependent relationship that was one-sided. It was something that I had to put an end to myself because it was affecting my very mental health. I came to the conclusion that this God, whom all of these religious people told me loved me, did not really love me, and in fact, did not seem to care one way or the other about me. 

This was what others told me could give my life meaning. Yet, it was lacking. So for a long time, all I could gather was that there must have been a defect of some kind in me. Maybe there was something wrong with me. I now know that this is untrue. Because, in the midst of all of this, I discovered someone else; myself. My own self-worth. All this time I had spent trying to please someone who didn’t appear at the time to desire me. But what about how I felt about myself? Did I like who I was? Did I desire myself as a person? What were my strengths? My weaknesses? What were my talents? I realized that I had never made an effort to get to know this girl; me. For the first time in I don’t know how long, I sat down with myself in an effort to get to know this girl who longed for love and acceptance. Who I found was a smart, happy-go-lucky girl who wanted to be heard. Who wanted to be seen. I found a girl who had been through a lot but had overcome. I found me. 

As I deconstruct, I continue to learn new things about myself, knowing all the while that my sense of self-worth comes from inside. Not outside. This was my first step into the world of the exvangelical. I am slowly stripping away all that was placed on my at such a young age, laying it out on the table, and learning what was good, and what was not. What was harmful, and what was healthy. How the church affected my mental health, and my outlook on the world; and through it all, growing into someone I can honestly say that I love and am proud of.

How Purity Culture Warps Our Self Value

 Women are taught in many Christian circles that their worth comes from the mere fact that they are a virgin. It becomes a part of their identity. Stay pure, they say. True love waits. In youth group we wore the promise rings and signed the purity pledges. We read books like “I Kissed Dating Goodbye.”  We were admonished not to kiss our significant other; some of us could not even hold their hands.

From a very young age, girls were taught that their virginity was what defined them, and without it, we were just “damaged goods” or “a rose that had all its petals plucked.” These dangerous lies filled my head for years, culminating when I was sexually assaulted at the age of 12. It warped my view of myself, sending me down a road of depression and self harm for the next 13 years, until I was able to create and maintain a healthy view of myself, as I learned, finally, that it was not my fault. Coming to that conclusion, however, was a long road and a difficult one, as I battled depression and trauma symptoms that threatened my very sanity. 

I am not alone in this; many women have similar stories about how purity culture warped their view of themselves. How they date, who they choose to date, and the decisions they make, all center around purity. I mentioned earlier that some schools and churches are against even holding hands with your significant other. Imagine thinking that your own self worth has been ruined, all because you wanted to hold hands with your boyfriend. Because you wanted to give him a kiss. For many women, such as myself, we don’t have to imagine. We lived it. 

Purity culture not only warps a woman’s view of herself, but how men view women. I remember years ago being part of a Catholic message board. Someone came on talking about how they were looking for “other Catholic virgins” and that he, essentially, wanted to “conquer” his future wife. As in, make her bleed on the sheets on their wedding night. To him, if a woman did not have an intact hyman, she was essentially worthless, damaged goods. Even other members of the forum, who held onto the belief of the “marital debt” (i.e., that sex is expected and should never be denied) told him he was sick, and that he was treating women as if they are objects, as if the only worth they have is their virginity, and he will “take it by force.” There is something very, very sick about the idea of a man who, like a lion in heat, “hunts” virgins for himself in a sick conquest to take her so-called “innocence” away. 

Another place to look is the Bible itself. Paul wrote in his letters that the spouse’s body does not belong to them; it belongs to the other person in the relationship. Bodily autonomy is completely taken out of the equation. From this came the idea of the marital debt that is so preached on in many traditional Catholic circles. It is not difficult to see then how this can lead to marital rape, when a man expects his wife to provide him with sex on demand. 

It was all of this that led me to see myself as damaged after I was sexually assaulted at the age of 12. When you have this idea of purity culture jackhammered into your head at such a young age, it’s bound to have an effect on your thinking. I did all the right things, or at least, I did what I thought were the right things (never mind the fact that I was 12 and had no reason to be even thinking about marriage or sex). I  wore the true love waits rings. I signed a purity pledge at my youth group. So when the sexual abuse started, I felt less than. I felt as though I had no worth, no value, nothing to give or to offer. Again, this is because it was drilled into my head that my sexuality and virginity determined my value and worth. Without them...what was I, really? My world toppled over quickly. 

But in the midst of the destruction that the sexual assault caused, I began to slowly rebuild my life. I put emphasis on slowly because only just recently have I begun to see sex and relationships in a positive, healthy light. I now know that the sexual assault was not my fault; it didn’t take my dignity away from me, because no one has that power over me. It certainly did not make me damaged goods. I am a whole person, and I always will be. My virginity does not define me. My “purity” doesn’t define me. Ladies, it doesn’t define you either. 

As I continue my journey through deconstructing, I am learning more that the person I was made to believe was me, was actually a false self that had been constructed by traditional fundamentalist ideals.  I wasn’t shy and timid; I was bold and ambitious. I wasn’t made specifically for a romantic relationship; I was made to be whatever I wanted to be. It’s a new freedom that I happily embrace, although it meant coming out of what was once my comfort zone. But as they say, life begins out of your comfort zone. Now that I am there, I feel like I am truly living. My wish is that one day, all women who grew up in fundamentalist circles would embrace this freedom that is rightfully theirs.