Hey friends, I was invited to be on a podcast to talk about healing and moving on after leaving the church. It was a wonderful conversation that I think you’ll enjoy.
Hello, long time no see. I’m hoping some of you have been following me over on Substack and TikTok; if not, here I am again. For the last couple of years, most of my energy has been spent working on my book. I’ve completed a two-year writing program and spent many hours in critique groups. It has been a wonderful time of self-discovery, and I’ve learned a lot about how to write a memoir. I appreciate how patient you’ve been with me as I’ve gone through this process. Currently, I’m putting the finishing touches on my book proposal so I can begin to send it out to agents. This is a scary and exhilarating time. Writing my memoir has been a gift, and I feel so privileged to have the time and resources to put into writing it. It has healed me in so many ways while also revealing new sore spots that need attention. As I move ahead, I can only hope I will be able to weather the tough publishing world. I may seem pretty durable and strong on the outside, but on the inside, I’m pretty soft. I plan to document my journey here more closely now that I’m done working on my manuscript.
One important piece of getting your book published is branding and having a platform. This is why you see me in so many places. I’m sure at times it seems like a lot, it feels that way to me, but it is what I must do to meet my goals. This is where you come in. I know some of you have been following me for a long time, and I really appreciate that. If you want to help me push my book over the finish line, please interact with my social media as much as possible. A like on FB, Substack, TikTok, and here can go a long way. It’s even better if you can comment and follow/subscribe. A platform can make or break a memoir writer.
On TikTok, I have been making videos about the church I grew up in and how they compare to the religious right, and what is happening politically now. I talk about race and class and how the church of my childhood handled those issues. My handle is @wicrow.
I haven’t made a new post on YouTube in a long time. Once I get that going again, I will let you know. 🙂 If you know of anyone who might want me on their podcast or YouTube channel please let me know.
If you’ve made it this far, thank you. Again, I appreciate your support so much and I hope one day you’ll have my book in your hands and we can celebrate together!
Sometimes when I’m writing it comes easy and other times it’s a miserable process. Yesterday the words flowed freely and so did my emotions. Years and years ago when I first began working on my memoir I grieved daily because it was as if the writing was taking me farther away from my mother. As I came to terms with the reality of her choices my heart broke and my feet were set on a new journey. I couldn’t look honestly at my story without first being honest about our story. To have compassion for myself I needed to stop making excuses for her. I was too wounded to hold space for both of us. Growing up I held space for her and suffered in silence as my own needs went unmet.
Suddenly yesterday as I pounded out some revisions I sensed a new found compassion for my mother. As I recalled all her tears, her search for connection, and her desire to please her higher power my heart ached to reach back in time. She was failed by everyone in her life who should’ve loved her. In short she was alone and I was there, the only hand to hold onto. As I thought about all this I wished for some tears because I could feel the sadness walled off inside me. They will come one day, I’m sure of it.
Over and over I’m confronted with how writing my memoir is healing me. It’s not a quick fix and it isn’t painless. Thread by thread I’m untying the painful knots within me and that process is enabling me to react from love and not pain. I wonder who my mother would’ve been if she had been given the tools to heal. For now she is returning to me and I’m grateful.
It’s Sunday and I’ve had a slow start to my day. I’m planning my week while siping a cup of iced coffee. While doing this I am reminded of how my Sundays were when I was a child. They were anything but relaxed. My mother was often very stressed on Sunday morning. She rushed around the house trying to get both of us ready. While doing this she often talked about how she felt people in the church didn’t like her but she made herself go anyway because she didn’t want to anger God. This was not the best way to start a long day of church. We didn’t just go to church in the morning but we also attended an evening service. When I was young there was usually a fight in-between as she tried to get me to hurry up and eat my lunch so we could both get a nap in before returning to church for the evening.
Age 4
Being at church with my mother was never a good time. She was always worried about what people were thinking and who was talking behind her back. She did not tolerate any silliness during the service and would often pinch me if she felt I wasn’t paying attention. She allowed me to bring a toy with me, usually a doll when I was very small but even then I was expected to be quiet and pay attention. Because my mother preferred hell-fire churches the sermons usually scared me enough to keep me inline without her having to do much. I was always happy during the worship portion because I loved to sing but when that other part rolled around I wanted to be anywhere but church. After church my mother would run down who said what to her adding up her hurts one by one. I usually just quietly listened because I had my own worries to unpack. Was the pastor right about hell and what happens if you miss the rapture? Was it true that God and Satan were always watching? One to count my sins and the other trying to tempt me?
As I grew older and my mother stopped attending church as much, but I still stayed faithful. I attended Sunday morning and evening and also Thursday night midweek service. There was never any question about whether I would be in church on Sunday. People even looked for a UPC church to attend when they traveled. It was better to be safe than sorry. My Sunday morning started very early. I had to get ready and then to the church to hop on the Sunday school bus. I helped pick up kids along with the bus captain. There was often no heat or air conditioning on the bus. I remember my toes being very cold in the winter. Once we arrived at church and all of the kids were seen to their classes then I’d go to my own Sunday school class. By the time that class started I was already exhausted. Sunday school was either super boring or we were being raked over the coals by the youth leader for “something I’ve been noticing lately” or whatever. After Sunday school I raced back to the bus and made sure all of the kids made it on. We dropped them off one by one and then doled out candy as they disembarked. Once back at the church I was free for a few hours before heading back for prayer time. I tried to make the most of this in-between time because I knew Monday often meant going back to school and the grind of the week.
Sunday night started with pre-service prayer time. I tried to attended this as often as I could. It wasn’t considered required but most of the adults I admired went and as with most things it seemed better to be safe than sorry. During this time I would pray for missionaries, my family, and lastly myself. I tried to turn it all over to God but my worries were never lifted. I thought that was my fault because I just didn’t have enough faith. One thing I did enjoy about Sunday was being able to see and sit with my friends. Once the service started I would lose myself in the worship and singing. This was the one thing that uplifted me. During the time I was being abused Sunday meant I saw my abuser. I watched him pass as a good Christian man all the while knowing his secret. The sermon came next and that either drove me to the altar to recommit myself to God or I left feel guilty about not having enough faith. No matter what the topic was I never felt good about myself. I may have felt good about God but I always walked away feeling hopelessly broken. The next day whatever good I gained from church washed away in the reality of my family and church life.
During my childhood church never felt like a choice. It was always a requirement if you wanted to make it to heaven and escape hell. It was always stressful and a reminder that I would never measure up and that God was the ultimate scorekeeper. I never experienced grace or comfort. My family was stressed about it and they passed that down to me. There was always the question of whether or not we were going to the right church to add to the mix. Even as a young child there was a seriousness to being at church. The Sunday school stories seemed harsh and so did the teachers. When heaven and hell hang in the balance you really can’t afford to enjoy life.
Lucky for me that has all changed now. I feel like I can breathe on Sunday morning. I can rest, get little chores done, and plan my week. No one is reminding me of how flawed I am and I can lay my head down at the end of the day without worrying about hell. I do take time on Sundays to focus on the spirituality I practice now. The difference it my current experience fills my cup and I walk away feeling at peace. Being required to go to church so much might seem mild compared to much of my story but don’t let that fool you. A childhood of Sundays served to keep me trapped in a belief system that hurt me. After all those years I’m still unwinding that damage. Sunday church was the mechanism that kept me in the pews taking in all of the toxic messaging. Sunday church ensured that my abuser had access to me at least once a week. I went to church sick because I always believed that my illness wasn’t a good enough reason to miss even one chance to go to God’s house. The underlying reason was fear. No matter what stress was happening in my life it was never a good enough reason to step off the treadmill of Sundays.
If you’re trying to step off this treadmill please feel free to reach out to me. I’d be happy to listen and help in any way I can. Remember you’re worthy of rest, time to care for your needs, and time to heal.
Whew the last couple of summers have been challenging. Many of us in the survivor community have had to be brave in ways we never thought possible. Looking back it makes me beam with pride to see all we have accomplished. I have not seen the kind of justice I’d like to see but I feel good because I know I’ve worked hard to bring forth as much justice as possible. I’m tired but I’m not going to quit because this work is too important to me.
Speaking of rest, I have taken time over the last few days to strive less and rest more. I’m in the midst of a fibromyalgia flare and I’m once again reminded that I am not invincible. My eating disorder has popped back up probably due to stress and so I’ve had to be mindful to fuel my body. I’ve been struggling to sleep well so I’ve had to give myself some grace on the days I sleep later than I’d like to. All of this work has a cost and right now the cost is my sleep, my ability to eat, and the flaring of my chronic pain disorder. I’m not trying to come off as complaining but I’m trying to be honest about my personal limitations. I’m grateful that I can fill up on time with my children and grandchildren. I’m lucky to have two sweet doggos who are always up for a snuggle or a game of fetch. When I’m on my own I try to remind myself to breathe deeply and show myself self-compassion. Self-compassion is key to remaining healthy when doing work that is triggering due to trauma. I’m also working toward leaning into my softness and not feeling like I have to be in self protection mode all the time. This is especially difficult due to the C-PTSD I suffer from. Trying to heal while being hurt by the process of your work, being triggered daily, and never feeling like you’ve done enough can really throw a person. I wrestle every day with the drive to keep moving forward and also the desire to cut myself a break. This week I’m trying to be on the side of giving myself a break and resting.
This blog post is about what comes next so I suppose I should let you all in on what I have on my agenda. I’m currently working on revisions for the book I’m writing. It is exciting and taxing. I’m loving the process and I can’t wait until I have something to show you! I’ve also been considering what I’d like to research and share with you all here. The church teaching that caused me the most stress as a child was the theology of the rapture. I intend to talk more about that here and on my Youtube channel as I unwind the teachings that I took in as a child. I finally feel like I’m in a place with my trauma where it is safe for me to do that. After that I’d love to dive into the idea of original sin, but I feel that is a ways down the road. What would you like to see discussed here? Do you have a trauma sticking point you’d like me to cover?
Lastly, thank you. Thank you for sticking with me for so long as I work through my childhood and try to gain justice for myself and others. In some of my toughest times your comments have helped to see me through.
My healing journey has not been an easy one. Just leaving the United Pentecostal Church can be hard enough without adding all of the other issues on top. You may remember that I am going to EMDR therapy and that I have expressed how hard it is. It is hard but it is also worth every second of pain. I have made enormous progress and I am so grateful for the opportunity to go. One of my goals has been to figure out what is at the root of all my trauma. Every bit of trauma is tied to all of the others and sometimes if you can get to the root the other parts will just fall away. I think I may have figured out what the root of it all is.
I woke up this morning with a song in my brain…
“All you need is love All you need is love All you need is love, love Love is all you need”
It sounds simple and maybe it is but when I realized that all of my trauma is tied to not feeling loved it kind of blew my mind. I never felt loved by my parents and I certainly never felt love from the church. Had my parents loved me the way they should have I would not have been the neglected and unprotected child that I was. They would not have been so harsh with me and my mother in particular would not have been physically, emotionally, and verbally abusive. All of the fear, loneliness, and feelings of worthlessness could have been taken from me with a strong dose of dependable love
The church is a whole other kettle of fish. Where my parents showed me imperfect and insufficient love the church seemed completly barren of any love. Love does not put money, race, and popularity before people. It certainly does not act in its own selfish interest and it does not judge harshly. Love shows mercy and compassion. Love doesn’t offer children up on an altar of self protection and image. Love admits guilt and seeks healing and reconciliation. Calvary Gospel possesses none of these qualities.
Now that I know, I have to work even harder than I already am to engage in self-love. Not the surface level kind but deep self-love that will hopefully make up for all the lack in my formative years. This is not an easy task because I have so many voices from the past in my head reminding me of how unworthy I am. I have to chase love and push those other feelings away. I need to work on cultivating more loving relationships. I’m interested in the deep friendships that include vulnerability and a willingness to show up when things get hard. I’m going to keep going to EMDR as an act of self-love. The more I go the more I learn about myself and the things/ideas that are holding me back.
When I think of all of the survivors of Calvary Gospel I have spoken to I am reminded of how love could have changed everything for them as well. If CGC had replaced selfishness, vanity, and the love of money with the love of people so many wounds could have been avoided. But lets be honest the version of God that they serve is not a loving God. He is harsh and vindictive and he waits to judge and reject. The Grants have long represented God this way even if they preach love from the podium. Love is about action not words. Anyone can say I love you brother or sister, but the love shows through when they chose how to act towards you.
So this is where I am. I’m getting better every day. The road is never easy but one by one I am removing traumas from my back and with each one healed my load becomes lighter. I will never walk like others do but maybe I can walk without so much pain.
Debbie McNulty 